Keepers of the House

by JH Fletcher

  NINE

  Deneys Wolmarans came home from the war in 1902, after they had signed the Peace at Pretoria.

  He had sent word that he was coming. The telegraph service had been extended rapidly during the fighting and now covered most of the country. The commandos had cut the wires many times but the English had always patched them up and now, with the fighting over, the service was soon back in full working order again.

  The trains were running as well. In theory Deneys could have come home by rail but there were tales of Boers being forced off the train in the middle of the desert to walk or die, as they chose, so he decided to come home as he had left, on the back of a horse.

  The whole valley was waiting for him. They were afraid he might turn up in the middle of the night and catch them unprepared, so they set a team of small boys to look out for him along the road and send word as soon as he appeared. There were only the two roads in and out of the valley, so that part of it was easy.

  Deneys had been at the war for almost three years, a long time in the life of a small boy who had not known him that well to begin with, so when, at four o’clock on the winter’s afternoon, the first lookout saw a tall man riding up the trail over the pass, blonde beard over his chest and rifle butt sticking up from the saddle holster behind him, he wasn’t sure if it was Baas Wolmarans or not.

  Quite a responsibility for a child of eight. If he sent word and it was the wrong man, the people in the valley would skin him. If he said nothing and it turned out to be the right man after all … He daren’t imagine that.

  The only thing to do was ask the stranger who he was, but he had never spoken to a stranger in his life. And from outside the valley! A big fierce man with a rifle who would shoot a small boy as soon as look at him, perhaps.

  The boy watched as the rider drew near, riding slowly as though he had come a long way. He was sitting well back in the saddle, his feet in long stirrups. He wore a broad-brimmed black hat with a band around it and his clothes were covered in dust. The boy could hear the creak and jingle of the harness, the sound of the horse breathing.

  There was nothing else for it. Heart pounding, he stepped onto the trail.

  The rider reined in his horse and looked down at him. ‘Who are you?’ Unsmiling but with a quiet voice. He did not sound like a man who shot small boys.

  Emboldened, the lookout said, ‘Samuel, baas.’

  One foot on top of the other, bare toes twisting into knots in the mud.

  ‘Good evening, Samuel.’

  ‘Good evening, baas. Excuse me, baas, are you Baas Wolmarans from the farm Oudekraal?’

  A ghost of a smile touched the corners of the hard mouth. ‘I am.’

  They waited, looking at each other, the horse steaming gently in the chilly air.

  ‘Did they send you to look out for me?’

  Too much to answer such a question. The boy stood still, toes working, and said nothing.

  The man smiled. ‘Very well, Samuel. I will bid you good evening, then.’

  He raised a gloved hand to the brim of his black hat and rode on. The boy stood, listening to the fading clop, clop of the hooves in the mud, then ran as hard as he could up the koppie behind him. The valley was swimming in dusk, the trees and hills grey in the fading light. Two hundred yards away, another small hillock stood out among the trees. Samuel’s cousin was on duty there. Samuel waved and could just make out an arm lifted in acknowledgement. The baas had come just in time. Any later and it would have been too dark for the signalling system to have worked.

  He clambered back to the bottom of the hill and started to run down the track towards the distant farms. The problem with being the smallest of the team was he had the furthest to run to get home again. When he was bigger, if the Baas decided to go off and kill anybody else, it would be someone else’s job. He would see to that.

  At Oudekraal all was ready.

  Even for those who had stayed at home, things had not been easy. More than one family had received letters from relatives in the Transvaal, reproaching those who left kith and kin in the lurch while living off the fat of the land at home.

  Christiaan’s own daughter had lived in Lydenburg with her husband and their two children. His son had been in the war. Yet his land was here and it was the land that had settled it. God had given him Oudekraal. It was a sacred trust and he would not turn his back on it. So he stayed but his mind remained troubled. Divided loyalties can drain a man and by the end of the war Christiaan had aged a great deal.

