Home Before You

December 2014

The Bottom Drawer

It was inevitable that this day would come. A young man would fall in love with my beautiful daughter and ask for her hand in marriage.
The old and wise warned us to make the most of the childhood years as they pass so quickly. At the time, I was just grateful that the endless buckets of soaking nappies and sleepless nights would one day end. Now, almost fifty, with more than a few laughter lines and my own natural grey highlights, I wonder where the years have gone.
Watching Rachel fall in love is like watching my own life unfold again. Falling in love was fun – carefree days, full of hope and promise. What parent would stand in the way of her child’s own chance at such happiness? And when you approve of her choice, who wouldn’t be overjoyed?
Still, I felt nervous. When your future son-in-law asks for your daughter’s hand in marriage, you’re supposed to put him through a few hoops to see if he’s worthy of the honour. What were the hoops? According to my father, after Andy had asked for permission to marry me, the conversation switched to trout fishing within the first five minutes. Obviously, Dad approved.
Andy would have known the hoops for sure. Best not to go down that road. Lord, help me not to be emotional. Men hate that and it would just make the whole situation awkward. An emotional mother-in-law-to-be could fill a man with dread.
Not that St John appeared to be the sort who would dread much. Brought up on a farm in the mountains of South Africa, he seemed mature and capable. Tall, with sandy-coloured hair and a ready boyish grin, his easy-going nature made it impossible for me to stay stressed for long.
The peaceful and familiar atmosphere of my favourite coffee shop also helped ease any tension. The Bottom Drawer was the perfect venue. Reminiscent of a time when young maidens put aside a dowry for their future marriage, a bottom drawer is a symbol of romance and happy-ever-after dreams. The double-storey house, with huge bay windows, meandering flower beds and tables dotted randomly around the garden, felt like a slice of England. In reality, it was situated ten minutes from the bustle of the central business district of Harare, Zimbabwe’s capital city.
We made our way to a private corner of the garden and sat down, chatting easily. The beaming waitress gave us a warm welcome and took our orders. St John and I were both aware that we were idling away the time, but the arrival of coffee signalled that the moment had come. A short silence hung in the air until I blurted out, ‘St John, I know you aren’t here for small talk.’ He laughed and dived in with youthful enthusiasm, telling of his love for Rachel, his intention to marry her, and their desire to have my blessing.
‘I always wanted to have four children …’
My voice cracked with emotion. Years ago, in what feels like another lifetime, I’d joked with Andy: ‘We should think about having a third. We could wait, I guess – have two, and another two later on.’
Andy’s sudden, mysterious disappearance had left him with the final word.
Reeling my thoughts in, I tore open a sachet of sugar and poured it into my coffee. Stirring was a welcome distraction. I never have sugar in my coffee. Recovering my composure, I finished my sentence.
‘… and I knew it would happen when Rachel and Jason found someone special to marry. Loving and being loved is one of God’s greatest gifts – enjoy it!’
My heart was full. Conversation and laughter mingled with a growing certainty that our lives were being woven into a fabric rich with God’s blessing and purposes.
Back home, I plonked myself on Jason’s bed. Jason has his father’s athletic build and my brown eyes. According to his grandmother, he has Andy’s ‘jig’. Nonplussed, I’d asked her what that meant. Married to a keen birdwatcher, she said birds fly differently; they have their own ‘jig’. Jason moves like his Dad.
Putting his arm around me, Jason asked, ‘Well, how was it?’
‘Fine … great … St John thinks Rachel is wonderful.’ Tears welled up.
‘Rachel is wonderful,’ Jason stated matter-of-factly. ‘Still, I think it’s sad.’
‘What’s sad?’ I said, sniffing.
‘Change.’

20 May 1989

Heaven’s Song

If life is always changing like the seasons, then getting married is the budburst of spring. Love is awakened. A vista of hope and joy spans the horizon of endless possibilities.
All the happy-ever-after stories you read as a young girl come true. Your bridegroom, standing at the end of the aisle, has never looked more handsome or gallant. Invincible. The hero who never dies, who never fails to vanquish evil and slay the dragon.
I smiled as I walked down the aisle: my Prince Charming had forgotten to take my advice. ‘Andrew, remember not to comb your fringe forward!’
Mind you, my perm-induced, brunette curls, complete with huge, white bow, must have made Andy smile too.
In later years, when the children looked at our wedding photographs, they giggled. ‘Mum, what were you thinking? That hair!’
Minor details. Our wedding preparations were stress-free – no arguments, no unattainable standards of perfection. My dress was handmade by a local seamstress. I had found the white, shantung fabric at a Greek store, ten minutes from home.
My great-grandmother from Cumbria once told me she would die before she ever saw me married. ‘I’d be waiting for a blue moon,’ she declared with great cynicism. She was right. Not even her daily shot of brandy could sustain her through the two years needed to witness the improbable. Our wedding was set for 20 May 1989, the date of an actual blue moon.
The day did have a dreamlike quality about it, but ordinary happenings kept my feet on the ground. Yanking the bedroom curtains open with a flourish to let in the morning sun, I was surprised to see the Father of the Bride, armed with paintbrush and tin, striding across the dew-drenched lawn. I opened the window and yelled, ‘Dad, what are you doing?’
He turned and grinned. ‘I thought the garden wall could do with a lick of paint before the photo shoot this afternoon.’
If he was nervous about giving away the last of his three daughters in marriage, he hid it well. Thankfully, by the time we were standing arm in arm at the front of the church, he was smartly dressed in collar and tie, with no evidence of Brunswick Green paint.
‘Who gives this woman to be married to this man?’
‘I do.’
Dad lifted my veil, gave me a kiss and returned to the front pew. I slipped my hand into Andy’s. Looking up at those clear blue eyes, I knew I belonged by his side. My true love, the answer to my prayers.
We listened to the gentle strumming of the guitar while our friend, Chake, prepared to sing a romantic ballad that would capture the love and joy of our wedding celebration. I waited expectantly, wondering which song he had chosen.

