1996 began with anticipation—Angela's birth in February and Bernie's wedding to John. Bernie, Terry's sister, was preparing to marry John Abbott, a genuinely lovely man. On the darker side, Malachy's health was failing.
The business was doing well. The Dullstroom house was coming along beautifully. Terry and I made regular trips from Lydenburg—fifty kilometres—to check on progress. Theo was doing a fantastic job.
At some point, we moved from Valentine Farm to Nooitgedacht. I can't recall exactly why, but it was just before Angie was born. Around that time, in a fit of hubris, I decided to buy a Land Rover Discovery. Niels had one, and I fancied myself a successful businessman who deserved one too. I cringe now at the ego and naïveté of that moment. The truth was less glamorous: the business was still fledgling, dependent on one big client in Finland and a handful of retail outlets.
Nevertheless, I went ahead—drove to Johannesburg to pick up the top-of-the-line ES petrol model, all bells and whistles, for R267,000 on hire purchase through the company. As soon as I hit the last sixteen kilometres of dirt road to Nooitgedacht, I got two flat tyres. Factory tyres—absolute rubbish. That Land Rover turned out to be a disaster; something was always breaking. The hubris of that purchase would come back to bite me for many years.
Angie's birth on 9 February was pure delight. Graham Naylor, the same doctor who delivered Mikey, brought her into the world. Terry and I stayed in Linden with her mom and increasingly ill dad until she was well enough to travel to Nooitgedacht.
In March or April came Bernie's wedding—a lovely day. But soon after, the sadness deepened. Malachy succumbed to cancer.
This is one of my great personal failures. He'd been moved from hospital back home, under the care of Paddy, Terry's brother, now a doctor. Terry's uncle Alec—a priest from Argentina—held Mass around Malachy's bed. I attended. It was incredibly sad.
And then, ashamed as I still am to admit it, I told Terry I had to get back to Lydenburg to pay wages the next day. I could have made another plan, but I didn't. I wanted to escape the sadness. It wasn't obvious that Malachy would die that night, so I left. The next morning, Terry called to say her father had passed. She didn't blame me, but I blamed myself. I hadn't been there to support her.
Even now, all these years later, I wonder: if I'd stayed, might things have turned out differently? I'll never know.
We moved soon after into the new Dullstroom house. I remember it was winter, the cold biting, but we were warm inside by the fireplaces. Snow lay on the ground for the first time in years. We quickly befriended Kim and Mark, a couple about our age living locally.
One evening, we went to a fancy dinner at the Walkersons Hotel. Our waiter, a young man in a kilt called Jonathan, took our order and walked away. I turned to Terry and saw the look on her face.
"What, do you fancy him?"
"Well, yes," she said. "He's a bit of all right." We laughed, I shouldn't have.
We settled into life in the Dullstroom house. We had two maids—maybe three; I can't quite remember. I commuted to Lydenburg daily, returning each night to a warm home. I should have been more aware of what was happening with Terry. She'd been through enormous emotional upheaval—her father's death, Angie's birth—and now, living a privileged life, she wanted for nothing material. So what could go wrong?
She'd never touched a drop during pregnancy, but after Angie was born, she fell into a pattern: meeting Kim and Mark, and sometimes Jonathan, at the Duck and Trout. I'd come home from Lydenburg to find they'd been drinking all day, with the maids left to watch the children.
The sense of unease grew. This wasn't healthy. It wasn't right. And telling it now brings back the foreboding I felt then—something bad was coming.
The rest of this chapter is going to be hard to tell.
By mid-1996, life was sweet on the surface. I was working hard, sure, but I had a wonderful son, a new daughter, and a beautiful wife. Business was ticking over. We had our dream home, new friends, regular bridge games with Kim and Mark, and a young crowd in town. Dullstroom was alive with weekend visitors, new restaurants, good energy.
But there was a niggling feeling that Terry wasn't happy.
There was nothing materially she could have wanted: maids, my love, her children. But there were unaddressed issues, and maybe that's where the unrest came from.
That brings me to a long weekend in early September.
Pete Immelman's friend PJ Jacobs—a lawyer from Pretoria—had started The Complete Fly Fisherman magazine a couple of years earlier. When we were still in Jukskei Park, I'd published the first couple of issues on my own computer usin Pagemaker. The magazine began as an insert in another magazine, Stywe Lyne, but had since gone standalone.
PJ contacted me—he wanted to go to Margaruque in Mozambique for a fly-fishing weekend and shoot a ton of photos. I could promote Fishy Pete's while we were at it. Niels was invited too, to provide the plane—KAJ had been sold by that point. So off we went: Pete, PJ, me, and Niels. No wives or girlfriends allowed.
All weekend I felt uneasy. The Belfast Festival was on—the little town about fifteen kilometres from Lydenburg—and Terry had volunteered to help with catering. I knew there'd be drinking and socialising. I didn't not trust her, but I was still relieved to get back to Dullstroom on the Tuesday.
