place for a woman.’
Clare had zoomed in on Pearl’s twisting fingers, the nails gnawed down to the pink half-moons.
‘Andit’s not a place for little girls. If I tell you my story, you’ll know why.’
No one else in the room, just the two of them, with the comforting whirr of the camera. Pearl’s eyes were a yellow-brown – tiger’s eyes – though the left one drooped; a scar ran through her eyebrow, across the lid, disappearing onto the high, wide plane of her cheekbone.
‘Are you sure about this?’ Clare’s voiceinterjecting off-camera.
‘How must I tell my secret if I stay hidden?’ Pearl’s hands turned outwards, asking a question she had already answered.
‘My name is Pearl and this is my story,’ she repeated, not to Clare this time, but to some imaginary audience.
‘My mother didn’t stop it. My grandmother didn’t stop it, even though they could have so easily by just telling me who they were,who my father was. If they’d let me carry their secrets in my heart, they’d have become my weapons. I could’ve protected myself.’
Pearl leaned forward, her face filling the screen.
‘They could have protected me.’
No tears in her eyes: much too late for that.
‘Go on then, Pearl.’ Clare felt it again, the weight of confession, of being the person who asked the question, who appearedto ease the load because her camera recorded the story, the secrets, the hurt. ‘Start at the beginning.’
‘I always thought I would know where to begin. I would be able to go back there and restart things another way.’ Pearl slowly shook her head sideways. ‘The beginning is lost, but where I can start is at the end. Because the end is always a new beginning.’
Voices in the distance, shouting,a woman singing. Clare had got up and closed the door, entombing them both in silence as they sat on either side of the bare wooden table.
‘Okay,’ Clare had said. ‘I’m rolling again.’
Pearl had looked down at her hands as if they were not part of her body. She’d undone her top button. Then the next, and the next, until she could shrug off her shirt like a skin she no longer needed.
She moved her fingertips across her clavicle. Smooth on the right, the left jagged where the cracked bone had knitted beneath her skin. She put her hands over her breasts, full against the ribs ridging her skin. Around the left breast a circle of round scars. Bite marks.
‘This is where my story is written,’ she said. ‘On my body. Maybe I should start here. It’s not the beginning but it is allpart of the same book. My name is Pearl. Pearl de Wet. My father is a general in the 27s. Those are the two most important things you need to know about me.’
She peeled back her clothes, revealing the script that bore witness to her secret. Tattoos, scars, cut marks – the slender white lines on her thighs – until she stood naked in front of the camera. Clare froze the image. A daughter ofviolence, made lean and sinewy by her refusal to die. This silent witnessing had not made the final cut. Too raw, too shocking for people eating dinner in front of their TV sets.
Clare’s tea had grown cold while she watched. She pushed her cup away and looked out over the choppy ocean. The programme, Pearl , had run again last night, moved to prime time on the eve of Women’s Day.
GilesReid, her producer for the series, had loved the Pearl episode, was thrilled with a second sale, the publicity it had given the gala performance tonight of the ballet, Persephone . He had left her two messages to tell her this – and one to ask about her speech before the gala, reminding her that it would be a live broadcast. She had not replied, unable to think of what she might say, knowing whathe wanted from her.
Clare switched her camera on. It hummed as that afternoon’s footage digitised, the images flickering on her screen. She checked through the tape, jumping through the rough footage until Mrs Adams’s face filled the screen as
Clare had zoomed in on Pearl’s twisting fingers, the nails gnawed down to the pink half-moons.
‘Andit’s not a place for little girls. If I tell you my story, you’ll know why.’
No one else in the room, just the two of them, with the comforting whirr of the camera. Pearl’s eyes were a yellow-brown – tiger’s eyes – though the left one drooped; a scar ran through her eyebrow, across the lid, disappearing onto the high, wide plane of her cheekbone.
‘Are you sure about this?’ Clare’s voiceinterjecting off-camera.
‘How must I tell my secret if I stay hidden?’ Pearl’s hands turned outwards, asking a question she had already answered.
‘My name is Pearl and this is my story,’ she repeated, not to Clare this time, but to some imaginary audience.
‘My mother didn’t stop it. My grandmother didn’t stop it, even though they could have so easily by just telling me who they were,who my father was. If they’d let me carry their secrets in my heart, they’d have become my weapons. I could’ve protected myself.’
Pearl leaned forward, her face filling the screen.
‘They could have protected me.’
No tears in her eyes: much too late for that.
‘Go on then, Pearl.’ Clare felt it again, the weight of confession, of being the person who asked the question, who appearedto ease the load because her camera recorded the story, the secrets, the hurt. ‘Start at the beginning.’
‘I always thought I would know where to begin. I would be able to go back there and restart things another way.’ Pearl slowly shook her head sideways. ‘The beginning is lost, but where I can start is at the end. Because the end is always a new beginning.’
Voices in the distance, shouting,a woman singing. Clare had got up and closed the door, entombing them both in silence as they sat on either side of the bare wooden table.
‘Okay,’ Clare had said. ‘I’m rolling again.’
Pearl had looked down at her hands as if they were not part of her body. She’d undone her top button. Then the next, and the next, until she could shrug off her shirt like a skin she no longer needed.
She moved her fingertips across her clavicle. Smooth on the right, the left jagged where the cracked bone had knitted beneath her skin. She put her hands over her breasts, full against the ribs ridging her skin. Around the left breast a circle of round scars. Bite marks.
‘This is where my story is written,’ she said. ‘On my body. Maybe I should start here. It’s not the beginning but it is allpart of the same book. My name is Pearl. Pearl de Wet. My father is a general in the 27s. Those are the two most important things you need to know about me.’
She peeled back her clothes, revealing the script that bore witness to her secret. Tattoos, scars, cut marks – the slender white lines on her thighs – until she stood naked in front of the camera. Clare froze the image. A daughter ofviolence, made lean and sinewy by her refusal to die. This silent witnessing had not made the final cut. Too raw, too shocking for people eating dinner in front of their TV sets.
Clare’s tea had grown cold while she watched. She pushed her cup away and looked out over the choppy ocean. The programme, Pearl , had run again last night, moved to prime time on the eve of Women’s Day.
GilesReid, her producer for the series, had loved the Pearl episode, was thrilled with a second sale, the publicity it had given the gala performance tonight of the ballet, Persephone . He had left her two messages to tell her this – and one to ask about her speech before the gala, reminding her that it would be a live broadcast. She had not replied, unable to think of what she might say, knowing whathe wanted from her.
Clare switched her camera on. It hummed as that afternoon’s footage digitised, the images flickering on her screen. She checked through the tape, jumping through the rough footage until Mrs Adams’s face filled the screen as
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