Clare Houston - An Unquiet Place

‘Who is this, Sarah?’

Sarah, crouching in front of a smaller book case, squinted up at the photograph. ‘Oh, that’s Gisela and Bryant, Karl’s parents.’

‘She was gorgeous. Like, film-star gorgeous,’ said Hannah, peering at the beaming couple.

Sarah smiled. ‘And still beautiful in her eighties. Marilie resembled her.’

Hannah replaced the frame and noticed, at the back of the collection, another photograph. She picked it up and studied another couple. Alistair and Marilie. For the first time, Hannah saw how lovely Marilie had been. Petite with blonde hair pulled smoothly back into a short ponytail. She was dressed in riding gear, a smart black jacket, and cream jodhpurs, and she held the bridle of her horse. She kissed the side of its head where a large rosette had been attached to its bridle. A bright ribbon medal hung around her neck. Alistair stood behind her, large in comparison, and he was looking at Marilie. His unspoilt mouth smiled at his wife, but there was something else in his expression – a sadness or longing Hannah couldn’t quite interpret.

Sarah had pulled out three heavy, leather-bound photo albums. She staggered to her feet and glanced at the frame in Hannah’s hands.

‘There she is. Beautiful. Talented. And completely in love with that horse. I loved her like my own daughter, but she held herself away. From everybody, except that horse. You know she made the Olympic showjumping team? She died a few months before the Games.’ Sarah shook her head and carried the albums to a round table in the living room. ‘Come on, let’s see what we can find in these.’

Hannah returned the photograph to its place, with one last glance at the man, who, even then, seemed to be injured.

Each album had a metal clasp on the side. Thick board pages held two photographs back to back on each side of the page. Sprays of flowers curled on each corner, sketched and painted delicately in watercolours. Someone had written captions below some photographs – small, faint pencil names and dates. Hannah began paging through the first, peering at the names. ‘These are mostly De Jagers,’ she said to Sarah who was looking at another album.

‘That would be Bryant’s family, Karl’s father. And this album seems to be the Van Rensbergs. Karl’s paternal granny was a Van Rensberg.’

Hannah kept on going, checking each picture, and then pushed the book away, sighing. The last of the three albums was plainer than the others, but the first page made her heart jump. A man sat in a spindled chair, dressed in a black suit. A white flower was pinned on his lapel. His serious face looked out at the camera. Standing slightly behind him, a young woman had her hand placed on his shoulder. Her light dress had long fitted sleeves to her wrists and a high neck. The waist seemed so cinched, she held her breath tight and high. A pale, pretty face looked away from the camera. The pencil named the couple Danie Petrus and Aletta Badenhorst. Married 1880.

‘This is it, Sarah!’

Sarah scooted her chair closer to Hannah. On the next page, an older couple sat, their chairs angled towards each other. Jakob and Anna Badenhorst. The man’s bushy white beard, full and neatly clipped, reached his chest. He didn’t smile but his eyes looked soft somehow, as if he were about to smile. His wife was more severe, with dark hair parted unforgivingly down the centre of her scalp and pulled back tightly off her face. She sat upright in her chair, her black high-necked dress stiff and formal. ‘The diary speaks of Oupa Jakob and Ouma Anna – this must be them.’

Hannah felt she should open her eyes as widely as possible to believe what she was seeing. Quickly turning the page, she found a family portrait. The two couples, slightly older than on the previous pages, were seated on chairs in the foreground. On one side stood a boy, tall and strong, his young face tanned and smooth. He stared into the distance past the camera. A baby sat alongside him, on Aletta’s lap. A frilly white smock covered tiny feet as the child peered at the camera, fine blonde hair curling in wisps. This portrait was set outdoors and, peering closely, Hannah recognised the white trellises, similar to the ones outside this very room. Hannah read aloud, ‘ The Badenhorsts, 1891 . This is the family, Sarah,’ whispered Hannah, poring over the picture, trying to absorb every detail. ‘These are the people she writes about.’

‘So who is who?’ said Sarah, leaning forwards. ‘This is taken nine years before war breaks out.’

‘I would say these are Rachel’s parents, Danie and Aletta,’ Hannah said, pointing to the younger couple. ‘This older couple would be Oupa Jakob and Ouma Anna. The boy would be Wolf, which would make the baby Rachel? I think she fitted between Wolf and the rest.’

They turned the page and found two more photographs of the family. On the left, a formal shot of the men and two boys, one an older Wolf. The men were seated, with the boys on either side. All were wearing slouch hats and held rifles at their sides. The facing page held a picture of two small girls. One stood, her dark hair wild and curly, escaping the confines of an enormous bow that sat crooked at the back of her head. Her fine-featured face was exquisitely fair, with large dark eyes set beneath fine brows. She had bunched up her dress on one side to reveal buttoned boots. The other girl was a toddler, seated on the floor with a white smock spread around her and a painted wooden dolly clutched in her arms. The next page was empty and, through the frame, they could read on the back of the previous picture, Kristina en Elizabeth, 1898 . ‘These are the two youngest, Rachel’s sisters,’ said Hannah. ‘I wonder if the missing picture was of Rachel. There’s one of the boys and one of the girls, and then this gap. Why is nothing simple, Sarah?’

The last photograph was a wedding portrait of Wolf and Corlie, taken ten years later. Wolf’s face was hardened, his eyes shadowed. He stood stiffly with his hand resting on a high-backed chair. His new wife perched on the chair. White-lace sleeves reached smooth, pale forearms, and her hands held a posy of white flowers. Her fair hair was piled on her head which she held firmly set. It was her face that struck Hannah: she was pretty, but something around the mouth spoke of determination, a slight petulance which made Hannah feel a touch of sympathy for Wolf.

‘Gosh, but this is solemn for a wedding picture,’ said Sarah, echoing Hannah’s thoughts. ‘I know they weren’t supposed to smile, but they hardly look the blushing new couple.’

‘They were tough times, I suppose,’ said Hannah, leaning back in her chair. ‘Seven years after the war, trying to make a new start, rebuilding your home and farm. They would have been scraping an existence together.’

‘And probably both traumatised,’ added Sarah. She turned the page, but there were no more photos, the board pages empty, just frames with vacant holes that sank to the back of the album. ‘I wonder what happened to this family.’

Hannah was opening the drawers below the display cabinet when they were both startled by a knock at the door. She stood guiltily. A woman dressed in a neatly pressed blue-and-white uniform, brought in a tray which she set on the table.

Sarah jumped up and grasped the woman’s hands. ‘Lena, it’s been such a long time since I was here. I’ve missed you.’

‘Oh, Miss Sarah, things are bad here.’

Sarah’s eyes softened in sympathy. ‘I’m so sorry, Lena.’

‘There are no visitors any more, and I worry for Mr Karl. The madam is angry all the time. Shouting for me, shouting for Mr Karl…’ Lena shook her head.

Sarah jogged their hands up and down to draw Lena’s eyes to hers. ‘Why don’t you come home? There will always be a place for you there.’