The Lyndi Tree. JA Ginn Fourie

       Quetin on the Heidelberg Tavern floor

      Quentin had met Lyndi the year before in Gauteng where they had struck up a kinship that had resulted in many long telephone hours and much laughter. He’d soon begun to use Ants’ pet-name for Lyndi which is ‘Sweetness’. In his pain and disorientation, he keeps asking for Sweetness. When the full reality of what has happened hits him, Quentin goes silent. The loss of functional lower limbs and such a ‘sweetness’ are, he later tells me, sometimes too much to bear. In those first tortured weeks of phantom pain and loneliness, he wishes that he had died with Lyndi.

       I hear 18 years later, that his wish did become dear Quentins’ reality last year; may he relax in peace with Lyndi.

      Ray and I get back home to find that my eldest brother Ian has already arrived from Johannesburg, sleeping arrangements and collections at the airport arranged by our efficient friends on the telephone. We confirm the news that it is Lyndi who has died and there seems very little else to say. I go to my bedroom and en-suite bathroom, shutting the doors so that I can howl with anguish and raw sorrow in privacy. I keep flushing the toilet to conceal my screams of grief and pain.

      My husband drags a mattress into our room for Ant to sleep on; it is unnecessary as we lie there hugging each other.

      “Oh God this is too awful …” “I can’t live without Sweetness …” “At least we still have each other …” “Oh, God … Oh, God … Oh, God …”

      There is very little sleep to be had that night as we toss and turn, groaning and crying intermittently.

      Saturday is marked with the arrival of flowers, cards, telephone calls, and of course, family arriving from all over South Africa. Criminal Investigation Officers spend many hours with my husband. I am not able to deal with their questioning and prying details. The media arrives with cameras and notebooks wanting pictures of Lyndi to piece together the story for South Africa and the world. Lyndi’s friends come in groups to commiserate. Embracing the taller men, I can hear their heartbeat. Oh, if only I could listen to Lyndi’s heart beating. The thought triggers another flood of tears. Fortunately, we are all sobbing so much that my pain is not the focus of attention. It doesn’t seem to matter that we howl and howl. I am comforted to know that she is treasured and loved by each one. Even the stoics can articulate something that they appreciate about her. Food arrives from out of nowhere, and everyone seems to be fed and cared for without my interest or concern for them. My mind seems to focus on one thing only – the pain of my loss, and my precious child lying still, too still, on the cold grey gurney.

      By Sunday evening, my parents and all four brothers have arrived, as well as my husband’s mother and two brothers. There is a sense of merriment and celebration with jokes and stories, jesting and wit. It is the way my family have always dealt with being together, but now it seems to trivialise my agony. I feel so irritated by the laughter and jostling that I stay in my bedroom much of the time. Ian, my eldest brother, who is to take the service, calls us together to plan the funeral for the next day. He suggests that we participate as much as we feel able to. To break-down would be natural, Ian says, and we should not fear it but feel safe with support and love embracing us; in so doing, we will find healing and acceptance. What a grim way to spend our wedding anniversary! My husband wants to share the Life sketch, Ant feels comfortable ‘thanking their young friends’ for being present, and I want to pray.

      This night I spend screaming at God for the loss of my child. Sitting in the bathroom with the doors closed and flushing now and then to muffle the sound, I cry and howl some more. Why did she have to die? And in such a cruel way!Did she know or have any inkling of what was happening to her? According to the news reports, she died before any help was available, but we do not have enough detail, only the fact that at the morgue her body seemed to be in the position in which it fell on the impact of the bullets. That, at least, is a consolation. All night I struggle with the prayer for the next day.

      Monday morning 3 January 1994 eventually dawns, and, with extreme weariness, I drag myself to the kitchen to find some tea. I have not eaten anything since receiving the news two days ago and am now feeling the effect of virtually no sleep and no food. I have little strength or energy to face the day, a day of colossal activity; living on adrenaline and cortisol is par for the course. We take Lyndi’s favourite patchwork dress along with a satin pillow she had made herself, to the mortician. We also provide a single rose by the name of Peace which her Granny Fourie has asked to have put in the casket with her. We select a plain pine casket with rope handles. Because they don’t have one in stock long enough for her five-foot eight-inch body they have to send out for one; I suddenly know how amused she would have been; that her height in death, as it so often had been in life – in selecting clothes and boyfriends – would be a snag.

      I ask to have an open casket because I have not been allowed to touch her or to say good-bye. Her make-up is crucial because she would want to look natural and her lips may be blue. Oh, the thoughts that keep bombarding my sluggish mind. I can’t stop crying. There is a tight searing pain in my chest as though my heart is tired and will maybe stop beating at any minute. What a relief that would be. Just to be unconscious of what is happening around me; to escape the dreadful pain and loss.

      My husband requests large bouquets tied to the gum trees lining the avenue up the hill towards Helderberg College where the Church service and burial will take place. So, we spend all of the rest of the morning collecting the hydrangeas and agapanthus and make twelve large bouquets tied with blue and white ribbon around the sturdy gum trees. Blue is her favourite colour. Lyndi’s friend, Lesley, from Bethlehem, helps us, and her husband drives their bakkie to each tree. As we tie them in place my thoughts reel back to the 1960s when my husband and I had been students at Helderberg College.

      A fellow student from Angola had died, falling from the farm truck going down this very same hill. I wonder how his mother had felt on getting the news. Living so far away, she would not have been able to attend her boy’s funeral. How had she survived her grief? The distraction brings momentary relief, but then a sense of sadness for the whole of humanity envelopes me, a dark dark cloud. I feel as though I could easily suffocate, my life force crushed, my heart wrung dry from the tears which continue to flow down my cheeks - wetting my shirt and breasts.

      Eventually, it is time to leave the house for the funeral. We want to be early enough to spend some time with Lyndi before the service. When we arrive at the church it is already filling, and we help to carry the casket with its precious cargo in from the hearse. I help take the lid off. There she lies in pure and silent beauty, her lengthy hair half-covering the satin pillow. Her eyes closed as in a deep sleep, her arms relaxed with the right hand holding the rose to her chest. She looks so restful with a slight grin playing around the corners of her mouth, as though amused at our attempts to be gracious. All I want to do is dive in there with her and pull the lid down tight, tight, tight. Dear God, how will I survive without her laughter to remind me of the humour in most things?

      I kiss her forehead and stroke her hair for what seems like hours, smiling and talking to her. I experience a sense of tingling excitement which I can not explain. I do know that it keeps me from crying throughout the afternoon. It is as if there are no more tears or even a reason to shed them. She is safer