AGAMEMNON

Alan and Wendy sat in the shade watching the sheepdogs going through their paces in the field below them. “One of them might be Oscar’s collie. We really shouldn’t be sitting so far away Al.” Alan merely stared ahead, munching one of the sandwiches Wendy had made. She waved her hat to fan her face. “It’s very hot here.”

“Which is why we’re sitting in the shade, Wends.”

“I don’t understand you. It was such an arduous walk up here, with the picnic basket and all. We really would have been more comfortable down there where the benches are. Pass me some water please.”

Alan, who had helped himself to another sandwich, didn’t move. Wendy sighed and stretched across him to pull a bottle of water from the basket. She unscrewed the cap and had just taken a sip when Alan grabbed the bottle from her hand. “That’s not your bottle,” he growled and promptly downed the contents.

Wendy stared at him wide-eyed. “Alan, that wasn’t plain water – more like plain gin! How can you do that?”

“I need something to get me through this torturous day. Come,” he pulled on her hand. “Let’s get up to some meaningful mischief while we’re here. No-one can really see us. Besides, they’re all looking at those boring dogs.”

She squirmed out of his grip and stood up, breathing hard. “Alan Mansfield, this is not what I came here for. We’re meant to be supporting Oscar and his dog!”

“Agamemnon,” Alan burped. “We can tell him how wonderful his dog is later.” Both their cell phones beeped. Wendy was the first to read the message. “Oscar’s dog is about to commence.” She looked down at Alan’s sulky face staring up at her. “Come on, Alan. We can’t let him down.”

“I don’t see why we have to be right there. We can see the dogs from here.”

“The foundation of our friendship has always been caring for each other. Come and be sociable for a change!”

“You and your ‘standards’ and ‘maxims’,” he grunted while reaching for another sandwich.

“Stop that Alan or there won’t be anything left for our picnic later!” Wendy snapped the lid back onto the sandwich container and picked up the basket.

“What’s between you and Oscar anyway?” Alan had risen and was reluctantly accompanying Wendy down the grassy slope.

“It’s not what you think. We’ve had an epic journey together since primary school and so our personal history is inextricably entwined.”

“Personal history entwined? When did you start sleeping together?” Wendy did not miss the rough edge to his voice.

“Your thought process is so outmoded, Alan!” She retorted heatedly. “Forget about this and let’s head for the tea.”

Oscar met them at the tea table and hugged Wendy tightly. “Agamemnon is tired of being so constrained. I’m glad you’ve come down in time to see him going through his final paces.” He held her tea cup and led her by the hand to a bench under a tree. “You’ll see best from here.” He kissed her lightly on her cheek. “Wish us both luck,” he whispered and disappeared.

Wendy tried to cover her discomfort at what had occurred on the slope by sipping her tea, but realised her hand was visibly shaking. “Our elegant white swan has a dark tinge, I see.” Alan slumped down next to her. “Get me some tea, Wends.”

“Don’t be so indolent Alan. Has all that gin gone to your head already?” Her voice was quiet yet firm.

“Are you and Oscar sleeping together?”

“Let’s lay this to rest, Alan. Oscar has been a faithful friend –.”

“Since primary school, I know.” Alan moved quickly to grab another water bottle from the basket and downed it greedily.

Wendy moved away from him when she stood up to watch the dogs and focused on Oscar’s face flushed with both concentration and excitement. She listened to the whistles, the clicking of metal gates, and caught a glimpse of a small boy playing with a toy spear by repeatedly stabbing it into the ground. The applause from the small crowd muffled the sound of Alan moving in behind her. He held the nape of her neck in a firm grip and slid his other hand round to unbutton her blouse. She gave an ear-splitting shriek. “Stop that!”

Pandemonium broke loose. Silence blanketed the crowd for only a moment before Oscar came running forward – as did the little boy with his tiny spear held aloft, a menacing expression on his face. Wendy hardly had time to register any of this when a furry missile threw both her and Alan to the ground.

