This Life (25 page)

The Cape cart did not return before the following afternoon, ploughing its way through the heavy mud churned up by the wheels and the horses’ hoofs, and Maans brought the doctor along, his mount tied behind the cart; he, too, would have been paid a lot of money to undertake the long journey to the farm in that weather. He examined Stienie without saying much, and from his silence I gathered there was a lot he was keeping to himself and not telling us. That evening he lay down on the bed in the guest-room, fully clothed and covered by only his coat, and at daybreak the following morning his horse was saddled and he rode back to town through the mud and the brimming streams. He still had not said much, but he left behind powders and drops for her to take.

After this, Maans took Stienie down to the Boland: he waited a few days to arrange matters on the farm and for the road to become passable again, and then they left. The sheep had not yet been sent down to the Karoo and he said he would get a message to Fisantkraal and ask Coenraad to come and help us, but what did Coenraad still care about us? He had probably already left for the Karoo himself but, be that as it may, nobody arrived and at last I arranged the trek myself. Fortunately Maans had dependable workers, something with which Father had never been blessed, and I made them carry out everything in the house and load the wagon, and so we left for the Karoo, Pieter and I and the herdsmen and their families, no longer down the rocky ledges and slopes of Vloksberg Pass, bouncing and jolting from ledge to ledge with the abyss looming below, but by way of the new road down Verlatekloof. The journey was quicker now but it still took a few days, and those few days were once again a time of freedom, with no
one to give orders or demand explanations, no one to look and to ask and to wonder, only the silent, indifferent presence of the driver and the herdsmen with their families, and Pieter across from me at the camp fire in the evenings. I had to look after the wagon and the oxen, as Maans usually did, or Father or Coenraad in the old days, I had to make decisions and the farm-hands came to me for instructions, but the burden of responsibility rested lightly on my shoulders, and as our trek with wagon and sheep descended down the narrow kloof, it seemed to me as if our route had been reversed, the direction lost for a moment, as if in reality we were ascending, climbing up the slopes, to the cliffs where the wind swept across the rolling land of the escarpment, to the shadowless white brightness of the light, and I experienced a dizzying freedom as I had that day after Mother’s death, alone in our town house. A few days, that is all, that is all it ever was; a week or two at a time is all I was ever granted, but it was enough, and every time the gift of it left me delighted and surprised. We arrived in the Karoo, we settled into the little house Maans had built for them in the meantime as a winter residence, and in due course he returned from Worcester and joined us. He did not say much about Stienie, but she had stayed behind in Worcester where she had relatives and where the doctor knew her; later she went to the baths at Goudini for a while and she also spent some time at the seaside. She was away all winter and only in spring, when we had returned to the Roggeveld and had settled on the farm once again, did Maans fetch her from the Boland.

It was a good time for me, those winter months Maans and I spent together in the Karoo, for he had remained unchanged over the years, a quiet, grateful boy who made no demands, and it was no trouble keeping house for him. Yes, I still say “boy”, though he was a man of forty; as we sat together in the evenings in the glow of the candlelight,
I suddenly noticed the first silver in his dark hair, and sometimes when he forgot about my presence and was deep in thought, he suddenly looked tired and defeated, so that my heart ached to see him, for what could I say or do to help? But still, during those few months of Stienie’s absence it was as if something of the old closeness between us had been restored and he became to me once more the child that had been given into my care on my return from death’s door, the child that I used to carry everywhere on my arm or lead around by the hand, and that I had come to regard as my own.

Of course old Tant Neeltjie spread rumours when she left us and people were curious: what they surmised never came directly to my ears, but I was aware of the barely suppressed eagerness with which they asked after Stienie’s health and how long she would be away and where she was visiting, the inquisitive eyes hoping that my expression might give something away that my hollow or evasive words did not give up. I did not know much more than they, however, perhaps even less, given the fact that I did not share in Tant Neeltjie’s wisdom. Once or twice towards the end of winter Stienie sent me a note to say that she was well, but more than that she did not disclose and, anyway, Stienie had never been very comfortable with a pen in her hand, so that I was uncertain what to expect when Maans brought her back to us at last after so many months.

It was clear that she had been very ill: Stienie had never actually been slender and over the years she had grown stouter, but now she was very pale and she looked at us sharply, with dark, glittering eyes, in a way unfamiliar to me – “inquiringly” I might call it, but the word is not strong enough, and perhaps “suspiciously” ’ would be a more accurate description. At first she was very quiet, almost resigned, and asked few questions about the house or the farm and said nothing about what had happened or changed in her absence, almost as if she
did not even notice. She was friendly, but preoccupied, uninterested in her surroundings and with an air of detachment towards Maans and me, and yet it was not because she felt listless or weary, on the contrary, for we were constantly aware of a barely concealed energy that might burst out suddenly. It never happened, however, and as we sat down for supper on that first evening together, I realised that there was no need to fear an outburst, for in an unguarded moment I saw her eyes from across the table in the lamplight and, surprised, I realised that she was afraid of me, though it was hard for me to accept it. Over the weeks and months we spent together the knowledge grew in me, however, and I began to understand the reason for her fear: she was afraid of me because I had seen her naked, swollen body, the hair stuck to her brow and the fear and despair in her eyes, she was afraid of the one whose hands she had clung to in desperation and who had covered her mouth with a pillow to smother the sound of her wailing. I had seen and heard too much, I knew too much, and she would never free herself from the shadow of this knowledge or forgive me for the power I had inadvertently achieved over her. I lived in Maans and Stienie’s house and depended on their charity, and yet I speak of her now as if she were a naughty child: I must say, though, that after Stienie’s return I never had trouble with her again; after her return she knew where she stood with me.

