by Sally Andrew
‘Coming, dear,’ said Emily, and the two women stood up.
The man saw me at the gate and frowned and turned away. I took a deep breath, held my Tupperware in front of me and stepped inside. I followed them into the dining room. The Seventh-day Adventists were all seated at a long table having breakfast. The big mama who ran the place, her hair now nicely curled, was sitting at another table with her daughter. A young coloured woman was bringing them a tray of hot sausages, bacon and eggs. The mama grunted her thanks, and the woman rushed off and came back with toast, margarine and jam, which she took to the long table.
The skinny little boy who’d wanted cake was pouring from a box of soya milk into a bowl of muesli. I have never tasted soya milk.
‘How does a bean make milk?’ I said.
Emily with the long red hair looked up at me and smiled, but didn’t say anything.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I’m Tannie Maria.’
‘I’m Emily,’ she said.
No one asked me to sit down or join them for breakfast. These people were definitely from outside of Ladismith.
‘I have made a vegan date-and-walnut cake,’ I said, patting my Tupperware, ‘for the children.’
Emily frowned at me, not understanding.
‘Vegan,’ I repeated. ‘Like vegetarian but no butter, eggs or anything.’
‘Oh, vegan,’ she said, but she said the ‘g’ hard, like egg, instead of soft like vegetable.
‘Did any of you know Martine? Martine van Schalkwyk?’ I said.
‘Isn’t she the one who worked at the Spar?’ said Emily.
Georgie nodded and said, ‘A sweet soul.’
A pale lady sitting next to Georgie shook her head – she was the same lady who stopped me feeding the children last time.
‘She didn’t join us,’ she said. ‘We don’t know her.’
The man at the head of the table was still frowning. He got up and left the room, the toast only half eaten on his plate. Perhaps it was the smell of the meat and eggs on the other table.
The other people seemed to be enjoying their vegan food okay. When the kids saw me open the Tupperware, they jumped up and crowded around me.
‘Ah, please, Mom, can we have some?’ said the skinny boy, talking to the pale lady.
‘Oh, all right. As soon as you’ve eaten up your porridge. Thank you, um – Tannie,’ she said, taking the Tupperware from me. ‘That was kind of you.’
‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ I said, ‘when is the end of the world coming exactly?’
Emily laughed and said, ‘Last May the twenty-first.’
The pale lady gave her a little frown.
‘We don’t talk about exactly any more,’ she said. ‘But we think it will be around the twenty-first of December.’
‘Three weeks from now?’ I said. ‘That doesn’t leave much time.’
She shook her head as she spread marmalade on her toast.
‘You don’t look too worried,’ I said.
‘Oh, we’ll all be fine,’ she said, and bit into her toast.
Georgie’s little grey curls bobbed up and down as she nodded in agreement.
‘We’ll be ascending,’ Georgie said.
‘Who will be ascending?’ I asked.
‘We believers!’ the pale lady said.
She smiled. Her eyes were blue and shiny. Full of faith. Her teeth had marmalade on them.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
In the Gazette office, I put down the tin of rusks and turned on the kettle.
‘What do you believe in?’ I asked Harriet and Jessie.
Jessie looked up from her computer but she didn’t even smile when she saw me and the rusks. Her ponytail wasn’t as neatly tied as usual. Hattie was at her desk, every hair in place.
Hattie and Jessie didn’t answer, and I prepared the cups – tea for Hattie and coffee for Jess and me.
‘We’ve got till the twenty-first of December,’ I said. ‘To believe in something.’
‘Oh, darling,’ said Hattie. ‘You’ve been talking to those Seventh-day Adventists, haven’t you?’
‘The end of the world is nigh,’ said Jessie, sounding like she didn’t really care if it was.
‘Oh, honestly,’ said Hattie. ‘Those people are quite batty.’
‘But we are all going to die,’ Jessie said. ‘If not on the twenty-first – one day.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Hattie, getting up to help herself to her tea. ‘Maybe that’s why I go to church. In case of life after death. But to be totally honest, I’m not sure what I believe . . . ’
‘I’d like some kind of life before death,’ I said.