She rolled away to free herself and immediately felt Oscar’s firm embrace. Agamemnon was pinning Alan to the ground with two paws placed firmly on his chest. The crowd gathered round as Oscar led Wendy away towards his truck. “I’ll get you some tea,” he said gently as he pulled his jacket from behind the seat. “Put this on Wendy. When the shock sets in you’re going to feel cold.”

The remainder of the afternoon passed in a blur in between bouts of sobbing and dozing. Why had Alan deliberately got drunk? What had she done to make him like that? Some of these questions swam around in her head. Others, she realised, she had blurted out to an older woman who had opened the door of the truck and held her hand while she howled.

She had stroked Wendy’s hair and given her tissues. “Don’t blame yourself, lass,” she had repeated several times. “That bloke with you had it coming. We could all see he was as drunk as a coot. It’s the old triangle of love, I tell you. Oscar’s face just lit up when you arrived. I sensed then that trouble lay ahead.”

While sitting on the sofa in Oscar’s cottage that evening, Wendy fondled Agamemnon’s ears. “You’re the best boy I know. The very best.”

“Excuse me!” Oscar brought in bowls of hot pumpkin soup and sliced garlic bread. “What about me?”

“You’re different, Oscar. You’ve always been the best. You know that.” She bit into her garlic bread. “How will you ever forgive me for disrupting the finals of the trials? I am so, so sorry. I had no idea that Alan was going to -.”

“No worries. We’d actually finished anyway, which is why I could send Agamemnon off to you so quickly.” He reached behind him and dangled a gold medal above her head. “It’s like a gift from the Magi,” he grinned. “The pinnacle of our success: Agamemnon and I have reached our goals.”

Wendy shrieked, this time in delight. “I missed that! Oh Oscar, you’ve kept it to yourself all this time!” Impulsively, she reached nearer to kiss him. “What are you plans now?”

Oscar winked at her. “Agamemnon’s retiring from competition to work on old man Nolan’s farm. He’ll be happy there – it’s where he was born anyway.”

“And you?”

“Well,” he looked at her seriously. “I’ve clearly got a lot of catching up to do. It seems I’ve taken our friendship for granted for far too long. Now I need to find a way of convincing you that I would like to be your extra-very-special friend – forever!”

Wendy snuggled next to him on the sofa. “I think you always have been, only it took today’s events for me to understand that.”

COLLEEN AND THE HEADMASTER

Colleen is the type of person who needs to be noticed. If she wasn’t greeted with a friendly smile she would think one thought ill of her, for she was easily offended. She yearned to be accepted into the bosom of whatever group she was in. Above all, Colleen needed to feel important.

You wouldn’t think so, for Colleen tended to be brusque; she voiced her opinions loudly and expected them to be accepted. At times she appeared to be unfeeling, such as the time she barked “Rules are there to be obeyed” at a colleague who dared to show an empathetic stance towards a girl who had pushed the envelope too far.

Colleen could be impatient too. There is no doubt that she was ambitious and lusted for power. Colleagues who worked closest with her knew that Colleen, who tended to present a tough exterior, often cried or sulked when things didn’t go her way.

She was an attractive young woman, who used this to her advantage in the company of men. Then she would flash a ready smile; shake her always slightly untidy blonde hair; or would reach out to touch a male arm or shoulder in conversation – just long enough to make eye contact, then she would look away and pretend nothing had happened.

Some of her male colleagues regarded her as a tease. Others spoke of her charming company. A couple of them thought she was intriguingly mysterious in that she gave little of herself in terms of where she had come from or why she sometimes wore a gold band on her left ring finger and yet mostly left it bare. Men tended to cluster around Colleen at staff functions. She liked it that way – who wouldn’t!

Colleen was not as successful with her female colleagues, who tended to be suspicious of her motives and were easily annoyed with what they interpreted as her attention-seeking tactics. Mostly though, they grew tired of her grumpiness and barbed remarks. Actually, the women turned from Colleen when it became clear that the aura of power had become her lodestone.

