Clare Houston: An Unquiet Place

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.

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 love 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.

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.

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.