The farm had been in their family for generations. Even as a young girl, Sarah had been fascinated by the drawings, diaries and farm journals stored in her father’s study that looked out across the valley. “All tamed now,” he would sometimes tell her, referring to the bush-covered land his ancestors had come to in the 1820s.
Sarah often begged her father to tell her stories from the diaries and letters in his possession. She was transfixed by the beautifully detailed family tree that adorned the passage wall. Her mother had spent years locating photographs and sketches that breathed life into some of the names carefully noted behind glass.
She was already in high school when she and Paul du Plessis had walked hand-in-hand through the maize lands to the grazing area at the bottom of the farm – far away from the prying eyes of her parents. Pigeon Cottage had already lost its roof by then, the windows were gaping holes and the chimney stack had fallen down. The remnants of the floor boards were covered with loose stones, bat droppings and owl pellets. They loved being there. Sarah and Paul had been meeting there for four years, ever since his sixteenth birthday.
Home from boarding school, Paul rode his horse across the open fields of Stony Brae to deliver a basket of apples to Sarah’s mother. Sarah sat in the shade covering the gaping doorway when Paul dismounted and looped the reins loosely over a wooden post that had once been part of a fence surrounding the cottage.
They munched on apples and drank water from the stream a little distance away. There was so much to talk about: both enjoyed watching the birds – Paul could imitate a lot of their calls – and loved animals. Paul wanted to become a vet. Sarah laughed at his ambition for even at the age of twelve she knew where her future lay.
“I am going to have to marry a farmer who wants to take Stony Brae over from Dad. I can’t plan to be anything because I will have to be a farmer’s wife.”
They met at Pigeon Cottage as often as they could after that. “The family outgrew the place generations ago,” her father told her one evening. “If you look at the ruins carefully, you will see it probably had three rooms at the most.”
“Our ancestors built this stone house from scratch, you know,” Sarah told Paul late one summer afternoon. “Some of these stones are so big that I wonder how they managed to lift them so high.”
Together they traced the uneven patterns in the roughly hewn stone. “They must have made some sort of plaster, look at these remnants here.” Paul guided her hand across the different textures.

He was in his final year of schooling at the start of what would be known as the Second World War. To Paul’s chagrin, his father insisted that he finish school. Sarah had seen his older brother in uniform and knew that it was a matter of time before Paul joined him. The two of them tugged at the weeds growing inside Pigeon Cottage – somehow it seemed important to hold onto what had been there for years. Paul tried to cut down the sapling growing up where the kitchen had once been. His penknife wasn’t strong enough though and they had more urgent things to do anyway.
Sarah’s father began involving her in more of the heavier farming activities as the pain in his legs and lower back began impinging on his ability to move.
“I hear you can drive a tractor straight these days,” Paul teased her on one of his later visits. “I had a look at the mealies on the way here. You have planted them well.” He kissed her on her cheek and then softly on her mouth. “Marry me, Sarah.” He breathed into her ear and was rewarded with a hot blush.
It was no fun having a birthday against the backdrop of a war, the scale of which reached deep into the rural areas. Sarah milked the cows early on her seventeenth birthday, fed the chickens and then joined her parents for breakfast in their farm kitchen. A small parcel and an envelope had been placed next to her plate.
“Open them, sweetheart,” her mother encouraged her. She pulled at the thin red ribbon and carefully unwrapped the tissue paper that hid a small hard box. Sarah held up the gold locket on a long gold chain.

“This is beautiful!”
“It belonged to a ‘great-great’,” her father held her hand in his. “We think you’re old enough and wise enough to start owning some of the family treasures.” His voice was gruff.
“Open it,” her mother encouraged.
The locket opened easily to reveal places for four items. Her mother had already inserted a picture of herself, her husband, and a recent picture of Sarah. The fourth space was empty. “What happened to the ‘great-greats’ that were in here?”
“Quite honestly, I don’t know who they are. I’ve put them in the family Bible. They can ‘begat’ and ‘begat’ in there.” Her father chuckled.
The envelope contained a hand-written note: Pigeon Cottage four o’clock. It didn’t need to be signed. She had a box filled with the letters Paul had written. “When did this come?”
“Paul brought it late last night.” Her mother collected the plates. “You were asleep and he didn’t want to wake you.” Sarah had been helping her father load bales of hay to take to the cows.
Paul was wearing his military uniform when he met Sarah at Pigeon Cottage. She hadn’t seen him for almost a year and knew as soon as she saw him that he would be going away. He swept her into his arms. “Happy seventeenth birthday.” His embrace nearly knocked the breath out of her. “I spoke to your parents last night. They know I’m going away, but have given me their blessing.” He pulled her closer to him on the broad stone step where the front door had been. “Sarah,” he swallowed hard. “Sarah, please say you’ll marry me when this war is over.”
“That was in 1941,” Sarah explained to the young woman who had driven her to Pigeon Cottage in a smart-looking 4×4 vehicle. She got out of it with difficulty and gratefully accepted the wooden walking stick, polished with age. Sarah stood still for a few minutes as she stared at the remains of the stone cottage she had last visited on her seventeenth birthday.
The sapling Paul had once tried to cut down now towered over the building and smaller bushes filled the interior.

The front end wall had been rent asunder by the tree roots, leaving a gaping hole and a pile of stone rubble. A section of the wall had fallen away, its stones now covered by grass and tall weeds. Two sections of the wooden fence posts made from Sneezewood remained. “That is where Paul hitched his horse once.” Sarah felt giddy and her eyes watered as she gazed around her: there were no neat mealie fields anymore; no farm road; no fences; no cows …
“Would you like me to take your arm, Mrs Upton?” The young woman moved closer.
Sarah shook her head and chuckled. “Miss Upton it is I’m afraid.” She held onto the wooden post, feeling its warmth in the sun. She could smell the horse, taste the tangy juiciness of the apples, and felt sure that Paul was nearby. Sarah touched her locket. Her clumsy fingers couldn’t open it as easily anymore. At ninety-four years old, she found that not much of her worked as well as it used to. “Open this, Lauren, and you will see Paul.”
Her father had died soon after the war had ended. The farm had been sold and Sarah’s mother had encouraged her to become a teacher. It was Lauren’s great-great grandfather who had gradually turned Stony Brae into a game farm.
“He’s in uniform – very handsome.” Lauren clicked the locket shut. “What happened to him?”
In the silence that followed, Sarah could feel the sun on her bare legs; her neck tickled the way it did when Paul kissed her there. She turned away from the 2018 view of Pigeon Cottage and gave Lauren her walking stick to hold. “Paul never came home,” she sighed.