An extract from Love Forms by Claire Adam

It was early August when I made the journey. In my room, alone, I changed out of my shorts and T-shirt, into the black clothes my father had brought. My knapsack was already packed, hidden at the bottom of my wardrobe. I set it on the floor at the foot of my bed, looked through it, then zipped it closed again. I was full of a nervous energy; I would have liked to tidy up, or clean the room, but there was nothing left to do – the bed was made, the floor swept; the desk and bookshelves, still full of my ordinary school things, were tidied and dusted. I took my posters down from the walls. (The posters showed close-up photos of boys from music bands that were popular at the time.) I sat at my desk and pulled the tacks from my little pink-framed cork-board on the wall. All my revision schedules, exam schedules, my friends’ phone numbers, my motivational sayings handwritten on little scraps of paper – I took them all down from the cork-board, and crumpled them up. Then with nothing else to do but wait, I sat on the floor, my elbows on my knees, leaning against the side of the bed. 

Only my mother was at home with me that afternoon. I don’t know how she passed the time; we didn’t speak. At some point, I heard her footsteps downstairs: she slid the patio doors shut, and then turned the key in the lock. I heard her pull the curtains shut too. I don’t know what made her do that – it was only afternoon – but maybe she was possessed by the same feeling of shame as I was, and the sense that a part of our lives was coming to an end. Or maybe she was just like me – filled with the same nervous energy, her hands searching for things to keep busy with, to help pass the time. I don’t know. After that, it went quiet: I heard nothing. I imagined her sitting on the sofa in the living room, her arms folded, her handbag and car keys waiting nearby on the kitchen counter. In any case, for quite a long time, maybe half an hour, we stayed in our different parts of the house, each thinking our own private thoughts, and watching the hands of the clock tick forward. 

My mother drove. I sat beside her in the front seat: we wanted me to be seen, to look as if I were on my way to the airport. We went down the hill, first, along the road that my father had cut through the forest, then along the bumpy, potholed road by the golf course. A pause at the bend, waiting for a chance to merge onto the main road, and then the same old sharp acceleration as always – first gear, then quickly into second, then third – as she turned onto the stretch that runs alongside the Maraval river. Nowadays, there are gated communities all along that road, low-rise apartment blocks with pools and tennis courts, but back in 1980, on the day that my mother and I set out, it was still just bush. The picture I have of it in mind now is not so much from that day, as from all the other ordinary days that had gone before: thick wild grass grown to shoulder-height; forest trees, branches heavy with ripe fruit; bright flashes of birds amongst the green leaves. 

The first handover was made in mid-afternoon, somewhere between the university campus and the airport. An unfamiliar road, and one I’ve never been able to find again. I remember squat brick houses sparsely placed, the rain just fallen, rising again now as vapour from the hot asphalt. My mother slowed outside one of the gates, and then pulled over in front of a parked car. A man appeared at her window: clean-shaven, neatly dressed; probably black nylon trousers and a light-coloured shirt-jac. I can still bring to mind something of his manner: courteous, eager, important; full of reassurance that his mind was only on the task at hand. ‘Right, Mrs Bishop,’ he might have said. ‘Right, right. Everything good. Everything done fix up. We ready.’