When Time Fails (Silverman Saga Book 2) (13 page)

Annamari couldn’t believe how much she was missing Beauty. She hardly ever came home from Cape Town where, although just a second year student, she was already dazzling the University of Cape Town’s Law Department with her ferocious intellect. Perhaps she wanted to avoid Arno. It was sad really, but a relief too that their friendship seemed to have cooled after the matric dance fiasco. Or had it? She wasn’t sure that Arno was really over Beauty. He never mentioned her. He still didn’t seem to have a steady girlfriend although he seemed to be going out a lot, but with different girls all the time. Annamari didn’t even know their names. But he was a handsome boy with a good heart and he would find someone, eventually. So would Beauty, Annamari was sure about that. At the moment, however, Beauty appeared to be wrapped up in her studies. She hadn’t even come up to Bloemfontein to watch Stefan Smit being sentenced to life imprisonment after being found guilty on three counts of premeditated murder.

Annamari hadn’t been able to bring herself to go back to the court either; not for the judgement, and not even for the sentencing. Those awful, awful words he’d shouted at her almost a year before continued to haunt her. She couldn’t go back and give him an opportunity to taunt her again. Had he known? Is that why he called her a whore? How had he found out?

Sometimes, Annamari wondered whether Arno and Beauty weren’t secretly in touch with each other. But then she’d laugh at herself. She was paranoid. But sometimes, when she was speaking to Arno on the phone and she’d mention Beauty and he would go dead quiet – not commenting, not asking anything, as if he was holding his breath. She wondered whether her relief when Beauty had finally agreed to go to the University of Cape Town rather than Wits had not been a little premature.

Annamari’s heart had dropped when Beauty announced a few weeks after her triumphant matric dance that she was going to go to Wits University which had offered her a full scholarship. She had been so excited. Wits washer dream university. It was where Nelson Mandela himself had studied; so had Arthur Chaskalson, George Bizos, Ismail Mahomed, Sydney Kentridge – so many of South Africa’s top legal minds. She was honoured, awed that they wanted her – a little nobody from nowhere
.

But the University of the Witwatersrand was a mere fifty kilometres from the University of Pretoria; forty minutes by car and Beauty and Arno could be together. Annamari was frantic with worry. It was fate that had made her switch on the TV while that documentary was on. She was just about to change channels when she realised they were talking about a young woman lawyer. Curious, she paused. This woman, it seemed, had been appointed to the Constitutional Court by Nelson Mandela when she was just thirty-seven years old. Annamari quickly wrote down her name when it was revealed that Justice Kate O’Regan had studied at the University of Cape Town. Over a thousand kilometres from Pretoria. And, if Annamari remembered correctly, UCT had also offered Beauty a scholarship.

‘Alright, MaAnni,’ Beauty said quietly. ‘I’ll follow in Judge O’Regan’s footsteps if you think that will get me an appointment to the bench faster.’

Annamari hadn’t been sure whether Beauty was joking. She found it increasingly difficult to understand Beauty at all anymore. If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought Beauty was deliberately avoiding her. She never phoned; and she never came home, not even for the holidays. She said it was too expensive.

Annamari knew that regardless of whether or not Beauty ever became a judge, she would be a brilliant lawyer. Big law firms all over the country were already falling over themselves to offer her a job once she completed her LLB degree.

She wished Arno had studied something useful like law or accountancy rather than the airy-fairy nonsense he’d chosen. But Arno had insisted that marketing was the next big thing. And when he graduated at the end of the year, he was going to go back to Tukkies to do his Honours.

‘And then you’ll see, Ma. I’ll get a great job and make pots of money,’ he laughed.

Annamari hoped so. A university degree was absolutely essential for any young person, Thys always said, especially in the new South Africa.

That’s why she was so worried about De Wet. She wished he’d apply himself as much to his schoolwork as he did to his rugby, or even his cricket or hockey – depending on the season. In fact, she really hadn’t expected De Wet to pass Grade 9, but somehow he had managed to scrape through and now he was attempting to cruise through Grade 10.

