An Unquiet Place Read online

  ‘What should I look for?’ said Hannah, opening the cardboard flaps. The dry smell of dusty books hit her, half fish moth and half fraying leather. She sneezed.

  ‘It’s your shop now. You decide. It came from a deceased estate in Bethlehem. Someone thought we might be interested. See if you are.’ She left Hannah dragging the box into the reading room, and disappeared into the apartment to find something to eat.

  Hannah heaved the box onto the table and began sifting through the books. Most were written in Afrikaans, in variable condition. Some were held together only by a few binding threads. Looking through their introductory pages, some interspersed with tissue paper leaves, Hannah saw that many were first editions published in the 1950s. When Barbara came back with the two cups of tea and a little plate of biscotti, Hannah took hers to the computer and began to google Africana book values. She eventually happened onto an auction site, where she investigated how to sell rare books.

  ‘Barbara, was Tim selling any stock online?’ called Hannah.

  ‘Heavens no. He hates computers, could barely bring himself to ring up a sale.’

  ‘It might be worth exploring though. From what I can see here, books that would never see the light of day on a shelf can be viewed by anyone internationally. I must explore how to register as a dealer and see if it would be worthwhile for us.’

  ‘You see?’ Barbara’s face appeared round the door, grinning at Hannah over the rim of her cup. ‘Your first day and you’ve found a market we would never have dreamt of. Good for you.’

  Hannah smiled back. ‘We’ll see. Don’t get your hopes up.’

  She separated the old books into piles of valuable-looking editions and more generic copies. When she reached the bottom of the box, she saw, lying flat against the base, a hard-covered ledger. The spine was deep maroon, as were the corners, and the cover, a dark royal blue. She lifted it out. The pages were ruled with lines and red ink columns were printed to the right of each page. The pages, however, were filled with writing – tiny writing that spidered from edge to edge, making the ledger printing redundant. It was in Afrikaans. Hannah’s gaze flicked to the top of the first page, which began with the words:

  This is the account of Rachel Badenhorst, aged twelve years, of Silwerfontein, Orange Free State, 1899.

  Hannah’s mind ran through what she knew of that period in South Africa’s history. It had to have been written at the time of the South African War when Britain wrested control from the Boer republics. She sank into a chair and began reading, carefully turning each delicate, browned page. She had to adjust to the language. A friend who had been with her in the languages department at university had called this deep Afrikaans, rarely seen now outside of universities and older literature.

  10 November 1899, Silwerfontein, Orange Free State

  Dear Wolf,

  Oupa Jakob has given me this ledger, and I will write an account of life on the farm for you. When you return, you can read it and know that everything here has remained just the same.

  It has been a month since you and Pa left. A whole month. Time has slowed to a crawl and, although Ma is trying to fill the time with extra tasks, I find myself with too much time to think. I think Ma feels the same as I do because she is working harder than I have ever seen. She calls it spring cleaning, but no spring has seen the house this clean. We have washed every curtain and window. The walls have been scrubbed inside and out, and when it is too hot to work in the sun, she hauls out linen from the chest to mend. You know how determined she can be. Even Oupa Jakob has not been able to stop her. It’s as if she wants to exhaust herself so she can collapse on her bed at night and sleep without dreaming. We all say the right things: that you and Pa will be home for Christmas, that the British are no match for our strong, passionate men, but then there is a silent, low twisting pain that sits in me. What if we’re wrong? So we do what Ma says. Even Kristina is listening, so you know how serious Ma must be!

  Streams of burghers are moving through the valley on their way to Harrismith and the Natal border. Ma says we must stay close to the house. Ma says they may be burghers, but they are still men, and a decent household of women should rather keep their distance. Kristina and I climbed the ridge, though, and watched the lines of men and horses from up there. Sitting in the shade of a rock with a picnic basket felt like we were watching a parade. The men are in good spirits, talking and laughing together. It must be so with you too.

