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

THE LONG JOURNEY

The outgoing tide exposed the flat black rocks fingering into the white grainy sand of the beach. Far out to sea the low waves moved without a hint of foam, forming instead dark tubular curls across the seascape. Except for a small group of young people enjoying sundowners in the car park high above the beach, the summer visitors had mostly departed to prepare for their evening entertainment. The darkening sky was devoid of even the hardiest of seagulls as Owen waited, watching the golden orb touch the horizon and then briefly sending a shaft of light across the waves to highlight the edge of the dark rocks at his feet. Standing quite still Owen waited, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, until the car park revellers could barely discern his tall figure as they laughingly separated into their vehicles and roared away.

Much later that night, dressed in dark jeans and T-shirt, Owen emerged from his dust-covered bakkie and ducked into a small pub hidden away on one of the narrow side streets of the little seaside town.

“Good to see you Old Man,” the publican looked up as he approached the well-worn wooden counter. “Glad to see your guitar has come too.” He pulled a pint of Owen’s favourite local brew, smiled and turned to another customer. Owen sat at the bar counter nursing his beer and chatting quietly to Old Joe during the quieter periods.

“Short-staffed?” He asked his friend, who owned the place.

“Not really. Margie should have been in charge tonight. I let her off though as her sister’s come to visit.” There was a query in the older man’s face that remained unformed until Owen took another glass of beer to the table at the far end of the dimly-lit bar and began strumming softly on his guitar. It was from there that he entertained the locals and a smattering of visitors for a few hours, softly playing his guitar and declining any conversations. On the few occasions he broke into song, a hush would fall on the patrons as they absorbed the poignancy of his words delivered in a low, strong voice with a timbre that carried into the darkest of nooks.

Owen remained strumming, scribbling and chatting quietly until the early hours of the morning when his friend began clearing the tables. The two men shook hands after they had locked the door of the pub behind them. “I’m glad you were here,” Owen smiled in the darkness. “It was good to see you again.”

“A late lunch?” The older man asked quietly.

“Another time, perhaps.” Owen shouldered his guitar and shrugged ruefully. “I must be on my way.”

“Still searching then?”

“Just looking. Going over past journeys.” Owen paused and shook his head sadly. “It’s time to get back to work.”

“Good luck, son. You’re doing a fine job lad. Your father would have been proud of you.”

The two men melted into the darkness.

“Such a short stay?” Ellen Jenkins pressed a plastic ice-cream box on Owen as he took his leave the following morning. “Just something for the road,” she smiled warmly. “You’re such a restless one that I cannot be sure you will remember to stop and eat properly.”

Owen stooped slightly to kiss her wrinkled cheek. “Thank you for putting me up at such short notice, Ellen.”

“My dear boy, there was no need for you to use your sleeping bag!”

“And no point in you having to wash the bed linen after only a few hours’ kip.” He hugged the older woman closely – she felt and smelled like his mother. Ellen and her husband used to be regular visitors to his childhood home. With his parents gone, he no longer felt he had a home.

“No anchor,” Ellen whispered, her unshed tears shining in the early morning light. “It’ll come my boy, you’ll see.”

Owen drove out of the seaside town feeling an odd sense of regret. He shook his head and wound down the windows of the bakkie to let the cab fill with a rush of fresh air as he pressed on. It had felt too maudlin this time to be with people who had known his parents so well. He hadn’t even driven past their holiday home, which Old Joe still rented out on his behalf. No, to stay would have meant opening up to one or other of them. He wasn’t yet ready for that.

Far inland, Helen sat atop the tractor and looked back at the sharp contrast between the bright warmth of the freshly ploughed fields and the dramatic sky darkening overhead. The metallic grey clouds boiled and bulged across the sky in ongoing waves threatening rain. She watched the branches of the small clump of trees nearby bend and sway in the gathering wind whipping up dust so thick that it momentarily obscured the landscape before changing direction. Helen winced as flashes of sheet lightning back-lit the clouds and, ignoring her father’s earnest arm-waving beckoning her to make haste, removed the bandana to free her long fair hair to whip wildly about her face.

That evening, Helen warmed her hands at the roaring log fire and smilingly accepted a large glass of sherry from her father’s work-roughened hands.  “We’ve done well today, my love.  For once I’m glad the wind has driven the rain away after all.” They clinked their glasses and she watched him shuffle off to turn the roosterkoek browning on the grid. The delicious aroma of the chicken potjie filled the air each time her mother lifted the lid of the three-legged pot nearby.

“Everyone will be here soon,” her mother observed softly. “Robert, are you sure the drinks are ready?”