  Now the son at least was coming home safely. Not a scratch, after three years. Never mind that the war had been lost. Never mind that the son had been fighting against the English, who ruled in the Cape. Christiaan was determined that the return would be celebrated in a style that no one in the valley would ever forget.

  First, the bonfire. Twenty feet tall, of shavings soaked in oil to get it started, then small sticks and branches broken into little pieces, then bigger branches and finally massive tree trunks to burn all night and half the next day as well.

  The food, next. Pies and puddings and tarts and konfyts and chutneys. Snoek fish and lobsters from the coast. Salted pork and beef, ready in the pans. Apples and pears and pumpkins. Lemons, but no oranges; oranges grew in the Transvaal and there had been none since the war started. Broths to warm against the cold winter night. An ox on a spit over the fire and another smaller fire with a whole sheep turning above it. Wine and mampoer by the gallon, in barrels and jugs and buckets, to drink the health of the son and husband who had gone away and returned safely home.

  If he turned up.

  Christiaan, who three years earlier would never have troubled his head about such things, worried about the ox and sheep cooking over their separate fires. ‘What if he doesn’t come tonight?’ he wondered.

  ‘He sent us a telegraph from Worcester to say he’d be here,’ Sara pointed out.

  ‘But what if …?’

  ‘If he doesn’t arrive, we will eat what we have tonight and do the whole thing again tomorrow.’

  Of course she and Elizabeth had been ready for hours, both in their best bib and tucker and nothing to do but wait. They couldn’t even interfere in the kitchen for fear of getting grease on their clothes. Besides, all had been taken care of, long before.

  So they stood around and fussed and got in the way. It must have been quite a relief to the servants when the word finally came that Deneys had been spotted at the top of the pass and they could clear the pair of them out of the house and get on with things.

  Everyone who lived in the valley had been invited, as always, but it was too far for the farmers over the mountain, not knowing whether Deneys would turn up or not. The new dominee was there, though. The old man who had objected so much to coming out from Stellenbosch had taken his final journey while Deneys had been away, and his place had been taken by Theunis de Wit, a young man with a great love of God’s people and His church.

  Christiaan and Theunis de Wit had decided to hold the party in the Nagmaalvlagte. One or two eyebrows had been raised over that, people who thought that a field dedicated to the service of God should not be used for a welcome home party, particularly where there was a distinct possibility that a fair amount of liquor would be consumed. But as the dominee said, Deneys’s safe return after three years of war was a reason to praise God and what better place could there be for that than the field set aside for the monthly communion? Christiaan said if they didn’t like it they could stay away, which would mean all the more food for everyone else, and that put an end to their nonsense.

  So there was a big crowd around the bonfire that night. The ox and the sheep were turning on their spits, and the light from the fires flickered on the leaves of the trees and the faces of the people. Enough drink had been provided to keep people warm and interested, but not so much that they were likely to fall down before Deneys arrived. Sparks rose into the velvet sky along with the murmur of voices, the occasional cry of a child. The air was heavy
with smoke and the smell of cooking meat.

  Christiaan pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket and inspected it. An hour since Deneys had been spotted at the top of the pass. If he came straight — and where else should he go? — he would be here in fifteen minutes.

  He climbed slowly up the steps, feeling the muscles in his legs, and went inside the house. He was only fifty-three and his belly was as flat as ever, but his body was beginning to remind him of the passing years. In the voorkamer Sara and Elizabeth were waiting. Very smart they looked. Full skirts of grey silk descended to the floor from tight waists; fitted bodices were tucked and pleated and worn high to the throat; their hats, massive confections of bows and feathers, stylishly aslant. Christiaan himself had put on a three-piece tweed suit, stiff white collar and cravat. He wondered what Deneys would think, after fighting for so long against the English, to come home and find his family all dolled up in the latest London fashions, but at once put the thought out of his head. Fashion was fashion. It had nothing to do with patriotism.

  ‘Fifteen minutes,’ he said. ‘Time to light the bonfire.’