Men’s hearts today are feeling so fearing,
It seems the end is so, so, very, very near …

I confess that, stepping out of the car, my bouquet had trembled a little with prenuptial nerves, but I certainly wouldn’t have picked fear and impending doom as an appropriate theme.
The earthquakes, and the wars and problems of men,
He holds them in the palm of His hands …

Although I believe that, surely on the day you get married you are excused from thinking about world dramas? Hopefully the song will be short …

I fear no evil for I am His own,
though the earth be shaken and the billows they may roll …

They say that marriages can be stormy. Although Andy and I are both quite relaxed, it’s not impossible that things could change. Still, a little optimism on this occasion would be welcome … a PS at the end of the wedding speech would not be amiss: ‘By the way, we didn’t choose the song.’
Chake did. So did God. Six years later, on 30 June 1995, I found myself singing the words from memory as if they came from heaven itself.

I fear no evil for I am His own,
though the earth be shaken and the billows they may roll,
I hear God whispering to my trembling soul,
‘Fear not, I have everything under control.’

June 1995

Fear Not

Fumbling in the dark with a bunch of keys, I paused at the words on the key ring, shining strange comfort in the torchlight.
‘I have everything under control’ – Jesus

Our wedding song echoed in my mind like a lullaby you might sing to a distraught child. God was whispering to my trembling soul, ‘Fear not, I have everything under control.’
My life had never felt more out of control. It was midnight on 30 June 1995, a cold, winter’s night. The dark African sky was clear and filled with stars. Peaceful. However, unlike my wedding day, fear threatened to overwhelm me, and I shivered in the darkness.
Andy’s childhood friend, Keith, accompanied me to the house with Rachel, three, and Jason, twenty months. An able locksmith, he was standing by to break in if necessary. There were no warm lights to welcome us home. We unlocked the door and I tucked the children in bed. Tired from a birthday party and oblivious to the seriousness of the situation, they drifted off to sleep. I said goodbye to Keith and lay down in an empty bed, wide awake and alone with my thoughts. Am I a widow? Over and over again I replayed the events of the day.
‘I’ll take the keys. I’ll be home before you.’
So, where are you, Andrew?
Sitting on the back step with two fractious toddlers sticky with ice cream, my irritation grew with the passing hours. I should have taken the keys. How selfish of Andrew to be this late. As soon as he drives in, I’ll give him a piece of my mind.
But he didn’t drive in, and as the sun set and the temperature dropped, we huddled together with the nappy bag and empty sippy cups, my anger morphing into fear.
Trying to hide my concern, I said with hollow optimism, ‘Let’s go and wait for Daddy at Granny’s house.’
I needed to use a phone anyway. We were supposed to be going to a friend’s birthday dinner and Andy’s parents were expecting to babysit.
My mum was visiting my grandmother at her small garden flat. The usual pleasantries were overlooked and I made no comment about the flourishing African violet cuttings sitting in yoghurt tubs on the kitchen windowsill. ‘Andy hasn’t come home.’
Back at my parents’ house, my father left immediately for the local police station to report Andy missing. The officer on duty informed him that a period of forty-eight hours must pass before a report can be filed. Knowing that it was totally out of character for Andy to be this late, family and friends began searching for him that night. I mentioned that he might have gone to Cleveland Dam. He often went there to pray when he was fasting, which he was on this particular Friday. In the meantime, I returned home with the children to answer phone calls and to be on standby should Andy reappear.
God, please bring him home.
I lay there listening in the silence, waiting. And waiting. And waiting. But the telephone didn’t ring and nobody came. My tears wet the pillow. I felt nauseated. Andy’s clothes, strewn on the bed, and his shoes, lying haphazardly on the carpet, seemed to say, ‘He’s just popped out for a while. He’ll be back soon and you’ll feel silly for worrying so much.’
Nevertheless, change had come. Winter’s icy breath chilled soul deep, intending to freeze with fear.
Yet, undeniably, in the cold darkness, I heard a faint whisper.
Fear not. I have everything under control.

