THE VISIT

I recall it being a great to-do when our Headmaster made an official visit to our home when I was in Grade One. “I play tennis with Hansie every week, so why would he want to make a formal visit?” My mother felt affronted and turned to me. “You haven’t done anything silly have you Joni?”

Except for placing a large hairy spider in my teacher’s desk drawer, I couldn’t think of anything that might have drawn the headmaster’s attention. James had dared me to do it, egged on by Sarel and Timothy. I knew this was because I hadn’t screamed when they put it on my shoulder. Denise had yelled blue murder and the other girls in our group had run away. When you have two older brothers, you quickly learn to stand your ground. In fact, Damian had been watching for my reaction. I had seen him standing next to the jacaranda tree growing at the edge of the playground.

Had Mrs van Tonder found out it was me? I thought back to that thrilling moment when she had opened her desk drawer to retrieve her tube of lipstick. We had all observed her reapplying her lipstick several times a day. Her high-pitched scream had brought the headmaster rushing into the classroom. Some of the girls were crying too – probably from the fright I think – but the rest of us were laughing, fit to bust. There was no way she could have known it was me. Only James, Sarel and Timothy knew. Well, they might have told Damian because when we walked home together that afternoon, he pushed me hard against my shoulder and promised he wouldn’t say anything. I was puffed up with pride because I knew that this meant he was pleased with me.

“I haven’t done anything wrong.” I eyed my mother, seeking for a clue that she might know. The way she looked at me made me feel uncomfortable. “Actually,” I reached out to touch her hand. “Actually, I meant to tell you that I got my three times table wrong again today.”

“Your three times table? You knew it perfectly last night!”

“Mrs van Tonder says I mustn’t learn like a parrot.” I hid my head in her wide skirt to show a remorse I didn’t feel.

By the time Mr van Jaarsveld arrived at our home the following afternoon, my mother had set the teacups and saucers on a low table in the lounge. My brothers and I hoped that some of the freshly baked scones and thin slices of buttered date loaf would be left over for us to enjoy as my mother usually only baked at weekends.

I hid behind the long dining room curtain, my heart thumping so loudly I was sure it could be heard in the room next door, and listened to the greetings: him so politely cheerful and my mother tensely formal. Mr van Jaarsveld sat down on what was usually my dad’s chair and accepted a cup of rooibos tea. I heard my mother ask stiffly, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Hansie? Surely it cannot be about Joni’s arithmetic.”

“Arithmetic? Oh no, Felicity, not at all. In fact, I think Joni has quite a head for numbers. No, not that. It’s just that I have been here for two years already and have yet to meet all the parents. I like to see where our children come from and -.”

At that point I slipped away to join my brothers perched in the large Brazilian pepper tree that towered over the garage. From that vantage point we would be able to see when the headmaster left so that we could gobble up any of the left-over eats.

All that happened many, many years ago. That same heavy thumping pulsed through me when I switched off my cell phone during breakfast and looked at Andrew. “Geoffrey Philips would like to visit us this afternoon.”

“Is something wrong?” Bruce, our youngest, asked. Geoffrey was his headmaster.

“It’s about Helen.” I answered the query in Andrew’s eyes.

“Why? She left school four years ago!”

I cancelled my tea date. Alison needed a reason. “The headmaster has invited himself to tea.”

“Is Bruce in trouble?”

“No, he wants to chat about Helen.”

“How very strange.”

I phoned to change my dental appointment later that morning because I needed to bake. “Is there a problem?” Nadine, the receptionist, was always curious.

“I have to entertain the headmaster to tea.”

“That’s fine. I’ll move you to Monday morning. Is Bruce in trouble?”

“No.” I hesitated. “He wants to talk about Helen.”

“But, she’s at university!”

Geoffrey arrived promptly at three o’clock. I offered him tea and shortbread. He complimented us on our garden and spoke of Bruce’s prowess at cricket. Ben, our neighbour, arrived just as it seemed we might be getting somewhere in the conversation. He had walked in through the open kitchen door and stopped agape at the sight of Andrew and me entertaining the headmaster to tea on a Thursday afternoon – when Andrew would usually be found at the squash courts. Why? You could see the question written all over his face.

Andrew made the introductions, but Ben didn’t move. “I thought home visits had gone out with the Ark,” he said lamely before slowly backing away. “If you don’t mind, I’ll help myself to your ladder,” he called over his shoulder as he left.

At five o’clock I poured us each a glass of red wine. We shook our heads at each other at the wonder of it all.

“Does she know?” My mouth was dry.

“I have been trying to get hold of her for two days. She’s brought such a great honour to our school. She’s the first, you know.”

“She’s been hiking in the Drakensberg for the past ten days.” Andrew refilled our glasses and handed round the remaining shortbread. “We’re expecting her home on Sunday afternoon.”

