When the Tree is Dry

By Alice S. Hill

It's 2008, and Zimbabwe is reeling from biting poverty and repression. With hyperinflation, workers’ salaries have devalued to nothing by the time they draw the money from the bank, and unemployment soars as companies close. Hunger has created a nation desperate for change, but the cutthroat clique in government is equally desperate to cling to power. They are afraid of losing their ill-gotten fortunes and being made to pay for past crimes against humanity.

London-based Claire is an amateur reporter. When her marriage breaks up and her teenage daughter leaves home, all Claire has left is burning ambition. She is determined to write articles that make the world stand up and take notice of injustice and oppression, and Zimbabwe's upcoming election is the perfect opportunity to prove she is capable of making a difference.

Working undercover, she finds herself pitted against a government determined to conceal human rights abuses at all costs. She becomes increasingly entangled in the situation she's supposed to be reporting as she ventures into no-go areas where life is expendable.

Sekai, a young mother living in a remote village, has only one concern: the wellbeing of her family. But her husband's politics place her in the path of the government's vicious purge of the opposition party. Amidst a furore of beating, burning and rape, she finds an unexpected inner strength as she fights to keep her family together.

Florence is no stranger to the brutality of the Zimbabwean government. Driven from her home to hide as an illegal immigrant in England, she longs for democracy in her own country. When she returns to Zimbabwe as a political activist, she must confront her fears while caring for an ever-increasing tide of refugees hiding in a lice-ridden building.

In an epic tale of three women caught in a country's plunge towards anarchy and genocide, they not only struggle for individual survival, but together they prove that ordinary people can influence a nation's destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alice S. Hill
• Release date: Jan 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386598619

Alice S. Hill

Hello My name is Alice and I'm a write-a-holic. Born in Zimbabwe, my passions include: - Writing (of course) - All things African, especially its wonderful people, stunning scenery and fascinating wild creatures - People, and what makes them who they are - Human rights and social justice I hope you enjoy reading my books as much as I enjoyed writing them. You can find more information, as well as some free reading matter, on my website. Thanks for stopping by.

Book preview

Prologue

If men do these things when the tree is green, what will happen when it is dry? – Jesus

Zimbabwe: January 2005

A girl stands at the edge of a clearing, poised for flight. She is young, perhaps in her late teens. She longs to run, to escape, but her legs will not move.

Freedom.

Every nerve of her body tingles with her craving for it, and yet she remains as if hypnotised.

Behind her, red and orange flames blaze against the night sky and throw flickering patterns of light and shadow on the ground. A bang, a whoosh and they leap higher. A suffocating cloud of smoke swirls through the trees. In the distance, a high-pitched wail rises above the crackling of the fire.

The girl’s body is rigid, her heartbeat hammering a reggae rhythm through her brain.

Heavy footsteps approach, and a branch snaps. She leaps back in alarm. The spell is broken, and she runs, panic-stricken, like an impala chased by a lion.

They’ll kill me. They’ll make me scream and plead for death.

She crashes through the undergrowth, leaves and twigs stinging her face. She stifles a cry as something touches a deep, festering scratch on her neck.

The moon breaks through the clouds, illuminating a clear path to her left. She sprints, running as if the demons of hell are hunting her soul. Her breath is ragged, and pain shoots through her side.

Freedom. Freedom.

The footsteps behind her grow fainter.

Yes! I'm going to make it. I’m going to escape.

A heavy body breaks through the bush, hurtling onto the path in front of her. A scream rises as far as her throat, but no sound comes out. The moonlight glints on two startled eyes, and a shape comes into focus. Curling horns, a slender neck and a humped back. A kudu bull. It twists away from her and leaps with a powerful thrust of its hindquarters to disappear among the trees.

She pauses for a moment, her legs shaking. She takes a wobbling step, then breaks into a run. Clouds drift across the moon, and she misses the path. Creepers tug at her feet, her leg twists, and she snatches at the branch of a sapling to save herself. It breaks in two, sounding like a gunshot. The ground hits her hard, slamming all the breath from her body.

Footsteps again, and snapping branches. The steps speed up into a running rhythm.

They’ve found the path.

She curls into a ball, hiding her face with her arm.

