by Sally Andrew
Where was he racing to? I suppose with the end of the world coming there must be lots of things to get done.
As I got back in my car, I wondered what I would do if I thought the end of the world was coming. I don’t believe in God or church or anything, so I don’t think I’d spend my time praying or ascending. I would probably cook something nice. But what would I cook? And who would I invite to eat it with me?
My mind went to the lunch I had with Detective Kannemeyer. That was a really good roast. And the cake was excellent. Still, I’m not sure I’d make that meal as my last.
In the block before the Spar I saw five more 4×4s. And three of them were white. I parked and as I walked past them, I checked their tyres. Two of them had Firestones and both were muddy. I sighed. I could spend my whole time just looking at tyres and what would it prove? And I had shopping and cooking to get on with.
I popped into the shoe shop and bought some olive oil from Elna le Grange. Her brother has an olive farm near Riversdale, and she told me his wife was expecting a baby. She wanted to chat some more, but I kept moving. I went to the library and asked Tannie de Jager, the librarian, to find a delicious vegan cake for me on the web google. It was so quick – it was printed out before she had even finished telling me how celery helped her arthritis. A recipe for a vegan walnut-and-date cake. I thanked her and folded it into my bag.
Just before I got to the Spar, I saw the manager getting into his little blue Golf – the guy with the chocolate-milk moustache. We should talk to him too. He was Martine’s boss. But he drove off before I could get close enough to say hello.
There were not a lot of people in the Spar, so my shopping went quite quickly. I got dates, walnuts and the other ingredients for the vegan cake. I had enough flour for the cake and vetkoek, but I did need some of the ingredients for the curry mince. I usually make my own mince, but I saw they had some frozen wildsvleis mince, and time was tight so I bought that. It was unusual to see game meat in the summer. But I guess they keep it frozen from the winter hunting season.
I chose Marietjie’s till. I knew she was a talker, but this time it was what I wanted.
‘How are you, Tannie Maria?’
She was a coloured girl, with a round, pretty face. Her hair had been straightened and smoothed into a swirl around her head.
‘Can’t complain,’ I said. ‘Lovely rain.’
‘Ooh, ja,’ she said as she scanned the mincemeat.
‘Your manager isn’t here much?’ I said.
‘He’s the regional manager of all the Spars in the Karoo,’ she said, like she was all proud of him.
I looked at my watch.
‘It’s a bit late on a Saturday to be going to other branches.’
‘Oh, maybe he’s just leaving early,’ she said. ‘On the weekends he likes to go to his place on his game farm in the Touwsberg.’
She packed my groceries into a plastic bag.
‘With his wife,’ she said, as if I might be getting funny ideas.
‘Were you friendly with Martine – Mrs van Schalkwyk?’ I asked.
‘Ooh, wasn’t that terrible what happened to her,’ Marietjie said. ‘I never liked her husband. Or do you think it was suicide? I hear she was depressed.’
‘Did you think she was depressed?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Mr Cornelius thinks she was. She kept to herself, you know. Stayed in the office mostly.’
‘Is that her office over there?’ I asked.
‘Ja, she shared it with Mr Cornelius.’
‘Thanks, Marietjie. Bye bye.’
‘Totsiens, Tannie. Enjoy your day further.’
On my way out, I went past the office. It had a big window looking out onto the shop floor. There were silver lines on the window, like thin mirrors. I knocked on the door, and tried to open it, but it was locked. Then I pressed my face to the glass and looked between the skinny mirrors. I could see a big desk with papers scattered all over it, and an empty pie wrapper. And over in the corner, a small empty desk with a neatly stacked in-tray and out-tray. I could guess which one belonged to Martine.
On the way home I counted another five white 4×4s. I had never really noticed them before, and now they were just everywhere.
I was hungry for that rarebit, but before I prepared it I made the dough for the vetkoek. I like to make them the old-fashioned way, with yeast. While the dough was rising in the sun on the stoep, I sat beside it and ate the Welsh rarebit. I’d put a sliced egg on the toast before pouring the thick cheese sauce on top. The flavours of the beer, mustard, cream and mature cheddar blended into one creamy tangy taste.