Jessie looked up from her computer. Harriet lifted an eyebrow.
‘Are you all right, Maria?’ said Hattie.
‘Sorry, ja, I’m fine. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I have a good life.’
I gave Jessie her coffee, then offered them both buttermilk rusks. I was pleased to see Jessie was not so miserable she couldn’t take a beskuit. Hattie of course shook her head.
‘I’ll have one at lunchtime,’ she said. ‘I hear from Jessie you two had a busy weekend.’
‘I told her about Dirk and Anna,’ Jessie said. ‘And what I learned from Candy.’
‘There are a few leads we need to follow up on,’ said Hattie.
There was the sound of clip-clopping, like a little horse was coming up the pathway. The door was open and a head popped round. It came with orange lipstick, long black eyelashes, and a straw sunhat.
‘Oh, fantastic,’ said Candy. ‘Y’all are here!’
She pushed the door open, and trotted in on her purple high heels. Today she wore a lilac cotton dress that made you feel cool just looking at it. Her blonde hair was loose, swinging shoulder length. Jessie sank down into her chair, her back hunching forward.
‘Hattie,’ I said, ‘this is Candy, Martine’s cousin.’
Candy took off her hat, fanned herself with it and hung it on the back of Jessie’s chair. Then she sat on a stool beside Jessie’s desk.
‘The funeral’s ten on Wednesday morning,’ Candy said. ‘I’ve got myself a priest and a venue, but I need a caterer. And I could use some help inviting people.’
‘We could put a funeral notice into the Gazette, for tomorrow’s edition,’ said Hattie.
‘Yeah, that would be terrific,’ said Candy. ‘We should do some personal invites too. I was thinking . . . after what Jessie told me about looking for the murderer, that inviting people in person would be a good way to give them a once-over. We could go together.’
Jessie was pale and studying her hands. I was looking at Candy’s orange toenails.
I didn’t want to upset Jessie by doing anything with Candy. On the other hand, Candy didn’t know about Jessie and Reghardt, so hadn’t meant to hurt her. While Jessie and I were caught up in our thoughts, Harriet gave our visitor a cup of tea and wrote down the details of the funeral. At least one of us remembered her manners.
‘Thanks for a fabulous evening, Jessie,’ said Candy, sipping her tea. ‘Sorry I got carried away. I reckon I’m still in shock about my cousin. You have some real sweet guys in this town, by the way. Real sweet. Why, one of them— ’
There were footsteps up the pathway. A man knocked and stepped inside. Reghardt. Jessie jumped up.
‘Why, Reggie!’ said Candy, smiling at him. ‘Just talking ’bout you.’
Reghardt’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. Jessie gave him a look that would spear a fish, and then pushed past him.
‘Jessie . . . ’ he said, following her out.
But by the time the rest of his words actually left his mouth, her scooter was buzzing off. Reghardt came back and hovered in the doorway.
‘Nooit,’ he said. ‘She’s gone . . . ’
‘Need to see a man about some flowers,’ Candy said, looking at her watch.
She patted Reghardt on the cheek as she trotted past. He turned bright red, and did that fish thing again.
&n
bsp; ‘Reghardt,’ I said, ‘I was wondering. Did you find anything in the pipes, at the Van Schalkwyks’? Pomegranate juice?’
‘Ja,’ he said. ‘I mean no, I can’t tell you these things. Not yet. Sorry, Tannie. The lieutenant . . . It’s police business, you know.’
‘Will LCRC test it themselves to see if there are sedatives in it, or must they send it to Cape Town?’
‘No, man, Tannie, I can’t tell you, sorry. You can ask the press liaison officer. But there’s nothing to report . . . yet. Do you know where Jessie’s gone? Is she coming back?’
‘I can’t tell you, sorry,’ I said.
‘I’ll go and see . . . ’ he said.
He nodded politely at us both and then left. Hattie walked to the door and looked out.
‘What in goodness gracious was that all about?’ she said.
‘Chicken pies and milk tarts,’ I said. ‘Tannie Kuruman’s melktert is the best. She could do the catering.’