It’s the end. I’m dead.

No! No!

She rolls away, ignoring a sharp pain in her ankle, and burrows among a thick tangle of bushes and creepers. The ground is damp. It smells of decomposing leaves. Keeping low and still, she waits, fighting the urge to retch with fear.

They'll find me. Even if they don't find me now, they'll find me one day.

The voice echoing in her head is as clear as the day she first heard the words spoken. If you run away, we will hunt you and kill you. If it takes a year, five years, even ten, we will find you and kill you.

The feet slow down; become methodical and menacing. They stop.

Chapter 1

London, England: 2016

Dressing up to look like a businesswoman wasn't Keera Davison's idea of fun. And the day had only got worse. Ryan Channing, trust fund manager, showed no sign of being impressed by her carefully-researched presentation. She glanced at him across the heavy mahogany desk.

He held his head a little to the side, one eyebrow raised. "Give me some reasons why I should finance your project, instead of those." He pointed to a pile of applications stacked on a filing cabinet.

How best to play it? As if for inspiration, she touched the photograph lying beside her with one finger. I won’t let them down.

The picture showed three women. The familiar figure on the left, fair and long-legged, had turned a little to face the two Africans standing beside her. In the centre, a tall girl, full-figured and athletic, gestured with a hand, her eyes sparkling with laughter. An ugly scar disfigured her neck, but still the impression was of striking good looks. The third, pixie-faced and more than a head shorter, wore an expression of deep concentration.

They'd signed their names underneath: Claire, in bold, assertive writing; Florence, with a flourish; Sekai, in a neat, schoolgirlish hand.

If only they were here to tell their story.

Keera straightened her shoulders and tried to sum up the man in front of her. Ryan leant back in his chair, his eyes narrowed and his expression hard to read. If she could persuade him to part with a little of that trust fund, then perhaps those three women, their courage and their pain, might be vindicated.

She had to make him understand. Make him see, feel and smell the brutal reality of Zimbabwe in 2008.

If only they could tell their story.

In fact, they had told it, or rather, written it down, but would he agree to read it? Her left hand moved to the thick file in front of her.

After a moment’s thought, she handed the photo to Ryan. I'd like you to meet three remarkable women.

He studied first the picture, then Keera's face. Claire's a relative?

Keera looked up, surprised. My mother. But I didn't think we were alike.

Keera, with her dark, curly hair and feminine figure, bore little resemblance to the wafer-thin woman in the picture.

It's the expression. He studied the picture again. So . . . who are Florence and, er, Sekkay?

Se-kye, she corrected automatically. To rhyme with 'eye.'

She removed two typed sheets from the file, together with a few handwritten pages, and passed them across the cluttered desk. If you’d read these, they’d speak for themselves.

He smiled. Why had she ever thought of him as intimidating? He took the papers and began to read.

London, England, January 2008: Florence’s account

In Britain, the jails aren't bad. They gave me a cell to myself, with en suite facilities—well, a basic loo and washbasin behind a token piece of wall, but hey, they worked. The mod cons included a blanket, what passed for a mattress and even air conditioning. I could have taught Her Majesty’s staff a thing or two about cleaning, but at least they’d tried—the smell of cheap disinfectant proved it. British jails were a whole lot better than the digs I shared in Brixton.

It had all started with a bad Monday. My alarm didn’t go off, I missed the Tube by about thirty seconds, waited ten minutes for another and skidded on black ice as I ran the last stretch. I narrowly missed colliding with two destitute-looking men huddled inside threadbare jackets.

I climbed the narrow, dim-lit stairs like I was training for the Olympics and made it halfway across the landing where I came to an abrupt halt. Police. Too late—they’d already seen me. No point in running for it. The two lurkers outside were probably plainclothes cops, waiting for someone to do exactly that. I sauntered in and joined about half a dozen of my co-workers, who stood in the foyer with faces as gloomy as the weather outside.

The door to the main office opened, and old Blaine, my boss, came out, escorted by two policemen. I peeped through. Inside, more cops ransacked filing cabinets while another dismantled Blaine’s computer.