The three of us looked at each other and couldn’t hide our joy. I found a packet of potato crisps in the kitchen cupboard and was shaking so much that I spilled some on the counter as I emptied them into a bowl. It was six o’clock before Geoffrey left.

Bruce peered around the door and made a beeline for the crisps left in the bowl. “Is Helen in trouble?”

Far from it my boy,” Andrew couldn’t keep the pride from his voice. He was bursting with it. “Your sister has won the regional scholarship to go to Oxford!”

CAUGHT POACHING DURING COVID-19

COVID-19 was introduced with capital letters and changed the lives of people all over the world. Over a year later, the name of this dreaded pandemic had sunk into lowercase, Covid-19, and even later was lazily referred to merely as Covid – as clear an indication as any that it had outstayed its welcome. The initial Level 5 lockdown not only brought with it a strict curfew, but meant one could only leave the confines of one’s home for medical purposes and to purchase food – even exercise beyond those perimeters was strictly forbidden. Ollie bridled under these restrictive conditions – he had a farm to run for goodness sake!

Fiona had become used to the restlessness of her usually active husband and did her best to either ignore it or to keep out of his way. This was especially difficult to do on this particular day when Ollie thundered about the house more than usual. He bumped into the dining room chairs as he prowled around the house and roared into his cell phone. For days Fiona had brought him copious mugs of coffee and had carefully chosen when to ask him to fix the puncture in the left front tyre of her car or to inform him that the outside drain had blocked.

It wasn’t easy to get plumbers then: a blocked kitchen drain was hardly deemed an emergency under the Lockdown Level 5 regulations. Why, one couldn’t even purchase a kettle or a pair of shoelaces at the time! Still, Fiona thought it was worth contacting Frans Coetzee. He had been their plumber for at least ten years and had even come out to the farm when needed. Ollie refused to get outside help for anything. “What if we get COVID-19” he had boomed at her. He applied the same reasoning to getting someone to fix their gate motor – something that Ollie had tried to fix himself and had at last thrown his hands up in despair. “We’ll just have to use a chain and a lock,” he had concluded miserably. He was a man who did not expect to be beaten by any kind of machinery, electric or otherwise.

Ollie was a farmer stuck at home in town when he yearned to spend whole days, and even weeks on the farm in the neighbouring magisterial district. No-one had expected this COVID-19 to last; the two boreholes feeding the farmhouse tanks were running dry; the drought was already biting hard; and so when Fiona found she was able to undertake some editing and typing jobs it had made sense to move into their home in town ‘for the duration’. As each State of Disaster was extended to the next one,however, Ollie nearly burst with frustration.

There had been no decent rain for five years. Mud dried into curled chunks around the edges of the layer of water left in the farm dam. Dust blew across the veld, sometimes turning the lowering sunlight at the end of the day into shades of brown, gold, orange, pink, purple and yellow. Such beauty to offset such a natural disaster!

“What do you mean you can’t pump?” Fiona could tell from his tone that Ollie was reaching bursting point. She slipped into the kitchen to whip up batter for a batch of flapjacks. Ollie liked to eat them hot with blobs of melting butter and drizzled with thick golden syrup.

“So there’s still water in that reservoir?” His voice was tight as he paced their stone-paved veranda, oblivious to the rustling of the dead ivy leaves hanging down from the roof. Fiona switched on the kettle and reached into the cupboard below it for the golden syrup. Just in time, she thought happily, because a two and a half hour session of load shedding was about to begin. Yes, on top of the drought and the pandemic Eskom still saw fit to subject South Africans to hours sans electricity. The less said about that the better, she thought as she filled the teapot.

She spread the cloth over the metal garden table at the shadiest end of the veranda. Next, she carried the wooden tea tray outside before bringing out the flapjacks and the bottle of golden syrup. It was an ordinary day in extra-ordinary times.

“What! For how long has this been happening? No man, why haven’t you told me before? Now I’ve really had enough!”

Ollie strode across the garden and sat down heavily on the metal garden chair. He immediately helped himself to flapjacks and squeezed the bottle of golden syrup in his large hand. “This country’s going to pot!”

Fiona poured the tea and carefully spread two flapjacks for herself. Experience had taught her that the pause might help him to calm down a little. “And water is wet,” she smiled at him as she sat down at last. “What’s new?”

“Five years of drought; COVID-19; the pumps don’t run during load-shedding; there’s just about no grazing left; and now the kudu are eating the lucerne we planted!” Fiona could hear the semi-colons between each item he recited regularly – only the last one was new.

“You fenced –“

“Kudu jump over ordinary farm fences the way you used to clear the hurdles at school!”

