Firm Foundations

Firm Foundations

Gillian Leggat

Published by Gillian Leggat at Smashwords

Copyright 2020 Gillian Leggat

ISBN:

Smashword Edition Licence Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Meryl Nesbit

for her creative cover design.

Thank you, also, to Smashwords

for their comprehensive and helpful

author podcasts.

Dedication

To Robert

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

About the Author

Connect With Me

Discover Other Titles by Gillian Leggat

My next book

Chapter One

Claire felt her jaw tense as she put down the ’phone. This was going to be a tough assignment. Right now, all she felt like doing was reclining against the copious cushions on her sunny veranda couch to begin Zakes Mda’s Black Diamond, a novel she had pounced on at her monthly book club. Normally, she borrowed just one or two books, but with the prospect of long, lazy August days, this time she hadn’t held back. There was a feast of recently-published fiction piled up on her bedside table waiting to be devoured. But Lizzie, an ex-teacher from Alexandra township, was making demands on her, threatening to swallow up all her precious, hard-earned free time.

Even as she thought that, she felt a bit guilty. Was her time really her own? Last Sunday’s sermon had been about unselfishness and sacrifice. The text was from Mark. She turned the verses up again to remind herself that she should try to be more generous with her time: ‘I tell you the truth,’ said Jesus, ‘no-one who has left home or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children and fields for me and the gospel will fail to receive a hundred times as much in the present age (home, brothers, sisters, mothers, children and fields – and with them, persecutions) and in the age to come, eternal life. But many who are first will be last, and the last first.’ (Mark 10,vs29-31,NIV) And she was hardly giving up all those things. In fact, all she was doing was making a trip to the Sandton library to meet her friend from long ago, but it was what she might have to commit herself to after that meeting that had made her feel wary.

Had she known three things she wouldn’t have been so anxious about giving up ‘her’ time: one, that the girl Lizzie wanted her to meet would catapult her straight into her past, reminding her of the happiest ten years of her life; two, that this sad girl would be a direct link with the man who had loved her so much that every time she was with him, she opened up like a sunflower on a glorious summer’s day; three, that in a mysterious way, she herself was going to be an instrument of redemption for this young girl. Had she been able to look into the future, she would have known that every single minute spent in the company of Lizzie and this young girl was going to be so, so worth it. And ironically, that she would not, after all, have to sacrifice the huge chunk of precious time that she was fretting about. God, who knew her needs so well, would grant her ample time for rest and relaxation; time for charging her batteries; time for reading all the novels she wanted and time for bible reading, prayer and getting closer to him.

But as she didn’t know these things, and despite her conscience pricking her, she was feeling decidedly crabby. Utterly exhausted from a long, cold, hard winter term, she told herself that she absolutely must have her month of freedom. There it was again – that stab of guilt for her feeling of entitlement. But the thought of helping an unenthusiastic mute to open her mouth and speak made her feel tired before she had even met the girl. What patience would be required. What tedious hours of longsuffering coaxing. She really didn’t feel she was up to the task.

If only she hadn’t answered that wretched telephone! Even if she was passionate about teaching, that didn’t mean she had to jump up and down with excitement when unexpected demands encroached on her precious holiday time. She really couldn’t quite get herself out of this acquisitive time thing even when she recited in her head a litany of names of dedicated people who had sacrificed so much to spread the gospel. Take Paul for example. What that man didn’t do for the gospel, and what awful suffering he experienced for the sake of spreading the word: whipped, stoned, left for dead, shipwrecked, imprisoned, chained to Roman guards, mocked and scorned. And yet, in the Lord’s strength, he persevered to the end. What an example. An example which was, however, extremely difficult to imitate.

It’s not as if she wasn’t passionate about her job: she had always been a conscientious teacher, performing all her duties to the best of her ability. She was, after all, mindful of the gifts she had received from God, and reflected often on a favourite passage of hers from 1 Peter: Each one should use whatever gift he has received to serve others, faithfully administering God’s grace in its various forms. (1 Peter 4, v10,NIV) It would indeed be churlish of her to keep the gifts God had so generously given her to herself. In any case, she was passionate about trying to nurture her particular gift in other people, especially young students. One of the main reasons she had spent her whole life teaching was to sow, nurture and nourish the seeds of authorship in her charges. Over the years, she had run many creative writing courses for different age groups in a variety of settings. Her most recent course had taken place during the first week of her last Christmas holidays at a school in Alexandra township. Lizzie had heard about the course she had run and tracked her down: she had a problem and was convinced that Claire could help her to solve it. Claire didn’t have the heart to refuse her, especially as more than two decades earlier, this amazing woman had provided her with the seed for her first published children’s book.

