Inspirational, The Ladies That Have Influenced My Life and Rozanne Arrives Like a Bombshell.

The rain is back- this time gentle

I am not going to talk about my health this weekend, other than the “Stomach pain remains, cause still unidentified.” Perhaps one of the scans later this week may give an indication. If so, I will add. Late addition, the scan showed gallstones, so now we know and will get it fixed.

Needless to say, my mood has not improved, and Rozanne has had to raise her already unbelievable tolerance level to cater for it. Ever smiling, it is not too much bother to fit in with my demands. What a lady. I have started going out for lunch to give her a break from cooking and having time, no wine, no fats, no this, no that, but it can be worked around. My mood was no better seeing South African teams being beaten in the Rugby Champions Cup. Close loses some but loses all the same. Too many penalties given away at critical times. But by then I had started following the rescue of the downed airmen in Iran. Inspiration, I thought. Sure, equipment was lost, and it cost millions, but the Americans did it. It will mean a lot to their men in combat, a loss in terms of cost in aircraft, but a win, showing they care about their troops, even as many will see it as a purely face-saving exercise by Trump.

I know it will have impressed all those soldiers who are in combat around the world, even those Russians fighting in Ukraine who have no such hope of it ever happening for them. Their worth is not recognised by their commanders, who would rather see them die than be captured, let alone come to their rescue. It then got me thinking about our own war in Rhodesia. We certainly did not have the resources the Americans have, but there were many hot extractions, mostly in Mozambique, with daring helicopter pilots pulling off miracles. It was left unsaid that at no time would we want to be captured alive. We had seen what the then ‘terrorists’ did to their own people, many terrible atrocities and even to innocent children and babies of missionaries. Further, even if they wanted to, how would they be able to drag an injured person, let alone a prisoner, to a distant base in a foreign country, especially with our very efficient trackers on the trail? So that was how it was, even for us territorials on every deployment we went on: if we got into a firefight, it was win or die.

We also always had 'Fireforce' to back us up if contact took place in daylight hours or if a retreat was required, which was rarely, then you ensured every last man was with you. We also knew that there was no leaving anyone behind. Perhaps it does not mean much to those who have not been in combat, but to those who have, it is always good to know someone has your back, no matter how far away.

In my life's recollections, I am now in mid-2002, nearing the time of my life-changing meeting with Rozanne. Recalling that made me reflect on all the women who have had a major impact on my life. I suppose I should start with my mother, Grace Sommerville-Martin, who, because of her untimely early death, I was not old enough to really know her. I was only eight when she left us, and a good quarter of that time she was in hospital getting the limited treatment they had then or for the last six months or so, waiting at home for death to come. To my sister, Morag, and me, this gave her a certain aloofness, as we were only allowed in her room for a short while each day, being told by the nanny at the time, and, for a while, my Dutch aunt Bunty, to leave her in peace, let her rest. Why is she always resting, we wondered? The aloofness was in our mind, not reality, imposed by others. Then came along my step-mother, Flora Harley, whose arrival saw me leaving school first with my aunts in Campbeltown, a place I hated only because it meant forced exile, and then Keil School, Dumbarton, where it was a fight for survival against the prefects who ran the place. I hated it, but it showed how mean schoolboys can be to each other if given the opportunity. It also gave me the impression from an early age that she would rather I were not around. After my fathers death and my return to help wind up his affairs as I left Oban for the last time her parting words were, "Peter you have been a great help but I never want to see you again."She never ever communicated with me again, despite my trying.

My late teens and early twenties seemed to be focused more on rugby and beer, and then the army took over on and off over the next eight years, including over a year at one stage in a continuous stretch. A lady who gave me guidance was my secretary, or rather the administrator at the Commercial Oilseeds Association, when I was chairman in the late eighties, that being Ingrid Tanner. She and her husband, Mickey, became great friends with many a time spent on a boat in Kariba doing what we all enjoyed, fishing while watched on by the copious wildlife. Ingrid was a gentle lady and a very trustworthy, confident person who was willing to give advice where required. The next was Pam Graham, my secretary when I was the President of the Commercial Farmers Union. On my first day in the role, she came into my office and said my reputation as a tough boss had come before me, and she wanted to know if I would remain civil to her and would I be happy to work with her on her terms; if not, she would leave immediately. It certainly made me reflect on my behaviour on how I treated those ladies who worked for me. I thought I was a good manager, having been a sergeant in the army, but not so. And last but not least at the CFU was Felicity Wood the editor of the Farmer Magazine, who became a trustworthy friend and supporter. Felicity was single. She told me she had an early love of her life, and when they separated, she had very little interest in men, even as friends, but she broke that rule for Angus Shaw, head of Associated Press in Africa, and I, who became close male friends. Sadly, she left us last year after a painful and lonely fight against cancer in the UK.

