Читать книгу Cult Sister - Lesley Smailes - Страница 7

PORT ELIZABETH, SOUTH AFRICA:

I was too stoned to pack my suitcase, so my exasperated mother had to do it for me. It was February 1983. Eighteen years old and fresh out of high school, I was leaving my dinky hometown of Port Elizabeth, or ‘PE’ as it’s known, to head out into the big, wide world on a gap-year holiday.

The plan was for me to go travelling in the United States before flying to meet my boyfriend, Stewart, and friend Ruby in England. From there we were intending to tour Europe. Up until this point Port Elizabeth had been my world – I had spent most of my life there, so it felt scary and strange to be leaving.

Our pastor visited our house to pray for me on the day of my departure. At the station some of my friends were waiting to bid me farewell before I boarded the train to Johannesburg from where I would catch my flight to New York.

On the platform my mother and I hugged awkwardly. She had one final piece of advice for me. Leaning in, she delivered it in her strictest mommy voice: ‘Don’t get married and don’t join a cult.’ I did not know how to respond so I just kissed her, climbed up the metal steps, pushed open the heavy carriage door and found my compartment. I would have hated for her to know just how scared I was so I hid behind a big grin and faked confidence.

Absent from the platform was my beloved father. He had died two years previously. The loss of him had left a gaping hole in my life that was impossible to fill no matter how hard I tried.

After my dad’s death I’d grown especially close to my younger brother, John. Five years my junior, he was affectionately known as Bobs. It was he who I had the hardest time saying goodbye to on the day of my departure. As the train pulled out of PE station he stood there waving his motorcycle crash helmet. It became a dot in the distance as he and my friends and family became smaller and smaller.

The conductor came to collect our tickets. I couldn’t find mine. I scratched around in my suitcase. ‘Could you come back for it? I’m sure it’s here,’ I asked him sheepishly. Eventually, after searching through everything, I found it together with my passport and aeroplane ticket in a pouch my concerned mother had hung around my neck.

The gap-year holiday had been her idea. She was giving it to me in the hope that it would allow me to heal and ‘find myself’. To say that I had a tumultuous adolescence is an understatement. By age eighteen I was so scarred and damaged. It wasn’t only my father’s death – there’d been other traumas. I will tell you more about them later.

My mom thought that time away would give me a new perspective and help me figure out what I wanted to do with my life. As you can probably guess by now things didn’t pan out in quite the way she hoped they would …

JOHANNESBURG, SOUTH AFRICA:

Jamie, an old friend, met me at the noisy Joburg station and the following day he took me to Jan Smuts Airport, where we daringly shared a cap of acid as we parted. I went through customs and turned to wave. He kissed the window and his lips smooched flat in a funny, deformed sort of way through the transparent pane. I laughed, and, waving for the last time, turned the corner, my heart thumping in my chest.

In the departure lounge there was a long row of seats in front of a big window overlooking the busy runway. For some strange reason all the seats were empty, except one. Alone, right at the far end, sat a tall, skinny, long-haired man, wearing a pair of purple leather shoes. What cool shoes! I thought to myself. Next thing, to my astonishment, the peculiar man jumped up, and with outstretched arms he passionately chortled, ‘Lesley! Lesley Smailes!’

Desmond. Of all people, Desmond Lloyd! Ten years my senior, he was an architect who lived in Cape Town. I had known him since I was six. I’d often spent long weekends off from boarding school at a commune where he lived. On one of these weekends he had pleasured my virginal body until I was virgin no more. There was no forgetting him. No. I was not hallucinating. It was Desmond.

It turned out he was also heading to New York and both of us were on the same flight. What a synchronized serendipity. Even more surreal was the name of the plane – The Helderberg 209. It was the name of the Seventh Day Adventist boarding school in Somerset West from which we had both been expelled: Helderberg College. It all felt so weird and trippy.

The aircraft was relatively empty, so we found a whole row of seats to ourselves. Pushing the armrests back, we talked and laughed, ate aeroplane food, watched movies, kissed and cuddled. Interesting, clever and witty, Desmond had introduced me not only to great sex, but Tom Waits, Chick Corea, real coffee, brandy snaps, and the smooth, sweet satisfaction that comes from smoking long, tapered joints made from top quality weed. It was strange and exhilarating to see him again. I had never flown before and was glad of his company. Eventually we both took a sleeping pill and passed out in each other’s arms. Arriving in New York, we parted and I boarded my connecting shuttle to Boston.