Clare Houston - An Unquiet Place

She closed her laptop, feeling the fatigue set in after a long day and the up-down of emotion.

Joseph looked up from his laptop across the table. ‘Going to bed?’

‘I’m exhausted,’ she said, looking over his shoulder to see him scrolling through a Google search page. The name typed into the search box was Suzanne Barlow.

‘Come on, Josey.’ Hannah leant over his shoulder to peer at the pages he was now browsing. ‘It was pretty clear she wasn’t interested.’

He ignored Hannah, engrossed in his reading. ‘Did you know that she’s a doctor at Red Cross Children’s Hospital? She doesn’t look old enough to be out of school, let alone specialising in paediatric anaesthetics. And she’s beautiful.’

‘Josey, please don’t cause trouble here. I’m finding my feet and the Barlows have been a big part of that. Not to mention the dig – we can’t mess that up.’

Joseph twisted to look at his sister, her hand brushing the hair off her forehead and her eyes tired and concerned. He relented, pushed his chair back, and surprised her by enveloping her in a big hug, squeezing the breath out of her. ‘Okay, you win. I’ll leave her alone. But’ – he pulled back to look down into Hannah’s face, grinning – ‘if she approaches me, the deal’s off.’

‘Agreed,’ said Hannah, thinking of Suzanne’s breezy imperviousness to Joseph earlier that day.

Joseph moved backwards to perch on the edge of the table. ‘Clearly the same rules don’t apply to you though.’

‘What do you mean?’

He tilted his head to the side with a look of mock disbelief. ‘Come on, Hannah, there were moments today when I thought Alistair would gobble you up whole. And,’ he continued, seeing her about to fob him off, ‘don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.’

Hannah leant back against the sink and sighed. ‘I don’t actually know what to tell you. There’s a spark between us, that’s for sure – we nearly killed each other when we first met. But now,’ she paused, pulling her cheek between her teeth, ‘I suppose we’re friends.’

Joseph snorted.

‘Joseph, it’s complicated. He’s been mourning his wife for eight years – I’m not convinced he’s over that. And I’m—’

‘You’re happy,’ finished Joseph, his words making Hannah look quickly up at him. ‘For the first time in… I can’t actually ever remember seeing you this strong and independent and happy.’

She nodded. ‘That’s exactly it. And I’m not sure I’m ready to give that up… be consumed again by another man.’

‘You’re making the assumption that Alistair is like Todd. There is no comparison, Hannah.’

‘How do you know that?’ She turned to the sink.

‘I only met Todd a few times, but I pitched him from the first as a narcissistic arsehole.’ Hannah looked over her shoulder at her brother, her brows raised as he continued, ‘And yes, I am the king of narcissistic arseholes, so I know another when I see one.’

‘Just your saying that,’ she said, ‘removes you from the category.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, bowing slightly. He rubbed a hand over his stubbly cheek. ‘I like Alistair. There’s a rawness to him, a grainy integrity. Put it this way, I would – ten times over – rather have you with a damaged farmer than a slippery, lying bastard of a politician.’

Hannah smiled at him, reaching out to squeeze his arm. ‘Thanks, Josey. But, to be honest, I can’t see it working out. I’ve never even been on a proper date in my life, let alone handled a relationship with someone so fragile. It would be better to keep my distance, I think.’

‘Better for whom?’

‘For everyone, surely. This Leliehoek bubble I’m in won’t last forever. I will have to return to my life eventually.’ She smiled sadly, drying her hands on a tea towel.

‘This could be your life, Hannah.’

‘In my dreams,’ she said, raising her hand in a goodnight wave. ‘See you in the morning.’

He reached forwards to close his laptop, and she caught a glimpse of Suzanne’s profile picture. ‘In my dreams too,’ he said softly to himself as he shut the lid on her.

August 1901, Goshen Camp, Orange River Colony

Dear Wolf

I used to think I was connected to you by some invisible thread. We used to know what the other was thinking. We used to finish each other’s sentences. I thought I would know if something happened to you, but I have felt nothing of the kind. Maybe that means you are still alive. Maybe I would know for sure if you were dead. I cling on to this. I imagine the three of you riding free. I picture you crouched over a cooking fire, trying to make my bread. I see you browned by the sun, your eyes full of life. You are not like the beaten, hollow Boers I see driving wagons for the British. The hendsoppers. I can’t let you be.

Winter this year is the worst I can remember. Is it because we are sleeping on the ground in these makeshift shelters? Or is it really terribly, terribly cold? Snow has lain thick on the ground for days now, and most of us are without shoes. My big feet have grown even bigger since I came here. I wore my old shoes until they were so painful to put on, I could not bear it any longer. Now I wish I had held on to them, even if to just half slip on so that I could walk in the snow. Our feet are bound in rags. Even rags are precious here.

I have seen such cleverness in this camp, though. Andries and Helena were married in May, and her mother made new dresses from scraps. Old dresses and cloth cut into something new. I hope I can do the same when this is over – reconfigure myself into something new and beautiful – because right now I am only scrap. Too ill-fitting and tatty to be appealing to anyone.

The dresses were beautiful, ingenious in their design. Ma Maria cut those precious fabrics to fit the girls perfectly, and they could have walked into town with their heads held high. The wedding party gathered for a photograph, standing proud in their wedding finery.

Yes, life goes on here. Even in the bitter cold, amidst the death and the grieving. I sometimes wish it didn’t. I sometimes despise the laughter and chatter, the children playing in the stones. I want the world to stand still and acknowledge my despair.

I have heard nothing of the others. I beg for news from anyone new to camp, even from the soldiers who come from the blockhouse. They sneer at me. They say the commandos are gone; they say they have run away and left us. But I know that is not true.

I try not to think of the others at all. If they are in a camp like this, I can’t pretend that everything is well with them. I won’t write their names in case the words draw pictures in my head. But I can’t help Lizzie and Kristina visiting me at night when I’m asleep. They crawl into bed with me like they used to at home. But their bodies are no longer soft and warm, their breath sweet on my face. They are bony and cold. I wake with such gut-wrenching fear and then I feel the ground hard and cold below my blankets, my own knobbly spine and hips and shoulders never finding a soft place. I tell myself it was just this discomfort that made me dream so.

Come for me, Wolf.

Hannah spent every spare moment to translate the journal. She had made good progress, but every time she delved back into Rachel’s story, she felt an urgency to find out what had happened to the family. As if finding the Badenhorsts would save Rachel from the terrible anxiety and fear the girl had lived with in the camp. Hannah had arranged with Barbara and planned to go to the Bloemfontein archives that week.