First, she did her best to make herself appear to be indispensable to the Deputy Principal in charge of Academic Matters. Colleen helped her collate the mark sheets, sided with her at meetings when anything contentious arose for discussion, and frequently stayed at work late to assist Olive with drawing up anything from examination time tables to duty rosters.

We were gobsmacked when it was announced that Colleen was to be the new Head of the Natural Science Department for we all knew that both Colin and Sarah had applied for the post. The Deputy Principal had invited Sarah out for coffee one afternoon and persuaded her to withdraw her application. “This really needs to be a one-horse race,” she had smiled sweetly, patting Sarah’s arm. She leaned towards her with a confident “You’re still young, Sarah, with plenty of opportunities ahead of you.” We had all then assumed Colin would get the post. He was ten years her senior and had been in charge of the boys’ boarding house for his full term of five years – it could only be him.

Well, it wasn’t. It did not go unnoticed that Colleen and the Deputy Principal were on particularly good terms. It soon became clear that the Natural Science Department floundered under Colleen’s hand, despite Sarah’s best efforts to help her stay on track. Colleen was easily angered and either set unrealistic deadlines for her staff or forgot all about them. She hated being criticised and cancelled any departmental meeting if she caught a whiff that it might become confrontational. Her colleagues loathed her curt e-mails. The men began ignoring her; the women simply stared at her in disbelief during the rare departmental meetings until the morning Isabel deliberately knocked over the school desk she was sitting at.

“I’ve had enough of this Colleen!” Isabel’s cheeks were suffused with red and her eyes glistened with anger. “You dither and complain. Nobody can do anything right in this department. You are selfish, ungrateful and know nothing about leadership!” With that, Isabel picked up her notebook and strode out of the classroom, not even stopping when Colleen’s large diary whizzed past her ear.

Six months later, Colin took over the reins of the department while Colleen spent a term enjoying her sabbatical leave two years earlier than anyone else has been able to secure theirs. “She has been overworked,” the Deputy Principal explained, “and really needs the rest.” Colleen returned to take charge of the girls’ boarding house and told everyone that it was such a full-time, hands-on job that she couldn’t possibly run the department too.

Steven became the Deputy Principal when Olive retired a year later. Colleen held no interest for him as he was devoted to his wife and two daughters. No more cosy dinners for our Colleen; she had become something of a pariah in the staffroom by then.

The parents of the boarders seemed to love her. Colleen fawned over them and revelled in the expensive gifts that came her way. She had all the outward signs of being loved, being valued, and of being held in high esteem. The cracks must have been there, but nobody cared to look. A few male colleagues still found her charming, but she no longer batted her eyelids at them. She had more interesting fish to fry: the fathers of the girls in boarding – and the Headmaster.

There is no need to jump to conclusions here. Colleen loved the heady feeling of the power of being attractive to older men with pretty wives and children in boarding school. There was no hanky-panky for Colleen, she wasn’t that type of person. What she thrived on for the most was to be in the centre of power. Her proximity to ‘important’ people in society made her practically drunk with pleasure.

Evan Butler, the Headmaster, openly empathised with this misunderstood, unappreciated, rather sad, single, still attractive woman in charge of the girls’ boarding house. He was relieved by her apparent success in the wake of Tilly, who had made a hash of things. He and his wife, Allison, occasionally invited her round for a drink, which often lead to an invitation to supper.

Colleen glowed with happiness. She sometimes teased Evan in the staffroom and often brought him tea at odd times during the day. She simpered at his over-used jokes. One day, Colleen let slip to someone in the bathroom that Evan Butler was secretly in love with her! We watched as she giggled in his presence; she would guess where he would sit during the staff tea break so that she could be near him. We noticed that she took greater care over her clothes and wore a lot of jewellery when Evan was present and slackened off during the times he was away from the school.