  I am looking after Spikkels. She is well, but I can see that she misses you and Lofdal. Paul takes her out to ride, but he has to exercise Sokkies and Feetjie too, so she doesn’t get as good a gallop as when you are here. Oupa Jakob says we have to keep all the animals close to the house now. He says there will be days coming when all the wrong sorts of people will be wandering the veld. Now we must look to our boundaries.

  I pray for you every night, Wolf. You and Pa. Rachel

  As Hannah read, she smiled at the pictures conjured by Rachel’s voice – the strong, formidable Ma who would do anything to keep her family together. Life on the farm where horses became family members. Hannah wondered about Wolf, this clearly adored brother who rode off to war with his father. People pushed to the limit of their endurance and strength. Hannah settled back into the chair and continued reading …

  22 December 1899, Silwerfontein, Orange Free State

  Dear Wolf,

  It’s been two months since the war broke out and the end is not yet in sight! I wish we knew where you were. We hear the reports from Ladysmith and Mafeking, but we don’t know if you and Pa were part of either. Freddie Basson came home to his mother last week. He was shot in the leg but is doing fine. Ma says he will have an ugly scar. Just think how Freddie will love showing it off! He told Ma he was with you and Pa until he was sent home. It’s very wrong of me, but something in me wishes you could come home too. With just a small wound, mind!

  December has not been a good month for our Free State. The stories (which I’m sure you hear too) coming from the western border speak of Khakis overrunning the battlefields. People are starting to wonder if it is indeed possible to stand against the might of the British. This is new talk and it frightens me.

  It is Christmas this week, but what a different one it will be! I wonder if we will even gather for church like we always do. It feels like we have been stuck on the farm forever. Obviously, Tannie Elsie and the children will not be coming from Pretoria, and we will miss the games and the chaos they bring.

  Other men in the district seem to visit their families often. Oom Steyn came home to help plant their fields and his sons seem to return home every second week for horses or food. Why aren’t you coming home like they are? Ma says they are abandoning their duties and we should be proud of you and Pa, so committed to the Boer cause. But still, she is packing parcels for you in the hope you and Pa make it home for Christmas.

  Things on the farm are quiet. I have started lessons again with Oupa Jakob. He tries so hard to force Kristina to sit with us, but she is only interested in running free. At nine o’clock, when we sit at the table on the stoep, Kristina is nowhere to be found. She emerges at lunchtime with twigs in her hair, as if she has been hiding in the bushes until lessons are over!

  Paul is miserable company. He hates being the only boy in the household. He resents having to manage his work without you, and complains you are having all the fun. He wants more than anything to be in the veld with you and Pa. If he were not only ten, I would worry he’d run away to find you. Oupa Jakob tries to distract him with interesting lessons, but he is like you. Why sit at a table doing sums and writing when the sun is shining, there are horses to ride, and the veld to explore? It would seem I am the only one who likes lessons. In fact, the time with Oupa Jakob flies by and, before we know it, Ma is frowning at the door and I must pack away quickly and help her with the midday meal.

  Lizzie is growing so fast. You will see a big change in her when you come home! She is losing her fat knees and wrists which I l
ove so much. She reminds me of you more and more. None of the wild joy of Kristina, but she is full of happy contentment. She is quiet as she plays, but I can see her following every conversation with her clever blue eyes so like yours. She knows what she wants, but is too good natured to fight about it and, in the end, we all give in to her anyway. If she were in charge of this war, both sides would part smiling, convinced they had each received the better deal.

  There, Ma is calling me. There are chickens to pluck. Life is not the same here without you, Wolf. The brightness has disappeared.

  Rachel

  Barbara’s voice called from the next room, drawing Hannah from the ledger. ‘Sweet cat, by the way – she was begging to go outside so I let her out into the garden.’

  ‘What?’ Hannah leapt from behind the desk, sprinting down the passage and out the kitchen door to the deck. ‘Patchy?’ Her heart skipped in panic. She looked around desperately and, out the corner of her eye, spied the gleam of white curled on the cushion of an outdoor chair. There lay Patch, warm in the sun, squinting at Hannah. Hannah ran her hand down the sleek, sun-warmed coat. ‘Comfortable enough? You think you can manage this new life?’ The rattling purr was answer enough.

