We
were allies in some respects, but in others I was still the nasty sister who
liked to tease her brother. I got a vampire outfit from someone one day. One of
those ones with the plastic teeth and plastic cape. I wrote a letter to
Alistair. When I mean I wrote a letter, I actually just scribbled some lines on
a page and pretended I’d written a letter, as I couldn’t really write properly
at this point. I ran to Alistair and told him he’d received a letter from a
vampire. As he couldn’t read at all, I read it out to him. It gave him
instructions to meet this vampire by the garage doors by a certain time. Off he
went. I put on my vampire outfit and went to meet him. He was not convinced. He
saw through my disguise and scoffed at it. I responded by telling him that I
was a vampire, I had eaten his sister and taken her form, which is why I looked
like her. He ran away screaming for our mother.
I’m
not sure what happened to that vampire outfit after that.
My
parents had always wanted more than one child. My mother wanted 4, two of each,
but after struggling to conceive Alistair they were happy with the two of us.
My father had always wanted to move to Scotland as he’d listened to his
Scottish grandmother talking about living there. When my mother’s parents died
they left a pretty big inheritance that was split between their 5 children. It
was enough to set the wheels in motion to immigrate to the UK.
Three
months before we left she found out she was pregnant. It was too late to stop
everything from happening. Our house was on the market, our tickets were bought
and all relevant paperwork sorted out. She kept it a secret until we were on
the other side. The only person outside of my immediate family to know was my
aunt, who then organised a leaving do that was also, sort of, a baby shower of
sorts. I vaguely recall questions around would we like a brother or sister. I
think that was to get the idea in our heads as opposed to actually telling us
for definite. I know that I was adamant I wanted a sister, should I have any
kind of choice in the matter. I somehow knew that this would be my last chance,
and sisters somehow seemed a lot more fun than brothers.
We
packed up our things. Everything was being shipped over to the UK, which would
take 3 months, giving my parents enough time to find a place for us to settle
into. I remember how heart-breaking some decisions were. For us it was toys we
had to leave behind and give to others. For my parents it was furniture,
memories, things of sentimental value. Never mind family and friends. Alistair
and I didn’t really have much of a concept for the change moving would bring. I
think to us it felt like we’d just be moving to another city – still somehow
close to all we knew. It was going to be an adventure.
All
of our stuff was packed up and taken. Our dogs and cats went to other homes. My
brothers dog went off with a family she had never met before, but she took to
on sight. My dog, my beautiful Jock, a gorgeous border collie, went to my uncle.
My mother was very stressed about leaving him and the cats, as my uncle hadn’t
come to pick him up. My grandfather comforted her and told her that he would
make sure the animals were looked after. Eventually my uncle picked him and the
cats up and took them to his house. We came back to the UK a few months after
we’d emigrated for my uncle Allan’s wedding. We went to see Jock. He barked at
us as if we were strangers. He knew who we were, but there was definitely hurt
and anger in his eyes. We’d left him behind and he didn’t understand. A few
years later he was found dead at the bottom of my uncle’s garden. The
neighbours behind had never liked him and more than likely threw poisoned meat
over the fence for him to eat.
We
stayed with my Aunt Bernie and Uncle Angus for the week or so before we left.
For Alistair and I this was great fun. We’d always gotten on very well with my
cousins Matthew, Thomas and their sister, Victoria. It was like a holiday for
us. The Rugby World Cup was happening, which made everything even more
exciting. Things were great and, in our heads were going to stay great.
The
day before we left South Africa won the world cup. This would be of
significance to any country, but to South Africans it was so much more. I’d
never really been interested in sport up to then. I went to the cricket with my
Dad every summer, and went to his football matches on the weekend. But during
those weeks in 1995 the rugby caught the country’s imagination. I used to stay
after school at a homework club for a couple of hours every day. The games were
on during the club, you could watch them in the school library at lunch time.
Everyone was talking about it. We’d been out of international sport for so very
long, and, although we had a lot of talent, no one expected us to get further
than the quarter finals.
Against
all odds, against a seemingly unbeatable All Blacks side, we won.