I gazed out at my garden and the veld, clean and green after the rains. It looked like new shoots were starting to grow already. The afternoon was warm, but not crazy hot. My chickens were pecking the ground in the shade of the lemon tree.
While the vetkoek dough was fattening up in the sun, I prepared the special mince. I fried the meat in butter till it was a lovely deep brown, then added onions, ground turmeric, coriander and cloves, then the tomatoes and my green tomato chutney. I left it to simmer.
I fetched the dough from the stoep, gently knocked it down and worked it into balls. I flattened the balls and rubbed each one with oil and left them to rise.
When the oil was very hot I deep-fried the vetkoek, three at a time, to a golden brown, and drained them on empty egg boxes.
Of course, I had to have one while they were still hot. I cut it in half, spooned in the warm mince and ate it right there at the kitchen table amongst the flour and the chopping boards. It was good. No – it wasn’t good. It was perfect.
Cooking vetkoek and curried mince is an art which South African tannies have spent generations getting just right. As I sat there enjoying the food, I was grateful to them all, especially my own mother, who taught me how to do it. There in my kitchen, eating that vetkoek and mince, I had the sort of feeling I’d expect you should have when you go to a church you have faith in.
I said I didn’t believe in anything, that my faith went out the window, but maybe this wasn’t true. I believed in vetkoek with curried mince, and all the tannies who made them. If the end of the world was coming, this was the meal I’d make.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Two Tupperwares (each holding four mince vetkoek) and Jessie and I all travelled in my sky-blue bakkie to the scene of the crime – Dirk’s farm. We were going to visit Grace. We parked in the shade of some rhus trees, and took one of the vetkoek Tupperwares with us. We walked past the empty farmhouse and the big gum tree, which were all wrapped up with crime-scene tape. I was wearing my khaki veldskoene. I looked at the place at the back door where I had last seen my brown veldskoene. I worried about those old, faithful shoes of mine. I hoped they were okay. We headed down towards the cottage at the bottom of the farm. Lawrence’s cottage.
‘Look,’ said Jessie, as we passed the little pond. ‘There are still duck feathers.’
They were stuck in the reeds all around the water. A frog looked up at me with golden eyes.
‘Looks like a kraal over there by the apple trees,’ said Jessie, as we walked on. ‘But I don’t see any animals.’
‘There are some other fruit trees too,’ I said. ‘There, behind those thorn bushes. Let’s go have a look.’
The shadows were long, but the day was still hot, so I wasn’t moving as fast as Jessie.
‘Tannie M,’ she said, arriving first. ‘It’s a pomegranate tree!’
‘I thought so.’
‘The fruit is still totally green.’
She touched one – it was tiny and hard.
‘Even the baboons wouldn’t eat this,’ I said, catching up with her.
‘Ja, they’re not in season yet, like you said. I wonder where that juice came from. Maybe Liqui-Fruit or something.’
‘Maybe, but I’ve never seen Liqui-Fruit pomegranate. And it tasted really fresh. Not like box-juice.’
We walked down to the cottage, on a little stony path, and
knocked on the wooden door. We could hear movement inside, but no one opened up. The steps were clean and polished and there were small flower beds on either side of the door, with red roses, pink geraniums and orange botterblomme. The roses were in good shape. I’ve never grown roses myself – they are too much work for something you can’t eat. It takes years of pruning to get them flowering so nicely.
We were just thinking about knocking again, when the door opened. The woman wore a blue African-print dress and was drying her hands on a dishcloth. She was just as beautiful in the late afternoon light as she had been in the moonlight. Her cheekbones were high, her skin was glowing and she smelled of cocoa butter.
‘Hello, Sisi,’ said Jessie. ‘This is Tannie Maria, and I’m Jessie.’
I smiled at her.
‘Nice roses,’ I said. ‘Have you got the green fingers?’
She shook her head.
‘Lawrence,’ she said.
‘Grace, we work at the Karoo Gazette,’ said Jessie, stepping forward and handing the woman a card. ‘May we come in?’
The woman took the card but did not look at it. Her gaze darted behind her and then back at us.
