This Life (16 page)

Blindly and instinctively I headed in the direction I knew Bastersfontein had to lie, never doubting that I would be able to find and recognise it. Maans had stopped again to rest, for he was beginning to tire from the long walk, and I reached the crest of a low ridge and saw a hollow ahead of me with reeds and water, a moist, fertile spot in the pale-bright spring landscape, and I knew it was Bastersfontein. I began to run, with Maans behind me, crowing with delight, not
understanding what was happening at all; my hair had come undone as we were walking and I had not bothered to tie it up again, and it blew across my face so that I could not see where I was going, and I stumbled and fell to my knees, tears pouring down my cheeks, while Maans danced around me, laughing with joy at our unusual game, excited to find out what would happen next.

But that was all; that was Bastersfontein, we had arrived there. A moist, fertile place nestled in the shelter of a low ridge, a few dilapidated hartbeeshuisies, the collapsed remains of a few old shelters or kraals of stacked branches, the fluttering of white butterflies and the small, shiny leaves of the harpuisbos reflecting the light – what more had I expected? I remained on my knees, and later Maans became bored and ran off while I knelt there still, tears pouring down my cheeks, crying for the first time in years with no one to see my tears, no one to know. Does Maans still know, does he remember?

After a while I wiped my face with my hands and tied up my hair, and I got up. So this was the place where Pieter and Sofie – but no, not even that: this was the place that a confused old woman, muttering in front of the fire in the late evening, had identified in passing as the place where Jakob and Sofie, or perhaps Pieter and Sofie, had hidden, or perhaps not. How could I tell how much of her tale was truth and how much imagination? Perhaps I had misunderstood completely, perhaps I had not even heard her correctly, yet it was all I could cling to. Here Pieter and Sofie had hidden for an indefinite period while people had been searching for them, here Gert had ridden over at night to bring them food stolen from the house, and from here they had finally continued on their journey, destined for somewhere I could not follow. I had to believe that, it must have been like that, for it was the closest I could ever get to them again. Gert and Jacomyn had known, even Dulsie had known, though she had not been let into the secret;
our herdsmen and their families must have known of the white people living at Bastersfontein, but nobody had said anything, nobody had given them away, silently united in the plot in which the fugitives were protected from the masters and were helped to escape. Father rode to the Boland in search of them without anyone enlightening him, and I struggled desperately to create from a few incidental words a story in which I myself could believe.

The hartbeeshuisies had stood empty for a long time; the mouldering thatch had disintegrated and the leather thongs securing the posts of the framework had given way, so that the entire structure had collapsed and it was no longer possible to enter. Here they must have slept together at the beginning of their long partnership; at this fountain they must have knelt to wash and drink the clear water from their cupped hands. Did they expect to be followed and tracked down, or did they not even consider the possibility, so that they spent the waiting period laughing together, with no fear that it would pass and that reality would set in? There was no sign left of their presence, the remains of their fire had long been obliterated by the rain and the soil held no footprint or hoofmark any more, but in the moist earth around the fountain there were the fresh hoofmarks of the klipspringertjies who had recently come to drink there. Even the herdsmen had not been there with their flocks since winter.

It was time to return, for we were far from home: as far as a horse could travel in an hour, I remembered dreamily, as far as old Dulsie could walk in an afternoon, and suddenly I recalled Gert’s words. Could it have been more than banter on his part when he sang to himself as he was dressing the thong; could he have been telling me something without my realising it? That was probably the way it happened and I should accept it and stop thinking about it; in any case I was not disappointed, though I had to make up stories on the way back
to make our long, unexplained journey seem worthwhile to Maans. I stood on the ridge for a moment, looking back, and I watched as light and shadow washed and surged over the wide landscape before the dark waters closed over everything, rendering all that had disappeared into the dark invisible for ever. I had lost them, across the wide, barren Roggeveld and beyond the undulating horizon, like the wind, like the fog, like the thin, swirling snow, down the narrow, steep cliffs and passes of the mountains – Ouberg, Vloksberg, Verlatekloof, Komsberg – down to the Bokkeveld or the Karoo, from the starkness of the interior to the Moordenaarskaroo, the Koup, the Nuweveld or the Hantam, lost in the desolation of Boesman-land and Namaqualand where no white people remained, to Groot River where the hopeful Basters had sought refuge, and over the distance in the quivering heat it was impossible to recognise them or to follow the rest of their journey, the last certainty obliterated by the heat’s distortions.