Karen is not only an efficient administrator, but she is also a top bass fisherwoman, often topping the men in competitions

Then there was Karen Steyn, married to Choppy Steyn, who at the time worked for me as my workshop manager, and took full control of my farm office after my wife and I parted company. A really strong and trustworthy lady. I to this day remember when she had an emergency pre-mature birth of her son Sheldon on a cricket tour in Botswana, watching Choppy play. Sheldon was born on newspaper on a table and taken home in a shoebox with little hope of survival, but he survived and thrived under her care. It was a sad day when they left my employ, but then Joey Marias, married to Wayne, another of my managers, stepped in and oversaw the winding down of our farm's affairs during the hostile government's takeover, with Diandra being given to Patrick Zhou, a nephew of Mugabe. Bastard! Then on the farm, and who ran our farm store was Lee Vermaak, who became a very close friend, too close for our spouses, but they need not worry, it was platonic. She now runs the restaurant along with her land, a premier catering business, Gourmet Girls in Harare.

Daphne and my sister-in-law, Lorraine Cary

Another lady who, although an employee working as my cattle manager, Lady Daphne Powell. Unfortunately, she is not in good health, having returned to the UK from Portugal partly because of this. There was always a fire in her hearth for me to retreat to late evenings to unload my woes over a glass of whisky. She had two children through her marriage to Sir Nicholas Powell, and one evening, I built up the courage to ask her why she became a lesbian after marriage and motherhood. Simple, she said, if my husband had been nicer to me, I may well have remained straight. That made me think, why are there not many more lesbians in the world if that is one of the triggers?

Sally and Jane with John Legat at my 50th

Socially, after my divorce, I strengthened my friendship with the Hamp-Adams sisters, Sally Sandeman, who married Ian, whose family was from the Port family and Jane Crossman, who married David Crossman from Lindesfarm, in Northumberland. Both their husbands were friends of mine, and both of them died in an aircraft, both being pilots killed in separate crashes. Ian was a very successful farmer, while Sally ran an air charter business. Sally carried on with her air charter business until she left Zimbabwe for Portugal, where Jane had already taken up partial residence while, at the same time, pulling the estate back in Northumberland into a viable tourism business, renovating all the old farmhouses and workers' cottages into holiday lets. Highly successful, for me, I cannot understand who would want to have their holidays in that wet, cold, windswept place, but they do, and it is highly popular. They became great friends, and Rozanne and I continued the friendship. Sally passed away some five years ago, but our friendship with Jane continues. She has been a great support during my illnesses.

Lee Vermaak with another good friend, Kate de Pfyffer (nee Horsman).

There were a couple of ladies I courted during my ‘born-again bachelor days’, one being Sharna Farquar, who instilled in me the ambition to be successful again. She looked down on failure, and I was feeling a bit of a failure at that time. She got bored with me, or perhaps I was not ambitious enough, so she moved on, and then there was Beth Tindle, who married an old friend of mine, a farmer and a member of the Police Anti-Terrorist Unit (PATU) stick with me at the end of the war. He was wounded on the one trip I did not go on. I had met her and Mike numerous times before, normally at a cattle sale or at the Farmers Co-op, but sadly, in the mid-eighties, Mike was murdered on their Wedza ranch by poachers. Beth continued to run her farm, producing excellent stock. I was very envious of her weaners when Alistair Smith and I visited the farm.

Beth on our verandah last year

After that visit, we tried to convince her to stand as cattleperson of the year, but in her modesty, she declined. Her fortitude, leading up to her farm being taken, living in fear of death every night in her isolated farmhouse, was so impressive, refusing to move until she finally left with no option, with all her neighbours departing. Her conservative demeanour and preference for privacy hid a passionate woman, and I enjoyed my time with her very much. She remains a friend living in far away Argentina but she did visit us last year and we did attend a cattle sale.

By mid-year, we had drifted apart, with her heading to Singapore and me to Zambia. Then it happened: one night, I was back in Harare, having dinner at the Great Wall Chinese restaurant with Vernon Nicolle, Kevin O’Toole and Warwick Small and their wives, when she, Rozanne Cary, walked into my life for real. I had known her as a child and had not seen her for many years, as she went to work in the UK, obtaining a British passport, before returning to have her son, determined to remain single as I was. That was to change. More next week.

Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.