Her being so close to the ‘powerhouse’ of the school was akin to an aphrodisiac for Colleen. Everyone watched her like a hawk. She wore her lust for power like a shimmering mantle. Some of the weaker-willed colleagues were drawn to her, just as moths are attracted to light. She treated her current favourites with care by inviting them to her flat for wine; changing their campus duties at will; and granting them opportunities to enter what had become the ‘inner circle’ of power – albeit at the fringes only.

To his credit, Evan never encouraged her advances. He openly showed devotion to his wife of several decades and treated his colleagues with an even hand. He laughed with the few mothers who dared mention that “Miss Halford tried to get too close” to their husbands. “Colleen?” He would pour another glass of wine and compliment the woman on her earrings, her hairdo, or even her daughter. “Colleen is harmless,” he would smile. “A little lonely perhaps, but she is excellent with the girls.”

Was she? In time the girls began talking about how embarrassing it was that Miss Halford flirted with their fathers. In time word got out that Mr X or Mr Y had paid for Colleen’s holiday to the Kruger National Park or to Mauritius. In time girls began to complain that some of their peers received more privileges than others and that it was no coincidence that they were the daughters of the fathers so generous with their wallets. “It’s unfair!” The chorus of ‘unfair’ swelled with the passing of each term.

Colleen ignored it. She looked forward to the contents of creamy envelopes containing tickets accompanied by the well-meant “Enjoy yourself this holiday” or “You deserve to relax after such a hard term” notes. She reflected on her trips to Kenyan farms, to private game reserves, and wondered where her next destination would be.

To be fair, if nothing came her way, Colleen wouldn’t complain. Instead, the new term would bring a more thin-lipped Colleen to the fore. A Colleen with a desire to impose iron discipline on the girls. A Colleen who would show everyone who was boss. It became well-known that she seemed to have deliberately set about to unravel all the good Colin had done in the Natural Sciences Department.

Colin was made of sterner stuff than she could imagine. The men had become immune to her charming charades – they knew better. The women ignored her. All remembered the pot plant that had appeared on Isabel’s desk the day after Colleen’s diary had narrowly missed her ear. There had been no note. Everyone in the department knew that this was about as close to an apology that Colleen could muster. The members of the Natural Sciences Department simply side-lined Colleen and demonstrated their loyalty to Colin.

Steven spent three weeks in Australia. Officially, he was attending an international schools’ conference. Unofficially, he and his music teacher wife were planning to spy out the land for a possible transplant. Colleen saw the gap and moved in. She could smell the second tier of power and her nostrils flared at the possibility of usurping Steven’s post. She dreamt about it at night. During the day she would offer to take up the slack by doing this or that – whatever Steven would have done she was happy to ‘sacrifice’ her time to complete. Colleen would be better than Steven. She would be the best. She would have real status and power!

We began receiving e-mails sent at around midnight or beyond: reminders about the security of examination papers; reminders about deadlines for report comments; reminders about mark entry deadlines. So many unnecessary e-mails filled our inboxes that anything from her was ignored. We all had Steven’s end-of-term schedule to work from anyway.

Colleen couldn’t hide her obvious enjoyment at being seated next to the Headmaster at our final staff meeting of the term. In the absence of Steven, she had offered to take the minutes. We watched her beam. We watched her sparkling eyes. We watched the smile that couldn’t be suppressed. We watched as she drew attention to her position by shifting closer to the Headmaster, by whispering in his ear, by shuffling papers and by playing with her pen.

We watched and we waited. We knew something that Colleen didn’t. She didn’t know what we knew because every grapevine has its limit. She didn’t know what we knew because she had taken to having her tea in the boarding house office whenever Evan was away, which had been often of late. Of course we never spoke about what we knew when he was in the staffroom, where she continued to sit as close to him as she decently could – always ready to laugh at or agree with whatever he had to say.

We knew because real power comes from having knowledge. Real power doesn’t come from belittling some people while favouring others. Real power does not necessarily come from trying to be superior. It comes from chatting to people, from exchanging opinions, from providing a helping hand, and from being the best person you can be. Real power comes from considering the information you have and where it comes from. Real power considers the impact it has on real people. Real power includes degrees of empathy, sympathy and respect.

