Too Late the Phalarope

by Alan Paton

— Coffee, Ta’ Sophie, he said. You’re a wonder.

  — The one cup’s for Pieter, I said, and the other’s for me. And if you want coffee you’ll find it in the big room. And don’t Ta’ Sophie me. And put back the lid on that tin.

  Japie turned to my nephew and said to him, ask her for another cup of coffee, she’ll do it for you.

  And the dark face lit up, with that lamp that I told you of, that is the lamp of the soul.

  — Ag, I said, I’ll get the coffee.

  When I came back again, Japie said to me, what about the girl Stephanie?

  — What about her, I said.

  — Must I take her child away?

  I sat and considered it.

  — You must wait, I said. You must wait till she comes out and give her a chance to work.

  — What d’you think, old brother?

  — That’s what I think, said my nephew. But you’re the expert. What do you think?

  And when he heard that he was an expert, Japie was at once like a judge, what the English call pompous, not that I mean for a moment that judges are pompous, but I mean it is pompous to be like a judge when you are not a judge, and what I mean is that sometimes one language has the word, and sometimes the other.

  — I’d ask one question, said Japie; is she fond of the child?

  And my nephew and I said together, yes, she’s fond of the child.

  — That’s important for a child, said Japie in a manner a bit grand. We begin to think …

  And here he looked about him, and you could see he was a bit sorry to be talking in a pantry.

  — We begin to think, he said, that lack of affection is one of the greatest causes of juvenile delinquency in a child, even if it is … well … illegitimate ….

  And he gave me a little bow.

  — I regret, Tante Sophie….

  — Don’t be a fool, I said, I knew about it before you were born.

  — Assuming then, he said a bit stiffly, that you take an illegitimate child from its mother, and give it some kind of legitimacy, but that affection is lacking in the new interpersonal …

  — Do you know what my brother calls those, I said.

  — No.

  — He calls them the university words.

  And though Japie was hurt, the dark face lit up again, so that I was glad to have thought of such a clever thing.

  — So we’ll give her the chance, I said.

  And Japie nodded, a bit too angry to say any more words.

  —Hernel, I said (and I do not often use such words), we must go.

  For my brother’s parties stop sharp at half-past ten, and it was almost that time.

  After they had all gone, the family stayed behind, Pieter and Nella, and Frans and his wife, and Henrietta and Emily and their husbands, and of course those of us in the house. And I brought my brother the Book, the great one that came from the Cape in 1836, and has all our van Vlaanderen names. And my brother knows the Book from the first word to the last, and always turns to it just where he wishes. It was his custom, on the occasion of any event, to turn to some special place, and if he had a genius, it was a genius for finding the words. But this night I saw that he pondered it, while we all sat silent. And he turned to one place, and read it to himself, and rejected it; and what it was, I should have liked to know, because it might have given some deep meaning to this book. But he rejected it.

  Then he read.

  Then Job answered the Lord, and said, I know that thou canst do everything, and that no thought can be withholden from thee. Who is he that hidest counsel without knowledge? Therefore have I uttered what I understood not; things too wonderful for me, which I know not. Hear, I beseech thee, and I will speak; I will demand of thee, and declare thou unto me. I have heard of thee by the hearing of the ear; but now mine eye seeth thee. Wherefore I abhor myself, and repent in dust and ashes.

  AND THEN he was silent, as though he considered it, and my sister-in-law watching him with the eyes of love, and all of us silent, and I, at least, daring to wonder whether this could truly be, that he read such a thing because his son had given him a book of coloured birds.

  Then he read again, starting at the eleventh verse.

  Then came there unto him all his brethren, and all his sisters, and all they that had been of his acquaintance before, and did eat bread with him in his house; and they bemoaned him, and comforted him over all the evil that the Lord had brought upon him; every man also gave him a piece of money, and every one an earring of gold. So the Lord blessed the latter end of Job more than his beginning.