Fiona laughed out loud. She and Ollie had known each other forever. The last of the flapjacks disappeared into his mouth and she was pleased to see a glimmer of the old teasing in his brilliantly blue eyes. She had always stood by him: love wasn’t measured by convenience. She picked up the tray to take indoors.

Just then a dark cloud seemed to cross his handsome face. “I’m going to shoot the lot of them!”

She put down the tray and breathed in deeply, battling to keep her voice even. “Ollie, you can’t. Our fathers and their fathers before them have always followed the rule of killing only to eat.” Tears pricked at the back of her eyes at the sight of the determined scowl on his face.

“I’ll phone Sergeant Immelman.” Ollie disappeared indoors with a heavy tread. Little did Fiona know that three days later, more than the dreaded COVID-19 would turn their lives upside-down.

“We’ll overnight at the farm and I’ll get those kudu after dusk.” Ollie was resolute.

Fiona packed food into boxes and collected the charger for her laptop. She conceded that it would be good for both of them to leave the confines of their home in town. Their permit for travelling between magisterial districts was safely tucked into the cubbyhole of the truck along with spare face masks and small bottles of hand sanitizer. She still worried about the fate of the kudu though.

“I told you Charles is happy to share one with us. Erich and Norman will each take one. I’ll need you to drive.”

Reluctantly Fiona parked the truck on a slight rise overlooking the irrigated lucern lands situated not far from the district road that skirted their farm boundary. Two farm trucks thundered past while she waited in the driver’s seat. The clouds of dust they churned up rose lazily above the trees and spread out across the land stretching away from her. Silence. As the last rays of the sun faded, three dark shapes appeared in the middle of the field of lucerne. Neither Ollie nor Fiona had seen them arrive.

“See if you can roll the truck closer. Whatever you do, don’t start the engine or switch on the lights.”

Fiona knew the road like the back of her hand. She kept her eyes on the three kudu bulls. “Kill only to eat,” she whispered.

Ollie placed his work-roughened hand on the steering wheel. “I’ll walk from here.”

She strained to make him out in the gathering gloom. One of the kudu bulls looked up and remained on the alert while the other two continued feeding. Fiona’s pulses were racing. Her body was braced for the sound of the first shot – Ollie had no silencer. The kudu resumed eating. Ollie had been swallowed by the encroaching darkness. Fiona’s mouth was dry. There was no thrill in this hunt which Ollie deemed to be in the defence of the lucerne – the current life-saver for his cattle.

The dense quiet of the country night was shattered by the sound of the shot. Tears welled in Fiona’s eyes. Ollie would have got it. He is an excellent shot, she reminded herself. The heavy silence returned. Fiona strained her ears but could only hear the sound of some crickets that had started up nearby.

Half an hour passed before another shot rang out. Fiona squeezed her eyes shut. Let this be the last one, she thought, hoping the other kudu would have had the sense to get far away. Her pulses began to race. Where was Ollie?

A roar of vehicles made her look behind her, their bright headlights slicing through the darkness and casting a glow on the dust billowing up from their tyres. One screeched to a halt next to her, the other parked across the rear of her truck, hemming her in.

“Open the door! Put your hands in the air!” The disembodied voice sounded angry.

Fiona fumbled with the door lock and had just released it when the door was wrenched open by an unseen hand.

“Out! Get out! Put your hands in the air!” The bright torch shining in her face blinded her.

“It’s the getaway girl,” the voice behind the bright torch called to his equally invisible companion. Four other powerful torches were bobbing across the veld towards the lucerne field.

“Those kudu are on my land you oafs!” Ollie was being frogmarched towards the truck. Presumably someone had taken his rifle. Fiona’s arms and legs were shaking uncontrollably. She really wanted to cry, but wouldn’t give these thugs the satisfaction.

“Red-handed!” The two men on either side of Ollie sounded gleeful.

Fiona found her voice at last. “My arms are getting tired. What’s going on? Who said you could come here?” Don’t cry, she told herself sternly.

“Police Stocktheft Unit, ma’am. You can put your arms down.”

“You live here?” The fourth man spoke to Ollie in the dark.

“It’s my farm,” he responded angrily.

“Level 5 restrictions sir. This is neither a medical centre nor a supermarket.” The smirk in the disembodied voice was clear.

“Of course I can be here. I told you, it’s my farm!”

“Neighbours reported a case of poaching. This is not the first night we’ve been called out for that around here.”

“We’ve got a permit to travel between town and here.” Fiona ventured timidly. “We arrived here well before the start of the curfew. I’ll get it from the cubbyhole.”

“No you won’t!” A hairy arm pulled her back as someone else opened the passenger door and scrutinised the permit.

“Legit.”

“This isn’t the hunting season. We’ll still get you for poaching. Follow us into town.”