‘What?’ said Hattie.
‘For the funeral,’ I said.
Hattie stood at the door, looking down the path and shaking her head.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
‘Heavens,’ said Hattie, straightening her skirt as she sat down at her desk. ‘Why did Jessie rush off like that?’
‘She’ll be back,’ I said.
It didn’t feel right for me to explain to Hattie about Jessie’s love life. I put on the kettle and made tea for us both, then I sat down at my desk with my letters. I opened a plain white envelope with a Ladismith postmark.
Dear Tannie Maria,
Two things are bothering me that maybe you can help me with.
The first is – I am wondering what really matters. Really. Family? Duty? God? Friends? Food? Love?
The other is – do you have any good camping food recipes? Without meat or fridge food. I have some lentils and tins of tomatoes for starters.
Yours in hope,
Lost Lucy
Now that was a short letter with a tall order. I watched the morning sunshine move across the wall above Hattie’s desk, as I sat thinking. My biggest problem was that I have never actually been camping myself.
And I was no expert on most of the things she asked about. I didn’t have a family. My duty died with my husband. God was a stranger to me. I had friends, Hattie and Jessie, and I’d cooked and eaten a lot of good food. But what did I know about love? How could I know what really mattered?
‘Hats,’ I said, ‘remember that time two years ago, when it had rained and rained and part of my road got washed away and a river ran across it?’
‘Oh, yes – you were cut off for almost two weeks.’
‘You came and stood on the other side of the river close to my house.’
‘But you were stubborn and wouldn’t let me throw you fresh food.’
‘Hattie, those tomatoes landed in the water, and I couldn’t risk watching more good food floating down the river. I was eating just fine with my dried and tinned foods. And some fruit and vegetables that lasted nicely.’
‘I didn’t believe you. But when the river went down I came across and you fed me that delicious meal: the butternut and beetroot stew.’
‘With that fresh bread I baked.’
‘And even some apple crumble. Wasn’t it after those floods you planted your veggie garden and got your chickens?’
But I didn’t answer. I was busy writing to Lucy. Now that I thought about it, I had lots of camping recipes.
Dear Lucy, I wrote.
In the end what matters most is love and food. Without them you go hungry. And you need them to enjoy all of the other things you wrote about.
Then I gave her two camping recipes. The first one was pasta with a lentil bolognaise made with tinned tomatoes and fresh onions, garlic, ginger and lemon rind. The other was the stew I’d made for Hattie. As I typed the recipes out, I heard footsteps up our pathway. I was hoping it was Jessie, but I knew it wouldn’t be.
Candy walked right in and said: ‘Hell, I’ve just seen him, at a table piled with fruit. Oh, my hat.’
She took it from the back of Jessie’s chair and arranged it on her head. I fanned myself with an envelope.
‘Martine’s ex – John. He’s at the market,’ she said. ‘He didn’t see me.’ She looked at me. ‘Let’s go talk to him together.’
‘You go ahead,’ said Hattie, nodding.
But I wasn’t jumping up. I didn’t want to hurt Jessie. She was my investigating partner, and to go with Candy after what had happened . . . But Candy knew John, and she was like a vetkoek in the way she might get a man to talk.
‘I guess I could just talk to him alone . . . ’ said Candy, tapping a foot on the wooden floor.
Her orange toenails matched her lipstick exactly. I put down my letter and stood up.
There was a murderer to be found.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
We flew up the road in Candy’s red MG, the wind so strong my eyelashes were blowing back. I was holding her straw hat in my lap where she’d dropped it. And then, just then, Jessie came by on her scooter from the other direction. She passed us, and must have seen us, but she didn’t turn her head.
There was a row of market stalls in the car park, close to the pavement. For a hundred rand a day, locals could hire a wooden trestle table, with a big umbrella. The umbrella was on a stand with a heavy concrete base. The umbrella shade was smaller than the table, and it moved around as the sun moved, so the wares were usually piled up on just one part of the table and then shuffled around to follow the shade. You could buy colourful hats or ugly handbags or cheap plastic things which broke before you got home. But some of the tables had good fresh produce from the farms nearby.