  THEN MY brother prayed, but made no more mention of these things. And Pieter and Nella left last, and my sister-in-law and my niece and I saw them to the door, and the mother pulled down the son’s head and whispered something to him. And what words she said to him I do not know, and I never asked her what they were, but I write down here that she said, this was one of the days of my life. And I saw that the dark face looked at her, not alight as it sometimes could be, but with some look of love and grief.

  I SUPPOSE IT WAS THE SUCCESS of the birthday party that made that time so happy that I still remember it. But in any case it is the time of year that I love the best, when the summer turns slowly to winter. Mind you, I like the world when it is green, and I like it when it is yellow; but I like it best of all when it begins to turn, and the dew lies thick upon the bushes, and you leave your footsteps on the lawns. And perhaps I liked it best because my life was turning also, and the angers and moods of the heats of summer came less often, and the mind was filled, like the veld itself, with some promise of rest and peace. And the early mornings were beyond my wit to tell about, full of coolness and freshness, and the whole world wet and sparkling with the dew. And I tell you too, hoping you do not weary of me, that in all those days of coolness and the turning of the leaves, and of my duties in the house and in the town, and of my work with our Women’s Welfare Society, and of the joy that I had of my gentle sister-in-law and her love, that my greatest joy of all, all day and every day, was in the tall dark man who had my name.

  And we saw him more often too, because Nella and the children went away, down to her father and mother on the farm Vergelegen, which means Placed Far, and placed far it was, being on the very edge of the grass country, where it falls to the world of rock and thorn and the hot red flowers, near the great Park where the lions are.

  Her father came for her, and he was a tall fierce old man, with a face like an eagle, and the bluest and most piercing eyes that I have ever seen. They came to my brother’s house to say goodbye, but for all his piercing eyes he did not recognise me, but took me for my sister-in-law, although I wear no rings at all. He asked me how were my other children, and my brother snorted like a bull, and blew hard at his nose.

  I said sharply, you had better ask my sister-in-law, she has some children.

  And my brother snorted still louder, and blew still harder at his nose. For he always said of Nella’s father that you could put his sense of humour into a match-box already full.

  Then it was time for them to go, and I could see that the girl was sad and yet glad to go, and I know now that she knew that something was going wrong, and thought perhaps that rest and separation would cure it. And the lieutenant let her go willingly and unwillingly, for she had been more loving to him, and had done what she said she would do, prayed and tried to be more understanding. And he took her small gifts, as one takes the gifts of a child, as a man in a deep money trouble takes the pence of some poor friend, never dreaming to tell him it is not enough.

  At this time of the turning of the year it was all rugby football in Venterspan and Sonop and Bremerspan and Rusfontein. You could see all the boys, every afternoon in the street, in their shorts and coloured jerseys, and the heavy boots that made such a noise in a house. And when night fell every place where they lived was full of the sound of running water and cries for soap, and they came out of their baths and showers with red and shining faces, looking full of
health and clean and strong, so that we felt proud that they were our boys. And by that I mean the English as well, though it is true that it is the Afrikaners who are really the rugby nation.

  I went down myself to see them practice on the field which old Koos Slabbert gave them from his farm; and you could see his windows shut, because his wife disapproved of the coarse rugby language, and disapproved of rugby too, because somewhere, some other place, some boy was killed. And I went there to give myself the secret pleasure of watching the tall dark man, and of seeing him in authority, and of seeing the others come to him, and speaking to him as boys speak to a master at the school. He stood apart with pieces of paper with all their names, and he and Hannes de Jongh would talk about them; and now the young dominee was always standing with them too, because these three were the best players of them all. Then they would play, but I would not see him as much as I wished, for he was always down in the scrum; but sometimes he would get up, like Samson of the Book, and shake them off like water, and lift his hands above them all, and send the ball sailing across the field for others to catch and run. I would get excited and tell myself not to be a fool, because a practice is only a practice, and one does not laugh and clap as one does in a match, for then you can laugh and clap as much as you please, being one of thousands, and not just a foolish woman proud of a man.