“What about the kudu?” Ollie bellowed. “I’ve got a permit to shoot them!”

“You can tell that story at the police station.”

The convoy drove at a speed well below the limit. Ollie and Fiona were hemmed between the two police vehicles. Both were conscious of the heavily armed man occupying the seat behind them and so drove in silence. As they turned into the carpark outside the police station, Ollie touched Fiona lightly. “It’ll be okay Fiona. I’ll show them my permit and we’ll go home.”

It was not all well. They were photographed and fingerprinted. Both were sent to separate stuffy rooms to make statements that were written down at the speed of a snail. Fiona willed her tears away at the sound of Ollie yelling at the charge desk, “I will not be charged with poaching kudu on my own farm! COVID-19 or no COVID-19. I have a permit to shoot them!” She wished he would calm down. “A permit issued at this police station! Give me back my phone and I’ll show you!”

Freed at last, Fiona joined Ollie, who was stabbing at his cell phone as if it was about to bite him. “It’s here. I know it’s here. They sent it to me on my phone!” She gently prised the phone from his fingers.

“Let me look through your WhatsApp images Ollie. When did you receive it?”

“On Wednesday.” Ollie turned to his accusers. “Of course I didn’t come in to fetch the original. There’s COVID-19 all around us. Sergeant Immelman said the image on the phone would be fine.”

“It’s not here Ollie. Is it on my phone?”

“That’s right! I couldn’t remember my number at the time and so I gave him yours.”

“Where is your phone ma’am?” Fiona nearly wept at the reasonable tone of voice.

“The battery is flat. I left my phone at home to charge on the kitchen shelf.”

“I’ll have to escort you home to fetch it then. Come with me.” The friendly looking policeman put his arm out to show her the way.

“You’re not taking my wife anywhere without me!” Ollie’s defence of her was rendered ineffectual by the denizens of the police station still surrounding him.

Once in her kitchen, Fiona unplugged her phone and scrolled down to Wednesday’s images. “Here it is!” She triumphantly handed her phone to her armed companion.

He smiled. “Thank you ma’am. Let’s get this over and done with.”

Ollie swallowed the dregs of his coffee and looked up at the kitchen clock. “It’s after midnight,” he said wearily. “We’ll sort out the kudu first thing in the morning.”

Once again they parked on the slight incline overlooking the lucerne field. Apart from two flattened patches there was a churned up section obviously made by a vehicle driving through the dark green plants. They scanned the field. There was no sign of the kudu.

THE HITCHING POST

“You can’t bury yourself on the farm, Michael, it’s not good for you.” Minette placed the last of the flapjacks she’d been making onto a pile enfolded within a clean tea towel. “Take these out onto the veranda and ask Walter to collect the butter, syrup and jam. I’m going to make the tea.”

Minette watched her younger brother walk out of the kitchen and sighed. He was fit, had a charming personality, and was good looking to boot. She knew he was still struggling to make his farming venture turn a profit, but felt strongly that he shouldn’t be alone so much of the time. She stroked her tummy while the kettle boiled: she and Walter were expecting their first child, and – even though they were close – Michael hadn’t given her any indication of a girlfriend since he had bought Starling’s Rest.

“What do you do for company, Michael?” Minette had deliberately waited until the flapjacks had been eaten and the three of them were sharing their second pot of tea.

“You and Walter come around now and then. I chat to fellow farmers at the co-op now and then.” Michael gave her an impish grin. “I even go to The Devil’s Feather now and then.”

“That’s three ‘now and thens’ in a row!”

“Yes, English teacher. I thought that would get a rise out of you.” Michael held out his mug for a top-up of tea.

“There’s always The Hitching Post”, Walter smiled, tossing the latest issue of The Farmer’s Weekly across the table.

“Never! I don’t even read those entries – all lonely farmers looking for someone to keep them company.”

“Don’t you want company?” Minette sounded frustrated.

“I’m happy enough.” Michael put down his mug. “There’s always a lot to get done around here. Honestly, there’s no time to mope.”

“What about in the evenings?”

“I cook, do admin work and go to bed.”

It was some time after Minette and her husband had bid him farewell that Michael drew the magazine towards him. His home still smelled of the delicious dinner they had enjoyed and he glimpsed the sheets flapping on the line in the backyard. Minette had insisted on doing his laundry …

He idly turned the pages until he reached The Hitching Post. Of course he read the entries – who wouldn’t? Many of them made him smile and he felt sure some were made up with the intention of being amusing. Michael brought a beer to the veranda and looked out over the veld. The grass was a tinder box: rain was sorely needed. He thought about the windmills creaking uselessly in the bottom camps and remembered the leaking pipe he had intended to mend before Minette had called. It could wait until Monday now.