We returned home and washed our feet and hastily I prepared the evening meal and laid the table, but when Father and Mother returned it was late, and no one asked what had happened during the day. When Maans spoke eagerly of the long walk we had taken, Father asked where we had gone, but he was tired and keen to go to bed and he scarcely listened to my answer. We walked to a place where we had taken out honey years ago, I said, for I wanted to see whether there were still bees, but there was nothing. We passed old shelters, I said, but we did not see any people; and then I got up to take Maans to his room, for he also had to go to bed. That was the first time I had ever lied to Father, but it was probably also something I had to learn, like the silence and the vigilance and the patience, and part of the skills I would need to survive. But in a way my story was not completely untrue, for while I was putting the child to bed I suddenly remembered that day when I was still very young and we all went along to take out
the honey, Jakob and Pieter and Gert and I, and Gert removed the honeycomb from a cleft in the rock, and on our way back that evening one of them – I do not remember who – carried me on his shoulders for I was too exhausted to walk.

I do not believe Father ever had enemies, but it was during this time that we discovered just how fond people were of him and how highly regarded he had become in our district over the years, in spite of the secluded life we led on the farm; for as it became more and more difficult for him to move around among the people, it was they who started coming to him.

For as long as I can remember establishing our own congregation in the Roggeveld had been under discussion; that is to say, the men discussed it when we met for church services, for what concern was it of the women? During this time it was brought up again and began to receive more urgent attention, and it was specifically to learn Father’s opinion and obtain his advice that people came to call on us. We were not used to visitors, not to mention the substantial groups arriving now: we had to take all the coffee bowls from the kist and the spittoons that had never been used were brought out as well, and later Coenraad hired a stable boy whose chief duty it was to look after the visitors’ horses. Even Mother was surprised, though she would never have let it show, but there was a kind of agitation and nervousness in her behaviour as she welcomed the visitors, unlocked coffee and sugar and arranged for meals, and it was never clear to me exactly how welcome these uninvited guests were. In time, however, I believe she realised how the solemn gatherings of elders and deacons in our
voorhuis flattered us and how those conferences dignified us, and somewhat unwillingly she began to go out of her way to welcome and entertain these visitors.

I had nothing to do with these meetings, of course, but as her daughter I remained in the kitchen to carry out Mother’s instructions, for by this time old Dulsie was no longer capable of much. One day, however, I was summoned unexpectedly when the men were struggling with a letter that had to be written. It must have been Father’s proposal, for I do not think any of those solemn old gentlemen would have considered such a possibility, but in the circumstances they could not offer much opposition. Thus I wrote the letter as it was dictated to me, head bowed over the paper, while from across the table they watched my skilfulness with silent disapproval. Afterwards I withdrew to the kitchen without any of those present expressing a single word of approval or appreciation, or even just thanking me. The letter must have been written well, however, or they were convinced of my skill anyhow, for after this I was often summoned to the voorhuis where the men sat with their pipes and their chewing tobacco, to put their letters and memorials and petitions in writing. When they discovered that I could not only write in an elegant, legible hand, but also had knowledge of words, they would allow me, somewhat stiffly and unwillingly, to express a thought they had been struggling with; sometimes they simply spoke, without taking notice of me, and allowed me to put down their thoughts in my own words. When I read aloud what I had written, they nodded slowly over their pipes, and that was the only thanks I ever got from any of them. “I must say, a daughter like this is worth as much to a man as a good team of trek oxen!” Oom Daantjie van Wyk once exclaimed, but he always liked to tease and everyone assumed he was only joking. Later they also discovered that I could read fluently, could decipher longhand writing and explain difficult
words, and I was summoned to read the letters and documents that had arrived from Worcester and from the Cape.