South
Africa had come through a lot, and there was still so much more to come, so
many wounds that needed to be healed and not an awful lot to be proud of. It
was a divisive nation. I’ve since read the book that the film Invictus was
based on, Playing the Enemy: Nelson Mandela and the Game That Made a Nation. I’ve since read about what was going on
behind the scenes, what led up to us actually getting the World Cup and how
Mandela managed to use it as a way to unify the country, using a sport that
initially divided it. I didn’t know all of this at the time. I didn’t know the
history of South African Rugby, how it was seen as the sport of Apartheid, the
sport of oppression. I do know what it felt like to be there when we won. It
was as if a great roar of joy went up in every house around us. We went off to
church, there were cars and cars of people on the road, tooting their horns as
loudly as they could. A man stood at the side of the road, tears of joy
streaming down his face, waving the South African flag for all it’s worth. It
felt like the whole country was celebrating as one. After church we went around
to say goodbye to a few people. We must have been gone two or three hours. When
we returned the man was still there, this time in the central reservation, flag
still waving, pride clear on his face.
For the first time in history South African’s had
something to be proud of. I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that that
tournament definitely helped to unify the country, even if it was just for a
little while. The fact that we were able to do it so soon after regime change
and so well must have eased any fears the international community may have had.
I didn’t watch the game. I was instead playing with glow in the dark goo in my
cousins room, trying to make weird shapes on the walls and then clean them off
before the adults caught us making a mess. I bought the game the last time I
was in South Africa, as I regretted the fact I hadn’t seen it at the time. I
tend to watch it every time we lose horrifically to the All Blacks, or crash
out of a world cup. It makes me feel better and reminds me of that magical time
when we managed to do the impossible.
We left South Africa on the 25th June
1995. My family gathered in the airport, my grandparents, my father’s brothers
and sisters, and us. They sang rugby songs, ones with rude lyrics that children
my age didn’t understand. I went to go and have a little cry in the bathroom.
When I came out, my grandfather was waiting for me, with a parcel in his hands.
A few weeks previously, as we wondered around a shopping centre, he asked me if
I could have anything as a present, what would I want. At the time there were
porcelain dolls everywhere, and I was desperate for one. They were pretty
expensive, and my family have never really had the kind of money to spend on such
things. But it was the very thing I wanted at that time. He handed me the
parcel. I looked inside. It was a baby on a little music box. She had a bonnet
around her head, with a porcelain head and hands. It was the closest thing he
could come to getting me a porcelain doll. Since having it she’s been mauled by
kittens, lost her bonnet and gotten a mark on her head. The music box plays
silent night, with one line missing. She’s probably the most precious thing I
own.
My grandmother has since told me it’s the first and
only present he’d ever bought for one of his grandchildren. I had to go and sit
somewhere to have a little cry after finding that out. A housemate in my first
year of uni told me that the doll freaks her out. I told her I really didn’t care.
We got on the plane after they had to call us by
name. As we took off, with the men of the plane singing rugby songs once more,
I stared out of the window. I was sure I could see my grandparent’s car driving
off into the distance. I followed it with my eyes until I couldn’t see it
anymore.
We landed in Paris the next day. My father was the
only one of the four of us who had been out of South Africa, so it was a whole
new experience for us. With 9 hours to spare before our flight to England, we
went for a wander around the city. I honestly can’t remember that much about
that day, other than I was so tired. I know we went to the top of the Eiffel
Tower. My parents pointed out the copy of the Statue of Liberty. I couldn’t see
it. They kept pointing in the distance, insisting on showing me where it was. I
still couldn’t see it, but really couldn’t be bothered to continue to look, so
I lied and told them I’d seen it and it looked great. There was a carousel on
the opposite side of the Seine. It was the most magical thing I’d ever gone on.
Instead of only one level of ride, there were two. It looked like something out
of a book. Alistair and I went on it. We walked around a bit more, my mother
nearly got run over crossing the road. She proceeded to start singing “I was
squashed in France” to the tune of Bonnie Tyler’s “Lost in France” as we
carried on exploring.
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