Michael listened to the weavers in the karee tree and smiled at the distant call of the hadedas returning to their evening perches. A Cape robin-chat darted between the chairs to peck at the crumbs from the flapjacks … What about in the evenings? He could still visualise his sister’s concerned face. There’s always The Hitching Post. Walter hadn’t smirked when he said it, his smile had been genuine.

Some evenings, like this one, dragged a little both because he had enjoyed company and he hadn’t been tired out by physical activity. I’ve too much time to think, he chastised himself, moving indoors to make himself a cheese and chutney sandwich to accompany another beer. Perhaps he should try The Hitching Post. The idea was amusing at first and then took hold of him as he read through the entries and analysed them. Smiling at his own stupidity, he began composing an entry of his own. “This is daft,” he chastised himself aloud once he had pressed ‘send’ on his e-mail.

It was several weeks before his entry was published in the magazine. His cheeks burned as he read it and he forced himself to go to the co-op as usual. Would his fellow farmers make fun of him? Not a word was spoken and he could detect no sly or ‘knowing’ looks. Life continued as usual.

Michael’s daily rhythm was interrupted a month later, when he was taken aback to receive a reply from someone calling herself Susan Bristow-Jones. That surname was familiar … within a few days of ‘idle’ enquiry, Michael found out that the Bristow-Jones family was well-off. Joe Bristow-Jones owned several commercial properties in town – and one of his two daughters was called Susan … why would she contact him?

Feeling rather curious, Michael called the number she had provided and invited her to dinner. She sounded pleased. He warmed to the happy lilt in her voice and felt relieved by her uncomplicated acceptance.

The aged bakkie received its first real clean inside and out in years, Michael even polished it, surprising himself by how smart it looked as a result. He wore his newest pair of jeans and a freshly pressed tartan shirt.

It was with a degree of trepidation that he pulled up outside Susan’s home in Cox Street in the rather smart suburb of Ludlum. She answered his knock at the door straight away, attractively attired in a white dress with a pale pink shawl draped over her left shoulder.

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” Susan said warmly, tucking her hand into his elbow. “Where are we going?”

“The Bancroft Inn,” Michael smiled. “It’s a little way out of town, but they have a pleasant ambience. There is no loud music and the food is really good.”

Susan halted abruptly. “Are we going in this?” She eyed his bakkie with clear distaste.

“I am a farmer, you know.” Michael opened the door for her. “It’s clean inside.”

The food was as good as he had promised. After an initial awkwardness, their conversation flowed along with the wine – and the rolling thunder. “It feels, and looks, like a cloudburst” the waiter informed them excitedly a while later. They decided to wait out the worst of the storm by having coffee and chocolates in a comfortable nook.

“I loathe the rain,” Susan declared. “It’ll ruin my hair, my dress and my shoes!”

“Rain is a life-line for farmers, Susan.” Michael smiled at the stricken look on her face. “You can always remove your shoes. Your hair and dress will clean and dry easily enough.”

At last, the thunder and lightning gave way to the sound of gentle rain. “Just what we need,” Michael commented happily. Susan and Michael, along with several other guests, made a dash for their vehicle. “Thank you for a very pleasant evening,” Michael said as he negotiated rivers of water running across the untarred country road and got the better of the slippery patches of mud. “We’ll reach the main road before long.”

“It was great fun,” she replied, leaning back in her seat. “Oh my gosh! What was that?” Susan grabbed hold of Michael’s arm as the truck slid across a muddy patch and jerked to a halt.

Michael reached across her for the torch in the cubby hole and got out into the rain. He returned a few minutes later. “We’ve hit a deep pothole. Can you drive?”

“Of course I can drive.” Susan sounded sulky.

“Well, if you’ll slide across the seat and drive, I’ll push from the rear.” He waited at the back of his bakkie, but nothing happened. “What’s wrong?” he called out after banging loudly on the driver’s door.

“What am I supposed to do?” Susan waved her manicured hands over the dashboard. “Where’s ‘drive’?”

“This isn’t an automatic, Susan. Just put it into first gear …”

“I don’t know about gears! This vehicle’s too big anyway. How am I supposed to see over the bonnet?”

“It’s just until we get out of the hole.”

“I can’t do it!”

By now, Michael was soaked to the skin. “You’ll have to help push then while I get this going.”

“You want me to get wet?” Susan shrieked in alarm.

“I’m wet. Come. I’ll have to push from here.” He almost pulled her from the vehicle.

It took several tried before the wheel was finally freed from the hole. Michael handed Susan a towel from the back seat to dry herself off with. She was furious. “Now I look a mess!”

“I saw you looking very attractive earlier,” he smiled in the half light of the dashboard.

“I’m covered in mud! My dress is ruined!”