‘That’s him,’ said Candy.
We pulled up in front of a stall made of a double trestle table loaded with fruit and vegetables. A good-looking man with curly brown hair, a leather hat and a denim shirt stood in the sun, between two umbrellas. He had organised his tables so the green and leafy things were in the shade, and the melons, tomatoes and pumpkins were in the sun. He had also set his umbrellas so that there was some shade for his customers to stand in. Which was considerate of him. Or maybe just clever business. I recognised the man and his table. He had lived in the Ladismith area quite a few years, but he still behaved like an out-of-town type. He was there to sell, not to chat. I wondered if he would talk to us now.
Candy had parked so that he was on her side of the car. She did not look at him as she got out, but she knew he was watching. She moved slowly, as if someone was taking pictures of each pose: the red car door opens – out come her purple heels and long legs; she stands up, adjusts her sunglasses, shakes her blonde hair; her hands tug on the hem of her lilac dress; the cloth tightens on her hips and breasts.
The man’s eyes were photographing every image. I got out too, carrying Candy’s hat.
‘Look at these fine mangoes, Tannie Maria,’ she said, crossing the pavement, heading to his stall.
He had a nice selection of fruit and vegetables. I picked up a mango and smelled it. Sweet like honey. Some of the mangoes had little bumps on them. But that’s what you get when you grow food in your garden. It doesn’t always look as good as the shop food, but it tastes a lot nicer. A pile of fat black grapes sat next to the mangoes.
‘Can I taste one?’ I asked, looking up at the man.
He was about the same height as Candy in her heels and was still watching her from under his leather hat.
‘Go ahead,’ he said.
Ooh, it was good: sweet and juicy.
Candy was also tasting a grape, but she was taking longer about it. She rubbed it against her lips, touched it with the tip of her tongue, then licked the grape slowly. By the time she popped it into her mouth, I thought the man was going to burst. She smiled and then lifted up her sunglasses and looked right at him, as if noticing him for the first time.
‘Why, isn’t that John? John Visser.’
The man swallowed and wipe
d his mouth.
‘Remember me, sugar? Martine’s cousin, Candice.’
‘Candy?’ he said.
‘I suppose you’ve heard,’ she said, ‘about Martine.’
He frowned, and moved a cabbage into the shade.
‘Ja. Terrible.’
‘I was wondering how to get ahold of you. The funeral’s on Wednesday at ten in the morning.’
‘Terrible,’ he said again, his arms now at his sides. ‘That man.’
‘Her husband?’
‘Yes.’
His hands became fists.
‘You think he did it?’
‘He didn’t treat her right.’
‘Did you see much of Martine?’
He opened and closed his fists.
‘He was too jealous to let anyone near her,’ he said. ‘But I kept in touch . . . ’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘Couple of weeks back. She should never have married him.’
‘Did you visit her at home?’
‘What’s this, an inquisition?’
Candy smiled. She took her hat from me, and arranged it nicely on her head.
‘This is a family friend, Maria,’ she said. ‘John Visser. An old . . . friend of Martine’s. Maria is helping out with the funeral arrangements. John is a farmer. Still organic?’
He nodded.
‘Nice,’ I said, patting a pumpkin. ‘I’ve got a little garden myself. My chickens and my wild garlic keep the goggas away.’
‘So you’re also an organic farmer,’ he said.
‘I never thought of it like that,’ I said. ‘But I don’t use poisons for the insects, and I pull up my weeds by hand.’
‘And your fertiliser?’ he asked.
‘Vegetable compost and chicken poo,’ I said.
‘Excellent,’ he said, bringing his hands together in a silent clap. ‘Then you’re organic. Most home gardeners are. Until they get bombarded by crap from the agricultural companies. They’ve wrecked subsistence farming across Africa with their products. Pesticides, herbicides, chemical fertilisers, and now the GM seeds. Criminal. Just criminal.’
Candy smiled.
‘Can’t just let nature take its course,’ she said.