why he felt less comfortable than he usually did at these meetings. He could no longer avoid broaching the question that had been in his mind from the moment mother and son had entered the room. PretoriaBoys had never admitted a boy without feet before – not, at any rate, during the decade that Schroder had been in charge. Pistorius would start out as a day student, but it was possible, his mother said, that in due course he would become a boarder (the school offered both options) and that prospect rendered the matter all the more delicate. It would be a heavy responsibility for the school, one that would ultimately fall on the headmaster’s shoulders. Unable to restrain his concern any longer, Schroder asked, ‘Yes, but . . . is he going to cope?’
Sheila Pistorius looked baffled. She exchanged glances with her son, who shrugged. ‘I don’t think I follow,’ she replied. ‘What are you saying?’ Schroder mumbled something about the boy’s condition, his, umm . . . prosthetic legs. ‘Ah,’ Sheila Pistorius smiled. ‘I see. But please don’t worry. There’s no problem at all. He’s absolutely normal!’ She explained that she understood very well that Pretoria Boys was a famously athletic school and that, far from being a cause for concern, it was a large part of the reason why her son wanted to be taught there. She listed some of the sports and outdoor activities he had engaged in from early childhood: cricket, rugby, soccer, mountain biking and wrestling, for which he had won several competitive medals. As for getting about, going to the bathroom at night and that sort of thing, no worries there either. He took off his artificial legs when he went to bed but, Sheila explained, was perfectly capable of walking short distances on his stumps. The boy nodded reassuringly. Schroder looked at him and looked at his mother. Had he detected any edge of anxiety in her voice, or any sign of misgiving in him, he might have hesitated. But he did not. Relieved and satisfied, he bade farewell to them both. The boy would fit in well. He looked forward very much to welcoming her son as a student in the next school year, in January 2001.
There had been an alternative to Pretoria Boys, another reputable high school in the city called the Afrikaanse Hoër Seunskool(Afrikaans Boys High School). There was huge rivalry between the two, in particular when it came to rugby, and the Afrikaner one was where his father, Henke, had studied. Pistorius, who spoke Afrikaans, chose the one where English was the language of instruction, which happened also to be the language he spoke with his mother.
His parents had divorced when he was six. Henke left home and went to live seven hundred miles away in Port Elizabeth – as chance would have it, the city on South Africa’s south-eastern coast where Reeva Steenkamp grew up. As the family told it, Henke did not abide by his pledge always to stand by his son as enthusiastically as he had declared he would on the day he was born. He did not disappear. Not at first. He would see his three children once every two weeks, and they enjoyed their outings with him. But money was a problem. The family’s sole breadwinner until the marital break-up, Henke did not meet all his financial responsibilities afterwards. Often because he was not able to. Henke made a living chiefly out of agricultural lime mining, but he was a volatile administrator, one day up, the next down, opening and closing companies with a frequency that exasperated the rest of his family – especially his three brothers, who were all steadily successful businessmen.
Sheila and the children were obliged to move to a smaller home and she to find work for the first time in her life, as a school secretary, disrupting their domestic stability and giving her less time to attend to the child who needed the most care. The quality of the medical attention he received suffered too. She could no longer afford to pay for her son to attend
Sheila Pistorius looked baffled. She exchanged glances with her son, who shrugged. ‘I don’t think I follow,’ she replied. ‘What are you saying?’ Schroder mumbled something about the boy’s condition, his, umm . . . prosthetic legs. ‘Ah,’ Sheila Pistorius smiled. ‘I see. But please don’t worry. There’s no problem at all. He’s absolutely normal!’ She explained that she understood very well that Pretoria Boys was a famously athletic school and that, far from being a cause for concern, it was a large part of the reason why her son wanted to be taught there. She listed some of the sports and outdoor activities he had engaged in from early childhood: cricket, rugby, soccer, mountain biking and wrestling, for which he had won several competitive medals. As for getting about, going to the bathroom at night and that sort of thing, no worries there either. He took off his artificial legs when he went to bed but, Sheila explained, was perfectly capable of walking short distances on his stumps. The boy nodded reassuringly. Schroder looked at him and looked at his mother. Had he detected any edge of anxiety in her voice, or any sign of misgiving in him, he might have hesitated. But he did not. Relieved and satisfied, he bade farewell to them both. The boy would fit in well. He looked forward very much to welcoming her son as a student in the next school year, in January 2001.
There had been an alternative to Pretoria Boys, another reputable high school in the city called the Afrikaanse Hoër Seunskool(Afrikaans Boys High School). There was huge rivalry between the two, in particular when it came to rugby, and the Afrikaner one was where his father, Henke, had studied. Pistorius, who spoke Afrikaans, chose the one where English was the language of instruction, which happened also to be the language he spoke with his mother.
His parents had divorced when he was six. Henke left home and went to live seven hundred miles away in Port Elizabeth – as chance would have it, the city on South Africa’s south-eastern coast where Reeva Steenkamp grew up. As the family told it, Henke did not abide by his pledge always to stand by his son as enthusiastically as he had declared he would on the day he was born. He did not disappear. Not at first. He would see his three children once every two weeks, and they enjoyed their outings with him. But money was a problem. The family’s sole breadwinner until the marital break-up, Henke did not meet all his financial responsibilities afterwards. Often because he was not able to. Henke made a living chiefly out of agricultural lime mining, but he was a volatile administrator, one day up, the next down, opening and closing companies with a frequency that exasperated the rest of his family – especially his three brothers, who were all steadily successful businessmen.
Sheila and the children were obliged to move to a smaller home and she to find work for the first time in her life, as a school secretary, disrupting their domestic stability and giving her less time to attend to the child who needed the most care. The quality of the medical attention he received suffered too. She could no longer afford to pay for her son to attend
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