Helen felt at ease with this annual ritual that saw the farming community, young and old, gather at her parents’ homestead for an evening of feasting before the official start of the planting season. She slipped away as the first guests arrived to accept their contributions of farm butter, homemade jam, biltong and baked pumpkin as well as the milk tarts and koeksusters that would be consumed during the evening.  In spite of the jovial crowd, their happy faces reflected in the flames, Helen felt a gnawing in her stomach that would not be quelled.

A week later, Owen halted along the national road that bore him inland to photograph a pair of windmills. Neither turned properly in spite of the strong breeze blowing across the veld, bringing with it the smell of dust and a herby aroma from the plants. He leaned on the barbed wire fence and listened to the sound of the wind rattling through the broken vanes, his mind racing back to childhood memories of water gushing from a pipe into a reservoir to the creaking background noise of the working windmills. He recalled the happy laughter of children cooling off in the heat, and the slimy texture between their toes as their feet scraped the green algae-covered bottom.

A patch of bright yellow gazanias growing between the stones near his feet caught his eye and he bent down to capture their beauty. Old windmills and beautiful flowers growing in the veld … a new lyric began to form in his head. Searching, always searching.

“Do you need any help?” The truck driver passing in the opposite direction leaned out of his cab window that towered above Owen.

“I’m fine, thanks.” Owen smiled reassuringly, waved his hand and started his engine. It was time to move on.

He dunked a rusk into his early morning mug of strong coffee and ran his eye down his scribblings from the evening before. He hummed a tune and made some changes. Sadly, his diary-cum-notebook indicated all too clearly that he would soon have to return to the confines of his work as a researcher at the university. It would have been good to stay on a while, he thought, as he drove through yet another small country town with its potholed streets and sagging shop signs, overgrown pavements and boarded up windows. He reluctantly returned to the well-worn memory of the farm tour he had taken on a whim three years earlier. The photographs he had taken of the cascades and the close-ups of the water-drenched ferns were memorable, but the only one he had printed was that of the young guide with fair hair flying about her face while she identified some of the birds in the trees and pointed to some orchids growing above their heads.

She had not been there when he had stopped in the previous week. Instead, the walking tour had been led by the weather-beaten looking farmer with a collie dog at his heel. His wife had introduced him as Robert, sounding a little worn out as she did so. This time they had walked through more open ground and ended with a sumptuous tea in the shade of a large oak on the front lawn. His disappointment tasted bitter, even now.

Wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a red blouse, Helen grabbed her hat, binoculars and camera before flying down the broad wooden stairs to meet her mother at the bottom. “Are they here yet, Mom?” she asked breathlessly.

“They will be in a few minutes. Darling, you haven’t had any breakfast yet. Let me make you some toast.”

“I’ll be fine. Honestly Mom – I’ll tuck into your marvellous spread when I get back.” Helen glanced at her watch and eyed the visitors emerging from the white mini-bus that had drawn to a halt near the front lawn. She kissed her mother’s soft, lined cheek. “See you in two hours!”

The group of eight visitors were a motley bunch, all of whom had been staying at the Nettleton’s Bed and Breakfast in town. For the next two hours Helen led them through the veld behind the homestead, stopping to identify wild flowers, birds and beetles along the way. She entertained them with snippets of local history, geology and folklore as they halted to take photographs, to rest briefly in the shade of the tall trees, or simply to drink in the expansive view across the valley to the distant hills beyond.

Aware that most tourists had other places to go to, Helen altered her pace according to the time available and kept the conversation flowing until they reached the shaded part of the garden where her mother had arranged a lavish feast on white cloth-covered trestle tables. Helen smiled with relief as her mother saw to the needs of the two elderly couples, a younger man and the three young women all vying for his attention.

As she bit into a dainty toasted sandwich filled with scrambled egg, Helen thought back to a similar tour of the farm three years earlier when she had taken a smaller group to see the beautiful cascade in the forest on the other side of the hill. It had been a more leisurely walk then, followed by a picnic lunch on the grass. Among that group had been a tall man who busied himself taking photographs of the water and close-ups of the leaves of ferns growing on the wet rocks. She had assumed he was part of the family group as he had carried the little boy on his shoulders for the last part of the walk back. It was only when he got into a truck that had seen better days and turned in a different direction that Helen realised that he had been on his own. She shook her head thoughtfully, wondering what her future held and when the result of her Zoom interview would come through.

Helen looked back at her father throwing sticks for his dog in the fading light. She knew it was his way of dealing with emotions too strong for him to share. Her two weeks at home had been filled with activity as she had tried to alleviate some of the burdens her parents carried. Even now she felt sad at having left her father to do the previous walking tour while she had gone to town on their behalf to purchase supplies and to draw the wages for their workers: it was not a job he enjoyed. She walked up the stone steps to the homestead for the last time to meet her mother waiting on the open veranda.

They stood close together, watching the first stars come out, while her father disappeared towards the garage behind the house. “Thank you for coming down to help Dad plough the lands and for just being here for us both.”