Evan embodied all of that – he was that kind of person. He didn’t openly share the details of his wife’s terminal cancer, and when he did so reluctantly he didn’t seek sympathy. He didn’t expect anyone to compromise on his behalf. He grieved in private.

We waited.

Once the last item on the agenda had been dealt with, Evan rose to face us all crowded into the staffroom. He paused as he surveyed the room, cleared his throat and announced softly, “Allison is not going to get any better. Her family and our children live in Johannesburg.” Heads nodded. Several pairs of eyes in the packed room had become misty. “It is with regret,” Evan continued, his voice cracking, “that I announce my resignation with immediate effect. Steven will step in as Acting Head on his return and Isabel has agreed to take over his job until she goes on maternity leave at the end of next term. Allison and I have been extraordinarily happy here.” He was struggling to maintain his composure in the face of the absolute silence. “No fuss. No fuss. We need no fuss. Goodbye to you all from both of us.”

Is there such a phrase as ‘shocked pandemonium’? There should be, for that second of shock ended in a rush of emotion as people crowded around Evan, shook his hand, hugged him, or simply sobbed.

And Colleen? Our triumphant wait was in vain. So focused had we all been on Evan that none of us had noticed her slip away. It was Pauline, Evan’s PA, who told us the following morning of Colleen’s letter of resignation slipped under her door. It too was with immediate effect. We never saw her again.

WHAT ARE YOU RUNNING AWAY FROM?

“What are you running away from?” Jock’s brown eyes bore into mine. The hot engine smell of his 4 x 4 wafted over me along with diesel fumes and the scent of a man who spends most of his days working outdoors. His face looked grim.

“Nothing. I’m not ‘running away’ from anything.” I knew I sounded defiant even though I was gasping for breath. My hair was blowing about my face and my sun-reddened cheeks and dusty boots did not create an image of a calm, dedicated hiker. Besides, I carried no rucksack; no bag of any kind. It was just me in the middle of nowhere with the daylight fading quickly.

He nodded towards the passenger door. “Hop in.” Jock had already started the throaty engine. He glanced sideways at me but said nothing as we rocked our way over the twisting corrugated dirt road that wound down the other side of the hill I had staggered up earlier.

Jock remained silent and didn’t even look at me when I automatically got out to open and close the three farm gates we had to pass through to reach his home nestled among the grove of trees his great-grandfather had planted. If he even noticed me limping, he gave no sign of it. I could have worked those gate fastenings with my eyes shut, having regularly opened and closed them since I was a child.

I sat immobile when the engine fell silent. I was exhausted and was afraid I might burst into tears. Not in front of Jock, I told myself sternly while trying to force my breathing into a more regular rhythm. He left me sitting there without a word. I saw him greeting his dogs before walking across the yard to speak to his foreman, who had obviously just parked the tractor. Jimmy glanced briefly in my direction, clapped Jock on his shoulder and moved away. These were busy men at the end of what had obviously been a busy day. I leaned into the hard backrest of the truck seat, stretched my painful legs and closed my eyes. Even then I couldn’t soften the rigidity of my body. Every muscle felt painful.

“You need a shower. Even the dogs won’t come near you with that pong.” Jock opened the passenger door. His voice sounded harsh, yet I could see the kindness in his eyes. Jock has always been kind to me. Kind and impatient. He was impatient now.

“I haven’t got all day, Julie. The dogs need to be fed and I’ve got work to do.” He touched my arm gently and I gingerly eased myself out. I felt stiff and sore all over. Deep down I wished he would put his arm around me; hug me; or at least ask if I was okay. He didn’t.

“I’ve put a clean T-shirt and tracksuit pants on the spare bed. Don’t use all of the hot water!” I could detect a hint of teasing in his voice.