Missing

‘Where morning dawns and evening fades you call forth songs of joy.’ (Psalm 65:8)
Joy was far-flung, but there is something about dawn that ushers in hope. Perhaps it was the myriad of helpful volunteers that banished despondency.
Andy’s brother, Mark, an ex-policeman, began to co-ordinate the search. A large map of Harare was displayed in the lounge and specific areas were delegated to groups from churches and schools. Before long, a radio mast was erected in the garden and the telephone was manned constantly. Light aircraft, microlights and an air force helicopter were mobilized into action.
Tens of thousands of fliers were distributed countrywide describing Andy, the car he was driving and the place where he was last seen. A reward was offered for his safe return. Posters made their voiceless appeals from the windows of shops, commuter omnibuses and bus shelters. Prayer groups gathered in churches and homes.
Andy was scheduled to attend the international Vineyard leaders’ conference in the USA and, as they remembered him in prayer, the Zimbabwe flag flew at half mast. It was the largest manhunt in Zimbabwe’s history and was front-page news – the sort of news that is always about someone else, never about you, or anyone close to you.
I didn’t read the newspapers. Black-and-white print confirmed a reality that I wasn’t ready to face. Looking after Rachel and Jason gave me a good excuse to remain somewhat detached.
Was this really happening? Could this twenty-eight-year-old pastor’s wife, mother of two, be connected in any way to this unfolding horror? Sometimes I felt like an observer at a busy railway station, an uninvolved bystander.
When ‘people fatigue’ set in, I’d load the children into the car and drive to my parents’ house to escape the endless coming and going. Sitting in their garden, playing with Duplo blocks, brought some normality to our lives, if only for a short while. It was also quieter. The constant ringing of the telephone at our house was disturbing. Every call was recorded meticulously and every possible lead investigated, no matter how absurd or unlikely.
At 7:53p.m. on Thursday, 6 July, one phone call and the subsequent chain of events laid to rest all the previous ‘leads’, the rumours, the visions, the wild imaginings of Andy being held hostage in an underground basement or deserted mineshaft, or captured and dragged off to Mozambique, a victim of witchdoctors’ rituals or of envious congregants’ conspiracies.
‘Hello?’
‘This is the head of the South African Mafia. I want to speak with Andrew’s wife.’
The caller said that he knew ‘Andrew’ and was holding him hostage. He wanted to speak to me, but the call was passed to my father. On being asked what Andy was wearing, the caller hesitated before describing Andy’s clothes. The red, white and black shirt he mentioned was missing, along with a pair of jeans. Before I had even opened the cupboard to check, I knew he spoke the truth. Thousands of fliers had been printed with a description of Andy wearing shorts. I had been mistaken, my memory hazy at the time. The proof of their contact was distressing. I was relieved that Dad had been there to answer the call.
The caller made it clear that Andrew’s life was in danger. The ransom money demanded was to be dropped off at midnight by a narrow bridge on Samora Machel Avenue, between Cresta Lodge and Rhodesville Avenue. The police were not to be alerted and, if they were and their presence was seen, the operatives used by ‘the mafia’ to collect the money – ‘suicide agents wired with explosives’ – would be blown up using a preselected radio frequency.
We were to leave the ransom money under the bridge where we would find, in exchange, the registration plate for the Toyota Cressida that Andy was driving, his cheque book, handkerchief and keys. Andy himself would be returned to us after forty-eight hours, somewhere between Harare and the South African border. The exact location would be given only after the monetary transaction had been completed.
Later that night, John Shaw, Andy’s father, received a similar call at his home.

This is the Mafia President calling from Bulawayo. We are holding Andrew and his life is in danger. We need $200,000. I need to go back to my country. We want high-denomination notes. I only have forty-eight hours to get to the South African border. To show you that we hold Andrew, we have the registration plates, his keys, handkerchief and cheque book.
There must be no police. We meet at midnight, tonight, Chiremba Road. Go past Fashion Fair. Msasa Park is on the right. Behind the walling you will find Andrew’s personal effects. There you will place the money.
No police. My agent has a bomb to avoid apprehension and we will kill Andrew and two of his relatives.
The calls were recorded by a few men with a military past who were now camped in my lounge. The tapes were played repeatedly as they tried to identify background noises that might give clues to the whereabouts of the caller and, hopefully, Andy. The following night, Friday 7 July, at 8:30p.m. and at 9:45p.m., the shrill ring of the telephone once again pierced a night taut with fear. Andy’s brother, Mark, received the calls at his parents’ house.
Noises associated with a quarry or mining operation crackled in the background of the recordings – perhaps a crusher, separator and heavy equipment, with warning sirens for reversing?
…