  Barbara innocently dunked her biscotti into her tea. ‘I hope you can bake like Tim. These cherry biscotti are better than anything one can buy.’

  ‘No luck, I’m afraid,’ said Hannah, helping herself to one and accepting the change of subject. ‘I blew up my mother’s microwave warming a mince pie once. The force and temperature of that fruit mince pitted the interior and almost blew the door off its hinges.’

  Barbara choked on her biscotti, and Hannah took her cup back to the reading room, saying over her shoulder, ‘I haven’t attempted anything since.’ She grinned to herself at the spluttering laughter which came from the other room.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Kobie turned the key and the scrambler engine died with a sputter. The silence dropped, heavy and cold around him, ringing in his ears. The sun had disappeared an hour ago, leaving the sky an insipid grey. He glanced up, expecting to see summer swallows swinging from the air to dive low over the grass, but the plateau was empty. It was perfectly still, a blueish light casting the grasses in silver. A light shiver ran up his spine, and the skin on the back of his neck rose. He had been coming up here for sixty years and had never felt at ease.

  He swung his leg off the bike, old knees creaking as he walked across to the water trough. The orange plastic float was indeed split, and water ran continuously from the reservoir, brimming over the rough concrete edges and turning the dust surrounds into thick mud. Animals stayed away from this place, but Mr Alistair wanted the trough kept in use, especially now in summer when the daytime temperatures reached the mid-thirties. Kobie squatted, submerging his arm in the icy water to close the valve. He drew a breath at the sting of the cold, frowning at the incongruence. Concentrating hard on unscrewing the brass arm, he didn’t immediately register the mud he was standing in. It was trampled, as if many feet had walked in and out. He straightened and stared. Much like a herd of cattle would do to the surrounds of a water hole, this mud was pocked with footprints. Footprints, not hoofprints. Bare feet and boots had ploughed up the mud, some leaving small prints deeply pressed. Small, careful feet, carrying heavy weights.

  Kobie quickly finished removing the float and retreated to his motorbike, disturbed. Nobody came up here but him. Maybe Mr Alistair every now and then in his pickup, but certainly not crowds of people or children. He kicked the bike’s engine to life and, as he turned his back on the plateau, a faint, thin crying reached across the cold air. Over the shudder of the engine, it needled his skin into a crawl.

  25 March 1900, Silwerfontein, Orange Free State

  Dear Wolf,

  Bloemfontein has fallen, and we hear reports of the Khakis moving south. I never dreamt the Free State would be breached, nor that the outcome of this awful war would be in doubt. We are most shaken by this news.

  On the farm, things seem to remain the same. I feel like I’m repeating myself about lessons and horses and work. I apologise if the entries have become short, but it is truly a reflection of our wartime life here. We may not leave the homestead unaccompanied, and there is no one to accompany us. So here we are.

  April 1900

  We keep hearing news of our wonderful Commander-in-Chief, General De Wet. Have you met him? His victories give us hope that we might prevail against the Khaki storm.

  Lizzie asks about you every day: ‘Tell me stories about Wolf, Rachel. Tell me about when you were little.’ I’m afraid I told her about your stealing Pa’s peach brandy and it nearly blowing the top of your head off! If Ma overheard, she hasn’t said anything, but I think you’re safe from a scolding. She would give anything to see you. As would I.

  Late May 1900

  We have lost Winburg and Kroonstad this month. How much closer can they come? We have heard that Roberts has ‘annexed’ the Orange Free State for the Queen, and changed its name to Orange River Colony. Ha! As if he has control of the whole republic because he has a few towns occupied! It is so obvious he doesn’t understand us. We have our farms and the veld under our feet still. President Steyn’s government is now mobile, but his lead is still the one we follow. I take comfort knowing that you and Pa are on your horses, riding where the British cannot march, invisible because they don’t know where to look.