Susan refused to allow him to see her home. She slammed the bakkie door and ran up the path, holding her shoes in her hands. Even though Michael waited, there was no farewell wave.

He drove home in a thoughtful mood. They would never see each other again, he knew that. Yet, he was acutely aware of how pleasant the evening had been. He turned into his driveway. Come to think of it, there was Jo Matthews … he would have to think of a strategy to meet her casually when next she was visiting her parents on Cottage Farm.

HAZARD LIGHTS

Tim clambered down the rocky outcrop and reached his bakkie as his cell phone began ringing. He snatched it off the seat without even looking at the caller ID. “Sinclair,” he answered tersely, aware of his heavy breathing.

“Tim?”

He exhaled slowly, steadying his racing pulse. “Edna! I’m glad I didn’t miss your call. I’ve just been looking for signs of Klipspringer. Nothing there though.” He spoke quickly, providing unnecessary information to fill the void. Edna was either crying or very angry. He couldn’t yet tell which.

“Still answering the call of the wild, Tim.” The flat statement was delivered in a tremulous voice. She had obviously been crying and was angry: he was in trouble.

Tim looked up at the canopy of trees casting dappled shade on the hot bonnet of his bakkie. He leaned back against the warm metal and answered as levelly as he could. “I invited you to come with me Edna. You knew I would be away for a while.”

Silence.

“Edna?” He could hear her weeping quietly. Her stifled sobs washed into his ear.

“It’s been three weeks, Tim.” Edna took in a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “That is a long time. I can’t help wondering if you may have found someone else, that –”

“Don’t be daft!” Tim shook his head at the scudding clouds above. “I’m coming home Edna.”

“You may be too late.” Again, he could hear the shuddering hiccups following a bout of crying.

“What do you mean?” His voice hardened. “Don’t play silly games with me, Edna.”

“My Dad has booked me a ticket to London. He says I need to make a new life for myself instead of waiting for your beck and call.”

Tim kicked a stone. Her father had never approved of him going away to conduct research in the field, even though he was earning a solid reputation for the quality of the papers he presented at conferences. “When are you supposed to be leaving?”

“On the 13^th. I’m driving to Cape Town on Thursday to spend a couple of days with Lynette.”

Tim sighed and wiped away the trickle of sweat running down his cheek. “I love you, Edna – always have.”

“I know.” Silence. “Oh, Tim. I don’t know what to do. You know how determined my father can be. I just wish my mother was still alive.”

“I need to see you, Edna. Perhaps Lynette can talk some sense into you. Don’t leave without me!”

As she outlined her travel plans, Edna’s voice grew lighter.

Tim drove past wide expanses of open grassland, low hills taking on a blue hue in the distance, and counted each windmill he passed along the way. The end of an era, he told himself. So many of them were no longer in working order: such a sad testimony to the positive legacy of the power of wind that had brought water to homesteads and livestock all over the country for decades.

He overnighted in a small self-catering cottage and cooked a steak over an open fire, then downed a beer. It didn’t matter that the shower was cold – it was his own fault that he had forgotten to switch the geyser on.

Edna waved goodbye to her friends, Leon and Petra. Her grip tightened on the steering wheel: she shouldn’t have had that glass of wine with lunch. Leon had assured her it wouldn’t matter: it wouldn’t make a difference to her driving. Perhaps not, but her mind was in a whirl and it worried her that Petra had been so scathing about the way Tim left her for a couple of weeks at a time.

“I would never turn down a free ticket to London! Your Dad is right, you know. What’s the point of loving someone who spends so much time away.”

Tim had assured her his absences would only continue until the end of the year. Leon and Petra had enjoyed the tales of his adventures, so why the change of attitude? Was Petra jealous of the free ticket to London? Soon after she had pulled out of their driveway and nosed her car in the direction of Cape Town, Edna recalled the week she had spent with Tim in the Tsitsikamma Coastal National Park. Then, she had spent the mornings writing up her Master’s thesis while he searched the forests for fungi. They would walk to the Storms River Mouth every afternoon, cross the suspension bridge and spend time sitting on the rocky beach, watching the waves while chatting about the progress made during the day.

She had teased him about his daily outfit of faded jeans and the dark green anorak he wore in the forest. He always carried a day pack containing notebooks and his camera as well as a bottle of water and a few snacks. They would call in at the camp shop to buy food for their supper on their way home. Occasionally, they had booked a table at the restaurant …

Tim sipped his fruit juice and tried Edna’s number again. Nothing. She must have switched off her phone, he mused as he poured over the road map spread out on his lap.

“Where are you?” He asked bluntly when she finally answered against the background of people chatting nearby.

“Tim!” She sounded surprised. “I’ve just been buying some cheeses for Lynette at the Ossewa Kaasmakerij. You know how she loves different cheeses.” She paused for a moment then the other voices receded. “Where are you?”