Of course the tracksuit pants were too long for me and they felt unwieldy after I’d rolled the bottoms up several times. My wet underwear was laid out on the windowsill where it would hopefully dry overnight. I left my jeans and soiled T-shirt heaped on the wooden chair next to the bed and practised breathing steadily. In and out, in and out I told myself as I padded barefoot down the long wooden passage lined with framed ancestors and other items depicting the long history of Eagle Ridge. Jock was the last Stevenson male in the family.

He was setting the bare wooden table when I entered the kitchen. “Wine?” He raised his eyebrows in expectation along with a bottle of red. I nodded, not yet trusting my voice.

“Cheers then.” Jock smiled tightly as we settled down to deep earthenware bowls filled with pasta and sauce. When had I last eaten? What had I eaten? I detected aubergines, tomatoes, garlic, bacon and a hint of ginger. Jock had always liked ginger.

I reached for my glass and gripped it tightly. “Cheers – and thank you.” I looked at him properly for the first time since he had met me on the hill. I’d been walking for several hours by then and never heard him driving up behind me. My ears still carried the shouts of abuse, my own screams and the rasping of my laboured breath. I tucked in hungrily, acutely aware of the sauce dribbling over my swollen lip and down my chin. I wiped it away with the back of my hand. Jock tilted his chair to reach a roll of paper towelling on the shelf behind him. He tore off a square and slid it along the table towards me.

“Do you want to talk about it?” His voice had softened.

“No.” I got up to refill my bowl from the cast iron pot on the stove. “Would you like some more?”

“I’ve had enough thanks.” Now his voice carried a grim undertone. I had become adept at recognising what lay underneath words.

I ate slowly, aware of him watching me intently. Did he see what I had seen in the bathroom mirror? I took a small sip of wine and willed away the well of tears. “Jock, I’m sorry. I should have struck out in a different direction. Perhaps I should have accepted the lifts I was offered while I was still on the road.”

“You’re far too proud to have done that.” His chuckle was genuine. “The story of you leaving school when you were six is legendary.”

I blushed. My family used to farm next door to his. I revelled in that environment which had been my world. When my parents explained that I would be going to boarding school in the nearest town I wouldn’t hear of it. I howled when the bright blue metal trunk was loaded into the back of the truck. I screamed when my mother unpacked my clothes into the narrow metal locker next to the narrow metal bed in a long, narrow dormitory filled with other snivelling girls looking on.

“I hate you!” I shouted at my mother when she bent down to give me a last hug and refused to go with her to say goodbye to my father waiting outside. “I hate him too!” I remember yelling at her before burying my head in the too-hard pillow.

I endured school for three days then disappeared. That lunchtime I followed a knot of daygirls out of the school gate and walked along the road leading away from the school. “Where is your mother?” A strange woman looked down at me from the window of her shiny car.

“I’m meeting her at the hairdresser. She’s expecting me.”

My father found me walking along the road on the outskirts of town, still clutching my little brown suitcase. My parents kept me at home for two days until the Sunday afternoon. Although I’d known him before, this was the first time I really ‘met’ Jock. We had shared a meal with the family at Eagle Ridge as my parents had offered to take Jock, who had been ill, back to the school hostel with me. He was three years ahead of me and was quite used to boarding school.

“It’s not all bad,” he told me quietly as we sat together in the back seat. “You mustn’t cry though or I cannot be your friend.”

I hadn’t cried and Jock has been my friend ever since.

My parents divorced while I was in my final year of school. I hated the fact that my mother had moved in with Leonard Fenn, the accountant who had overseen the farm finances, and refused to visit her until Jock, already in his final undergraduate year, invited me to their farm for the short holiday before my exams. During that time he persuaded me to invite my mother to the matric farewell dinner – without Leonard – as well as my father, who had not remarried. “You can do it Julie. I know you can.” I have always been determined to meet Jock’s challenges.

