‘Okay,’ said Alistair.
‘Oh,’ she said, caught on the back foot now as she scrambled for words. ‘I thought you would say no. I thought you hated the sight of me.’
Hannah glimpsed the hint of a grin at the corner of his mouth. The bastard’s enjoying this, she thought, clenching her fists at her sides.
Alistair turned and reached for his keys just inside the door. ‘I changed my mind.’ He brushed past her as he headed for his pickup and she had to trot behind him to keep up, wondering as she went whether he had changed his mind about saying no or about hating her.
Instead of going back down the drive towards the farm road, Alistair drove past the sheds. He continued on to a track that wound up around the hill behind the house. They drove in silence. Hannah opened her window. In the wing mirror, she could see the dogs’ heads pushed through the railings of the pickup, their tongues lolling and nostrils flaring as they tracked the farm smells. ‘What are your dogs’ names?’ she said, keeping her eyes on the mirror.
She felt him glance her way before he said, ‘The ridgeback is Grant, and the Labs are Lee and Jackson.’
‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a Confederate supporter.’
‘No, not at all,’ he said, his mouth twisting into a small smile. ‘Just a military history fan. They were outstanding generals.’
As they climbed higher, the grassland opened up into swathes of red-brown grass. A small herd of blesbok grazed down the slope. They turned their broad, white faces to the vehicle, the largest snorting and moving back a few paces. As he saw the Toyota moving away from them, the big male relaxed and dipped his head once more to the grass.
They reached the fence and slowed to a stop. Hannah was already scrambling out to open the gate and enjoyed the surprise on Alistair’s face. Yes, Harry, you think you know what kind of girl I am. You don’t. But she had to use all her strength and stand on tiptoes to pull the wire loop over the top of the pole. She could feel her skirt riding up the back of her thighs and hoped he was looking the other way. Once she’d pulled the wire gate across and dropped it in the grass, she stood with her hands on her hips, her hair escaping from the plait into wisps around her face as she waited for him to drive through.
He leant across and spoke through the passenger window, ‘Leave it, we can close it on the way back.’
She caught him glancing at her exposed leg as she swung into the cab and she pulled her skirt as far down her knees as she could. The truck jerked as he fumbled the gears and he swore, his hand smacking the gear stick into place. Had he always been this angry, she wondered, or was his bitterness connected to his scarred face? It was not something she could ask without risking her life.
‘Do you feel lucky, Punk?’
‘Excuse me?’ said Alistair, glancing across at her.
Hannah blinked, realising she had spoken aloud. ‘Nothing.’ She slid down a bit in the seat, fixing her gaze on the view from the window.
They crested the top of the hill. A plateau stretched before them. A wind pump stood next to a concrete reservoir, its blades turning gently in the mild breeze which stirred the grass into a whisper. The sun was high and the sky, a rich cobalt blue. The dogs had leapt off the back of the Toyota and now ranged around the vehicle, not venturing far.
‘There’s really not much to see.’ Alistair was leaning on the bonnet of the Toyota, watching Hannah. She walked the few paces over to the reservoir and peered over the top into the pool of water. Trailing her hand in the water, she disturbed the surface into ripples that fanned across the pool. The water was cool – deep and inviting. She tilted her head upwards to a line of old gum trees that stretched away across the plateau. The ground beneath them was bare and knobbled with roots, their trunks striped in pale ribbons of grey and pink and orange.
Alistair’s voice reached her from the pickup. ‘I always wonder who planted such a straight line. It’s a windbreak, but why here and not at the house?’
Hannah turned to face him. ‘It was the kids.’
He straightened, the shock on his face stark. ‘What?’
‘The camp children planted these trees. I read about it.’
His eyes darkened. ‘Where are you reading this stuff? Where are you getting these crazy ideas?’
Hannah turned her head to look at him, her face serious. ‘I found a journal in the shop, written by a Boer woman. A girl actually. She writes that she was interned at a camp called Goshen. The writing is so vivid, Alistair. The problem is I can’t find any official record of the camp. No mention of it in any book or online document I have managed to lay my hands on. It’s so frustrating! And then Kobie tells me these creepy stories about seeing women up here and smelling raw sewage and hearing keening on the wind. I just want to unravel the threads and find some truth at the bottom of it all.’
Alistair’s mind rushed and tumbled. How could this be true when he had lived here all his life and never heard any mention of it? He had long been interested in the war history of the area and was well read. He knew the set piece battles by heart, had visited the sites many times. He had picked up shell casings and bits of saddlery in the veld, keeping his small collection in a drawer in his study. What if this mad story were true? What if his own farm were part of the history he loved so much? The spark of excitement was snuffed by the thought of the people who would come to the farm, the attention that would turn again to him. And they would come – there was no doubt. Hannah was already here, and that was bad enough. He glanced across at her, her gaze fixed on the stand of trees. It would mean spending more time with her, having her walking in his fields, riding in his pickup, and coming into his house. His heart contracted and fear won over.
He didn’t like the words as they came out his mouth: ‘It’s a waste of time.’
Hannah’s face fell and she turned searching green eyes on him, the disappointment clear. ‘You don’t believe me.’
Alistair kicked the heel of one boot rhythmically against the tyre behind him. Looking down at his feet, he remained quiet.
‘What about Kobie’s stories then?’ Hannah persisted, turning her body to face him. ‘Do you think he’s lying too?’
‘I don’t think either of you are lying. I just think you’ve got hold of stories. Fiction. Folktales. You said yourself there are no facts to back them up.’ He looked up at her and he felt like the liar. Once, he would have been open to any adventure, been up to exploring any possibility. Now it was too threatening. She was too threatening.
Hannah said nothing on the return journey, and Alistair felt guilt curdle in his stomach, preferring the sparky, angry girl to this composed, quiet one. When they rolled to a stop in the farmyard, she opened the door and, with a tight smile that didn’t light her eyes, she said, ‘Thank you for taking me up there, Alistair. I’m sorry I wasted your time.’ Before he could respond, she had disappeared around the side of the house to where her car was parked.
Alistair slammed his door hard. Bloody woman. He hardly knew her; why should he be feeling guilty? The image returned to him of Hannah standing at the gate, hands on her hips, escaped hair soft around her face and slim legs bare, with ridiculous flip-flops. Who wears flip-flops in the Free State? What disturbed him most, though, was that, far from looking out of place, Hannah had looked alarmingly at home. What he actually wanted was to see her here again. For the first time in eight long, dark years, Alistair recognised this feeling. He was attracted to her. He pushed the thought away, telling himself he wasn’t ready – maybe would never be ready for another relationship again. He opened the tailgate for the dogs to jump down and Grant, instead of leaping off, put his big head on Alistair’s shoulder. Just rested it there. Alistair stroked both hands down Grant’s head and ears, taking comfort from the dog’s huge heart.