It was only later that I realised why they had to get divorced. I never blamed them for it – they were chalk and cheese. My mother was hyper-neat, a pain actually. She didn’t smoke, drink or throw parties. She hated all that. Mom went to church every Sunday, while I went to Sunday school. My dad drank and smoked – a lot. He was crazy about women and parties. My mother believed alcohol and parties were a lethal combination, and as usual she was right. My father had met Alta at a party. He’d jumped into bed with her after drinking too much, and ended up moving in with her and her three children, into a house paid for by her ex-husband. Just like my mother had always predicted.
Before I was born, my dad, who was a deacon in the church, had had an argument with the dominee. After a service, he hadn’t wanted to say a closing prayer in the vestry, but the dominee had forced him to. My father had vowed that he would never set foot in church again.
“People, Anna,” he once told me, “believe God lives in the church. That the dominee talks to Him for us. But they’re wrong. He lives here,” he said, pressing his hand to his chest. “If you don’t have Him in here, you won’t find Him in a church.”
My father only went back on his word once, and that was when I was christened. I suspect my mother threatened him with something terrible if he didn’t accompany her to the ceremony. Even at his funeral, we weren’t allowed to take his coffin into the church.
No, I never blamed them.
School was everything I’d dreamt of. I learnt to read and write and do sums. I loved all of it, but most of all I loved to read. With reading, there were no limits to my world. I really only began to see other children, the way they really were, in primary school – playful, fun-loving. Boys fascinated me. Maybe because I didn’t really know much about them. What was it that made them different? That’s why I didn’t hesitate when a boy in my class asked me during a break if I’d like to see his willy. We scuttled away from the other kids and stood in the shade of a tree. He pulled down his pants and gave me a quick flash. A little worm, I thought.
“I showed you mine, now show me yours!” he demanded.
I pulled my dress up and dropped my panties – but pulled them up again quickly when I saw the shocked expression on his face as he stared at something behind me.
Standing in Mr Van Pletzen’s office, at age seven, while he phones your mother to tell her what you’ve done is a terrifying experience.
She didn’t speak to me on the way home. “I can’t bear to look at you,” she said when we got there. I’ll never forget the disappointment and disgust in her eyes as she ordered me to my room. I couldn’t forgive myself for doing this to her. I knew that what I’d done was naughty, but I hadn’t realised it was so terribly naughty.
My mom phoned my dad. She told me I wasn’t allowed to leave my room when he arrived and that she wanted to talk to him in private. That night an entire conversation, not just disjointed words, drifted into my room. It was a one-sided monologue, as usual.
“Where did she learn to do that?”
Silence.
“It can’t be normal. Not all children do that.”
Silence.
“She gets it from you.”
Silence.
“It must be genetic.”
Silence.
“It’s not a joke. You’re not the one who had to face the school principal. What kind of child are we raising, you and me? A slut! It’s because you never stand your ground against her. She’s got you wrapped around her little finger.”
Silence.
My father had to take me to school the next day, because my mother still couldn’t bring herself to look at me. “Daddy,” I asked him as we stopped at the school gates, “what’s a slut?”
“Where did you hear that word?”
“I heard when Mom –”
He held up his hand, stopping me. “Anna, what you did yesterday isn’t a sin. You were just curious, and that’s normal. I know you didn’t mean to be naughty. And that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”
I nodded, still not sure what “slut” meant.
“Anna, no matter what you do, I want you to remember that I love you.”
“Mom says I’m a rotten apple. She says I have to listen to her and then our life together will be better.”
“Your mother says lots of things. I wouldn’t take any notice if I were you. Come on, run, the bell’s already gone.”
My mom didn’t speak to me for a long time after the episode at school. She was too angry. But one day she thawed, called me to the dining room and told me to sit down at the table.
“Anna,” she said, “I want you to listen to me carefully. Will you?”
I nodded.
“It’s just you and me now. Your father doesn’t want us any more. From now on I have to work harder and so must you. I want you to do your best at school. I want you to work hard. Do you understand?”
I nodded again.
“Anna,” she said with a deep sigh, “I’ve never spoken to you about that day at school.”
I hung my head. She needn’t have said anything else. I knew which day she was referring to.
“I just want to tell you that I’m not angry with you any more. But,” and she wagged her finger in my face, “you must never do it again. Do you hear me? What you did was dirty. Your hands will fall off if you fiddle down there. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mom,” I replied timidly.
“Good.” She got up. “Then we understand each other. Anna, this is our chance to start over.”
Our lives took on a peaceful routine. We learnt to live with each other’s moods. Mom was less strict, more tolerant – even though she still forced me to wear dresses, which I hated. In the summer, my classmates would play in shorts while I sat around in frocks. I had two pairs of jeans and two tops that I left at Dad’s house. He’d bought them for me the previous holiday. I could wear them there. My mom hated jeans, she thought they were clothes that “ducktails” wore. I noticed that my father always wore neat long pants when he came to pick me up, but that he quickly changed into his jeans when we got to his house. The only thing he couldn’t hide was his beard. She hated that too. She would look at him disapprovingly but say nothing.
Weekends at my dad’s were the highlight of my life. He always bought a small present for me, but that wasn’t what I liked most. The best was just being together again, like in the old days. We’d watch rugby and go fishing, and there was no one to sneer at our catch. We cleaned the fish together, cut it up and braaied it.
My father didn’t live with Alta for very long. He’d still visit her, and on my weekends he’d call her late at night when I should already have been asleep. But I never saw her, and those weekends were mine alone.
My mother worked as a saleslady in a department store. She hated the job. “I have to find another job,” she often complained despairingly. “I feel that I’m in a dead-end street. It’s just the same routine over and over.”
I felt sorry for her sometimes. You could tell she wasn’t happy – her heart was broken over my dad and she hated her job. She cried a lot and sometimes she just stared out into nothingness. She didn’t pay me much attention. I didn’t hold it against her, but in some ways, the first two years on our own were hell. It was like standing outside in the cold and looking through a window at a happy family sitting around the fireplace inside. Of course a lot of my school friends’ parents were divorced, but there