Now she really was on a nostalgic journey into her past. She smiled as she thought about her first encounter with Lizzie, remembering it as if it had happened yesterday. She even remembered the exact date: January 15th, 1987. A visit to a township school that had launched her writing career. Before that day, Claire had been only an aspiring writer of children’s books, battling to attract the attention of South African publishers. Her aim: to write books for all South Africa’s children. With this in mind, she had plucked up the courage to visit Alexandra township, a place which was painted in the media as a filthy slum – and more seriously, a seething mass of discontentment and crime.

Although she was very aware that stereotypes and preconceived ideas were frequently inaccurate and could often even be dangerous – and that they could be fuelled by a media frenzy - she was nevertheless wary of announcing her intentions to the world: she therefore didn’t speak to anyone about her proposed visit. She knew only too well what her family’s and friends’ reaction would be. The night before the trip, the voices argued virulently in her head:

Are you mad?

Don’t for heavens sake set foot in that place.

You’ll get mugged.

You’ll be hijacked.

Are you crazy? You’re a member of the vulnerable sex, remember.

I must say I’ve never heard of a woman going in there alone!

They’ll rape you.

Gang rape!

They’ll throw you to the dogs.

Even though this dialogue was fictitious - ( it was all in her head, for heavens sake!) – she had to admit she was shaken. What was she doing going into that dangerous township all by herself! Of course reports could be highly exaggerated. And gossip could be even worse. Anyway, she wasn’t supposed to be so frightened. Hadn’t she always believed in God’s protection? A welcome verse from the Psalms flashed through her brain: The Lord is my light and my salvation- whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life – of whom shall I be afraid? (Psalm 27,v1,NIV) She decided that the only way to establish whether all the rumours about Alexandra township were true was to confront her fears like a soldier and march – figuratively - into Alex – arming herself, of course, with a battalion of prayers!

So early one bright Friday morning - Friday. Drinking day! The worst possible time to go into a township (she cursed herself for such negative thoughts), she prepared for her foray into the battleground. Breakfast in bed, she decided, was a perfect start to the morning. Although tea was her morning beverage of choice, she made herself a strong cup of coffee and over-indulged her sweet tooth by consuming two buttered and jammed croissants. Well-fortified, although slightly nauseous, she went to her cupboard to choose a garment that would project just the right image. Conservative was good, but she didn’t want to look drab. She was, after all, going to a primary school. More specifically to a Grade 2 class. She cast her eye over all the clashing colours: reds, yellows, purples and oranges. Today her clothes mustn’t shout. She would attract enough attention by the very fact that she was a young white woman venturing into practically forbidden territory. She didn’t even know for sure whether what she was doing was legal. Her mind was assailed by an unwelcome picture of burly cops accosting her before she even got to her destination.

Shaking away the thought, she chose a conservative knee-length pink suit, white shoes, white bag – no adornments, except for her watch. Cheerful, but not too cheerful, certainly not dripping with jewellery, challenging thieves and murderers to come and get her! Respectable. That was exactly the image she wanted to portray. Satisfied with her carefully chosen clothes, she grabbed her bag and hurried towards the garage. She climbed into her VW Beetle and reversed out of her gate with a fluttering heart, her ice-cold hands gripping the steering wheel.

As she was driving along Louis Botha Avenue, it did occur to her that her bag, tucked under the seat next to her, was invitingly open. She was always in such a hurry; she never zipped up her bag. An unzipped bag was more convenient: she kept her house and car keys in one pouch and her credit card and ID book in another. The rest of her bag was filled with rubbish and paraphernalia: old, torn tissues and discarded shopping slips, sweet papers and cough drops which she sucked incessantly during the term to keep her voice moist, lip-ice, lipsticks, cream for cold sores, loose coins which had slipped out of her purse, her hairbrush and some pens and pencils. An outsider might think it was the most disorganised bag in the world but the arrangement worked for her. She always knew exactly where everything was; she could plunge her fingers inside the jumble and pull out the desired item in a second. Even for Alexandra township, she hadn’t modified her habit. After all, she was going to a school: she wasn’t expecting the sky to fall on her head in an educational establishment.