‘We were here last night,’ said Jessie, ‘when Lawrence was shot. We are so sorry.’
The woman looked down at her feet and a lump moved up and down in her throat, as if she was swallowing her sadness.
‘We’ve brought some vetkoek,’ I said. ‘With mince.’
She looked up.
‘Curry mince?’
‘Let’s have a bite to eat,’ I said, showing her the four plump vetkoek, wrapped in wax paper.
‘It’s messy in here,’ she said, but she stepped back to let us in. ‘I’m sorting his things.’
In a tiny kitchen were open boxes packed with all sorts of stuff. I could see plates and enamel cups and a ceramic dog. We followed her into a small lounge. She went to close the bedroom door, and I saw a battered suitcase on the double bed before she closed it.
‘You’re packing up?’ said Jessie, as she sat in an armchair.
The woman sat down on a wooden chair with her back straight and her legs together, her knees slightly to one side.
‘Shame,’ I said. ‘This must be very hard for you, Mrs . . . ?’
I sat on the couch next to a neat pile of clothes and a box with tools sticking out of it – a small garden fork and a sheep-shearing knife.
‘Zihlangu,’ she said. ‘My name is Grace Zihlangu. I am not married.’
‘Lawrence was your boyfriend?’ asked Jessie.
Grace nodded. She looked around the room at the piles of Lawrence’s things. Then she sighed, and her body seemed to fold in on itself. It was time for the vetkoek. I opened the Tupperware and gave one to her, Jessie and myself, each with our own napkin.
‘Thank you, Mama,’ Grace said. Xhosa people are like Afrikaners. Everyone is family: Auntie, Mother, Sister . . .
‘Are you leaving, Sisi?’ asked Jessie.
Grace didn’t answer. Instead she took a bite of her vetkoek. After a few bites, she was sitting up straight again. We didn’t talk while we ate, but Grace was studying us as she chewed. The afternoon light streamed in through a sash window. I could see tiny dust particles in the air, but the glass on the window was sparkling clean. There were cracks in the walls of the cottage that had been repaired and whitewashed. The coffee table in front of me and the other surfaces I could see were all very clean. Nothing half-wiped.
‘That’s the best vetkoek and mince ever,’ said Jessie. ‘Awesome.’
When Grace had finished eating her vetkoek, she wiped her mouth and fingers with the napkin, then she took ours and threw them all in the kitchen bin.
‘I want to leave here,’ she said, as she sat down again. Ready to talk. ‘Go to Cape Town.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
‘Do you have family in Cape Town?’ asked Jessie.
‘In the Eastern Cape,’ said Grace. ‘I am going there for Lawrence’s funeral. But I want to go to secretary training college in Cape Town. I have a friend there.’
‘You were working in Martine, Mrs van Schalkwyk’s house?’ I said.
‘Yes. Twice a week. Wednesdays and Fridays.’
‘So you weren’t here on the Tuesday, when she . . . ’ I said.
‘No. Monday, Tuesday and Thursday I work for Mr Marius in town.’
‘What did you think of Mrs van Schalkwyk?’ Jessie asked.
‘I liked her. It was a very bad thing that happened. She was a good woman. I was happy to work for her. I wish I could work for only her, and not . . . ’
Jessie raised an eyebrow, but Grace did not say more.
‘Is the work too hard at Mr Marius?’ I asked.
‘I am not afraid of hard work,’ Grace said. ‘No. He’s just, you know . . . ’
She stroked her hands across her skirt.
‘Does he harass you?’ said Jessie.
‘He looks at me in a way I do not like. He is not a good man. Mrs van Schalkwyk also does not like him. Did not like him.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Maybe two weeks ago, he said he wanted to see the Van Schalkwyks and he drove me home at the end of the day. He knocked on the door. Mr van Schalkwyk was not home from work yet, and Mrs van Schalkwyk told him to voetsek. She closed the door in his face. He was not happy. He drove over the roses next to the road. Lawrence’s roses.’
‘What did he want?’ Jessie asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Grace said. ‘I was walking to my house. I could not hear everything.’
‘What kind of a car does he drive?’ I said.