The neighbours naturally devised plans to call on Stienie immediately, though they, too, were uncertain of what to expect. The visits were strained, with much left unspoken; this was true of answers as well as questions, and there was a great deal of feigned affection and goodwill on both sides. No doubt everyone was glad when the visit came to an end, and afterwards people gossiped more than ever, I presume, and made up for their uncertainty with speculation, suspicion and deduction. We went in to town for the next Nagmaal as
usual, however, and attended all the services and Stienie received visitors and made calls as usual, though she was quieter than in the old days, with sudden moments of uncertainty and hesitation, and those restless, shining eyes were still noticeable. During the time she spent in Cape Town she had bought clothes on a grand scale and she wore those outfits to church now – well, it might have been what people wore in Cape Town but, as I have said, it was too stylish for our little town and our townspeople, and I always felt slightly self-conscious as I followed her to our pew, even though I might be considered the last person to accuse others of peculiarity. What bothered me, however, was that, unlike in the old days, she did not wear her expensive, elegant clothes because she found them beautiful and wanted to impress people; instead, her choice of clothing had become a kind of challenge, and as I followed her into church and sat beside her in the pew it was evident how nervous she was as she sat up so straight, glancing around with quick, bright eyes without noticing anyone. At New Year we entertained on the farm as usual, and more people arrived than in previous years, probably still out of curiosity, and I recall how Stienie moved among them all evening in her rustling red gown from Cape Town with its frills and lace trimmings, greeting and welcoming her guests tirelessly, and chattering without taking notice of anyone she addressed.

The nervousness remained, the restlessness remained; after her return she no longer seemed to fit into the position she had held among us before, and it was as if she were forever chasing after something new without knowing exactly what she desired. The hunger I had recognised years ago had only been stayed temporarily, and the restless craving of old had been reawakened. I watched and kept silent and waited, and in the new year she began to work blindly and tirelessly at the realisation of her dream: it was during the course of the next
year that the new house was built and Maans went to Parliament, and it was during that time that she found Pieter a wife.

Where did it start – with the house? Yes, probably with the house. The homestead on the farm was old, of course, for it was probably nearly a hundred years ago that Oupa had built it, and it was old-fashioned, for in spite of all the alterations it still remained a house of its time with its dung floors in the bedrooms and kitchen, its sturdy walls, small windows and thatched roof, and our town house had always been more to Stienie’s liking with its wooden floors and large windows that let in the light. While Mother and I were living in town, Maans had the outbuildings demolished – the shed and kraal and outside rooms, together with the remains of the old homestead that Great-oupa had built – and had them rebuilt farther away from the house, and a room was added for Pieter; but, in spite of Stienie’s complaints, he seemed unwilling to go any further. Shortly after my return to the farm, he replaced the roof of our town house with corrugated iron, as people had begun doing, and that strengthened Stienie’s resolve to alter the homestead on the farm. The matter dragged on, however, until her illness occurred; but when she returned from the Boland she could not be stopped and Maans was forced to have a completely new house built with wooden floors and matchboard ceilings and sash windows and a tin roof, like the new houses she had seen in the Boland. At last Maans gave in, as he usually did sooner or later, and for months the builders were busy on the plain below the old homestead, beside the road and near the dams, while she watched them from the old house, more and more often giving the orders and instructions herself – and why not, for Maans was not really interested, and had other things to do, while Stienie knew exactly what she wanted. It was as if that protracted building process provided Stienie with a new goal in life after her return from the Boland, and equally
important to her was the interest it aroused in our district, for as the news spread, people rode over to come and look. For Stienie it was a big thing to walk across with the women, though there was nothing but the extensive foundations to impress them with, and if there were no visitors, she was compelled to ask me to take a walk with her towards evening, and then we always made our way to the building site to see the walls going up. She was oblivious to the fact that I did not share her enthusiasm, nor take any real interest in the building: Stienie never paid much attention to what others thought or felt.

It was during this time, while she was busy with the new house, that Stienie decided Pieter should marry, for it was just then that Andreas Stofberg died. Andreas had always struggled on his farm and the drought had given him a hard knock, so that after his death the farm had to be sold to pay his debts. People expected Stienie to take care of his widow and young daughter, for she was their closest relative, and Maans seemed inclined to help, for he was fond of the little girl, but Stienie showed no particular inclination to take the woman in, not to mention her child. It was too much of an upheaval with the building, she declared, and in the end they went to live in an outside room of the town house, and Maans probably supported them, though Annie earned a little money with her sewing. After a while, before the new house had even been completed, Stienie remarked in passing one day that she wondered if it might not be a good thing for Oom Pieter to get married, and before I could recover from my astonishment, she went on to list all the advantages; she mentioned that he and Annie could live in the old homestead when we moved to the new house. She spoke rapidly without looking at me, but despite her concern about Oom Pieter, I knew that very little of what she was saying was the truth, for she just wanted to acquit herself of her obligation to Annie and get rid of Pieter before the house was completed, so that there would
be no danger that they would spoil that new elegance with their presence, or that she might have to take in Annie and her child. Even so, even so, I thought, and did not know whether to laugh or cry; and at last I made no reply to her suggestion, for what would the point have been of voicing reservations? In the circumstances it was probably the best solution for everyone, even if it were conceived mainly to benefit Stienie. Annie was a decent young woman, quiet, neat and diligent, and she would look after him; and Pieter loved children and would accept her little girl in his life: the two of them would never have a true marriage, but he would be cared for, taste some security and warmth and, who knows, perhaps even something like love and happiness here at the end of his life. Thus they were married hastily before the magistrate in town one morning, almost as if it were something to be kept from people, with only Maans and Stienie and me as witnesses; Annie’s mourning period had only just passed and she was still wearing her black mourning dress. Pieter was almost sixty by then but during the few years they lived together, I deemed them to be happy, as far as I understood anything about happiness.