Clare Houston - An Unquiet Place

Joseph too had made progress, pulling strings at the University of Cape Town; Hannah didn’t want to know exactly what strings. A team of students were going to arrive at Goshen after Christmas, and Sarah had insisted on managing the logistics. Where usually they would set up camp at the site, she was planning to put them up in one of the sheds behind the main house. She had the shed swept clean, and Neil supervised the installation of basic wooden partitions to divide the enormous space into two dormitories, a rustic ablution area, and a living space. A gas stove and ancient fridge had already been installed, and Sarah was on the hunt in the district for folding chairs and mattresses. She and Joseph were getting on famously, his charm set to full blast, with Sarah enjoying every minute.

Joseph had told Neil that, if he had been around forty years previously, Neil wouldn’t have stood a chance with Sarah. Neil, secretly flattered, had replied it was a good thing Joseph hadn’t been around then. That finding Joseph’s remains buried on the plateau would have confused the dig mightily. Joseph found this hilarious. As a result, he had made himself at home on Goshen, and was coming and going as he pleased within days. Hannah juggled marvelling at his brazenness and being thoroughly irritated she couldn’t muster the same unabashed assurance.

Leliehoek had filled up for the holidays and the shop was seeing more business than Hannah had thought possible in a small town. Anticipating the holidaymakers and knowing the kinds of books she herself liked to read on holiday, she had ordered a range of paperback bestsellers which had sold remarkably well. She had also experimented with books which might be good Christmas gifts and found, to her surprise, that she had been right. A selection of classic children’s books had flown off the shelves, as had a selection of new South African War books and coffee table books of the area. She was thrilled with her December turnover, knowing it would carry the shop through its quieter months.

Kathryn, on the other hand, completely run off her feet, was wishing the holidays over, or so she told Hannah when they had the chance to have a quick coffee. Kathryn had even roped Douglas in to wait tables but had discovered he was more hindrance than help. He chatted so much to the patrons that they stayed far too long, and she couldn’t turn the tables over fast enough. Eventually, as Christmas drew closer, he apologetically asked if he could be excused to prepare his Christmas services and Kathryn had to pretend she was disappointed. Christmas itself was always tough for Kathryn. She was exhausted by the time it arrived and then had to muster the energy to put on the best possible day for her kids. Doing it alone was all the more difficult. Every year, she packed a hamper to send to Durban, and filled it with food and a set of new clothes. She included photographs of the children and art they had produced. Every year, Kathryn confided in Hannah, she wondered if her husband would even open the box, let alone recognise the love which was packed into it. In the beginning, she had hoped it would bring him home, but as the years passed, she began to hope it would not. She had let go of the dream they could reconcile, and it was a logical progression from there that she should begin to think about divorce. But she was not quite ready yet.

Alistair, meanwhile, was immersed in researching the history of the area. Canvassing the farmers in the district for any scrap of information, he had gathered that most farms had been razed and left desolate, the families relocated to camps in Winburg, Harrismith, or even further afield. He heard about heirloom rifles and pianos, Bibles and furniture that had been dug from their hiding places after the war.

Alistair had spent a long time with Mrs Venter, an elderly lady who had lived her whole life in the area. She was the fifth generation of Van Rooyens on the family farm. It was now run down, her children not interested in or capable of restoring it. Alistair sat with her in her creaking lounge, the ceilings sagging and the plaster cracking off the stone. The house had been rebuilt after the South African War, the heavy stones moved up a small slope to a new site. She led Alistair out of the house to a sheep kraal, a rondavel shelter standing in the middle. ‘Under that mud plaster is stone,’ she said in her reedy voice, pointing at the rondavel. ‘That is the dwelling where the elderly grandparents lived when everyone else fled the farm. The only building left standing after the British came through. They burnt everything else. The men were off on commando, and the women and children hid in a big cave in those hills.’ She turned and pointed to the steep sandstone faces behind the house. ‘There was much movement by both sides after Surrender Hill, and from that cave you can see the whole valley. Those crafty women developed a signal system with mirrors to warn the Boers when the British were coming. Ha! Teach them to burn our farm!’ A sadness shadowed her face, and she suddenly looked tired, her ninety-five years heavy on her. ‘I hope that whoever buys this place doesn’t knock down that old rondavel. It’s seen some things in its time.’

Alistair felt an overwhelming urge to bundle this feisty old woman up in a big hug and tell her that he would buy and fix her farm. What a disgrace that her children could let her down, pursue their own ends in Johannesburg, and leave her to fret about her home. But this was happening all over the Free State. It was a tragic but common story. People from the cities would come, snap up this place for a song, and renovate the life out of it. It would stand empty for weeks while they alternated between their beach and berg holiday houses.

Mrs Venter had walked him to his car, a little crossbreed dog at her feet, and stood on her tiptoes to receive his soft kiss on her cheek. She patted him on his. ‘You’re a good boy, Alistair.’ He drove off, concerned about leaving her alone on such a big place, and thinking he must talk to his parents. Something had to be done for her.

A week later he had concluded that, despite the wealth of anecdotal information, there was little detailed knowledge of the British army in the area. He realised he would have to look in the archives to find more official documentation.

When he called the bookshop one morning, it was Barbara who answered.

‘Hannah’s just busy with a customer.’ He could hear her hand muffle the receiver before she said, ‘Alistair, may I take a message and she’ll call you right back?’

‘Um, yes. I wanted to know if she was still going up to Bloemfontein this week.’ He paused, feeling awkward, knowing that the speculation would hit the streets of Leliehoek in a matter of minutes. ‘Tomorrow? I was wanting to tag along – would she mind?’

Alistair could hear Barbara’s smile across the phone line. ‘I’m standing in for her tomorrow. Why don’t you pick her up early, say six o’clock?’

Alistair wasn’t sure how Hannah would deal with the arrangements being made on her behalf, but he wanted to end the call as quickly as possible. ‘Fine. Thanks, Barbara. Goodbye.’

Barbara replaced the phone in its cradle.

‘What did he want?’ said Hannah, returning to the desk and beginning to ring up a sale.

Barbara took the books on the counter and packed them into a brown paper carrier bag. ‘He phoned to say he’d drive you to Bloem tomorrow.’

‘What? I don’t need to be driven to Bloem. I’m perfectly capable of driving myself.’

‘Of course you are.’ Barbara’s attempt to sound soothing was undermined by her grin. ‘But why be a feminist when you can be chauffeured?’

Hannah harrumphed in reply.

‘He’s picking you up at six. Put something nice on.’