  The three of them walked down the steps. Christiaan went to the ox fire and thrust a long piece of dry wood into the hot charcoal. The carcass of the ox leaked fat, its skin brown and shining, and the heat and smell of the meat assailed him. He stood, left hand raised to protect his face, until the wood was well ablaze, then walked across to the dark shape of the bonfire where the two women were waiting.

  He pushed the brand firmly into the base of the bonfire. The kindling caught at once. Christiaan stepped back. Flames crackled and began to work their way through the structure of the bonfire. Amid the oohs and aahs of the crowd, sparks rose in orange clouds into the night.

  Christiaan got hold of a couple of the servants.

  ‘Champagne,’ he ordered. ‘And bring out the wine and mampoer.’

  He scrambled up on a table and raised his hands. An imperfect silence fell, broken by the excited cries of children, the roar of the bonfire.

  He raised his voice to be heard in every corner of the shadowed field. ‘My son will be with us shortly. They are bringing wine and brandy. Rum for those who prefer it. There is plenty for everyone. The food will be ready soon. In the meantime drink deep, enjoy yourselves and join with us in celebrating my son’s return.’

  There was a rowdy cheer, repeated as the servants staggered out with the barrels and set them out in rows, well away from the fires. Christiaan had seen what happened when a barrel of spirit caught fire — he’d heard that Cecil Rhodes’s own brother had died when a keg of rum exploded in his tent — and was going to have none of that at Oudekraal.

  Men and women queued to take glasses brimming with liquor from the servants. The bonfire roared, casting flickering patterns of black and red across the figures of the guests. Everywhere was the sound of voices and laughter. A mounted figure appeared between the flares burning along both sides of the driveway. Suddenly all was still.

  There was a lump as big as an apple in Christiaan’s throat. He stepped out of the crowd of waiting people. The firelight rippled across his white hair and beard as his son came cantering down the last fifty yards of his long journey home.

  Then Deneys was out of the saddle, the horse still moving, and the two men were hugging each other close while cheers erupted about them and Christiaan felt the hot tears wet upon his cheeks.

  More muscle than when he went away. Thinner; I’ll swear he’s grown taller, too. Although he’s still got some way to go to catch me.

  ‘Return of the prodigal,’ Deneys murmured in his ear.

  ‘We have the fatted calf waiting for you,’ he answered.

  Three years of waiting, he thought, and the first thing we talk about is food. And smiled to himself, knowing it was to do with a great deal more than food.

  Deneys freed himself and turned to his mother and his wife and then Christiaan was up on the table again, with everyone banging their glasses and shouting for silence, and slowly the hubbub died.

  Christiaan looked down at the faces. He heard the crackle and roar of the bonfire, saw the tables covered with food, smelt the meat cooking over the fires. He had planned to speak of the war that was ended, the loss and the tragedy of war. Of the men who would not be coming home, their own grandchildren and son-in-law who had died, the daughter who had gone no one knew where. Now the moment had come, he found he could say none of it.

  He threw his arms wide. ‘My son has come back to us. I will ask the dominee to give thanks.’

  Theunis de Wit climbed up on the table beside him. He smiled at Christiaan. ‘Will it hold us, you think?’ He turned to the people and raised his voice. ‘Let us give thanks to our Lord God for having vouchsafed that Deneys Wolmarans should have returned safely to his family and to us all.’

  ‘Amen,’ said the crowd, faces lowered.

  ‘Let us pray that the enmity that has divided this land will pass with the return of peace.’

  ‘Amen.’

  ‘Let us pray that those whose sons will not be returning, those who have lost friends and relatives, may find peace and consolation in the love of God.’

  ‘Amen.’

  ‘Let us pray that we may all live out our lives for the betterment of our fellow men in accordance with the teachings of our Lord Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Amen.’

