Marlene van Niekerk - Agaat

She refuses absolutely to look at me. Her eyes just scamper furtively past my legs. Shrinks away when I come closer, turns the head away as if expecting a blow.

I try everything. Today pulled her in an apple box cart (OuKarel’s handiwork with a strap around the legs and across the chest so that she can’t escape) to the dam. Sat by the water’s edge. Won’t look, won’t see. Showed her the whirligigs again, ducklings, everything that she should be able to recognise, but she shows no reaction. Pulled her to the drift, showed her the little boat, one day we’ll row in it, I say, but the neck stays between the shoulders.

Dug up a cap because the head looks bad, all bare like that and full of sores. She doesn’t like things on her head it seems, she pulls it off when I’m not looking, at least it’s a sign of life.

Gave her worm medicine. Soiled her panties something dreadful. Scolded and gave a good hiding with the duster handle, what’s the use? She’s very far behind her age I think. Could see the worms, flat pieces of tapeworm, round dog-worms.

Ordered nappies from the chemist, waterproof drawers. Wet her bed three nights running. Mattress ruined. Had fourth bath, still tightly-rolled into a bundle. Pitch would sooner soak out of a ship than the stiffness in this child’s limbs. Can’t reach anywhere with the washcloth. She keeps her head pulled in, arms rigid against the body, knees clenched together.

21 December

Aspatat has a cold! Coughing and snottering. Must be from the first washing there in the dam on Goedbegin. Fancy a bit more co-operation with the eating, maybe because the nose is blocked, so she has to open her mouth to breathe. At least she’s swallowing better. Jaws more relaxed. Must start with proteins. Today fish oil and vitamin C. Hellish battle. Gave malt syrup and lecithin on porridge. Sweet things do the trick, it seems. Will have to start using it as reward.

Sawed a hole in the door of the back room. Had Dawid install an old copper post-box flap over the slit. I must be able to see what she does when she’s alone. Suspect she’s sly, suspect she’s pretending to be stupid. Remembered the hessian sack Lys gave along, put it in the room with her. She looks at it for hours. Doesn’t move.

Head-sores healing nicely.

Went and dug up my old children’s books in the cellar. Read rhymes to her. Who’d have thought that! I remember them bit-by-bit as I come across them.

Old mumblemould

I have a cold

I have it now

I give it to you

I tie it up here

And I’m in the clear.

Jak says I’m wasting my time and why am I spoiling our Christmas? I ask where is your faith, where is your heart? I possess neither the one nor the other, I do it exclusively for myself, for nobody else, he says. I don’t dare use other people for my own purposes like that, he says. I’ll see what comes of it, apparently.

He’s just jealous, feels neglected. I devote all my free time to her.

Must succeed in this, I must make it work, make it worthwhile.

It feels as if the whole world is against me. First Mother, now Jak.

Must go and see the dominee about this, the child can’t stay so nameless.

22 December

Now I have a cold! Must have got it from her. Jak says it’s but the beginning. He doesn’t want to go anywhere near her. She gives him the creeps, he says, the idea gives him the creeps. He says I’m sick. He taps against his head when I peer through the slot at what she’s doing. What a whopper of a Christmas present I’ve got, he says. Unto us a child is born, unto us a woolly’s given, out loud down the passage, I say, Jak bethink yourself, what if she can hear and understand you?

Perhaps after all better get to the doctor if he can still see me before Christmas. Her poo is completely yellow from all the runny food she’s eating.

Made red jelly and custard, showed it to her dished up in a bowl and said if she was good and allowed me to wash her nicely in the bath, she could have it. She’s still not looking at me, but it does seem as if she hears me. (Must have ears tested. Deaf and dumb perhaps? I remember the funny high squeaking sounds. Retarded perhaps? You never know with these people. Generations of in-breeding, violence, disease, alcohol. Children of Ham.)

Fifth bath, still no relaxation in the limbs. It’s almost as if she’s holding her breath. Teeth do seem to part more easily, I fancy. She bites the spoon. Let go, I say, let go then you get more. I have to pull at it and wiggle it, then she lets go after a while.

Just like a dog. Reward works. Got down a fair amount of jelly.

She can have it every day if she’s good, I say. If she learns nicely to sit on the pot for me, learns nicely to look me in the eye, eats her other food nicely and takes her medicine. Learns to sit nice and upright and to walk smartly. If she’s a good girl. Only then.

Practise every day with her on pot at regular times. Hour after breakfast, hour after supper. Sit, I say. Pee. Poo. Push. I make little moaning sounds to encourage her. Pour water out of a glass into a jug for the pee. She is closed, shut as a vault. She presses her head into her lap. Then I walk out and lock the door and watch her through the slit. She hasn’t noticed it yet because she’s always looking down at the ground. She crawls off the pot as soon as I’m out, slither-crawls into the corner of the room as if she’s trying to squeeze herself into the wall. Then I relent and put on the nappy. The privates look better but they’re stretched and loose. Shudder to think what happened there. Wanted to put in my finger to feel, but she locks closed her legs. Doctor will have to look.

She has to get moving, then the poo will also get going. I tell her she mustn’t be so timid. She could run like a hare that day at Mother’s. I tap out the rhyme of the rabbit for her on the table-top.

There goes a bunny

says Sarah Honey

Shoot her with an arrow

shouts Mrs Farrow

It’s too short

says Mr Port

It’s over the hill

say Jack and Jill

Overshot the mark

says Jenny Dark

Right through the tail

says Dominee Heyl

It’s hit the spot

says Auntie Dot

Put her in the pot

says John the Scot

Add a bit of mustard

says coy Miss Custard

Now to carve a fillet

says old Doctor Willet

Tastes very good

says wicked Willy Wood

You’re a killer

says little Miss Milla.

27 December half past eleven morning

Both of us recovered fortunately. Christmas day rather quiet. Ma came but she didn’t even go to look in the back room. I put the radio in the room with Aspatat while we were eating so that she could listen to the Christmas carols. It can get hot there in the back room with the door shut like that, but I can’t really let her wander around at will.

Definite progress in the eating department. Little by little, but we’re getting there. This morning mealie-meal porridge with a little lump of butter and syrup, this afternoon mashed potatoes, meat sauce, sweet pumpkin puree. Cinnamon porridge this evening. And red jelly and custard. A bit more lively, I think. Jak’s gone to friends in town, but I can’t yet leave her here alone.

Half past seven evening

Great breakthrough! Got the bright idea just now, after reading her a bedtime story. Put three pink Star sweets in her hessian sack, left it at the foot of the bed.

I wonder what’s in here, I said. Do you still remember? They’re your own little things that you know! Do you remember Lys? Lys packed it for you to play with when you came here. Don’t you just want to have a look? Perhaps there’s something good inside that I put in there for you.