15. Johannesburg, 1991 - Reunion
In which Eleanor makes a resolution.
A surprise invitation intrigues Eleanor. But in the midst of a party lies a truth she wasn’t prepared for. 
“We’re having a get together,” Rose says, “a bunch of us up from UCT1 for the holidays. Come join us. It will be great to see you again.” Rose has called me at home, out of the blue.
“But I won’t know anyone,” I protest.
“Who cares,” Rose cajoles. “There are some lovely guys,” she adds. I can hear the smile in her voice. That isn’t much of an inducement, I think, but I keep it to myself.
“Who else is coming?” I ask, stalling. Rose names half a dozen girls from our year at St Anne’s.
I find myself agreeing, my curiosity winning out. A year away from St Anne’s, and each other—what will have changed? Can we be friends now that we’re no longer competing with each tooth and claw for academic honors, boys, or class leadership?
I’m so glad I decided against the University of Cape Town—where it seems half of St Anne’s was planning to go by the time we finished matric2. I wanted as much distance from anything, and anyone, related to school as possible. In Durban I’ve found freedom, friends, academic stimulation, and a whole other life. Just as I wanted.
But not Natasha. I’d nurtured a secret hope I’d find her there. But no. I have no idea if she has matriculated3 and is at university somewhere. Is she even in South Africa, I wonder? Or was she sent to some other fancy boarding school somewhere else in the world?
In the meanwhile, the St Anne’s flock who dispersed to South Africa’s various universities has returned to the Highveld for the summer holidays. And apparently Rose wants me to come to her party. Which is unusual in and of itself. We were never close at school, we were too busy competing academically.
When I arrive the party is in full swing. The music is South African, the beats pulsing and joyous. Rose gives me a peck on the cheek and waves me towards where the drinks are. “I think the others are out at the pool,” she shouts in my hair over the music. She looks the same, but also different. Out of our school uniforms we all look older. Rose’s hair is cropped cute and short now, showing off her curls. Her top is tight. She’s always had a good body, but now she seems happy to show it off. She’s swapped her glasses for contact lenses too, I notice. I push my glasses up my nose, self-consciously. Contact lenses simply hadn’t worked for me. They were never comfortable.
I see a bunch of St Anne’s girls out by the pool and head over to them. Amy sees me, waves hello and pats the empty chair next to her. Her big dark sunglasses cover half her face, but her ferociously pink lips part in a smile.
“How’s Durbs4?” she asks, as I sit.
“Good,” I say. “Hot, humid. And Cape Town?”
“Awesome.” She takes a sip of her drink. “It’s like a whole other world to Pretoria. What are you studying?” Her immaculately polished nails glint in the sun.
“English and Law. You?”
“Psychology and business admin.”
“You hang much with any of the others?” I gesture around the circle.
“Oh yeah, all the time, it’s a regular St Anne’s reunion.” I hide my grimace in my drink. “Anyone else from school at ‘Varsity with you?” she asks, oblivious to my frown.
“Not a soul.” I try to keep my voice neutral.
Amy pulls down her glasses to look at me properly now. Her eyes are perfectly done up. “What made you pick Durbs anyway? You could have gotten in anywhere with your marks. Durbs is such a dorp5. A beach dorp, but still a dorp.”
I bristle at the put down, but decide to leave it. Better for them to think “Durbs” is a “dorp”, then they’ll stay away.
“I just preferred it,” is all I say.
She looks hard at me. “It’s your funeral. Are you in res or digs?”
“Res,” I reply. “You?”
“Res this past year, but Nikki, Jenni and I,” she nods her head towards them on the other side of the table, “are moving into digs together for this year.” I do an inner eye roll at that image. I see a house full of curling tongs, hairspray, and nail polish. Amy pushes her glasses back up and leans back into her chair. “They say the University is going to start shifting the balance in the res halls. So it seemed like a good idea to move out.”
I’m absolutely gob smacked by the casual racism. We’ve heard the same things in Durban, but I don’t see that as a reason to leave res.
“Got a boyfriend?” Amy turns her head on the cushion to look at me.
“Mm-hmm,” I nod. That’s all I’m going to give her. “You?”
“Oh yeah, he’s that one,” and she points towards a tall, buff, blonde-haired man standing with a beer in his hand on the other side of the pool.
“Rugby player?” I hazard.
“Fly-half. University Blue and on the Provincial team,” she gushes. “He may make the Springboks as well. He’s quite the rising star is my Hannes.” I note the possessive “my.”
“Good catch,” I say, not trying very hard to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
“Some of us have to use what we have, Elle,” Amy says, clearly hurt, “we don’t all have your brains.”