“I’m coming to find you.” Tim was catching up to her. Looking at his map, he reckoned they must be about an hour away from each other. He had had no time to appreciate the beauty of the landscape he had been passing through. “Edna,” there was a strong tone of urgency in his voice. “Don’t go straight to Lynette. Stop along the road and I will find you!”

“I must, Tim. She’s going to keep my car.”

“Edna, listen to me. Find a safe place to stop at the side of the road. I’ll be with you in about an hour.” Tim switched his phone to flight mode – nothing was to distract him. He kept his vehicle at the speed limit, hardly noticing the build-up of traffic; only that the double lanes gave him the room he needed to forge ahead.

Bronwyn Hugo rubbed her eyes and gripped the steering wheel tighter. Even with the air conditioner blowing into the car at full blast, she felt uncomfortably hot – and worried. She turned to her teenage son in the passenger seat. “How far does Google maps say we’ve got to go before we turn off to the farm?”

“Twenty-seven kilometres.” He sounded sullen. They both were: her husband’s maiden great-aunt, Simone, had announced out of the blue that she planned to visit her South African family during the Canadian winter. “Do we have to have her for three weeks, Mom?”

“Yes, we do, darling. Uncle David and Aunt Rowena have hosted her for a month already. We’re lucky that her Canadian friends want her to join them in the Kruger Park, or we’d have had her for longer. Let that cheer you up!”

Bronwyn blinked away the still unshed tears. This visit meant that their own holiday plans had been put on hold. What was she to do with an eighty-year-old woman that neither she nor Robert had ever met? She was almost grateful that the flow of traffic had slowed behind three large delivery trucks crawling up the hill. Any delay … her attention was caught by two vehicles parked at the side of the road near a flyover. A white bakkie and a small blue car. Both had their doors open and their hazard lights were flashing. She glimpsed a young couple entwined in an embrace as she passed.

“What’s the matter, Mom?”

Bronwyn laughed as tears finally ran down her cheeks. “Oh Damien, there are happy people in the world after all. Did you see that couple at the side of the road?”

“They were kissing! It’s disgusting to do that where everyone can see them. Sixteen kilometres to go.”

“There’s a story in that.” Bronwyn smiled to herself, feeling the tension in her neck easing. She would love to know what had brought them there.

THE VILLAGE WEAVER

No, she doesn’t turn out woven mats, scarves or wall-hangings. She doesn’t really even live in a village. No smoke rises from her chimney and not a single spinning wheel or weaving frame adorns her house, which is filled with the flotsam and jetsam of her past.

Morgan wouldn’t necessarily catch your eye in a crowd. She goes about her daily tasks without fanfare, complaining with the rest when things seem unfair and looking forward to her holidays as much as anyone else.

She gets on well with her colleagues and has a bright word and ready smile for most. No matter how busy she might be, she will make time for a cup of tea with those for whom she senses a need for company, or she dispenses hugs in varying intensity for others who look as if they need a lift.

Morgan is not a great one for words. She feels no need to pry into the affairs of others; no need to know details; and no great need to pass on what she knows – which we all know is a lot!

Having been here for years, Morgan is regarded as part of the furniture. She is away so seldom that if no-one sees her first thing in the morning, people ask each other “Have you seen Morgan today?” “Has Morgan gone somewhere?” This is not because they need her; it is because she is usually ‘there’ and her absence makes the day seem ‘not right’.

Why the ‘Village Weaver’ then? I will tell you:

Allison Anderson’s husband went away for two weeks, leaving her with strict instructions on how to care for their swimming pool. He had worked hard to get it crystal clear and ready for the summer holidays. She returned having had her hair done late one afternoon to find the pool cleaner strangling itself at the deep end and making terrifying gurgling noises in the process.

“Morgan,” she wailed over the telephone, “my pool cleaner is dying. In fact, I can hear its death rattle as I speak. Leon’s not due back until Sunday …”

They laughed about the drama over tea and scones afterwards. Morgan complimented Allison on her hairstyle, brushed the crumbs from her lap and stood up to prepare her supper. The pool still looked crystal clear and Allison now knew a thing or two about keeping the errant cleaner in check.

Ursula Gough sighed over the keyboard, glancing sideways at Morgan as she did so. “Problem?” Morgan barely looked up from her screen while her fingers flew across the keyboard as if they had eyes of their own with which to find the right keys. Ursula looked round at her colleagues, knowing that in spite of their apparent focus on their respective computers, their antennae were aquiver and their ears already straining to catch a whiff of news that may prove worthy of unpicking or elaborating on before being tossed into the waste bin of teatime gossip.

“This.” Ursula tilted her screen ever so slightly towards her companion.