‘A big white one, like Mr van Schalkwyk’s. There’s writing on one side: Karoo Real Estate.’
‘An estate agent?’ said Jessie.
I nodded. He was one of the advertisers in the Karoo Gazette – the one who gave Hattie a headache.
‘Yes. There are pictures at the office in his house. Houses. Veld. And photographs taken from the sky.’
‘Did Martine have other visitors?’ Jessie asked.
‘Her friend Anna did visit. They laughed together. It was nice. That husband of hers did not make her laugh.’
‘Did he hit her?’
‘I did not see him, but I saw the bruises.’ She shook her head. ‘The broken things in the rubbish.’
‘Any other visitors?’ said Jessie.
‘A man came round. Maybe a month ago. When his tea was finished she said he must go. Her husband wouldn’t like him there, she said. He came round once more, on a Friday, but she is at work on that day, so he went away.’
‘Do you know who the man is?’ said Jessie.
‘John. I have seen him in town some mornings. He sells farm things from a wooden table. Eggs, vegetables, plants.’
‘At the market?’ I asked.
Grace nodded.
‘What did Martine speak about with him?’ Jessie said.
‘I do not know. I don’t listen.’
I looked down at the last vetkoek and asked, ‘Nothing else you heard, by mistake maybe?’
‘I was cleaning the room next door. She said the old days were over. Then he was talking about frucking. He was cross, I think.’
‘Frucking?’ said Jessie.
Grace bit her lower lip, and looked down at her fingernails.
I helped her out with a different question:
‘If Mrs van Schalkwyk wiped a table, would she wipe just half of it clean?’
‘Oh, no!’ she said. ‘She is not that kind of person. She is like me. She would never do that.’
‘Have the police come to interview you?’ I asked.
‘I spoke to them that night, the night Lawrence— But I heard nothing. Just the thunder and the rain. I did not wake up when Lawrence got up. I don’t know why I woke up, but when I did, I waited. I waited and he did not come back. I called and then I went to look for him.’ She rubbed her hands down the side of her arms. ‘I told the police there is no one who wants to kill Lawrence. He w
as a good man. He was just doing his job.’
‘I am sorry,’ I said. ‘We think maybe the same person killed him and Martine.’
‘I am afraid to stay here. I want to go. But I have not got enough money. I must ask Mr van Schalkwyk and Mr Marius for help.’
‘Did Lawrence work here every day?’ Jessie asked.
‘Yes. It used to be a sheep farm here, but they stopped that long ago, before I got here. They sold a lot of land and a lot of workers did lose their jobs. But they kept Lawrence, to look after the place. The garden, the fruit trees. He is good at his job.’
‘The day of Martine’s murder, was Lawrence here?’
‘Yes. The police asked him about that day. I was here when they were talking to him.’
‘What did he tell them?’
‘He told them he saw Mr van Schalkwyk come home that morning. He waved to him but the meneer didn’t wave back. The police asked if he was sure it was him, and he said yes.’
Jessie leaned forward in her armchair as Grace continued to speak.
‘They asked if he was close by, and he said no, he was down at the bottom by the trees.’ Grace waved her hand towards the window. ‘He was clearing the dead branches and chopping wood. Then they said, so how could you be sure? They told him that Mr van Schalkwyk said he did not leave work. The workers at the Agri said he was there all morning. Lawrence said, maybe, he was not sure, but it was Mr van Schalkwyk’s car. They said, are you sure it was his car, or could it have been the same kind of car as his? Lawrence said it looked like the meneer’s car, but maybe it wasn’t.’
Grace rubbed the fingers of one hand over the knuckles of another. I nodded and she carried on talking.
‘When the police had gone I asked him if it really was Mr van Schalkwyk, and he said that he didn’t want to be the one to get the meneer in trouble. I said to him, a woman is dead now and he must tell the truth, but he was just quiet and shook his head. He was not a bad man, Lawrence, but he was not strong.’
‘Did you love him?’ I asked.
‘Lawrence?’ she said. She looked at the neatly folded pile of men’s clothes on the couch and at the closed bedroom door. ‘No.’