I bent my head over the paper and wrote down the requests, objections or admonitions without considering what I was writing: the scratching sound of the quill pen, the men around the table in a haze of tobacco smoke, and their monotonous arguing voices interspersed with sudden outbursts of anger or indignation, “in order that they, the undersigned members of this congregation, want to make their wishes known to the designated authorities, in accordance with their humble request …” It was not only here in the Roggeveld that the establishment of a congregation was being considered, for during this time many changes were taking place in these parts, as I discovered from the men’s conversations where I sat in the voorhuis, waiting to be told what to write. In the Bokkeveld, as well as the Hantam and the Nuweveld, towns were being founded, there was mention of churches being built, ministers being called and church councillors elected. Around us new congregations came into being and the boundaries of the old ones shifted; magistrates and schools and such matters came under discussion, hitherto no more than strange, distant phenomena to us, connected with Worcester and the Boland, on the outskirts of the world we knew. When I got up and withdrew from the voorhuis, I soon forgot all about these matters, however, just as I forgot about the letters or petitions I had drawn up, for these were the men’s affairs and did not concern me.
I still taught Maans, but he was beginning to grow up and did not spend all his time with me like before. He often rode out to the sheep; at first Coenraad took him on his horse, but then he learned to ride and Father gave him his own horse, ordered from the Hantam. He was given more and more duties on the farm and, after he had been my responsibility for so many years, I lost him again, the baby I had held on my lap when I arose from my long sickbed. The beams had collapsed, the thatch had mouldered, and nothing remained. Sometimes the house seemed very big and quiet and empty as we lived together in silence, Mother and Dulsie in the kitchen and Father in his armchair in the voorhuis: when I had nothing to do, I would sit close to him with some item of sewing, but it would soon slip from my clumsy fingers and I would just sit there, not moving or having the least desire to speak, silently occupied with thoughts I was unable to express. The thatch had mouldered, the stones had been scattered, and in later years there was no sign that a house had stood there, that people had lived there, the imprint of their feet no longer visible in the moist earth of the fountain where they had fetched water. I had fallen to my knees, tears pouring over my cheeks, but that was long ago. In the voorhuis I wrote letters for others and read their letters, but I never had any reason to write a letter myself, and not once did I receive one. I was a young woman and no longer a child.
In time the men who called upon Father began to bring their wives and families along. Initially the women entered our voorhuis hesitantly, as though uncertain of their welcome, almost as if they did not feel quite safe with us, and Mother was nervous and sat up very straight and spoke a bit too shrilly, with red spots breaking out high on her cheekbones. I did not mind the men so much, but I was never happy to see their wives, with their quick eyes that took in everything and their whispering as soon as we left the room. I can still see them eyeing Maans when the boy came in to greet, the son of Jakob who had died so mysteriously, the child of Sofie who had disappeared so mysteriously: they studied him eagerly as if they hoped something in his mere appearance would supply answers to all the questions they so desperately wanted to ask. Those names, Jakob and Sofie and Pieter’s names, were never mentioned openly, however, and the questions remained unasked. They sat lined up against the wall holding their bowls of coffee or glasses of sweet wine, eyes darting around surreptitiously but incessantly, and minds working steadily, filled with speculation and suspicion that would be aired in detail later. I received no more than a passing glance from them as I served the coffee, for I was only the girl with the scar on her brow on which their searching glances lingered for a moment, and they showed no further interest in me.
Of course Mother noticed their curiosity and knew how many questions remained unasked as the conversation rippled on about church services and women’s ailments, but she did not let on that she was aware of anything. I understood that it had become increasingly important to Mother that people should come to us and that, after the lengthy interval, we should continue as if the events that had taken place had never occurred, without our silence becoming too disturbing or our peculiarities too noticeable. As time passed the relentlessness of the lies in which our past had become entangled abated and became more acceptable, and only the presence of Maans in our midst still created a slight uneasiness, reminding us of those names that were never mentioned. What had he been told? I could never ask him outright what he knew about his mother, but through incidental remarks I found out that he had been told she was dead, and that was probably what had been said to the neighbours too, though no one believed it. Once when he was still young he surprised me, however, by declaring that he would have headstones erected on his Mammie and Pappie’s graves when he grew up and, smiling, as if it were a game, I asked him to show me the place. “There!” he said without hesitation, and pointed at Jakob’s grave and the adjoining grave where Father’s sister was buried who had died when she was a young girl who had just been confirmed. I did not ask Maans who had pointed out those two graves to him, but I remember when Jakob’s grave was dug, Father had remarked that he would be lying next to Tannie Coba whose namesake he was.
That summer, before the cornerstone of our church was laid, Father’s birthday was celebrated formally and guests were invited again as had last happened when Sofie came to us as a bride, and how long ago that was, for by this time Maans was already a grown boy. There was no dancing this time, but for days we slaughtered and baked, and casks of brandy and Pontac were ordered from the Boland: after all the years there were wagons and carts in the yard once again and the rooms were filled with voices and excited children and candlelight; but to me it was not the same and could never be the same again. Father was happy, for he liked entertaining and receiving guests, even though he seldom had the opportunity, and in her own way Mother was content, albeit tense, with shining eyes and a clear blush on her cheeks, while Maans was elated about the people and the excitement and the wine they allowed him to taste behind Father’s back, and for days he talked about nothing else. To flee the house, I suddenly thought as I stood with the coffee pot, trapped among the guests, to venture so far into the veld that the dim glow of the candlelight in the windows fades behind me and the raucous voices can no longer be heard, to be surrounded by the rolling silver landscape under the stars; to flee to Bastersfontein, I thought, where the water of the fountain seeps soundlessly into the sand. A woman holding a candlestick pushed past me to check on her sleeping children in the bedroom, for I was obstructing the way of the guests who were filling the house with their excitement and their loud voices, and the melted candle wax dripped on my new frock. To flee to the sheltered place under the ridge where no one will ever look for me and to wake every morning at first light and see the klipspringers that have come to drink at the fountain.