My granny always said every dark cloud had a silver lining. Must have been something the nuns taught her at the mission school. This cloud certainly had one, because Blaine’s fat cheeks quivered under his staring eyes. He’d gone green. I didn’t know people could do that. I grinned. If anyone deserved trouble, he did. He ran a cleaning service, with the best rates in town. Not difficult, since he only employed illegals like me, and didn't have to pay us much. Or be nice to us.

I wasn’t too fussed about the pay. Zimbos knew how to live cheaply, and the second-hand shops in London were fantastic. I'd never had so many clothes in my life.

The cops ignored the staff, other than making sure nobody left. We huddled in the darkest corner next to a sick-looking bunch of plastic flowers, talking occasionally in low voices. Two Nigerians, a Jamaican, a young boy from Morocco, a girl called Aaliyah from a country I’d never heard of, and myself. We weren’t the only employees; others had gone directly to clients’ offices. My boss was supposed to take the six of us in his van to a one-off job in some suburb, but that wasn’t going to happen.

The Jamaican spared a moment from gnawing a fingernail. Are dey going to deport us?

Yeah, said the Nigerian girl, her small, round face showing no expression. Tey always do.

Always? She made it sound as if being deported happened to her every other day.

Aaliyah-from-some-weird-country stared at the Nigerian girl, raising a shaking hand to her pale face. We can apply for asylum? Please, it must be possible. Yes?

She had a point. She’d told me terrible stories about the place she came from. I also felt frightened, but I told myself to stop being paranoid. Nothing bad would happen.

I dragged my brain back to the present. Maybe I should warn the rest of the staff. Tell them not to come back here, ever. I turned my back to the cops, pulled out the mobile phone they’d forgotten to confiscate and sent a text message.

After a bit, a constable called us one by one into Blaine’s office. When my turn came, I slouched into a chair and put on my best I’m-bored impression.

Can I have your full name, please? My interviewer had the body of a bamboo stick and pimples. He wore a uniform that barely reached his wrists. But at least he was polite.

Florence Izwirashe Chidziro. D’you know how to spell that, or shall I write it for you? I wished I had some chewing gum. It would’ve helped me look even less interested.

Er. If you could spell it for me, please.

He got it eventually, but it would have been quicker if he’d let me write it. I said so.

Age?

Twenty-two.

Right, I need details of your work permit.

No point in pretending. He’d find out the truth soon enough. I don’t have one.

Surprise, surprise. He scribbled something on a form. Alright, let’s have your full details.

He fired questions at me, lots of them. Address, date and place of birth, sex.

Sex? Couldn’t he tell? I straightened my shoulders and leant forward in case he hadn’t noticed I wore a size double-D.

He ticked a box and continued. Nationality?

Zimbabwean.

Self-defined ethnicity?

What the hell is self-defined ethnicity? I asked.

It’s how you define yourself. Your colour, your nationality, like.

Can I make it up? Can I be a Yellow-Spotted Yukkatan?

I’d rather you didn’t.

Oh, okay. Let’s be boring. Black Zimbabwean. Does that work for you?

To cut a long story short, that’s how I ended up detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure, as they call it. With a view to being booted out of Britain very soon.

The problem with having a cell to yourself is, it gets boring. I mean, pulling funny faces at the CCTV camera is fun for a while, but it’s not something you want to do all day. So I had plenty of time to think. Should I apply for asylum, like Aaliyah? Or should I go home?

I missed home a lot. Harare, colourful and noisy. My grandmother's village, set against misty blue hills. My friends, my family. Trouble was, every time I thought of home, a cold little lizard moved around in my belly and sneaked its way up my spine. Fear. And if I let it get as far as my brain, it would tell me, Stay here. Be safe. Apply for asylum.

I chased the lizard back down again. Two of my friends had applied for asylum, and they’d been kept hanging about for years. Not allowed to work, not allowed to go anywhere. Waste two years of my life? Nah. Interesting things were happening in Zimbabwe. Elections coming up, and everyone said Morgan Tsvangirai had a good chance of winning this time. Political alliances had formed and broken; talks had started and talks had shut down. And they’d arrested Tsvangirai—again.

The people at home were doing something. WOZA, for example, that amazing group of women who kept right on demonstrating, even though the cops beat them and arrested them.