That's when things got weird.
The atmosphere shifted the moment I walked in. Terry's mother had been looking after the kids while Terry was at the festival—our three maids didn't do nights—and at dinner, she revealed that Terry hadn't spent Saturday night at home after the festival.
I asked, "What happened?"
Mary said, "Oh, she came home late and didn't want to wake me, so she slept in the car."
Odd. But stranger still was Terry herself—something was off. Over the next few weeks, it worsened. I thought, There's something going on.
I asked Kim—Terry's best friend at the time—and she said, "Definitely not." She didn't know of anything.
Two things were happening simultaneously. On one hand, there was a creeping unease that something wasn't right with Terry—that something had happened while I was away in Mozambique. On the other, there was this alternate narrative gnawing at me: that it was all in my mind, that I was the problem. I even asked Kim about it point-blank, and she looked me in the eye and said she had no idea what I was talking about. Categorically denied everything.
One night, we were playing bridge at our house. Mark—Kim's husband by then, I think; they'd married at a registry office at some point—stepped out for a smoke, and I went out with him. I asked quietly, "Do you think there's anything going on between Terry and Jonathan?"
He didn't hesitate. "No, I don't think so. They may have kissed or something."
"What?" It hit me like a knife in the heart. Just the idea that it was even a possibility. And then he said, "You don't have to worry. They're both takers. Two takers will never last."
That whole exchange left me reeling. Weird doesn't even begin to cover it.
We had a trip coming up to London for Natasha's 21st birthday at the end of November, and I managed to completely mess it up. We got to the airport and Terry's British passport had expired. We couldn't leave for three days while we sorted out a plan using her South African passport. That delay set the tone.
We ended up staying at Terry's mother's place in Linden. One evening, we went out to rent some videos, and I stayed in the car while Terry went inside. She left her phone behind—a Nokia 6110—and I couldn't help myself. I picked it up and checked the call history.
Blank. Completely wiped. Now that was weird. I knew she'd been on the phone constantly. So why would her entire call log be deleted?
But I didn't confront her. What could I say? The whole thing was just too obvious—and yet I kept hoping I was wrong.
We eventually made it to London but missed Natasha's 21st. Another stuff-up. But I had a side trip planned to visit Rapala in Vääksy, Finland, and at the airport I grabbed a book for the flight. A novel called Betrayal. About infidelity. Of course it was. I remember reading it and feeling like the universe was trying to tell me something, but I still couldn't bring myself to believe it.
I called Terry from Finland one evening. She'd been out partying with Briony and some young blokes. The sound of it just made my stomach turn.
Back in London, we went out one night with Honor and Brian—Briony's friends—and Terry got so completely wasted I was embarrassed. Mortified, actually.
Then Terry insisted on visiting Jonathan Bolton's father's tailor shop—apparently he tailored for royalty. And then, when we were up in the Yorkshire Dales visiting my aunty Dilys, she wanted to go see Bolton Castle. I mean, good God. Could the signals be any louder?
When we got back to Dullstroom, the first thing she did was take the Discovery and go and visit Jonathan. That very evening there was a bash at the Duck and Trout. I was tired, the kids were with a babysitter, and I wanted to go home. She refused to leave. Flat-out refused.
So I left. Went home. Got into bed. But the anxiety was clawing at me. I couldn't settle. So I got back in the car and drove back to the Duck and Trout. But the place was empty the party was over. I drove over to Mark and Kim's because I'd asked them to keep an eye on Terry.
"Oh no," they said, "Jonathan took her home."
I shot over to Jonathan's. The was nobody there.
I drove home again and found her fast asleep in our bedroom.
I lay there the entire night, unable to sleep, and finally got up and wrote her a long letter. Just poured my heart into it. A plea for honesty. Just tell me the truth, whatever it is. I gave it to her in the morning with a cup of tea. She read it. Looked at me. I can't even remember if she said anything.
That same day, we were meant to go through to Nooitgedacht to visit Niels and Cary. She refused. Just flatly said no.
So I called Niels and told him we weren't coming. And he went off at me. I screamed back at him: "Shut the fuck up! I'm trying to keep my marriage together!"
It was such a difficult time. Nothing felt real. Everything felt broken. And I'm not the type to start with private investigators or sneaky nonsense like that, but this... this was something else.
It was the end of innocence.
And a part of me still held on to the idea that maybe I was just imagining it. That it was my anxiety, my predisposition to mental illness—that I was the problem. But deep down, I knew.
Meanwhile, the anxiety and depression I'd battled in my twenties was back with a vengance. I was hardly sleeping. Work suffered. I second-guessed everything. I asked Terry directly—and then turned everything on myself. No—it's me. I'm going nuts.
The black dog had retured and he wasn't messing around—this time, with a wife, kids, and a business dependent on me financially. I had to function, but I couldn't cope.
