Milla, Kamilla, I’ve never yet wondered about it myself.
It’s the name of a white flower my mother gave to me, I said for want of a better answer. She looks at me as if she doesn’t believe me. Little children like you shouldn’t be bothering their heads with such difficult questions, I say, but I can see she’s not satisfied.
My neck is sore, she complains when I blow out her candle. That’s from pulling your neck in between your shoulders in front of the pulpit, just like a donkey that doesn’t want to be yoked, I say, and I thought I’d seize the opportunity, see, that’s what I mean by sinful, you were very jibbing there in front of the pulpit. That Uncle Tokoloshe’s hand was heavy on my head, she says, and Même’s hand was pushing into my neck. Lord, the child, she’s very precocious.
2 October 1954
Drove to Malgas today with Agaat. Wanted to cross the Breede River by punt, but she refused. Punt, she says over and over, she does it with every new word that she learns. Punt, shunt, cunt, I had to put a stop to it, she’s getting far too forward, but I taught her to rhyme myself and there I have it now! I’ll scrub down your tongue with Sunlight soap, I warn. Really not a good tendency these word games at any time, suitable or not. In the end just shut my eyes and sat with the screaming child in the car till they’d hauled us across. Then went through to Witsand. Rainy there. Picked up shells, pebbles. Taught her all the colours of the sea and the beach. Mother-of-pearl lustre, slate-grey, silver-grey, gull-white, mussel-black, stone-grey. Agaat holds everything against her skin and then against mine. White looks whiter against my skin and grey greyer, she announces solemnly. Just like that. The river mouth lagoon was stormy with waves. Later went to sit by the fire in the hotel to dry out. Fortunately no people in the middle of the week, otherwise she would have had to stay in the car. Can see trouble ahead in public places, but she’s still a child. They brought her hot milk in a tin mug.
5 October
I’m getting Agaat used to her role in the house. Put an apple box in front of the sink so that she can reach. Now washes the coffee cups every morning for me. Already quite adroit with the weak hand, inborn carefulness it seems. I indulge her by letting her wash Jak’s socks and handkerchiefs and underpants in the tub in the backyard. She doesn’t want one to look when she’s working with both hands. Sleeve of weak hand always dirty and wet, she doesn’t want me to roll up that side.
9 October 1954
First reading and writing lesson. Using the Biblical ABC, two birds with one stone, went to unearth old alphabet chart in cellar with which Ma still taught me.
A is for Adam, every animal gets a name.
Then Eve his companion to Paradise came.
B is for Babel, a tower they built.
Confusion of tongues the wages of guilt.
C is for Christ, our Redeemer and Lord:
To Him we must listen, His favour afford.
She holds the pencil in the left hand just like the knife. Still shy of the weak hand, keeps it out of the way, hides it more if one looks. I say, Agaat, the Lord made you like that, you needn’t be ashamed.
10 October
Why do my pebbles and shells go grey? asks Agaat, my tongue is tired with licking them. We put them in a glass bottle next to her bed to look pretty again. Water is to shells what love is to the soul of people, I say. Without love the soul turns grey as ash, and dry and cold. I’m brown as mud and my mouth is full of spit, says Agaat. She licks her forearm and shows me. She tucks her hands under her armpits. Loaves in the oven, she says, warm as warm, feel. Becoming really sharp, the little child.
Phoned Ma to tell her how well we’re getting on, full of insinuations as always: Pleased you have something to warm yourself with, my child.
13 October
To the forest with Agaat. Quite high up in the indigenous bush. Told her about the giant emperor butterfly that’s black on the outside and inside blue like an eye when it spreads its wings. The jewel of the forest. Apatura iris. The eye that guards the secret of the soul. Only good people get to see it. Has Même seen it yet? asks Agaat. She looks at me like that, I can’t lie. I hope to see it in my lifetime, I say. We can come every day, she says, how many days are a lifetime? If we find it, then we catch it and put it in a bottle and then it can’t escape, she says. Cruel little grin. Where does it come from? I mustn’t forget that this child led a different life before I found her. No, I tell her, a butterfly is like the soul of a person, it dries out in captivity. Where do the bats live? she asks.
14 October 1954
We now read and write every day. She’s making remarkably quick progress. We count sums on our fingers and toes. Agaat leaves her weak hand out of the count. I give my hand in its place, I turn the page and rub out her wrong-way-round threes and fives when she’s struggling, she keeps one hand under the table.
Together we make up a whole person with two strong hands, I say. Am I your child? asks Agaat. You’re my little monkey, I say. We learn the wind directions and the names of the months and the seasons of the year and its festivals and what they stand for. In this way I feed her a bit of (religious) history. Good Friday, Easter Monday, Van Riebeeck Day, Day of the Covenant. I found you on the Day of the Covenant, do you remember? I ask. That shows that it’s all in the Lord’s plan. She just looks at me wide-eyed.
15 October
Our herbs that we planted are growing lush and beautiful. Agaat picks slips of everything and tastes everything, chews the seeds. Knows all the names, parsley, celery. Fennel still her favourite. Fennel and coriander, I say, the one is like the other. Isn’t, she says, the one is for liquorice, the other is for dried sausage. She’s very perceptive, has an amazing memory, not to be wondered at I suppose, she gets so much attention, I repeat everything until it’s penetrated, a child must be drilled, is what I’ve always believed.
16 October
Gave Saar such a dressing-down this morning. Agaat busy in the backyard washing Jak’s underpants and handkerchiefs and socks in the zinc tub. I hear Saar mocking: You must rub, little girl, you must rub! His snot’s thick and his feet stink and his snake spits such big gobs. The kitchen maids are jealous of Agaat. They’re full of gibes. Won’t allow them to come and spoil all my hard work here.
18 October
Had to intervene today. Saar’s children taunting Agaat in the backyard. Whose child are you can I have one too! So then they grab all the washing she’s done already, throw it into the dust. She does nothing, just juts out the chin. Funny, Agaat doesn’t cry, have never seen her cry no matter what happens. Don’t take any notice of them, I say, they’re not your sort.