She caught glimpses of Alistair helping his father cook eggs and bacon. He didn’t look her way, even when Neil raised his spatula in a big wave across the lawn.
Hannah waved in return, a smile on her face for Neil, though her thoughts had clouded over. Bloody Alistair.
Her irritation was arrested by Douglas’s voice over the sound system, ‘And now, a song for the new girl in town. For Hannah Harrison.’
Hannah’s head jerked up, and a flush spread rapidly up her neck as his clear, mellow voice began a reggae song in her honour.
A deep belly laugh erupted from Moses, and he clapped his hand onto Hannah’s shoulder. ‘What do you think of our priest? He’s a blast of fresh air for this town.’
‘He’s a blast, all right,’ muttered Hannah, holding her hands to her hot cheeks.
The end of the song brought scattered applause and whistling for Douglas, who bowed dramatically, and then blew a cheeky kiss towards Hannah and another to Kathryn, who stood watching him with her arms folded and good-humoured exasperation on her face.
Hannah turned back to her books, but not before she caught a glimpse of Alistair Barlow. He was watching her, a frown darkening his face before he quickly composed himself to face his mother holding a roll for him to fill with egg and bacon.
By early afternoon, the fête had wrapped up. Hannah and Moses packed up their stall, pleased with themselves. Huge reductions and special deals towards the end of the day had cleared the books. Amused patrons had walked away with their arms full for a few rands. When a group of men arrived to take down the gazebo and move the tables back into the hall, Hannah wandered out through the gate to stand on the pavement.
The Dutch Reformed church stood over the road, an imposing building compared to the little Anglican church. Hannah slipped through the gate into the grounds. Here, a large cemetery filled most of the property and Hannah strolled among the gravestones, glancing at the inscriptions with interest. A thought occurred to her and she moved to the older part of the cemetery, where the headstones leant over and the engravings became less clear. She walked along the lines of graves until she stopped in front of three graves lying alongside one another. The first was the newest, and the headstone was carved in the shape of an open Bible. One side read, Daniel Stephanus Badenhorst, 1910–1961, beloved husband, the other side, Maria Jacoba Badenhorst, 1915–1965, beloved wife. The second and oldest headstone was a simple weathered stone marker, and Hannah had to bend low and trace the letters to be sure of the name, Danie Petrus Badenhorst, 1855–1920. The last headstone was an ageing marble cross set on a plinth with Corlie Johanna Marietjie Badenhorst 1882–1939 engraved on the horizontal bar of the cross. Below, on the plinth, was another name, Wolf Daniel Badenhorst, 1885–1943.
Hannah’s heart tripped at the sight of that name. Wolf. She quickly searched the rest of the cemetery but could find no other Badenhorsts and then, thinking that Rachel might have married and changed her name, she checked again for any graves marked Rachel, but there were none. Her mind filled with questions: Was it just coincidence that there was a Wolf Badenhorst buried here? Coincidence that his dates set him perfectly in the frame of the South African War? This Wolf would have been fifteen years old at the outbreak of war, and Hannah knew that boys much younger rode with the commandos, though perhaps unofficially. But if this was Rachel’s Wolf, where were the others whom she wrote about? Where were little Lizzie and Oupa Jakob and wild Kristina? And where was Rachel?
Hannah wandered back towards the gate and, as she came around the corner of the church, she nearly bumped into a large, older man unlocking the church door.
‘Ekskuus,’ he said, smiling, a grasp on her arm to keep her from over-balancing before he let go quickly. ‘Kan ek help?’
Hannah replied in Afrikaans. ‘I was looking in the cemetery, and I was wondering if the church keeps records of births and deaths?’
The man looked quizzically at Hannah. ‘We have the registers in the vestry – are you looking for something in particular?’
‘I can come back when it suits you, though. I don’t want to trouble you.’
He smiled, his eyes behind spectacles crinkling in the corners. ‘I’m waiting for the flower lady to bring the arrangements for tomorrow’s services. Now is good, actually. My name is Morné,’ he said, holding out his enormous hand for Hannah to shake. His grip was firm and dry.
He led Hannah through the dim, quiet church. Tall stained-glass windows reached for the roof, casting soft patterns of glass onto the carpet. At the front of the church was a door to the left, and Hannah stepped into a room crammed with odd things. Flower vases competed for space with a wooden crib, straw spilling through the slats onto the carpet. A tall cupboard filled one wall and, when Morné opened it, Hannah caught a glimpse of silver jugs and chalices. Hannah, who had only been in church a few times to attend the weddings of friends, now found herself intrigued at the paraphernalia stuffed into this little room. From one shelf, Morné drew out three thick, bound registers, and set them on a table. ‘Take your time. I’ll be in the church. Call me if you need anything.’
Hannah settled down at a table and opened all three registers until she found the oldest one, whose dates were closest to the time period she was looking for. The first entry began in 1903, and she scanned through the entries until she came to the marriage of Wolf Badenhorst and Corlie du Plessis in 1909. In the entries of the following year, she found the birth of their son, Daniel, and then three more children over the next few years. In the next register, Hannah found the entry of Daniel’s marriage to Maria Brandt in 1934; they had their first daughter, Gisela, that same year. Like in the graveyard, Hannah could find no earlier references to other Badenhorsts, no earlier marriages of other daughters, and no deaths, apart from those she had seen in the cemetery.
Before she could open the third register, Morné had stuck his head into the room and smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry to interrupt, the flowers have arrived.’
‘I think I’m done too,’ Hannah said, stretching her arms above her head. She glanced at her watch and was startled to see she had been hunched over the registers for an hour.
‘Find what you were looking for?’
‘Not really.’ Hannah closed the books and handed them to Morné, who slid them back into the cupboard. She watched him thoughtfully. ‘What happened to the farming families around here during the South African War? Were the locals affected much?’
‘Oh yes,’ he said, his back to her as he locked the cupboard, ‘very much so. Most were on commando or sent to the camps. My impression is that the farms were abandoned. It took years for them to be resettled. And some families never returned.’ He stood back for Hannah to precede him through the door into the church before he pulled it closed behind him. ‘My great-grandfather was sent to Ceylon as a prisoner of war. He never went back to the family farm near Bethulie. Settled in Bloemfontein after the war, where there was work.’
As they walked back through the quiet church, Hannah breathed in the strong scent of lilies from an enormous arrangement on a pedestal. ‘Did anyone from this area resettle here?’
Morné opened the church door for her and came out behind her. ‘I’ve been here for twenty years and have never found out much about those days. The old folks are long gone, and the younger generation’s not so interested, especially since 1994. Who wants to dig up that old Afrikaner stuff?’ He locked the church door and stood with Hannah on the pavement. ‘The one family I know of who has stuck it out since those days are the De Jagers on Silwerfontein.’ Hannah tried to keep her face neutral, her heart tripping at the name of Rachel’s farm. It hadn’t occurred to her to pursue Silwerfontein. She had been so caught up with Goshen. Morné went on, oblivious to her struggle to keep her composure. ‘Karl de Jager’s father married the Badenhorst girl and took over her family farm.’