I went to the GP in Lydenburg. He prescribed sleeping pills and tranquillisers, which helped slightly. I was open with Terry. We saw her uncle in Johannesburg—a doctor—who diagnosed major depression and anxiety and prescribed antidepressants. The same medications I'd thought I'd left behind in my twenties. I actually had the word "depression" because it doesn't even nearly describe the feeling of insessant thinking, thinking about thinking anxiety, no appetite, inability to sleep or concentrate on anything. It is like your very mind is trying it's best to detroy the self.
It was crushing.
Terry suggested a holiday at the same apartment in Llandudno we'd had such a lovely holiday the year before. No phones, no laptops. Just us and the kids.
It seemed perfect. But when we arrived, I noticed the landline used an old-style manual counter. Something urged me to memorise the number—in case she was calling someone. I didn't. I let it go.
A few days in—after another sleepless night—I snapped. I decided to fly back to Lydenburg and confront Pete Immelman. In my unwell state, I'd convinced myself he was the cause of my depression—taking advantage of me in business. Since his first Harley he had now bought a second one and was definitely on the way to be Harley Pete just as he had promised he wouldn't.
I didn't want to leave Terry alone with the kids, so I booked Kim a ticket to fly down and keep her company and flew to Johannesburg, then drove to Lydenburg.
But something made me stop and think: See Dave Hinton first. He was a good friend, living there full-time now. He took one look at me and said and said, "Do yourself a favour: don't make any decisions in this state. Get yourself right before you do anything."
So I drove back to Johannesburg—over 700 kilometres in a day.
Another sleepless night. Then I flew to Cape Town.
The rest of the trip was a nightmare. I remember walking with Angie on the rocks, holding her close and silently promising I would always protect her. Inside though, I was broken.
We flew back to Johannesburg and drove to Dullstroom—Terry driving. I was in no state to.
Throughout the drive, waves of anxiety washed over me like storms. That night, we lay in bed. I was wide awake. She lay beside me, on her back.
Suddenly, she began sobbing.
I asked, "What's the matter?"
She whispered, "I fucked it all up."
I said, "What do you mean?"
"I've had an affair."
"With who?"
"Who do you think?"
"Jonathan?"
"Yes."
She got up, left the room, and slept in Angie's bed. I—I am ashamed to say—grabbed a handful of sleeping pills. I just wanted oblivion I could not face it. Not my proudest moment.
The next day, I asked what she wanted.
She said it had been a mistake and she wanted to make a go of it—but asked that no one know. I agreed.
That night, she ran us a bubble bath in our enormous tub and transformed the entire bathroom into something magical—candles flickering on every surface, casting warm shadows on the walls. From the hi-fi drifted Celine Dion's voice, "Because You Loved Me". Even now, thirty years later, those opening notes are like a time machine—they transport me instantly back to that evening when I finally understood that my worst fears had actually happened.
Strangely, the fact that I hadn't imagined it—that my psyche had responded to something real—gave me strength. I began clawing my way out of that hole.
Later that month, we holidayed with her family—her mother, Bernie, and John. Terry still wouldn't tell me where it happened. Then one night, watching a film with a sex scene in a car, I turned to her later in bed:
"You fucked him in the Discovery, didn't you?"
She said, "Yes." She then told me that on the Monday night they had also had sex on the couch in our living room.
That was the end of innocence. The end of the happiest six years of my life.
I kept the secret. We returned to Dullstroom. Bernie and John came for Christmas. One night, we were all at The Poacher, and Jonathan was there with his parents who were visiting from Johannesburg.
During the meal, Terry vanished. Bernie checked the toilets—nothing. I found her in the kitchen, sobbing in the arms of Stephen de Meyer, a lovely gay cook who was a good friend to everyone in the village.
Nobody knew what was happening. I didn't explain.
Then Terry returned to the table and blurted it out—to her entire family.
The next day, I went to work. She told me she'd talk to Bernie and explain everything. When I returned, I remember exactly where I was standing in our master bedroom.
I asked, "How did it go with Bernie?"
She said, "Really well. She understands."
I asked, "What did you tell her?"
She said, "I explained that I've fallen in love with Jonathan, but I'm more committed to my marriage and my kids. So it's over."
People talk about a knife to the heart. That's what it felt like. The woman I loved telling me she was staying with me—but in love with someone else.
Holy shit, that was hard to hear.
We carried on. To this day, I wonder: if I'd reacted differently, would things have turned out differently?
She later told me she'd expected me to kick her out. But I didn't. Maybe—maybe—that's when she lost respect for me. Maybe I should have been tougher.
But that's speculation.
This has been a brutally hard chapter to write, but I've told it as honestly as I can. I don't want to paint Terry as a villain. I believe she was suffering—from postnatal depression, her father's death, too much alcohol, too much partying, too much temptation. She was too young. We were both too young.
But that was the end of innocence for me.