I had learned to ignore the girlfriends he brought home from university: they couldn’t drive a tractor, or shoot, or change a tyre, or fight a veld fire. I watched from a distance as they flirted and giggled, while they sipped wine and sat in the shade on the lawn in front of the farm house. Even when I happened upon Jock kissing a dark-haired girl called Olivia, I didn’t flinch. They could do whatever they liked because I knew that Jock would be my friend forever.

“Whatever happened to Olivia?” I was cradling a mug of hot tea while stretched out on the comfortable sofa in the old fashioned lounge. Jock had made very few changes since he had taken over running the farm.

“Who is Olivia?” He looked up from stroking his dog.

“The dark-haired girl I once saw you kissing in the shed. You both had straws of hay in your hair.” I smiled as much as my swollen, sunburnt lips would allow.

“She’s probably married with three children by now,” he answered indifferently. Then he put down his mug and sat next to me, lifting my feet onto his lap. I felt the warmth of his jeans and responded to him gently rubbing my aching foot with a groan of unexpected pleasure.

Jock deftly thumbed his way around my left foot, obligingly pressing the arch in the right places and then squeezed and pulled my toes until they hurt. I felt a tingling in my spine and lifted my right foot for its share of attention. His hands were large and strong. I closed my eyes, sipped the last of my tea and almost purred with pleasure. Then he stopped. Abruptly.

“Who made that bruise under your chin?”

I stiffened. The triangle of muscles between my shoulders and the base of my spine tightened in a painful contraction. “I probably bumped it. I stumbled a few times.”

“Funny how stumbling makes marks on your arms too,” he observed, still looking at me intently.

I stared at him over the rim of my mug, willing my dam of tears to dry before they spilled over. “You mustn’t cry though or I cannot be your friend.” Jock’s young voice and the earnest look he had given me that day was etched on my mind. He reached across and gently lifted the over-sized T-shirt that had ridden up from my waist. I became so rigid I thought my spine might snap and stared at him. Wide-eyed.

“I must take old Major out for a pee. Captain will probably jump all over you when he comes in.”

Now what? I tentatively felt the welts that had risen in bands, criss-crossing my back and my stomach. Jock was talking to his dogs on the veranda.

“Don’t hurt her Captain, she’s been hurt enough already. Gently now,” he was saying softly while he brought in the large cushions his dogs liked to sleep on. I heard the grandfather clock in the passage chiming ten. The sounds of Big Ben were both comfortingly familiar and alarming: I was keeping Jock up late. He’d probably been on the go since before sunrise.

I knew I wasn’t being fair. Jock had welcomed me home with a simple hug after my two-year self-exile abroad. My brother, several years older than me, had sold our farm that he had inherited, saying it was too much of a hassle and he preferred living in the city anyway. “I’m sorry we couldn’t afford to buy it,” Jock had whispered into my ear at the airport. “I’m glad you’ve come back.” I spent a month with him and his elderly parents until my teaching job in town began. Jock had already taken over running the farm by then.

“This is going to be a long night.” Jock passed me a wine glass filled with Amarula and ice. “You can’t keep running away Julie. Let’s face this thing together.” He sat down heavily in the chair opposite me. His face was drawn with weariness, but his eyes remained kind. His eyes were always kind when he looked at me.

I sipped at the thick, sweet liquid. Jock and I had explored every inch of their farm during our school holidays. We watched birds, tried to catch frogs, and once, he put a Brown House Snake down my back. It is the only time I witnessed his father hitting him.

Hit. Beat. Whip. Lash. I shuddered. “You once told me you couldn’t be my friend if I cried.”

“Did I? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry. Not even when your Dad died.”

“You were holding my hand so tightly then that I didn’t dare cry.” I choked on my drink and put the glass down on the small side-table next to the couch. There was a tennis ball in my throat.

“You okay?”

I nodded, again fearful of that dam overflowing. The icy droplets on the outside of the glass were a balm to my flaming cheeks. “What happened to Nolene? I thought at one stage that you had married her while I was away. That’s why I moved in with Dennis.”