A group of us, all Zimbabweans in exile, held demonstrations here in London, too. We gathered outside the Zimbabwean Embassy every Saturday, but the people at home faced real danger. Suddenly, I wanted to be there, to be a part of it.

I’d take the kind British government's offer of a free ticket home. And when I got there, I wouldn’t sit back tamely; I'd fight for democracy and try to be brave like the others. Damn the fear. I would not let myself think about that day—the fire—no, all that was best forgotten. Anyway, those things—the things I didn’t want to remember—happened almost three years ago. Surely they wouldn't be searching for me after three years?

Would they?

London, England: 2016

Keera flipped through the file. Her hand froze. Oh hell, she hadn’t intended to include that. She glanced at Ryan. He’d stopped reading, a slight frown on his face. After a moment, he put aside the typed sheets and pulled forward the handwritten notes.

Keera slipped a paper from the file, slid it under the desk and stuffed it in her handbag.

Ryan concentrated on Sekai’s account.

Dombo re Zhou Village, Zimbabwe, January 2008: Sekai’s account

I knew Mutero's visit would bring trouble.

His car came closer through the fields, and I wished I could make it turn around and go away. I wished things could stay as they were, with my children laughing as they kicked a ball made of rolled-up plastic across the yard, and the chickens pecking through the grass to find insects.

Trouble was not a stranger in our village. The older people often spoke about the Chimurenga—the liberation struggle. They remembered hiding freedom fighters in caves, sell-outs being beaten and security forces who hunted for the fighters. They told of being afraid, always afraid. All this happened before I was born.

In my time, trouble came with elections. The Party sent people to tell us how we must vote and to remind us of the Chimurenga. We must not be sell-outs, we must support Zanu PF, the party of liberation. At one time, this was good, because they brought beer and meat. We sang and danced, and heard stories about the heroes who fought for Independence.

Then came a new party, the MDC, and Zanu PF became angry. They no longer brought beer and laughter, but shouting. Their visits were like gata—the ceremony for divining why somebody had died—but Zanu PF were not looking for bad spirits. They were hunting for MDC supporters. Last time they found some. I do not like to think about what happened that day.

Soon, there would be elections again, and the time of fear would return. I shivered as I watched the car swing to one side to avoid some goats, then make its way slowly towards the village. Perhaps that time had already come.

When Mutero arrived, I thought maybe my husband Albert wanted to talk men's things with him, so I left them. I found my two children, Everjoy and Blessings, playing hide and seek under the grain store.

I called, Come, we are going to visit Chengetai.

They came with their faces and clothes full of dust. I laughed as I brushed it off. You are dust babies.

Dust babies are going to see Chengetai. Everjoy danced around me. Going to see Chengetai, she sang in a high voice.

Blessings stamped his feet and smiled, showing his tiny teeth.

We took the path past the Kasekes’ new brick house. Its iron roof shone against the dried thatch of the older huts. A black cloud hung over the hill with the big boulder, the one we called Elephant Rock, and perhaps there would be a storm. For now the sun still shone in the village, but dark shadows stretched towards it.

I wrinkled my nose at the smell as we turned by the overhanging rock where the goats slept. Chengetai’s children waved to us from the door of their hut. Everjoy shouted a greeting and ran ahead through the maize field.

Chengetai was chopping vegetables.

You are busy, I said.

Ah, no. She wiped her hands on her dress. I can always find time to talk.

She had a kettle of water on the fire, and she made tea. The children played outside, chattering and laughing. They climbed the rocks and chased each other.

Chengetai added sugar to the tea. Where had she managed to get sugar? If I asked, she would probably refuse to tell me.

She handed me the cup. Who is that with Albert?

Just then Blessings began to cry, because he was too small to climb to the top with the others.

Help him, Evva, I called. Everjoy stretched down her hand and the boy became quiet. I turned back to Chengetai.

She asked the same question again.

That is Mutero. You know him, he is the owner of Quick-Quick Stores, I said.

He has a nice car. She smiled. I wonder what it would be like to have a car like that?

He is a rich man.

Ayee, she said. It would be good to have a rich husband. I am sure Mrs Mutero does not have to dig in the fields, and maybe she has a new dress every month.

