My point exactly, you said. My mother still has an old five-pound note of theirs. A kind of bank they were, you remember. ‘Here for you, Barry and Co.’ is written on it. So much so that when the whole lot went under just about everything ground to a halt from Port Beaufort, the whole Heidelberg plain, the whole Overberg from Caledon to Riversdal and over the mountain all the way to Worcester.
Well yes, in these days I suppose one has to say Fertilise or button your flies. That was the contribution of one of the sallow Dieners of Vreugdevol.
The roar that arose drew more people to the table.
What’s going on here? We also want to hear! What’s the joke?
Jak was uncomfortable. He tried, but he couldn’t get up because people were crowding around the table. He fumbled with his bow tie, took large gulps from his glass.
Ask Milla de Wet! one called out, she started it. Ask Jak, looks like she’s got him under her thumb!
You were angry, but your secret of the day made you impetuous. Jak would just have to look after himself for once, you thought.
Look at the condition of the soil, you said. Thinner and poorer by the year. Just look at the dust when the wind blows before sowing-time, look how it erodes in winter. From sowing wheat all the time. From greed. And from worry. Because the bought-on-credit fertiliser still has to be paid off. And the Land Bank is squeezing.
That’s right! Round and round on the merry-go-round all the way into the ground!
That was Dirk du Toit, who’d bought Jak’s land.
Tell them, Dirk, I called, tell them what happened to you, you see they don’t want to believe me.
Dirk made a cutting motion across his throat.
Yes, I owed them. Then they forced me to sell all my wheat to them, at cost. Their idea is, it’s our fertiliser, so it’s our wheat. Then they sell it again, then they keep the profit.
Everybody started talking at the same time. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Adriaan, one of the Meyers brothers, owners of the fertiliser company, surveying the palaver, a parsimonious little smile round the corners of his mouth.
You tapped on your glass with your knife.
Listen, you said, that’s not all, the real point is this. .
Aitsa! the little four-share plough of Grootmoedersdrift! Now she’s going for the middle furrow!
It was Gawie Tredoux of Vleitjies. He was United Party by birth and a Freemason and he liked you. He passed along a glass of dessert wine to you. You lifted it in his direction and took a sip, put your finger in front of your lips, indicated that you couldn’t drink too much. Oh come on, he gesticulated back and took a big gulp from his own glass. You put your hand on your stomach. So? he signalled with his eyebrows. Really? You nodded. He raised his glass high: Congratulations! Jak intercepted the exchange. You smiled sweetly at him before speaking again.
The real point is: The Overberg is the bread basket of the whole country. Remember: Good wheat and good bread, and the nation’s well fed.
She’s a poet and she doesn’t know it! somebody shouted and rapped on the table.
Jak looked away.
You knew of one more supporter at the table, the new young extension officer, Kosie Greeff. The little chap glanced around somewhat anxiously when he saw that you wanted to say something. His wife looked at the glass in your hand. Beatrice as well, all the women at the table thought that when a woman opened her mouth like that in male company it had to be because she was tipsy. You’re welcome to look as much as you like, you thought to yourself and smiled at Beatrice.
It was young Greeff who’d convinced you of the new rotational system. He was having an uphill battle in the region. Now he was red in the face because it was his area of expertise that had cropped up in discussion.
Mrs de Wet is right, he said, and what’s more, gentlemen, the soil problem in the hill country is a bigger problem than the so-called colour problem.
I agree, you exclaimed. You were in full flow now, you could hear you were preaching, but you kept at it.
You can’t take more out of the soil than you put into it, you said. And here we are now, a little group of people at the southern tip of Africa in the process of totally destroying this national asset within the space of a few decades. All the fertiliser crops may make you rich, but it’s not a long-term investment in the soil. Fallow is the answer. It’s a tradition born of respect for nature. In a state of pseudo-death you restore your substance. Even a frog knows that.
Hear hear! the people shouted.
Froggy went a-courting and he did ride, red-faced Flippie sang with a suggestive fillip to his voice.
A commotion erupted.
Beatrice looked at you dumbfounded.
Milla, please, stop, you’re making a fool of yourself, Jak said under his breath, his voice hoarse with irritation.
Give her a chance, chaps, Gawie shouted, such an opportunity you won’t get again soon!
You fixed their eyes as you spoke.
It’s the rhythms of nature that you have to respect as the Creator determined them. That’s what agriculture should be based on. This new greed is barbaric, it’s a form of sacrilege.
And then a thought came up in you and you said it before you thought about it. Perhaps the sips of wine together with your exhilaration had gone to your head.
If a farmer clears and levels his land year after year it’s as good as beating his wife every night. In a manner of speaking, you added, but the words were out and they had been spoken.
You saw Beatrice gasping for breath and putting her hand in front of her mouth.
A heavy silence descended.
Gawie came to your rescue.
Food for thought, chaps, definitely food for thought, let’s hear what Thys wants to say, he looks as if he’s going to burst a blood vessel if he’s not given a turn.
Now it’s enough, Jak hissed, now we’re leaving, you and I.
At the door Gawie greeted the two of you. You he kissed on the cheek and pressed your shoulder.
Congratulations, Jak old friend, you married a first-rate wife, look after her well.
He shook Jak’s hand emphatically, but Jak didn’t know what it was all about. He released his hand quickly.
He got into the car and slammed his door without opening the door for you. Of that he normally made a big show in front of other people.
It was rally-driving all the way home.
Good God, you, Jak swore, think you know everything!
At home he staggered out of the car and urinated against the first tree. He swayed on his legs, he was so drunk.
Your mouth is too big! he shouted as he entered the front door.
You went to your room, heard him pour himself a whisky from the carafe in the sitting room. He came to look for you in the bedroom, came to stand in the doorway, and glared at you.
Jak, I have something to tell you, you said.
So, and what could that be? That you have something on the go with Tredoux?
Jak, he’s our friend, he was just congratulating you.
And on what, may I ask? On your speech? What gives you the idea that you can sit and preach to farmers on how to cultivate their lands?
What must they think of me? You and your mother, you’re tarts of one crust, you think you know it all. How am I supposed to show my face ever again at the fertiliser company?
Jak, I said, I can’t help your feeling like that.
Come here, you said to soothe him.
He stood in the middle of the room plucking at his clothes.
And that soil is like a woman whose husband beats her! What kind of crap is that, I ask you? You’re looking for it, you know it, you’re looking for me and you’ll look for me till you find me!
Yes baas, you said to him.
He wasn’t used to that. You stared into the slap without ducking, straight into his eyes.
Jak, you can’t do that to me any more, you said.