“I couldn’t. She’s a lovely person but was always better suited to Preston. He’s a lawyer in Knysna now.”

I bit my lip and shuddered as a dry sob escaped. My pretend cough couldn’t hide it so I took a large swig of Amarula. Jock moved next to me again. “How did you know where to find me?” My voice was barely audible for it stuck around the furry tennis ball. He resumed gently stroking the top of my feet.

“Ever since I have known you, you’ve escaped to the furthest point from whatever has hurt you. That’s why you left the country when Basil put the farm on the market.” He pulled each of my big toes in turn.

“Why did you look for me?” The dam was filling faster than I could blink away the tears so I looked down at the drink I was cradling in my lap. My blurred vision conjured up the creamy layer that floated on the water when waves crashed on the rocks. I could hear the rush of waves in my ears. If I concentrated hard enough, the pounding waves drowned the shouts and the whistling sound of the belt as it caught me again and again. I held the stem of the glass so tightly I wondered if it might snap.

Jock gently prised my fingers away from it. His arm slipped around my shoulders, bringing me upright next to him. “Your mother phoned me. Dennis told her you had walked out on him during the night. When she called round this morning she saw your clothes and books lying in the garden.”

I could still feel the pain at the back of my head where my collected works of Shakespeare had connected. I didn’t know about the clothes.

“He must hate me,” I whispered, still not trusting my voice. I had been living with Dennis for eight months.

“He’s hurt you.” Jock slowly lifted his T-shirt over my head. I didn’t move as his eyes examined the welts and bruises. He touched a particularly large bruise on my side. That is where Dennis had kicked me. “Why?” Jock replaced the shirt and moved to sit slightly apart from me.

“He is manipulative. So kind and loving in public, but a bully behind closed doors. He told me you had married Nolene. He invited me to share his house when my flat lease wasn’t renewed. He pretended to love me but all he really wants is the money he assumes I got from the farm. He’s been pressuring me to marry him. It’s all because of this non-existent money. I told him yesterday that I was leaving and he got angry.” My bottom lip trembled dangerously. “You mustn’t cry though or I cannot be your friend,” I whispered, knocking back the drink. “I’ve always wanted you to be my friend.”

“Julie, I was only nine then!” Jock pulled me closer. I could smell his sweat-stained shirt along with dog hair and traces of soap on his hands. I felt his fingers gently caressing my arm. His lips touched my hair and I could feel his warm breath on my sunburnt scalp. “I was nine Julie. Is that why you try so hard not to cry?” He drew me closer until I rested my head on his chest and sobbed. Deep sobs that bubbled up from the pit of my stomach. Wracking sobs that tore at my throat. Sniffling sobs that wet his shirt and dribbled down my cheeks.

Jock passed me a handkerchief. He is the only man I know who still uses handkerchiefs. I dabbed my eyes but the floodgates had opened; nothing could stem the flow. I blew my nose noisily and sobbed some more. All this time, Jock held me close and stroked my arm, slowly and rhythmically, up and down, up and down. He lifted my chin at last and looked at my tear-ravaged face. “You look awful,” he smiled. “Splash your face while I boil the kettle.”

“She’s fine, Sarah. There’s no need to come.” I heard Jock talking to my mother. “It’s only fair that she knows,” he explained on my return.

He led me to the spare room, moving my crumpled clothes from the chair to the floor. He propped two pillows behind me then left to fetch the mugs of hot chocolate. I was shivering in spite of the creeping warmth of the duvet. My teeth chattered and my hands shook involuntarily. I held the mug with both hands as he brought the chair next to my bed.

“Why did you head this way?” His voice was gentle.

“I’m tired of pretending that all is well. I was frightened and I knew Dennis wouldn’t think to look for me in the veld. I didn’t really think. I just wanted to come home.”

Jock took my hand and kissed it. “It’s taken you a long time.” I felt warm. The muscles between my shoulders began to ease as he leaned forward to kiss my cheek. “Welcome home, Julie.”