Mrs Mutero has her own money. She is a doctor. I think it would be even better for a woman to have a good job than a rich husband. Then, if you saw some nice thing, you could have it without needing to ask.

Chengetai shook her head after a moment. No. If I want money, I wait until Tinashe has been drinking, and he no longer knows how much money he has. Then it is easy.

I smiled. But now, nobody has money. Not Tinashe, not Albert. It is difficult, very difficult. When Albert worked on the mine, things were good, but then the mine had no more money and no more jobs.

You are right, there is no money, she said, lifting her cup. I don’t know how we will find enough to eat when the dry season comes. She drank some tea. Why is Mutero here? Is he going to give Albert a job?

I don't think so. I think they are talking politics.

Ah. Politics. It would be better if we had no politics, then we could live in peace. She stood up and fetched the frying pan and the cooking oil.

It would be better. But Albert does not think so.

You are unlucky with your husband. My Tinashe does not think of politics.

No! Tinashe thinks only of beer. Albert is a good husband. He does not drink too much, or beat me like Rudo's husband. And he does not chase the women, like Eunice's husband. He is a good man, and our vegetables are the best in the village. I leaned forward, breathing quickly, but Chengetai only laughed.

But he thinks of politics. That is no good for you. I saw they would not allow you to buy maize because Albert is MDC. So you are unlucky.

I played with my cup, remembering how the men had chased me away at the grain depot. Last year, we were on the mines, and we did not grow much maize. How can a person live without sadza? And you can’t make sadza without maize. So Albert went to see a man at night and came back with three full bags on the Scotch cart, enough to last until the harvest if we were careful. After that, all our money had gone. But in November we planted a crop. In a few months it would be time for the harvest, and we would no longer need to buy.

Chengetai put onions and peppers into the oil. Perhaps it would be better if we talked of other things.

Did you hear they are saying Tonderai is the father of Susan's baby? I asked.

####

After Mutero left, we returned home and I made a fire in the kitchen. Albert sat outside on a rock near the door.

You saw Mutero was with me, Sekai?

I saw.

He is now the aspiring candidate for Mushongwe West.

Oh? He is going to be a Member of Parliament?

He is going to try. He wants me to be his election agent. His thin face broke into a smile.

I filled a pot with water and did not reply. Last time we had elections, Zanu PF chased the agents for MDC from the district. In some other places, the agents had even been killed.

Chapter 2

London, England: 2016

I remember now. Ryan put aside the last page. Zimbabwe was in the news quite a lot, a few years ago. An election that turned sour. Is this what you’ve documented? It’s relevant to your project?

Very relevant.

So how did your mother get involved? I assume she’s British?

It’s kind of a long story. She looked down and fiddled with the strap of her handbag. In a way, I guess it’s my fault.

And I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s all in there? He pointed to the file.

She looked up at him. His eyes were definitely smiling; they crinkled around the corners.

Her mood lightened. Yup. All there.

All except one paper.

So what do you have in there? Bedtime reading for a month?

Not if you’re prone to nightmares. It’s the rest of Sekai’s and Florence’s accounts.  And my mother’s. Also, stories from people she interviewed, and some bits and pieces I added to fill the gaps.

He reached out a hand. Keera hesitated for a moment. My mother’s journal. Do I really want to share it?

She gave a tiny shrug and pushed the file across the desk.

Croydon, England, January 2008: Claire’s journal

You have to come home. In fact, I’m ordering you to come home. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the phone. I'd intended to be calm and controlled, but my voice came out as a screech, ugly even to my own ears.

I'll stay where I like, and there's nothing you can do. I'm fifteen, and I can choose to live with my father. The law says so. Keera's voice would have done justice to a sergeant major on parade. I held the phone six inches away to avoid permanent injury to my eardrums.

I took three deep breaths and tried again. Okay, calm down, let's discuss this reasonably—

The line went dead. She'd hung up on me.