  And Japie was the referee, though how he could referee so far from the ball I could never see. I remembered his joke that when he ran his breath couldn’t keep up with him, but it would have been true to say that he stayed behind with his breath. Sometimes he would stop near me and put his hand to his side, looking at me with a great look of anguish and pain, like a man who was about to die, but would joke to the last.

  He was once so far behind the ball that he blew the whistle for something that had not happened at all, and the young dominee protested. But Japie in spite of his suffering gave him a proud and haughty look, and said, never argue with the referee. For on the field even a dominee is below the referee.

  And the dominee would sometimes get the ball, and go weaving in and out, with his hair flying behind him and smiling like an imp, like no dominee I have ever seen, with Bible and Church all forgotten, at least that was how it seemed, though I do not think it was really so. And Martha used to come with me too, and I told you I am a watcher, and no fresh girl can hide from me, but of course I said never a word.

  And after the game some would go to the Royal for a drink of beer, and then you could hear the laughing and shouting from the bar, the kind of thing some women fear; but I have never feared it, for rugby itself is coarse and rough, and my own brother, who never touched but one woman in his life, can be coarse and rough himself. And it is a strange thing that his son never jested coarse and rough, and no one jested with him coarse and rough; and whether that was because of his mother, or because of some deep thing that twisted wrong, God knows, I do not know.

  That is something I do not understand. I never made such a joke, not even to myself. When I sat in the bar they would never make such jokes to me, sometimes even they would fall silent when I came in. I remember when they wanted Sakkie to tell the joke about the boomslang, and Sakkie smiled at me and said, I’ll tell you when Pieter’s gone. Yet they were all cleaner and sweeter than I. That is a thing I never understood.

  IT WAS after one of these practices that he came to the house for dinner, his dark face red and clean from the rugby and the bath.

  And he said suddenly to his father, father, you don’t look well.

  And my brother, who had been trifling with his food, growled at him, why am I not well?

  — I think you don’t look well.

  And my brother, who had not looked at him yet, went on playing with his food, and growled again, ah, so you’re a doctor now.

  I tell him it’s the influenza, said my sister-in-law, with her smile of love and care.

  — Of course it’s the influenza, I said.

  — Women, said my brother. They like a man to be sick so they can put him in a bed, then they can master him.

  — It’s a day in bed he needs, said my sister-in-law.

  — I never spent a day in bed in my life, he said. I’m too old to start now.

  — You were six weeks in bed with your leg, I said.

  — Sickness, he said irritably. I’m talking of sickness.

  And I went back through my memory, knowing that there was such a day. Then I remembered it.

  — Who had to get out of his bed to see his second daughter when she was born?

  That was my niece Emily, who came after Pieter and Frans and Henrietta. And she was called after Emily Hobhouse, who came out from England to work for our people during the English War. As soon as I mentioned it, I could see that I was under his guard, and had he been a man less proud he would have smiled; but he did not smile, he suddenly wrinkled up his nose and scratched it, which I think he always did to draw together the muscles of his face so that it would not smile. Then when he was recovered he turned and looked at me, and his eyes went up and down my face, as though it were some strange creature that he saw.

  — Tante Sophie must write a history of the van Vlaanderens, he said to his son. All the dates will be right, and all the facts be wrong.

  Then he was of a sudden animated.

  — I said sickness, he said. And that day I wasn’t sick. I was worried about my wife.

  — It was her fourth child, I said.

  — A good husband, he said, is worried even at the twentieth child. And Sophie, your memory is so good, do you remember what old Doctor Harper said to me?

  — No, I said.

  — When he saw me lying in the bed, he said to me, Mr. van Vlaanderen, saying my name as an Englishman does, I’ve brought hundreds of children into the world, and never lost a father yet.

  We all laughed, and I waited till we had finished laughing.

