Of course old Tant Neeltjie spread rumours when she left us and people were curious: what they surmised never came directly to my ears, but I was aware of the barely suppressed eagerness with which they asked after Stienie’s health and how long she would be away and where she was visiting, the inquisitive eyes hoping that my expression might give something away that my hollow or evasive words did not give up. I did not know much more than they, however, perhaps even less, given the fact that I did not share in Tant Neeltjie’s wisdom. Once or twice towards the end of winter Stienie sent me a note to say that she was well, but more than that she did not disclose and, anyway, Stienie had never been very comfortable with a pen in her hand, so that I was uncertain what to expect when Maans brought her back to us at last after so many months.
It was clear that she had been very ilclass="underline" Stienie had never actually been slender and over the years she had grown stouter, but now she was very pale and she looked at us sharply, with dark, glittering eyes, in a way unfamiliar to me — “inquiringly” I might call it, but the word is not strong enough, and perhaps “suspiciously” ’ would be a more accurate description. At first she was very quiet, almost resigned, and asked few questions about the house or the farm and said nothing about what had happened or changed in her absence, almost as if she did not even notice. She was friendly, but preoccupied, uninterested in her surroundings and with an air of detachment towards Maans and me, and yet it was not because she felt listless or weary, on the contrary, for we were constantly aware of a barely concealed energy that might burst out suddenly. It never happened, however, and as we sat down for supper on that first evening together, I realised that there was no need to fear an outburst, for in an unguarded moment I saw her eyes from across the table in the lamplight and, surprised, I realised that she was afraid of me, though it was hard for me to accept it. Over the weeks and months we spent together the knowledge grew in me, however, and I began to understand the reason for her fear: she was afraid of me because I had seen her naked, swollen body, the hair stuck to her brow and the fear and despair in her eyes, she was afraid of the one whose hands she had clung to in desperation and who had covered her mouth with a pillow to smother the sound of her wailing. I had seen and heard too much, I knew too much, and she would never free herself from the shadow of this knowledge or forgive me for the power I had inadvertently achieved over her. I lived in Maans and Stienie’s house and depended on their charity, and yet I speak of her now as if she were a naughty child: I must say, though, that after Stienie’s return I never had trouble with her again; after her return she knew where she stood with me.
The neighbours naturally devised plans to call on Stienie immediately, though they, too, were uncertain of what to expect. The visits were strained, with much left unspoken; this was true of answers as well as questions, and there was a great deal of feigned affection and goodwill on both sides. No doubt everyone was glad when the visit came to an end, and afterwards people gossiped more than ever, I presume, and made up for their uncertainty with speculation, suspicion and deduction. We went in to town for the next Nagmaal as usual, however, and attended all the services and Stienie received visitors and made calls as usual, though she was quieter than in the old days, with sudden moments of uncertainty and hesitation, and those restless, shining eyes were still noticeable. During the time she spent in Cape Town she had bought clothes on a grand scale and she wore those outfits to church now — well, it might have been what people wore in Cape Town but, as I have said, it was too stylish for our little town and our townspeople, and I always felt slightly self-conscious as I followed her to our pew, even though I might be considered the last person to accuse others of peculiarity. What bothered me, however, was that, unlike in the old days, she did not wear her expensive, elegant clothes because she found them beautiful and wanted to impress people; instead, her choice of clothing had become a kind of challenge, and as I followed her into church and sat beside her in the pew it was evident how nervous she was as she sat up so straight, glancing around with quick, bright eyes without noticing anyone. At New Year we entertained on the farm as usual, and more people arrived than in previous years, probably still out of curiosity, and I recall how Stienie moved among them all evening in her rustling red gown from Cape Town with its frills and lace trimmings, greeting and welcoming her guests tirelessly, and chattering without taking notice of anyone she addressed.
The nervousness remained, the restlessness remained; after her return she no longer seemed to fit into the position she had held among us before, and it was as if she were forever chasing after something new without knowing exactly what she desired. The hunger I had recognised years ago had only been stayed temporarily, and the restless craving of old had been reawakened. I watched and kept silent and waited, and in the new year she began to work blindly and tirelessly at the realisation of her dream: it was during the course of the next year that the new house was built and Maans went to Parliament, and it was during that time that she found Pieter a wife.
Where did it start — with the house? Yes, probably with the house. The homestead on the farm was old, of course, for it was probably nearly a hundred years ago that Oupa had built it, and it was old-fashioned, for in spite of all the alterations it still remained a house of its time with its dung floors in the bedrooms and kitchen, its sturdy walls, small windows and thatched roof, and our town house had always been more to Stienie’s liking with its wooden floors and large windows that let in the light. While Mother and I were living in town, Maans had the outbuildings demolished — the shed and kraal and outside rooms, together with the remains of the old homestead that Great-oupa had built — and had them rebuilt farther away from the house, and a room was added for Pieter; but, in spite of Stienie’s complaints, he seemed unwilling to go any further. Shortly after my return to the farm, he replaced the roof of our town house with corrugated iron, as people had begun doing, and that strengthened Stienie’s resolve to alter the homestead on the farm. The matter dragged on, however, until her illness occurred; but when she returned from the Boland she could not be stopped and Maans was forced to have a completely new house built with wooden floors and matchboard ceilings and sash windows and a tin roof, like the new houses she had seen in the Boland. At last Maans gave in, as he usually did sooner or later, and for months the builders were busy on the plain below the old homestead, beside the road and near the dams, while she watched them from the old house, more and more often giving the orders and instructions herself — and why not, for Maans was not really interested, and had other things to do, while Stienie knew exactly what she wanted. It was as if that protracted building process provided Stienie with a new goal in life after her return from the Boland, and equally important to her was the interest it aroused in our district, for as the news spread, people rode over to come and look. For Stienie it was a big thing to walk across with the women, though there was nothing but the extensive foundations to impress them with, and if there were no visitors, she was compelled to ask me to take a walk with her towards evening, and then we always made our way to the building site to see the walls going up. She was oblivious to the fact that I did not share her enthusiasm, nor take any real interest in the building: Stienie never paid much attention to what others thought or felt.