I had never liked people, especially not the company of strangers, but to be called into the voorhuis like that by Father never bothered me, for it was the first time I realised there was something in the world I could do apart from helping Mother in the house and teaching Maans. Moreover, I began to realise that when I was called upon to read to the assembled people, I was not self-conscious and my slow tongue no longer encountered any obstacle. Later still, they found out I also knew some English, and then it was not only the deliberations about the new congregation I had to help with, but sometimes a neighbour rode over on his own with a letter from the magistrate or a newspaper from the Cape to ask Father whether his daughter might look at it for him. Father was proud of me then, that was clear, and it was actually the only chance he ever had to feel proud of me, for I was a shy, withdrawn child who did not normally attract any attention or elicit any approval.

I bent my head over the paper and wrote down the requests, objections or admonitions without considering what I was writing: the scratching sound of the quill pen, the men around the table in a haze of tobacco smoke, and their monotonous arguing voices interspersed with sudden outbursts of anger or indignation, “in order that they, the undersigned members of this congregation, want to make their wishes known to the designated authorities, in accordance with their humble request …” It was not only here in the Roggeveld that the establishment of a congregation was being considered, for during this time many changes were taking place in these parts, as I discovered from the men’s conversations where I sat in the voorhuis, waiting to be told what to write. In the Bokkeveld, as well as the Hantam and the Nuweveld, towns were being founded, there was mention of churches
being built, ministers being called and church councillors elected. Around us new congregations came into being and the boundaries of the old ones shifted; magistrates and schools and such matters came under discussion, hitherto no more than strange, distant phenomena to us, connected with Worcester and the Boland, on the outskirts of the world we knew. When I got up and withdrew from the voorhuis, I soon forgot all about these matters, however, just as I forgot about the letters or petitions I had drawn up, for these were the men’s affairs and did not concern me.

I still taught Maans, but he was beginning to grow up and did not spend all his time with me like before. He often rode out to the sheep; at first Coenraad took him on his horse, but then he learned to ride and Father gave him his own horse, ordered from the Hantam. He was given more and more duties on the farm and, after he had been my responsibility for so many years, I lost him again, the baby I had held on my lap when I arose from my long sickbed. The beams had collapsed, the thatch had mouldered, and nothing remained. Sometimes the house seemed very big and quiet and empty as we lived together in silence, Mother and Dulsie in the kitchen and Father in his armchair in the voorhuis: when I had nothing to do, I would sit close to him with some item of sewing, but it would soon slip from my clumsy fingers and I would just sit there, not moving or having the least desire to speak, silently occupied with thoughts I was unable to express. The thatch had mouldered, the stones had been scattered, and in later years there was no sign that a house had stood there, that people had lived there, the imprint of their feet no longer visible in the moist earth of the fountain where they had fetched water. I had fallen to my knees, tears pouring over my cheeks, but that was long ago. In the voorhuis I wrote letters for others and read their letters, but I never had any reason to write a letter myself, and not once did I receive one. I was a young woman and no longer a child.

In time the men who called upon Father began to bring their wives and families along. Initially the women entered our voorhuis hesitantly, as though uncertain of their welcome, almost as if they did not feel quite safe with us, and Mother was nervous and sat up very straight and spoke a bit too shrilly, with red spots breaking out high on her cheekbones. I did not mind the men so much, but I was never happy to see their wives, with their quick eyes that took in everything and their whispering as soon as we left the room. I can still see them eyeing Maans when the boy came in to greet, the son of Jakob who had died so mysteriously, the child of Sofie who had disappeared so mysteriously: they studied him eagerly as if they hoped something in his mere appearance would supply answers to all the questions they so desperately wanted to ask. Those names, Jakob and Sofie and Pieter’s names, were never mentioned openly, however, and the questions remained unasked. They sat lined up against the wall holding their bowls of coffee or glasses of sweet wine, eyes darting around surreptitiously but incessantly, and minds working steadily, filled with speculation and suspicion that would be aired in detail later. I received no more than a passing glance from them as I served the coffee, for I was only the girl with the scar on her brow on which their searching glances lingered for a moment, and they showed no further interest in me.