I stood for several minutes, staring at the phone. Started to dial her number, then changed my mind. Brain in neutral, I walked up the stairs, across the landing and into her room. Keera’s perfume filled the air with the memory of spring flowers. Her jacket hung carelessly across a chair. Tubes of oil paint and acrylics littered the desk, and a ball of crumpled paper lay on the floor. But no Keera. No loud music, no chat room open on the laptop. No ‘Not now, Mum, please! Can't you see I'm in the middle of something?’

Gone.

London, England: 2016

Ryan’s lips twitched. Teenager from hell, were you?

My mother would certainly say so.

And I suppose there’s more about that in the paper you sneaked out of the file when you thought I wasn’t looking?

Her jaw fell. She recovered, and sat up straighter in her chair. You don’t miss a trick, do you?

I try not to.

They stared at each other for about thirty seconds. Ryan grinned. Okay, I won’t ask for it. He rubbed his chin. You win, for now. Make an appointment with reception for next week, and we’ll discuss your project. I’ll go through your facts and figures before then.

She looked a question at him.

Yes, you can leave that file with me. He glanced at his watch. You’ll have to excuse me. I have another appointment in five minutes.

Keera left the office with a bounce in her stride, and closed the door behind her. She stopped at the front desk, but the receptionist was busy with another customer. Keera perched on a visitors’ chair. No-one was watching. She took the folded paper from her bag.

How could she have been dumb enough to leave that in the file?

The whole thing was dumb. Back then, at fifteen, she’d printed all her Myspace chats and kept them. It seemed like fun. She included this one when she compiled the file she’d left with Ryan, because it fitted with the story. But did she want to share it? Hell, no.

12th February 2008: Conversation with Joanna

Keera? How’d your date with Richard go?

Had to cancel. Would you believe, the old man talked me out of it. Hold on. Dammit, I just smudged a nail.

You there, Keera?

"Yeah, sorted now. As I was saying. I had to cancel with Richard. My dad said it wasn't fair to my mum, going off to the movies when the old girl had organised this mean day out. Sent me on a guilt trip about leaving home and all that. Like, he should be the one on a guilt trip, not me. So I manage to get a date, a real date, with Richard, and I have to dump him. Well, not dump him, but you know what I mean."

No! That is just so grunge. I mean, he finally asks you out, and you don't get to go.

Mm hm. Anyhow, the old girl said she'd take me anywhere I wanted, so I said, how about the London Dungeon, I've never been there and I've heard it's dope. So we get there, and would ya believe the damn place is closed. Urgent structural repairs. What a bummer, I give up going out with Richard, and I still haven’t seen the dungeon.

Big bummer. Not your day, huh?

It gets worse. So she says, well, what else would you like to do? So I say, London Eye. So we go there and it starts bloody snowing. Can you believe! She says something about me having the grumps. Then I do get the grumps, big time, and she goes into headmistress mode. I tell you, if she thinks I'm going back home, she can recompute that one.

Hey gotta go, my mum’s on at me because I didn't do the dishes.

Know how you feel. Like my mum, just when I've figured out how to do something really dope with Photoshop, and I'm halfway there, now it's time to do the dishes. Yuk.

Gotta go. Byeeee.

London, England: 2016

Four-thirty, and Ryan had just shown another applicant out of the door. He had no more appointments for the day. He smiled as he thought about Keera. She intrigued him.

He reached for the file and continued reading.

Croydon, England, February-March 2008: Claire’s journal

On Saturday, I took Keera for a day out. It wasn't a success. I spent Sunday facing the fact that she wasn’t coming home. I no longer had a family to care for. All I had was a job, and it was dead boring. I drifted around in a fug of depression, like a sun that had passed the white dwarf stage, a silent object floating endlessly through space.

On Monday, I handed in my notice at work. Twenty years of being sensible had gained me precisely nothing.

What next? I had savings, so I wouldn’t starve in a gutter–yet. The problem was time, too much of it. Like most working mothers, time was a stranger to me, and now I had plenty, I didn't know what to do with it.

I filled some of it by phoning Ian, the editor of What’s New. We’d been on the same journalism course more years ago than I liked to admit. He’d encouraged me to keep up my writing after I dropped out, nineteen years old and pregnant with my son Josh. Ian’s paper printed some of my articles, and it gave me an interest and a small income.

Claire! Good to hear from you. When are you going to have lunch with me?