  June 1900

  We received word from Tannie Elsie this week. She is disheartened but not broken by the British occupation of Johannesburg and Pretoria. The Transvaal government and President Kruger left the city in good time, so people can take comfort that all is not lost, though their capital has been. She remains in her house for the moment. She has the shop to run, and no doubt will continue to do well. The Khakis are likely to enjoy her tobacco and cigarettes as much as the burghers did!

  August 1900

  The war has come to our doorstep. First Bethlehem fell, and then we began to see burghers – hundreds and hundreds of them – coming over the hills and down the roads. And you were amongst them! I cannot describe our joy when you and Pa rode through the gate. I know it wasn’t for long, and that you needed to get into position on the Nek, but that single day was most precious to me. I’m sorry Lizzie was scared of you; I tried to tell her it was you and Pa, but you both looked so different. So hard and tall and thin. And too serious to match her memories of you.

  The past month has been nightmarish. When you left, we had to steel ourselves not to weep openly, though I wanted to more than anything. Ma said it would upset you and you would need to focus and be in control. This leaving was the worst. Especially with what followed.

  We guessed you would be guarding Naauwpoort Nek to stop the Khakis breaking through into the Basin. We have always felt so safe here in our valley, surrounded by mountains. Now the war had come to our boundary. We knew you were up there on the hillside protecting us. But then the bombardment on Naauwpoort Nek began and we could hear the guns from the house. I have never heard the like, and hope I never will again. Like staccato thunder, those guns boomed, and all we could do was sit in the house and pray for your safety. At two o’clock it became quiet and we continued to sit, not knowing who had won or who was dead.

  When Pa came riding through the gate alone, I saw Ma’s knees buckle, though she held the doorframe for support. He scaled the steps in one stride and pulled her into his arms. I had never seen them display affection, but this was a different day. He whispered fiercely into her neck and then looked over her weeping shoulder to where I was standing, hoping I looked stronger than I felt. ‘He’s fine, Rachel. He’s fine,’ were the sweetest words in my ears. Pa had come to say goodbye before you both left quickly for the Golden Gate Pass. He said he planned to escape the Basin. All the passes had fallen, and everyone left was trapped. He said he had lost faith in General Prinsloo and was going to make a run for it. He didn’t know where you and he were going, but he hoped to join General De Wet.
He grasped Ma’s arms, holding her firm, his eyes worried, and said, ‘Aletta, hulle kom.’

  5 November 1900, Silwerfontein, Orange Free State (my small defiance)

  Dear Wolf,

  Life has changed dramatically in the district. We are all on edge. There has been much British movement through the valley since General Prinsloo’s surrender at Brandwater Basin. We have been told we have to inform the British authorities of any ‘enemy’ presence on our farms. If we don’t, they will assume we are supporting the commandos and we will be punished. Already, the Van Rooyens’ farmhouse has been burnt down. Tannie Grietjie and her children are hiding in a cave in the cliffs.

  We are seeing more and more Boer families on the road, women with their children packed into wagons heading for who knows where. There is nowhere to go, and they can only wander the veld, hoping to return to their homes eventually. Ma says they’re crazy. It’s dangerous in the veld now. Soldiers are everywhere, and the commandos have to move fast. Even if they wanted to, they could not let their families travel with them. There are rumours the British are making camps for the refugees where they can be fed. Ma says it’s a trick, that they’ll be kept prisoner there.

  Silwerfontein has been lucky so far. They have left us alone. We’ve had the odd soldier looking for food, but they have been no threat, and Ma packs them a parcel of bread and tells them she thinks our menfolk have been taken prisoner already. That you and Pa are probably in Cape Town. They nod apologetically, grateful for her kindness. She watches them ride away with her fingers crossed behind her back.

  The vegetable garden has done well this season, and our pantry is full. We are careful, keeping the animals close. Maybe we’ll be able to ride out the war like this. Quiet and circumspect.

  I miss you, Wolf, but I don’t want you to come home. It is too risky – for you and for us.