  ‘Let us say together. Our Father …’

  At the end of the prayers, both men got down from the table and the party began. It went slowly to begin with, the sound and weight of the prayers sober in people’s minds, but soon grew more lively. There was eating and drinking, talking and shouting, laughter and a little crying. There was even some dancing, impromptu and not well executed, but fun for those who tried it and pleasurable to those who liked to have something to grumble about.

  All the food went, amazingly, and the drink and, eventually, the people.

  The fires burned down. One by one, the flares sputtered out. The servants removed the plates and scraps of food from the tables, then the tables themselves were taken away. Christiaan and the rest of the family went into the house. The lights went out and a light rain began to fall on the trampled field. Dawn broke with no trumpets for the returned warrior but grey and chilly, with heavy cloud over the mountains.

  Side by side in bed, as they had been nearly every night of their married life, Christiaan and Sara held each other briefly, sharing the emotions, the relief and sorrows of the day.

  ‘I’m too old for these late nights,’ Christiaan grumbled.

  Sara smiled in the darkness. ‘Whose idea was it to have the party?’

  ‘You think we should have let him sneak in the back way, like a thief?’

  ‘I don’t care which way he sneaked in, so long as he’s home.’

  He could hear the smile in her voice. ‘It wouldn’t have suited me,’ he said. ‘Or the neighbours. Or Deneys. Or you, if the truth be told.’ He looked up at the ceiling, loving her as he had for over thirty years. ‘You know how much that dress and hat cost me, woman?’

  ‘I knew you would never be satisfied with anything less than a huge party,’ she said comfortably. ‘How could I not dress for it?’

  They both smiled, together in the darkness.

  ‘So much hatred,’ Sara said softly, and he knew she was smiling no longer. ‘All those dead. Will things ever go back to how they were?’

  ‘After so much blood? Impossible. I can forgive the loss of the men; that is war. But the women and little children I shall never forgive.’

  ‘Our own grandchildren.’

  Suddenly she was weeping, her face buried in his shoulder. ‘We never even saw them.’

  He held her gently, grieving with her.

  And our son-in-law, he thought, but did not say. In comparison with the death of the children, the father’s mattered less. In the end, it was blood that counted, nothing else.

  ‘At least Deneys has been spared.’

  ‘And Annelie
se? What of her?’

  Again silence, both knowing that they might never see their daughter again.

  ‘Each day I pray to find the power to forgive them,’ Sara said, ‘but in my heart I know I never shall.’

  In their own bedroom Deneys and Elizabeth were talking, too.

  ‘I prayed. Every day. I find it hard to believe that you are here at last.’

  Her hand lay open on his thigh, but quietly. She was shy of this man, after so long apart.

  ‘I tried not to think at all,’ he said. ‘Everything — you, Oudekraal — was like a dream, something I’d had once, but lost. It was too painful to think.’

  ‘Something you had once but lost,’ she repeated. ‘That is not true, at any event.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  She took his hand, playing softly with his fingers.

  ‘Is it over?’ she asked.

  ‘The fighting, yes. But for some the war will never be over.’

  ‘Anneliese,’ she said sadly.

  He did not deny it.

  ‘I wrote when I heard. She didn’t reply.’

  She had survived the camp, that was all they knew. No one had heard from her since she was released.

  ‘If I were in her place, I would feel the same,’ Deneys believed.

  ‘Why doesn’t she at least let us know she’s alive? What happened is not our fault. She has no business blaming us.’

  ‘I think, at the moment, she blames the whole world for what happened.’

  ‘God help her, then. God help us all.’

  ‘Amen.’

  They were silent for a while, then she turned on her side to face him. ‘You will be tired after your long journey.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It is very late. You need to sleep.’

  He began to smile in the darkness. ‘That, too. Presently.’

  ‘Presently?’

  He ran his hands through her hair, feeling its silkiness between his fingers. ‘I have come a long way. Not just this journey; I mean all through the war.’ He felt the weight and weariness of that journey as he spoke. ‘I’ll tell you about it, sometime. But for now —’