***

De Wet walked through the kitchen door, flung his cricket bag on the floor, rushed over to Annamari, caught her hands and danced her around the room. Four-year-old Steyn, screaming like the Mirage jet that had been the star of the recent Bloemfontein Air Show, flew in after him, thrilled to have his older brother home at last. Thys brought up the rear.

‘De Wet, stop. I’m trying to get supper ready and ... oh my lord, look at your clothes! What have you done to yourself this time? Steyntjie, land now or go and fly outside.’

Steyn swooped around the kitchen with his arms outstretched once more, then screeched to a halt in front of De Wet and brushed energetically at the grass stains on his big brother’s white shirt and pants.

‘Oh, I suppose that happened when I dived for a catch, like Jonty Rhodes,’ De Wet said.

‘Did you? Catch it, I mean?’ Annamari looked up at her middle son, who seemed to have grown another few inches. He was already taller than Arno and was rapidly gaining on Thys
.

‘No, but Hansie said it was a very good effort. He said I reminded him of himself, he said I showed real batting talent, he said I could possibly even be a Protea one day, he said ... Ma, he even shook my hand and he said...’

‘Hansie? Hansie Cronje? Really? He saw you play? Thys did you also see him?’

Thys laughed and confirmed that indeed, the South African cricket captain and Grey College Old Boy had turned up unexpectedly to watch the Grey College Under 17s take on – and hammer – Bloemfontein Technical High School thanks largely to De Wet’s unbeaten sixty-five.

‘But what De Wet hasn’t told you was that Hansie also told him that it takes more than raw talent to be a first class sportsman, didn’t he, son? He told De Wet that to be a first class sportsman takes discipline and application, on the field and off. And that means getting good marks in class, not so?’

De Wet nodded sheepishly. ‘Ja well, I can do that. I’m going to play for South Africa one day. You’ll see. I’d give anything to play in the same team as Hansie. And maybe I’ll also be the Protea captain, like him, one day. After he retires, of course.’

‘I thought you wanted to be a Springbok. You can’t be a rugby Springbok and play first class cricket. Not anymore,’ Thys said.

Annamari held her breath. She forced herself to go with Thys to watch De Wet’s rugby matches at school in Bloemfontein when they could get away from Steynspruit, but she hated it. Every time he touched the ball, or worse, was tackled, the memory of Thys at the bottom of that pile of blue jerseys flashed before her. She knew it would break Thys’ heart if De Wet gave up rugby, but she’d be delighted.

So when De Wet said, ‘Sorry Pa, but I think I really do prefer cricket,’ Annamari murmured a quick prayer of thanks to the Lord. And Hansie Cronje.

Annamari settled back in the old wicker chair on th
e
stoe
p
, blew ripples onto her black coffee and sipped. Still too hot. The sun had just crept over the mountains, dappling the poplars in a pale green haze. She cupped her hands around the warmth of her mug. The rain last night had cooled the air and washed the sky a bright, clear blue. It was going to be a beautiful day.

She listened to the million sounds that made up the silence of the early morning: the chirpings, chirrupings, tweetings, callings... whoo hoo hoo... crick, crickcrickcrick... huuu hu huuu. She blew her coffee again, wishing as always that she’d paid attention when her father had tried to teach her about the hundreds of bird species that made Steynspruit their home. She was pretty sure she could hear a hoopoe, but she wouldn’t bet on it. Even a townie like Thys was better at identifying bird calls than she was. Still, it didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the feathered orchestra. She shut her eyes and relaxed, revelling in her “me” time before having to go in to the kitchen to prepare Sunday lunch.

The jarring jangle of the telephone startled her reverie. She swore softly, bumped her mug down on the table and brushed at the damp stain on the front of her tracksuit pants as she hurried through the French doors, her heart pounding. Arno. Could something have happened to Arno? De Wet? Beauty?

She snatched up the receiver. ‘Hello?’

‘Annamari? Estie Viljoen here. From Viljoenspruit. It’s not too early to call, is it? I wanted to catch you before you left for church.’