  — It’s a good story, I said, but Doctor Harper was dead.

  He glared at me.

  — Who was it then?

  — Dr. Matheson.

  He snorted.

  — An Englishman, he said. That’s good enough, it was an Englishman.

  — He wasn’t an Englishman, I said. He was a Scot.

  — In God’s name, he said …

  And then he stopped, for he is ashamed to use God’s name, and I was sorry to have made him do it.

  — There’s a devil in you tonight, he said.

  Then he signed to me for the Book, and when the prayers were over, I said to him, now if you’re sensible you’ll go to bed.

  — You and your bed, he said irritably.

  — That’s what your cousin Abraham said, and went out working in the fields in the rain. And left you that poor creature of a wife and that great family to look after. His boasting cost you a penny.

  He chuckled.

  — Abraham, he said. You remember the year of the big wind, how he couldn’t get home and had to go into the wattle plantation, and come back tree by tree? But you’re right. It cost me a penny.

  His strange wit came into him, and he looked at his son.

  — That’s why Pieter had to go to Stellenbosch, he said, because I couldn’t afford Oxford and Cambridge, and all that rowing in the boats.

  He rose heavily.

  — But I’ll please you, he said. I’ll go to bed now, and Sophie, you’ll make me a brandy with boiling water, and half a teaspoon of sugar, and a piece of lemon ….

  — There are no lemons, I said.

  He took a step or two, then without turning called to his son; and for some reason I cannot give, that was a habit of his, to start to leave a room, and then to stop, and to talk with his back turned.

  — Pieter, have you ever seen the phalarope?

  — The what, father?

  — The phalarope.

  My brother added impatiently, a bird.

  Then his son, for politeness sake, took a step or two also until he stood by his father, but his father still
did not turn to him, but stood as he was before.

  — No, father.

  — That Englishman of yours says they’re birds of the coasts. Have you ever seen the ruitertjie, at the farm at Buitenverwagting?

  — Yes, father.

  — And you’ve seen the phalarope there too, but you always thought it was the ruitertjie.

  — It could be, said his son doubtfully.

  His father turned to him.

  — I didn’t say it could be, he said, I said it was. Do you think I was blind when I was young?

  — No, father, but …

  But his father had turned round and faced us all. It gave him pleasure that we were all listening to him, but I write down here that it was not a vain pleasure, it was more a kind of mischief.

  — I have two good eyes, as good as any youngster’s of today. And when I am recovered from this dangerous illness that so grieves you all …

  And here he bowed to us a little.

  — … then I’ll show you a phalarope, he said.

  He turned again to his son.

  — It’s not the only mistake in that book. Goodnight, son. Goodnight, Sophie; Martha, are you taking me up the stairs, seeing I am so weak?

  The girl was up and took him by the arm. But at the foot of the stairs my brother stopped and turned the girl about to face us, and I knew something was coming.

  — She’s a good girl, he said. She’s always at the church.

  Ah, I told you he had strange eyes, that could see so much and so little. Martha blushed and he turned her about at once, and she took him up the stairs. And her mother smiled to herself, her smile of care and love, while I looked at my nephew, who looked at first surprised, and then the small furrow came between his eyes, as though he had suddenly remembered something with pain.

  But I tell you the story of this night, because it was part of the happy time that I remember, just when the summer was turning into winter, when the days are fresh and clear, and the sun is shining from the morning till the night. And the rain goes, and the whole world lies in sun from April to September; and the cosmos come out along the roads and in the fields, great sheets of white and pink and red, and the golden leonotis too, whose flowers children pick and suck for the sweet and sickly juice. And sometimes it happens, once in a spell of years, in some month when no rain should be, that the great clouds come up, banking and black, with the thunder and lightning of some steaming summer, and pour down their water on the earth, sweeping away roads and bridges, and drowning people at the drifts. So did my summer turn, not into quietness and peace, but to the dark black storm that swept us all away.