Back from our honeymoon, Terry and I settled into our cozy little house at 10 Sneeubloem Street, Jukskei Park, and marital bliss began — and it really was bliss. Terry and I got on incredibly well. I got stuck into my studies, preparing for the June exams of what would be my third year. Terry got busy making a home. And, reflecting now, we lived in such a privileged bubble — it’s ridiculous. The country was in turmoil. Mandela had been released from prison the year before, the far right was becoming increasingly aggressive, and here we were, almost completely shielded from it all.
Of course, violence was always a possibility. So I took to carrying a concealed .38 Special revolver — something I knew how to use, though thank God I never had to. Realistically, if anything had gone down, it probably would’ve been used on me long before I had the chance to shoot anyone else. But it made me feel like I was protecting my beautiful young bride. So in that sense, it served a purpose.
But really, we were just kids playing at being adults — all of it funded by my generous dad and his vision for his youngest son’s happiness and I suspect to assuage the guilt I know he felt about the Mallorca days.
The last time I ever spoke to my dad was on his birthday — June 2nd, 1991 — over the phone. He had just turned 72. We talked about Christmas plans, about when we’d see each other again. The Soviet Union was in the process of disintegrating, and he mentioned taking a trip to Russia, who were now welcoming wealthy foreign tourists. But then the next thing I remember clearly was the call I got from Niels. My dad had fallen seriously ill in Mallorca. He’d had some kind of event — it sounded serious — and he was being airlifted to Barcelona because the hospitals in Mallorca couldn’t handle it.
We were told it was serious, but also reassured that everything was under control, and that we needed to get there as soon as possible. Niels' company, Wood Creations, organized everything. All I had to do was show up. I kissed Terry goodbye and left.
We flew straight to Barcelona and went directly to the hospital. I remember looking at my dad through the glass of the isolation ward — he was unconscious, hooked up to all sorts of medical equipment. So when I said in the last chapter that my honeymoon was the last time I saw him, that wasn’t quite accurate. I did see him again. But he was no longer really there.
I was the only one who could speak Spanish, so I was the one who dealt with the doctors who didn't speak English. I was told he had suffered some sort of cardiac aneurysm, and that they had replaced it with a platinum stent. They believed he would pull through.
Accommodation in Barcelona was very hard to come by being peak holiday season. We were told we should return to Mallorca for the weekend, since we could stay at Dad and Kirsten’s place. So that’s what we did — except as the plane sat on the tarmac, waiting to take off, Kirsten who had stayed in Barcelona, amazingly managed to get it stopped. We were ushered off the plane by crew and then rushed to the hospital but it was too late. My dad had passed away.
Speaking with the doctors and reading between the lines, it sounded to me like they’d been overly optimistic all along. I don't think there was ever really a chance of him making it. I don’t know why they strung us along. But it was over. My father was gone. I was devastated.
We did fly on to Palma a few days later. He had been cremated in Barcelona — I’m not even sure how the ashes got back — but I know that Briony eventually scattered them at his favourite bay in Mallorca. I also remember that there was a memorial service on the island before we returned to South Africa. All his Danish cronies came. It turned out he’d lent half the Danish community money at some point — and they were all deeply grateful.
One of the standout moments of that time — and of this entire memoir — came when his account manager from Unibank, Claus Otto, flew in from Luxembourg for the memorial. Niels and Briony were running the show, but Claus took me aside and said, “You do realise that your brother and sister keep coming to me, asking about your dad’s money. But your father made it very clear: this account has nothing to do with them. This was your account. When he passed, the power of attorney simply fell away. There is no paperwork to do. I am here to pay my respects and get your instructions.”
I asked how much was in it. The answer: $750,000 US dollars.
I turned to Kirsten — who had orchestrated the memorial, called us back off the plane, and basically been running things — and I asked, “Did Daddy leave a will?”
She said no. But she told me he had been conscious before getting on the flight to Barcelona and had whispered to her, “Peter is to have the Unibank account. Niels and Briony are to get the money that’s with Bruce in South Africa.” As for Kirsten herself, she assured me he had already taken care of her separately.
At that time, Bruce — who had become a stockbroker — was managing my dad’s South African investments. There was about 1 million “financial rand” in those accounts — a special currency used at the time for foreign investments. At an exchange rate of 3 rand to the dollar, that worked out to around $300,000. So my Unibank inheritance was significantly larger.
When I asked Kirsten why, she said, “Your dad always felt he had let you down. Niels and Briony had yachts and skiing holidays and all the rest. He felt you hadn’t had the same, and this was his way of making it up.”
That put me in an incredibly difficult position. I worshipped my big brother and sister. I didn’t make any decision then and there and I certainly didn't tell them of the conversation. I returned to South Africa and told Terry the whole story.
And bless her — for all that Bruce had said before the wedding about her marrying me for my money — she didn’t try to sway me at all. She simply said, “You do whatever feels right to you.”
And she meant it. She left the decision entirely to me.
After thinking it over, I realized how much conflict would arise if I followed my dad’s instructions. So I told Niels and Briony that, according to Kirsten, Dad’s wishes were that we divide everything equally — three ways. And that’s what we did.
I swore both Kirsten and Terry to secrecy. I didn’t want Briony or Niels to know that my dad had intended me to receive a much bigger share. And I kept that secret for nearly 20 years.
Addendum — Settling the Estate, Turning 21, and the Cruise That Wasn’t
After Dad’s memorial I followed through on my promise to split everything three ways.
Briony had introduced me to her friend Gordon Harris, an investment manager in Johannesburg with an offshore fund. I liked him, so I instructed Claus Otto at Unibank to wire US $250 000—one-third of the account—to Gordon for Briony. Another US $250 000 went straight to Niels, who chose to keep his share in South Africa to prop up his businesses. The final US $250 000 stayed right where it was: Briony wanted the remainder left in Unibank under her own name, so I signed the account over to her. The local “financial-rand” pot in South Africa we simply divided equally.
Neither Niels nor Briony ever knew that Dad had meant the whole Unibank stash for me alone—and, at the time, I felt better keeping it that way. Thirty-plus years later, I’m still not sure I made the right call, but that was the choice.
Terry’s 21 st birthday followed on 5 August 1991, and we pitched a marquee on the lawn at 10 Sneeubloem Street. Patty Harris—Gordon’s wife—lined up excellent caterers, and the evening was equal parts celebration and shadow: joy for Terry, gratitude to Dad (without whom none of it would have been possible), and the fresh ache of his absence. In my speech I toasted my gorgeous bride and thanked my father publicly—because the house, the party, the security, all of it, were his final gift to us.
One last, slightly mortifying footnote from that period: in a fit of new-money enthusiasm, I had booked us on a cruise aboard the MV Oceanos. On the morning of Terry’s birthday the radio announced that the Oceanos was sinking off the Natal Wild Coast. That disaster scuttled our cruise plans—and, thankfully, my sense returned before we ever set foot on an ocean liner. It’s cringe-inducing to admit how close we came, but in the interest of full transparency… there it is.