Annamari sank down on the couch, relief whistling past her pursed lips. Then she smiled grimly. Tannie Estie knew jolly well that she and Thys wouldn’t be leaving for church any time soon. She knew they hadn’t set foot in the Driespruitfontein Nederduitse Gereformede Kerk for years and even if they had, they wouldn’t be setting off to Driespruitfontein for at least another two hours.

But that was Tannie Estie for you. Thoughtless. And mean. She had never made a secret of the fact that she strongly disapproved of everything Annamari and Thys had done. And that was putting it mildly.

She’d become quite formal and distant after the construction of the new cottages for Steynspruit’s farmworkers. But when she heard about the establishment of the Steynspruit Kibbutz, well, she went ballistic. As the news raged through the district like a hurricane-fanned winter veld fire, the Viljoens had blazed up Steynspruit’s driveway in their white diesel Mercedes Benz. They launched themselves onto th
e
stoe
p
, refused a friendly offer of coffee and rusks, and proceeded to berate Annamari and Thys, insisting, demanding, that they kill the whole kibbutz idea. They warned that it would set off all th
e
kaffir
s
in the district – and none of them would be safe in their beds. They said that Steynspruit had been in Annamari’s family even longer than Viljoenspruit had been i
n
Oom Johan’s. They sneered at Thys, calling him an outsider, a traitor to th
e
Boe
r
nation,
a
hendsoppe
r
and joiner with no respect for how things had always been done around here and if he wanted to give everything away to th
e
kaffir
s
just like that traitor F W de Klerk was giving away the whole bloody country, well what could you expect? But they would never understand how Annamari – who had suckled on Steynspruit’s wide open spaces and fresh, clean air and history and tradition – how she could go along with this heresy, this treachery. How, they demanded, could she betray her own dear parents and her only brother by giving away her heritage and her inheritance to the very people who had murdered them?

Thys had tried to pacify them but Annamari told him not to bother. People like Estie and Johan Viljoen would never understand.

Since then, for the last seven or so years, when Tannie Estie an
d
Oom Johan saw Annamari or Thys in Driespruitfontein, they would suddenly become engrossed in the Pep Store’s window display, gaze earnestly into their jumbo Wimpy coffee, or cross the street. Thys, of course, always waved and shouted a friendly greeting. Annamari simply returned the favour and ignored them
.

Annamari was convinced they had been the ones who complained to the ne
w
domine
e
when they took Beauty with them to church that once. They probably shouldn’t have; it had been asking for trouble, even if Apartheid was over and there was a new government and everything. But Arno and De Wet had been home that weekend, and the children had been in the lounge watching TV and when it was time to leave for church, Beauty got up to go back to th
e
khay
a
.

‘Can’t Bootie come with us? Please?’ Arno asked.

‘Ja, please can she come,’ De Wet echoed.

And Thys had smiled and said it was a good idea and, jawell, what was she supposed to do? Then, after church, when everyone was standing around chatting, the ne
w
domine
e
had called Thys aside and told him not to bring “tha
t
Hotno
t
girl” to church with them again. For a while, Thys had conducted their Sabbath service in the new Steynspruit multipurpose hall. Most of the Steynspruit Kibbutz members attended, along with workers from neighbouring farms. But Thys had handed the reins to a black pastor a few years ago. He said the pastor was better equipped to teach them the word of the Lord. He... well, he was not so sure anymore. After returning from Israel, after what he had seen in Jerusalem and at Yad Vashem, after everything he had seen in South Africa... well, he began to wonder if, maybe, perhaps, the Lord’s word wasn’t quite as clear as he had always thought.

***

‘Tannie Estie?’ Annamari spluttered. ‘What a surprise. How are you? How’
s
Oom?’

‘It doesn’t help to complain. Listen Annamari, have you got the Government Gazette?’

‘The Government Gazette? Why on earth would I have the Government Gazette? I wouldn’t even know where to get hold of it. Why?’

‘So you haven’t heard anything?’

‘About what?’

‘Have you got the letter yet?’

‘What letter? Tannie, what are you talking about? What’s happened?’