Helen squeezed her mother’s hand in a gesture of love and understanding. “I’m glad Michael and Linda have decided to come and live here after all,” she murmured. “Linda will enjoy the tourists and should be able to expand that side of things.” She shook her head and caught her mother’s eye. “Apart from helping Dad to farm, I know Michael is keen to develop a mountain bike trail past the cascades,” she finished brightly.

“What about you, my love?” Her mother motioned her to sit on the weathered cane furniture. “Your father and I always hoped that a young man from around here would catch your eye.”

One did, Helen thought sadly, but like all the fishermen’s tales of old, he got away without me even knowing who he is!

Once home, Owen watered the vegetable patch that had been neglected during his three-week sojourn and planned his evening ahead. He would transcribe his notes, download his photographs and then rework the fieldtrips that would need to be done over the next six months to collect the data they still needed about the flora of the Little Karoo. He hoped Brendan had found them a decent research project assistant: students were fine, but they needed someone to hold the project together.

Two weeks passed before Helen looked at the pin boards in the drab-looking reception area of the Botany Department. It seemed no-one had been expecting her and she felt as if the receptionist had been away for an uncomfortably long time. As there were no chairs, Helen scrutinised the departmental notices and photographs of flowers as well as apparently random lists of students, cartoons and laminated requests to save paper.

A photograph of proteas caught her eye and she moved closer, feeling sure that the scenery in the background must be in the vicinity of the Swartberg Pass. For a moment she forgot the awkwardness of waiting in a place with no welcome and recalled driving along some of the country’s winding passes like the one between Van Wyk’s Dorp and Ladismith last year when her tyre had burst.

“You must be Miss Sutcliff.” The familiar warm voice washed over her, colouring her face as she turned around slowly. “I am Owen Smith.” There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes as he stretched out his large hand to meet hers.

She looked up at this tall figure with the tousled hair that had remained imprinted on her mind for so long and grinned. “I’m Helen. I think I am meant to be your research assistant for the Little Karoo project.”

He smiled warmly and took her hand in his. “It’s been a long journey. Let me show you around.”

COMMENTING ON COMMENTS

For me, one of the many joys of blogging has been the comments I receive from readers of specific posts. These brief, yet mostly meaningful, engagements, have been encouraging – now as much as they were during my fledgling blogging years. Admittedly, I was initially flattered by the ‘likes’ too, until I delved into the statistics and found that these might also represent viewers who have simply clicked the ‘like’ on a post and moved on without reading it. Statistics intrigued me a lot in those early years, before I developed my own rhythm and was vague about who my target audience might be.

Blogging has, in a way, taken over from the pen-friends that were popular during my youth. The difference here is that we seldom write a post for a particular person and that all comments are public. Yet, as we continue to read each other’s posts and comment more regularly, we begin to feel a bond with some bloggers: we gradually get to know snippets about the lives and circumstances of others; we learn first names behind the many monikers; we might poke fun at each other sometimes; and there are occasions when we can be empathetic and serious too.

Given all this, how seriously should we regard the comments we receive? I have been greatly encouraged by readers who have either commented on posts as a whole or my photographs in particular. It is all the more satisfying when readers share anecdotes or provide additional information: such comments are akin to holding a time-lapsed conversation.

What has struck me over the years is how caring a regular blogging community can become. We reach out to each other; often support one another; share jokes; empathise with each other and, on occasion, even bolster each other’s feelings of [whatever they might be]. One reader, whom I have never met, ‘read’ me so well that she reached out via another forum to check if I was ‘okay’. I too have sometimes sensed that life is not running smoothly for others. We tend not to pry and mostly remain circumspect on this public forum.

I was nonetheless brought up short by a comment from a long-time reader: I have noticed that our comments to each other have become short and impersonal. Perhaps it is time to say goodbye to each other. This was followed by a smiley face. Do we read too much into what people write? Do we need to spend more time composing comments that we post? Indeed, should we even bid each other farewell before clicking the unfollow button? I miss some of the bloggers whose posts and comments used to appear regularly. One told his readers that his circumstances had changed and he no longer has time to blog. Others have slipped away quietly.

Each to their own. This is the nature of blogging, just as it is in the way of most initially casual relationships. There must be something in common, some ‘spark’, to make such relationships sustainable. If some responses seem curt, or impersonal, know that it is unlikely to be a deliberate snub or an expression of ‘I don’t care what you have to say.’

The particular reader I quoted earlier ‘hung on’ for a few months before explaining that she was leaving as I post too often, my posts are too impersonal, my topics tend to be boring … I cannot say that I miss her at all.

Instead, I continue to find it refreshing to receive acknowledgements, anecdotes, correct identifications – and even corrections to – something I have posted. So, keep your comments flowing!