Of course Mother noticed their curiosity and knew how many questions remained unasked as the conversation rippled on about church services and women’s ailments, but she did not let on that she was aware of anything. I understood that it had become increasingly important to Mother that people should come to us and that, after the lengthy interval, we should continue as if the events that had taken place had never occurred, without our silence becoming too disturbing or our peculiarities too noticeable. As time passed the relentlessness of the lies in which our past had become entangled abated and became more acceptable, and only the presence of Maans in our midst still
created a slight uneasiness, reminding us of those names that were never mentioned. What had he been told? I could never ask him outright what he knew about his mother, but through incidental remarks I found out that he had been told she was dead, and that was probably what had been said to the neighbours too, though no one believed it. Once when he was still young he surprised me, however, by declaring that he would have headstones erected on his Mammie and Pappie’s graves when he grew up and, smiling, as if it were a game, I asked him to show me the place. “There!” he said without hesitation, and pointed at Jakob’s grave and the adjoining grave where Father’s sister was buried who had died when she was a young girl who had just been confirmed. I did not ask Maans who had pointed out those two graves to him, but I remember when Jakob’s grave was dug, Father had remarked that he would be lying next to Tannie Coba whose namesake he was.

That summer, before the cornerstone of our church was laid, Father’s birthday was celebrated formally and guests were invited again as had last happened when Sofie came to us as a bride, and how long ago that was, for by this time Maans was already a grown boy. There was no dancing this time, but for days we slaughtered and baked, and casks of brandy and Pontac were ordered from the Boland: after all the years there were wagons and carts in the yard once again and the rooms were filled with voices and excited children and candlelight; but to me it was not the same and could never be the same again. Father was happy, for he liked entertaining and receiving guests, even though he seldom had the opportunity, and in her own way Mother was content, albeit tense, with shining eyes and a clear blush on her cheeks, while Maans was elated about the people and the excitement and the wine they allowed him to taste behind Father’s back, and for days he talked about nothing else. To flee the house, I suddenly thought as I stood with the
coffee pot, trapped among the guests, to venture so far into the veld that the dim glow of the candlelight in the windows fades behind me and the raucous voices can no longer be heard, to be surrounded by the rolling silver landscape under the stars; to flee to Bastersfontein, I thought, where the water of the fountain seeps soundlessly into the sand. A woman holding a candlestick pushed past me to check on her sleeping children in the bedroom, for I was obstructing the way of the guests who were filling the house with their excitement and their loud voices, and the melted candle wax dripped on my new frock. To flee to the sheltered place under the ridge where no one will ever look for me and to wake every morning at first light and see the klipspringers that have come to drink at the fountain.

Thus we got our own congregation: there was a great deal of conflict and disagreement, but the congregation was founded and the cornerstone of the church was laid and the land for a church village was surveyed at De List. Henceforth we gathered for Nagmaal in the new village and there was no further need to travel down the mountain to Worcester. Initially people stayed in their outspanned wagons on the square behind the church, or they pitched tents, but Father bought three plots and began to build a town house immediately. But no, I must get the story right, for it was not like that: I remember Father in our tent in his old armchair that had been brought from the farm on the wagon, and the people coming to greet him and consult with him, while Mother saw to the layout and building of the new house; Mother in her black dress pacing out the exterior walls of the building, deciding on the size of the large rooms, watching the bricks being hauled and the mortar mixed. Mother, shielding her eyes against the sun, shouting to spur on the workers. When the people came to town for Nagmaal services they always came to view the foundations of that big house, and later they came to watch the walls going up.

Mother hurried the builders and the carpenters and the thatchers
along and sent Coenraad to Worcester with the wagon to fetch doorframes and window-panes, and our house was one of the first in town to be completed, with a voorkamer large enough for all the visitors who came to consult with Father, large enough for consistorial meetings to be held there for the time being, and for all the guests Mother wished to entertain. She ordered coffee cups and saucers from Cape Town, four dozen, and the old bowls were used on the farm and later not even there any more. For a long time after the founding of the congregation and the completion of the church we remained without a minister, and for a long time it was Father, as the most senior elder, who stood in for the minister when decisions had to be made or advice given. When no minister arrived to conduct the service, he was often called upon to read a sermon, for though he read slowly and painstakingly, the people wished him to do it and he did not like to refuse, and I can still see him reading from the book on a stand in front of him, his head slightly tilted and the finger of his stiff hand following the letters.