Anytime. Anytime you like.

Oh? Thought you'd say you were too busy. You always do. Wednesday?

Ian picked the restaurant: upmarket, with gleaming silverware, snowy-white tablecloths and a formal air that made me think of Edwardian ladies in furs. He was paying—he could afford it.

He arrived before me. I’d quite fancied him once, but he was getting close to his best before date. Paunchy, starting to lose hair, but still good company.

We made polite, catching-up conversation over mushroom starters. As we worked our way through an excellent steak, he asked the question I’d been dreading. How’s Craig?

I stopped eating and made patterns on the tablecloth with toothpicks. Craig and I are no longer together.

You’ve split up? But you were always besotted with him. You wouldn’t even so much as flirt with me properly whenever I made a pass at you.

I tried to balance the toothpicks into a wigwam. It collapsed. Yeah, well, maybe it didn’t work both ways. He’s shacked up with some floozy.  It sounded good, but it wasn’t quite right. You couldn’t really call Leigh a floozy. "Well, to be exact, he’s run off with some oh-so-sweet, look-at-me, I’m-so-brave-bringing-up-three-kids-on-my own little cow. All that poor-me stuff, men always seem to fall for it."

Not me. I like women with a bit of guts and go.

Well, you’re unusual, then. I finally looked up at him, then down again when I saw the concern on his face. I hated being the object of someone’s pity. I arranged the toothpicks into a flower pattern.

How’s Keera taken it?

Keera? She’s taken it just fine. She’s gone off to join him, without even telling me before she left.

And it seemed nothing I did would bring her back. I’d tried pleading. I’d tried coffee mornings, phone calls, notes. And then the London Dungeon, which had been a disaster.

Teenagers always opt for the soft touch. And in your family, that’s definitely Craig. He took a sip of wine. So it’s just you and Josh at home?

Josh is at university. So it’s just me. I swept up the toothpicks, put them back in their container and attacked my steak. Let’s talk about something else.

His pithy comments on the government’s latest spending cuts kept me amused over chocolate mousse. I waited until we’d almost finished our Irish coffees before making my move.

Got a job for me, Ian?

A job? What sort of job?

As a reporter, of course. I don't fancy myself as an office cleaner, and I don't suppose you'd give me a seat on the board of directors.

He raised his hand as a waiter went past.

Two more Irish coffees, please. You'll have another, won't you?

That would be great, I said. I rested my chin on one hand and glanced at him sideways, But a job would be even better.

Same old Claire. You’re like a bull terrier—you never let go. He grinned. Yes. The job. Tricky at the moment. All this online news affects our circulation. We haven't been taking on staff for a while. But for you—maybe. Let me think.

The waiter brought our coffee, and we sipped in silence.

You any good at reviewing movies? Shows? That kind of thing? We could expand our entertainment section, I think, at a push.

Hopeless. If I watch two movies a year, it's a lot, and I know nothing about the theatre.

Gardening?

"No good. I can't tell the difference between a flower and a weed. What I really want is news. Important stuff that means something. I leaned forward. Remember the things we talked about at college? Iran and Libya and disarmament. How we wanted to get out there and be part of it? Fight injustice and have adventures?"

Yeah, we certainly did a lot of talking. And now I'm a city editor with a beer belly and you're . . . .

Nothing. But I want to be something. Give me a job, and I'll show you.

Now you're being naive. You don't just walk into that sort of job. Not unless you've made a name for yourself.

Yes, and how do you make a name for yourself if no-one gives you a job? You liked my Hillary Clinton article and the one I wrote about Aung Suu Kyi. You know I can do it.

It's not really the same thing. He took a mouthful of his drink, looking at me thoughtfully. How do you make a name for yourself? I suppose you just have to get out there and start writing.

Just get out there and start writing. Okay, but how? And where?

###

Colour, pulsating life. Sounds: drumbeats, shouts, whistles and people singing. Hyde Park, 8th of March, International Women's Day. I couldn't help feeling swept up in a wave of girlie solidarity, even though I’d left home with an enthusiasm level that matched the drippy weather.

Writing helped keep depression away for an hour or two, and I had an idea for an article: Women's Lib: Have we lost the plot? On one hand,