After she had journeyed through the Sandton business district and the Wynberg industrial area, the notorious township was suddenly upon her. She had driven past it before but had never really looked properly: the shock of viewing it in a different context, now that she was actually going to be entering the place, shot up her heart rate, so she resorted to giving herself a serious talk: all she had to do was make a right turn, drive down the long dusty road in front of her for quite some distance, turn left into another dust road, and there, on her right, would be the desired school.

On entry into the township, she was expecting a barrier of some kind, but there were no barbed wire fences. No ‘Keep Out’ signs. Nothing, really, to distinguish the end of the industrial area from the beginning of Alexandra township. On one side of the road, a series of run-down shops and business premises, on the other, row upon row of match-box houses which were, however, painted in colourful shades of blue, yellow and pink. She smiled nervously as she fingered the linen pink of her skirt. I match! she laughed. This thought made her feel more comfortable, stilling her wildly beating heart. But she couldn’t help eyeing anyone who walked near her on the dusty road with deep suspicion. Even as she thought that she felt guilty. Who was she to feel suspicious. All men were made in God’s image – weren’t they? She tried to shake herself out of her fear, without much success despite her good intentions.

A young vendor came close to the car, waving a plastic windmill at her. She tried not to make eye contact; her window remained firmly shut. A small boy ran across the road right in front of her, pulling his wire cart behind him. Claire was driving really slowly but that didn’t stop her wheels from almost crushing the obviously precious toy. An old lady, probably the boy’s ‘Gogo’, waved an aggressive finger at her. After that, things got worse, not better: she accelerated as four young men in black leather jackets and dark glasses sauntered towards her. She half-expected one of them to pull out a gun and aim it at her face. Even through the tightly-shut window, she could hear one of them shouting curses at her as he sprang aside to get out of her way. She shuddered as she considered how close she had been to knocking him over. What then? She had heard about people being dragged out of their cars and lynched. Stop it Claire. This is not helping! This was hardly the time to be sleeping, but she decided that this was the moment to recite one of her favourite verses from the Psalms: I will lie down and sleep in peace; for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety. (Psalm4v8,NIV) The reassuring verse made her feel a lot better even though right now she was further from sleep than she had ever been.

She recited the verse again to herself as, for good measure, she touched the protective pinkness of her conservative suit. ‘Nothing’s going to happen, nothing’s going to happen. The Lord is with me.’ She chanted this reassuring mantra all the way to the school, but that didn’t stop her hands from shaking as she stepped tentatively into the dusty yard and locked her car door. What now?

There was no-one to meet her. Not that she had expected it. And a quick glance at her watch told her she was ten minutes early. She had parked next to a squat grey building at the back of the school: a storeroom? Hugging the fence on her right was a neat vegetable garden. A few boys and girls, wearing green aprons, were working amongst the regimented rows of cabbages, bunches of spinach and carrot tops. There was a hive of activity: watering, vegetable-picking and weeding. She was most impressed by this display of unsupervised industry before school had even begun.

In front of her was a queue of small boys and girls lining up for their turn at a water tap. A tall boy amongst them looked confidently conspicuous and much more relaxed than the others: he wasn’t wearing a school uniform and was leaning casually against a large black rubbish bin. He had a pleasant face. Claire smiled at him.

Suddenly he lunged at her, tearing her handbag from her arm. She was stunned into inactivity. Quick as a flash, the boy ducked out of the school gate, dashed across the dusty road and disappeared among the houses. Some small boys went after him but he had a significant lead and their chase was hopeless. Claire cried out in relief as she looked down at the muddy ground. The thief’s sudden jerk at her arm had tilted the bag upside down and all her important possessions had been deposited at her feet: her car keys, her house keys, her ID book, her driver’s licence and her credit card were all lying there in disarray. She laughed out loud as she considered her attacker’s measly spoils: a plastic purse containing twenty rand and a few copper coins, some dirty tissues, an old hairbrush and a couple of half-used lipsticks. The handbag itself wasn’t even leather and she could easily replace it. What would he think when he did, finally, examine his spoils? Would he come back for more? Somehow, she didn’t think so.

She bent down to pick up her belongings. Someone handed her a crumpled tissue to wipe the mud off her keys and cards. It was only then that she discovered that her watch was missing from her wrist; she hadn’t even noticed it being wrenched free in the scuffle. She was sad about that. She really liked that watch – apart from being beautiful, it kept time so reliably. It annoyed her that she would have to replace it with the cheapest watch she could find. But all things considered, she had come out of this ordeal pretty well. And things were about to get better.

At that very moment, a solemn-faced little girl was