I read the papers, yes, I hear what they say.
Yes, Jakkie, don’t cry, come, hush, hush, don’t cry any more, I know it’s hard, I understand, you’re angry.
No, I won’t and I don’t want to.
It’s not my place, that’s why.
No, that’s not true, I do have a place.
No, Jakkie, don’t carry on like that. So what do you want me to do then?
I’ll never leave her alone. She needs me. I have an obligation.
Are you starting that again? You came along and found me here when you came to your senses and that’s that.
No, I don’t want to.
Where would I have to go? Who would want me. . as. . as I am?
No, Boetie, you know that’s not what I’m talking about.
No, Boetie, not yet now, perhaps one day. When I’m old one day, when I’m grey.
I will, I promise. Everything I’ll tell you, one day.
No, Jakkie, that’s right, you must do as your heart tells you to.
I’ll take care, whatever happens. You know I will.
Well, they take care of me too. I’d honestly not be suited to any other place. I don’t have a choice.
Then that’s the way it is.
So then they have only me. It’s better than nothing. And so then I only have them. That’s also better than nothing.
Yes, you will be happy, of course you will.
Don’t say never, Jakkie, that girl was just not your sort, that’s all.
No, I know, the young fellows too, unpolished as your mother would say, whoever would want to eat sheep’s head and drink vaaljapie with them?
No, you’ll find someone, you’re such a handsome chap, and so learned, a chip off the old block.
Yes I will. I always think of you. I pray for you.
No, Jakkie, you mustn’t talk like that.
No, go and read your Bible like a good boy. To every thing there’s a season, a time to stay and a time to go. In Ecclesiastes, you go and read it, it will comfort you.
Do you still have your bookmark?
The one I sent with your mother when you got your medal? In a white envelope?
Oh well, then I don’t know, I’ll just have to make you another.
If I was there? No, but they told me it was a very swanky affair, only your mother’s new shoes hurt her.
No, I’ll ask her about the bookmark. You must bring along your cross of honour so that I can see it, your father says it’s eighteen carat gold.
Then you could stand it no longer. You emerged from behind the door.
Agaat held the receiver away from her ear, glared at you.
You wanted to take the receiver from her hand. Without a goodbye she got up off the stool and smoothed her apron. You grabbed at the telephone in her hand. Agaat let go, the receiver swung against the wall. When you got hold of it at last, there was only a dialling tone.
You followed her to the kitchen, grabbed her by the front of her dress and shook her back and forth.
Who are you? How many thousands of devils are you? For what do you pretend to be a holy angel of light? Dear, good Agaat of Grootmoedersdrift who doesn’t grumble and doesn’t grouse no matter what! Who’ll take care, who knows her place, who doesn’t interfere! Who’s only too grateful! Who’s so very religious! Who are you trying to bamboozle? You’re a Satan! It’s my child! Mine! Mine! Do you hear me! So why don’t you just tell him what’s happening here? Or do you want to entice him away further and further? With your milksop of mealy-mouthed flattery? Is that your plan? He knows you’re lying! He knows! He knows! You think up a different story for each of us here according to your convenience. Witch! You’re a witch and you’re witching us here! If I’d only known, if I could only have known what I was doing that day when I took you in here. A curse you are. I hate you.
You struck her through the face. You remember your hands plucking at the collar of the uniform, a button popping, your fists hammering, on her breast, on her shoulders.
She stood stock-still absorbing the blows without moving a muscle, without retreating by a single step, without any retort.
Until you lowered your hands and averted your face.
You sank into a chair, with your head on your hands on the kitchen table. A whimpering came from you. You couldn’t stop moaning. Vaguely you were aware of movements, a kettle being filled, cups rattling, water starting to boil.
There was only the sound of rubber soles on the linoleum, then the smell of tea before your nose. You lifted your head. Agaat’s strong hand was adding sugar to the cup. One, two, and a little bit more. With great assurance. Sweeter than you ever took it. She stirred it. There was something specific about the stirring. It wasn’t impatient and it wasn’t fast. It was businesslike. It was reassuring. Did that signify peace? The teaspoon was back in the saucer.
Then, from the fingertips of the small hand, two disprins.
And then she was out by the back door.
There was a rumbling in the yard of the lorry delivering the marquee tent and the clanking of poles and ropes and pegs being unloaded.
And amongst the male voices, Agaat’s voice issuing orders:
Put it here! Here! Put it up, there!
Her voice warning. Not through my flowerbeds! Careful with the little trees, their tips! It’s their growth points! If you injure one of them!
Her voice threatening: That one, he’ll get the horsewhip!
You were shaky for days after the falling-out. Migraine, a pressure on the chest, a muscle twitching in your eye.
Agaat carried peppermint extracts to your darkened bedroom, cloths with mustard for your headache, eucalyptus extract for steaming over a bowl of boiling water.
For days after the incident she herself looked a shade greyer of face. Her cap was wilted as if she’d lost her knack with the starching and the ironing.
It would be fatal not to seek reconciliation. And you were the one most deeply in the wrong, you had most to be forgiven for.
She had you exactly where she wanted you.
She desired more than just a functional settlement, she wanted you just right for the feast. Cheerful, gentle. For Jakkie’s sake she wanted it. For the neighbours and the community. She wanted to keep her household together, and you had to help her with it.
And she wanted it, in spite of years of training in dissembling, and for the sake of a good farewell, all candid and sincere as well. For that not one of you was equipped.
She knew it very well, even though all her preparations proceeded according to plan. A grimace of chill chagrin was around her mouth, her crooked shoulder was skewer and sharper as she bustled about.
You couldn’t help her. How were the two of you to break through it? Table settings, words of welcome, pluming fountains, the prescribed dishes carried in steaming at the prescribed hour. That was the order of Grootmoedersdrift, the tradition, an annual institution, the swank party for Jakkie, the only child, the heir, the eternal to-do about him.
You took no initiative. You surrendered yourself to Agaat’s ministrations, also to her attempts at reconciliation if that was what one could call them: The passing of an object marginally closer than was necessary, the less formal tone, the stray remarks on the weather that she slipped in, the rose in the vase on the dining table in the evenings, the extra trouble she took with your and Jak’s food and clothes.
Give me your party dresses, Ounooi, Agaat would say after lunch, let me go through them a bit for you, there won’t be time at the last minute. Her tone was strict, but in her eyes there was something pleading.
Two days later all the dresses with seams and hems taken in or let out as necessary and buttons and zippers sewn on, washed and ironed and fragrantly arrayed in your wardrobe. And all you could say was: Thank you, Gaat, I never seem to get round to it myself.