Clare Houston - An Unquiet Place

‘My parents don’t believe in coincidence – they would say it was planned.’

‘Do you believe in God?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I do,’ he answered slowly, looking down at her. ‘It’s difficult to be a farmer, so dependent on the land and the weather, and not believe in God. But I’ve been so angry—’ He stopped, perhaps not sure of how he wanted to continue.

‘Hey!’ Joseph’s voice carried over the plateau. ‘I’m chewing on the tyres over here.’

Alistair smiled ruefully. ‘Let’s go feed your brother.’

Half an hour later, they were back in Alistair’s austere kitchen. ‘There’s not a lot to work with,’ said Hannah, standing in front of an enormous double-door chrome fridge.

‘Sorry, I’ll go across to the cottage and beg,’ Alistair said. He returned with his arms loaded with packs of cold meat, cheese, a loaf of bread, and salad.

Joseph helped him unload onto the table. ‘What’s the salad for?’

‘For me, you Neanderthal,’ said Hannah, elbowing him out the way, and tipping the lettuce into a bowl.

‘You say that like it’s an insult,’ said Joseph, grinning. She ignored him, threw some cherry tomatoes into the bowl, and headed outside to Alistair’s kitchen garden, returning with a handful of fresh basil and coriander, their sharp scent wafting in the door with her.

They were soon sitting at the kitchen table tucking into thick triangles of toasted ham-and-cheese sandwiches.

‘Heaven,’ said Joseph, popping the last crust into his mouth.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone eat that fast,’ said Alistair to Hannah. ‘Is that normal?’

‘Nothing about Joseph is normal,’ she said.

‘Enough of the chit-chat,’ said Joseph, getting up to put his plate in the sink. ‘We need to talk about a plan of action.’

‘You’re the boss now,’ said Alistair. ‘What do we need to do?’

‘Hannah, like we said earlier, you take the journal. We need copies and details, and as much about the camp as you can find from the archives in Bloemfontein.’ He turned to Alistair. ‘You have historical experience and probably more background knowledge on the South African War than I do. You take the area’s history. Try to find out about all the action that took place here – if there were garrisons stationed close by, if there were blockhouses.’

Alistair nodded. ‘I know the archives quite well. I’ve just never thought to look for that kind of detail.’

‘That’s the problem with historical research – you only find what you’re looking for. Archaeologists dig up things we never dreamt we’d find. That’s the beauty of it.’ The smugness of his words was tempered by the passion in his voice. ‘Can you get hold of aerial photographs of the plateau?’

Alistair nodded again. ‘I’ve got some pretty recent photographs.’

‘And older ones?’ said Joseph, opening the fridge and peering inside. ‘Try to get pictures of the ground as far back as you can. We might see things in the older pictures we can’t see now.’

Hannah watched him choose a Coke and pull the tab on the can. ‘Make yourself at home, Joseph,’ she said.

‘I love the Free State,’ said Joseph. ‘People are so hospitable.’ He ignored Hannah’s snort and continued after a short pause. ‘I’ll start putting a team together. Then we can begin mapping the site whenever we’re ready.’

‘What about permits?’ said Alistair, watching Hannah. She felt his gaze and the slow heat which prickled at her neck, rising to her face. She began to clear the table around Joseph, who had settled back into his chair. Alistair stood to help her and they moved around each other without making eye contact.

Joseph took a sip from his Coke. ‘Any actual excavation will need permission from SAHRA, South Africa’s heritage agency. When we have some idea of what we’re looking at, we can put together a proposal and apply for permission.’

‘Permission for what?’ said a voice behind Joseph’s back.

He twisted in his chair to face a girl leaning in the doorway behind him. Her clear hazel eyes were looking at him with interest and he choked on his Coke. As he spluttered and coughed, she leant forwards and whacked him hard on the back. Hannah watched as he struggled to regain his composure, a state he was rarely, if ever, in.

‘Suzanne, this is Hannah and her brother, Joseph,’ said Alistair, standing upright from stacking the dishwasher.

Hannah smiled at Suzanne, taking in her deep red hair which was pulled back from her face in a messy ponytail. Her baggy tracksuit pants and overly large T-shirt did nothing to hide the fact that she was gorgeous. For once, Joseph was speechless, and Hannah filled his awkward silence: ‘I was hoping for some tea. Do you want some, Suzanne?’

‘Not for me, thanks. Alistair said you’re here to investigate a concentration camp?’ She pulled out a chair next to Joseph, dislodging his feet. He shuffled his chair up a bit to make room for her.

‘Yes,’ he said, sitting more upright in his chair and clearing his throat.

Alistair took mugs from a cupboard. ‘Joseph, how are we going to afford the project? We’ll need help to do the slog work, won’t we?’

Joseph cleared his throat again. ‘Yes.’

They all looked at him, waiting for him to elucidate.

‘I’ve got… uh… connections at UCT.’

Hannah rolled her eyes at Alistair; he responded with a small smile.

Joseph continued, ‘I’ll see if I can get some students up after Christmas. They will still have six weeks of holiday left – we could do lot in that time.’

‘And the costs?’ said Alistair.

‘Let me talk to some people in Cambridge – there’s bound to be some funding somewhere for a project like this. The South African War still garners a lot of interest in the UK.’

‘Interesting,’ said Suzanne quietly, her intelligent eyes taking stock of the three people in the kitchen.

Joseph swung his full attention towards her, as sure now and as intense as a lighthouse beam. ‘Tell me your story, lovely Suzanne.’

It was Hannah’s turn to splutter into her cup, and Alistair reached a hand across her chair to thump the flat of his hand on her back, all the while not taking his eyes off Joseph. Hannah, recovering, recognised a glitter in Alistair’s eye.

But Suzanne rose from her chair. ‘Nothing compelling about my story, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘Nice to meet you.’ She smiled at Hannah, barely giving Joseph a glance beyond what was polite, then pushed her chair in and disappeared out the kitchen door, leaving Joseph speechless and Alistair grinning into his tea.

‘She’s not your type, Josey,’ said Hannah, reaching across and patting his hand.

‘I have a type?’

‘Your pattern of twenty years leans more towards the glamorous, ambitious, attached variety.’

He scratched his chin. ‘Patterns can change.’

‘She takes her work seriously,’ cut in Alistair, ‘and she doesn’t play games.’

‘Sounds like a warning, Mr Barlow.’ Joseph grinned.

‘Consider it a caution,’ said Alistair carefully. ‘She’s still my little sister.’

‘As Hannah is mine.’

‘Oh stop it, you two. I can’t bear the hum of testosterone!’ Hannah dumped her mug in the sink and marched down the passage. ‘I’ll be at the car, Joseph,’ she called over her shoulder.

She could still discern their voices as she left the kitchen.

‘That put us in our place!’ Joseph was saying, pushing his chair back. ‘We might have to ally ourselves to survive this project.’

‘Indeed,’ said Alistair. And then Hannah could hear no more.

Later that evening, Hannah sat at her laptop, notebook beside her, to begin researching the archives. She saw what Joseph had meant when he said you had to know what to look for. Eventually, she figured out the index system and began to search for documents. She would have to go to Bloemfontein in person to read them, but at least she could find the references from her computer. After an hour of hunting, she had found nothing about the Goshen camp, no matter what permutations she tried. There were, however, many references to the Winburg and Harrismith camps, including reams of death notices. A trip to Bloemfontein was clearly needed in the next week or so.