Morgan took in the letter of application in a single glance. “Dilly! Send it to me and I’ll proofread it in a jiffy.”

They later had an earnest discussion on a bench in the shady part of the garden. Ursula listened to the wise words, made some changes to both her CV and her letter, and resolved to be more positive about herself.

Unbeknown to her, she was not the only one to have sought Morgan’s opinion. Three months earlier Veronica Wallace had more or less invited herself to Morgan’s house for tea. Given the lateness of the afternoon, it did not surprise her when Morgan produced a bottle of wine instead, after having set out two chairs in a sunny spot of her garden.

She listened to Veronica’s frustration and her expectations. She drew up a list of options and encouraged Veronica to weigh up the pros and cons of her situation. A week later, the two women drew up a CV, a letter of application and discussed a solid plan of action should an interview be in the offing. Two months later, Morgan received a WhatsApp message, Thank you, my friend, I couldn’t have done this without you.

It was Morgan who marched into our boss’s office one morning, having given only a perfunctory knock on the door. She closed the door firmly behind her, “I have watched you for days. You’re as tight as a bow string. Your husband is away and your child is sick. I am going to ask your PA to clear your day and you are going home. Sarah needs you now more than anyone else in the world.” When she appeared at work the next morning, our boss had a sparkle in her eye.

Morgan called on Robyn late one afternoon to return some books she had borrowed months earlier. To help make up for her tardiness, she carried with her two bunches of flowers purchased from the supermarket en route. To her dismay, Robyn burst into tears. “Eric’s just called to say his parents are coming to dinner. You know how prissy his mother is. I feel so helpless and am running out of time!”

“What are your options?” By the end of the afternoon Robyn was laughing. Morgan had made her giggle as they laboured together in the kitchen disguising the leftovers in the fridge as new dishes, thinking up garnishes, making salads and setting the table with a sheet, a small posy of flowers in the centre and the Morgan’s flowers arranged in the golfing trophy Eric had won the previous month.

Morgan dropped off two chicken pies and a macaroni cheese dish, along with a bunch of flowers after Doreen’s hysterectomy. “I know your sister is organising a meal roster,” she laughed, “but I am likely to forget when it’s my turn.” Then, eyeing the used cups and saucers spread across the lounge, left by other well-wishers, she cheerfully announced, “How about brewing us each a mug of coffee while I wash these things before Graham gets home?”

Roxanne phoned Morgan when her son fell off his bicycle and cut open his forehead. “There’s blood everywhere!” It was unclear who was the most upset. Morgan waited until she heard “My car went in for a service –” and left. She washed off the blood, patted the scraped knee, instructed Roxanne to apply pressure to the bleeding forehead and drove them to the doctor’s rooms so that Peter’s wound could be stitched.

It was at her sixtieth birthday celebration that I heard these and so many other stories and understood why some of her guests had begun to dub her the ‘Village Weaver’. They arrived in droves from all walks of life, bearing plates of food and bottles of wine.

There were few introductions and even fewer chairs available in the garden, although blankets and cushions were spread over the lawn. Inside, the dining room table groaned with food, while the drinks table outside never seemed to empty. A lot of Morgan’s guests didn’t know each other and set about linking themselves by finding out how they were connected to Morgan.

She seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once. I saw her chatting to some, laughing with others, pointing some guests towards the food, and removing empty plates or replenishing wine bottles.

Sally told us how Morgan had given her lifts to and from the hospital in the next town while her husband was very ill. “She would wait for me in the garden or in her car, always knitting, reading or doing a crossword.”

Ian confessed that Morgan had proofread both his Masters and PhD theses over the years. “She’s a hard task masker, I tell you,” he laughed.

“That’s true,” Neville agreed. It is largely thanks to her that I published my book about my father’s experiences during the border war.” The two men moved off to join a knot of people sitting with their feet in the swimming pool.

“You know it was Morgan who taught my Steven to swim after Ian and I had practically given up,” Georgina was saying.

“She helped me with my daughter’s wedding,” Jennifer responded.

“I’ll bet she told you not to flap. That was her mantra when I was preparing for Caroline’s 21^st.” Mary splashed her feet in the pool.

“It’s just another dinner,” she told me when I was flapping about hosting the big family Christmas the first time. Erin raised her glass to no-one in particular. The sun had long set and although some people had drifted away to attend to other obligations in their lives, many remained to chat while picking at the food and clinking their glasses.

By the time the moon had risen to cast shadows across the garden, conversations had become muted. New friendships had been woven throughout the house and garden that day – all linked by a bond with Morgan. She who created a community out of nothing and who sought no material reward. I joined the queue of guests as they bid her farewell. She hugged, kissed and shook hands, declaring to all that “I now feel complete.”

Village Weaver