“I—,” I try to recover, “I’m sorry Amy. I’m happy for you,” I manage to get out.
Right on cue, Hannes looks across the pool at Amy, and she blows him a kiss. Feeling embarrassed, and a little nauseated, I stand up. “I’m going to get another drink,” and I tinkle the ice in my empty glass. “Can I get you a refill?” I ask to cover my rudeness.
“I’m good,” Amy lifts her still half-full glass.
I wander into the house, and move aimlessly from room to room. There’s no-one else that I know. Rose appears out of nowhere from behind me, threads her arm through mine. “I’m really glad you came,” she surprises me, giving my arm a little squeeze.
“You’re welcome,” I say robotically.
She walks me into another room. Heather, our former esteemed head girl, is sitting next to someone I don’t know, deep in earnest conversation. “Heather, look who’s here,” Rose calls across the room. Heather looks up, sees me, nods, and goes back to talking to her neighbor. So, no change there. Still the cold-shoulder.
“Oh don’t mind Heather,” Rose surprises me again. “She’s never forgiven you for beating her every year. And for being dux6.” But she didn’t mind you beating her, I think to myself, but say nothing. “I think she would have preferred that to being head-girl, actually.” I turn to Rose, surprised. “Oh she hated being head-girl. Didn’t you know?” I hadn’t. “She knew she’d only gotten it because Daddy was dangling a big donation in front of Mr Johnson.” I hadn’t credited Heather with that much self-respect. “And then as head-girl, she had to be the perfect ‘Daughter of the King’”. Rose leans back against the door frame. “I think she rather envied you your friendship with Natasha McMahon. Speaking of, do you have any contact with Natasha?”
I hold my breath. Does Rose know something? “No,” I say slowly, cautiously, “Why?”
“Just curious,” Rose says casually. “She was so damn smart. Almost too smart. She was bored, I think.” True, but I don’t say anything. “Brilliant at art, of course.” I nod, I don’t trust my voice or where this is going. “Oh well, I hope she finds herself one day. She really was a lost and lonely sheep.” Rose’s perceptiveness is startling. But I say nothing. It’s not like Rose had ever been friendly towards Natasha.
“Anyway, make yourself at home. I’m going to go mingle.” And she heads out to the pool.
I head back to the kitchen, and pour myself a rather stiffer than usual gin and tonic.
A little while later I plonk myself down on a sofa, and introduce myself to the guy sitting next to me. “Hi, I’m Eleanor,” I breeze, my confidence buoyed by the G&T.
“I’m Petrus. Eleanor who?”
“Williams. Eleanor Williams.”
“Oooh,” he says, surprise and wonder written all over his face. “You’re that Eleanor—the girl who beat Rose.”
What the hell?
“What do you mean?” I ask guardedly.
“Aren’t you the one who beat Rose for the scholarship and academic honors and all that.”
I look at him in disbelief. Cape Town is 1,500km away from Pretoria. It’s been a year since we matriculated. Six years since Rose first came to St Anne’s and we vied for first place every year since, me pipping her out every year. But that’s all behind us now. Why on earth would an insignificant high school academic rivalry at a tiny all girls private school matter when we’re now at two different universities, over a thousand kilometers apart? How on earth would a guy I’ve never met, at a university I’m not even at, know anything at all about me?
And then I’m angry. So angry. I left Pretoria, decided against UCT, precisely to get away from all this shit. And it’s still following me about, nipping at my heels like an annoying dog I just want to kick away.
“So what if I am,” I say stiffly as I stand up. It’s time to leave.
I never belonged with these rich kids. I still don’t belong. In Durban I started over. Other than Tig, not a soul knew me. I had no baggage. I didn’t have the crushing weight of being “Mrs Williams’ daughter”. The desperate loneliness of being the bookish smart one, Natasha gone. The humiliation of being mocked every time I used vocabulary they didn’t get. “Oooh, someone go get the dictionary, Eleanor’s showing off again.”
Never, never ever again, I vow as I drive home.
University of Cape Town
“Matric” is another word for Standard 10 (Grade 12)—the final year of high school—in South Africa
To matriculate means to graduate high school and meet university entrance requirements
Durban
Dorp, Afrikaans. Literally village or small country town, but it is also used as a derogatory term, denoting a backward or unprogressive place.
South African equivalent of valedictorian
I’ve witnessed jostling for positions in almost every group of people I’ve ever been part of, from small and insignificant hobby enthusiasts to large, listed companies. I’ve also seen that this very human behaviour is seldom victimless and is often a failure of systems and structures that should provide control measures and protection for the whole. I am reminded of the axiom to be kind always.