‘Well, it might be nothing, Annamari. Especially since you’ve already given away your farm to th
e
kaffir
s
– your poor parents and poor Christo must be turning in their graves. Anyway, I heard ...’ Estie’s voice dropped conspiratorially. ‘One of m
y
kaffi
r
girls told me that there’s a land claim against Steynspruit.’ Her voice soared spitefully: ‘You see? We were right. Give th
e
kaffir
s
a finger and they’ll take your whole bloody arm.’

***

As she and Thys sat side by side listening to the Steynspruit Kibbutz members and workers from Viljoenspruit and the other farms raise their voices in exquisite harmony, praising the Lord, Annamari couldn’t shake the unease that had insinuated itself into her brain the moment she’d heard Estie Viljoen’s spiteful voice. She wondered whether she should tell Thys – she hated keeping secrets from him, she really did, especially secrets that she didn’t have to keep. But this wasn’t really a secret – it was just a rumour and Thys hated rumours. Particularly when they were being spread by nasty ol
d
skinnerbekk
e
like that old cow next door.

But for once, the singing didn’t transport her, taking her outside of herself. She never told Thys that that was really the only reason she attended the church service. He always seems to enjoy the singing too – he certainly didn’t understand the Pastor’s impassioned preaching; and sometimes she could see that the exuberance of the service with lots of clapping and ululating made him cringe although she quite enjoyed it. But today, the unease wouldn’t go away.

Annamari always scoure
d
Die Volksbla
d
for any stories about the laughably labelled “Land Restitution” process. The more she read, the more she came to the conclusion that it was just a fancy way of justifying and legalising land theft. She’d been shocked when the new government, which had barely warmed the seats on the nice green benches in Parliament after the first elections, immediately started to pick on white farmers – always referred to them a
s
boer
s
which seemed to have become synonymous with far right-wing racists.

She’d been horrified when the government passed a new law that everyone said would drive white farmers off their legally owned land. Thys hadn’t been too concerned about it, though.

‘The Restitution of Land Rights Act is aimed at restoring land to the rightful black owners who were chased off because of Apartheid and the Land Act of 1913,’ he explained. ‘It’s hard for us farmers, but it’s not unjust. However, your family has been living on Steynspruit since long before 1913. It won’t affect us, you’ll see.’

All through the Sunday church service, Annamari prayed that Thys would be right, as he always was. Surely, if there was a claim against Steynspruit, they would have heard by now?

By the time they sat down to lunch and Thys finished saying a perfunctory grace, Annamari was starting to convince herself that Tannie Estie was obviously just being Tannie Estie. No wonder her ma and pa had never liked her.

‘What’s wrong
,
liefi
e
?’ Thys asked as she handed him his plate of nicely roasted lam
b
bou
d
with crispy roast potatoes, fluffy white rice, sweet pumpkin
,
boereboontjie
s
and lashings of thick, brown gravy, just as he liked it.

Annamari wished he couldn’t read her so well. She knew he’d eventually manage to get the truth out of her, so she told him about the phone call, thankful that Arno and De Wet weren’t home to hear, and Steyn was still too young to understand.

Thys shook his head. ‘Honestly, everyone is getting in a panic over what’s been going on in Zimbabwe lately. The farm invasions only started because Mugabe is losing his grip on power and he needs to blame someone for everything that’s gone wrong up there. The white farmers are an easy target. That’s why he tried to change the constitution to allow for land to be confiscated without compensation. He thought it would win him votes but he lost, so now his thugs are simply taking what he promised them and Tannie Estie and everyone thinks it’s going to happen here too. It won’t. South Africa is not Zimbabwe. President Mbeki is a clever man. He understands how important productive farms are to the economy. And the ANC is very strong; there’s no need for them to turn on the whites.’

‘Ja,’ Annamari said doubtfully, ‘but there’sa lot of farms with claims against them. Thousands of them, it said i
n
Die Volksbla
d
. Maybe Steynspruit is one of them.’

‘The cut-off date for claims was more than a year ago. We would have heard something by now. Reall
y
liefi
e
, you don’t have to worry. Anyway, any black people who might have a claim against Steynspruit – like Petrus and Rosie’s families – have been living on Steynspruit for years and years and they already own the farm, with the kibbutz and everything. No one else could possibly have a claim.’