An Unquiet Place

by Clare Houston

  ‘Drop it, Dad.’

  They reached the cottage where the kitchen was filled with the smell of bread fresh out the oven. Sarah was ladling thick brown soup into bowls.

  ‘It’s bacon and bean,’ she said. ‘I know it’s better in winter, but I just felt like making it today. Neil, please pick up the salad and take it out to the veranda. I thought we could eat there.’

  Neil leant over to kiss Sarah’s cheek. ‘It looks wonderful, my girl.’

  She smiled but didn’t look up from dishing up the soup. ‘Alistair, can you carry the bread? And you’ll need a bread knife.’

  The table was set with cotton mats and flowered side plates. Alistair and Neil sat across from each other and were spreading butter on thick slices of hot bread.

  ‘Neil, you don’t need the butter,’ Sarah said, frowning at him.

  ‘Don’t put it out if you don’t want me to eat it.’

  She ignored him and moved the salt out of his reach.

  The soup was thick and fragrant, and there was silence at the table while the two men concentrated on their meal. ‘What have you been up to this morning?’ Sarah said, delicately spooning her soup from the opposite side of her bowl.

  ‘We met the girl who’s taken on Tim’s shop,’ Neil said. ‘We towed her bakkie out of the mud.’

  ‘Here?’ Sarah looked in surprise between Neil and Alistair.

  ‘She was trespassing,’ said Alistair curtly.

  Neil rolled his eyes at his wife. ‘Alistair took exception to her being on the farm. She had heard somewhere that there was a Boer concentration camp site in the area. I liked her, actually. Seems sweet. Pretty too.’

  Sarah’s brows crinkled. ‘How strange that those old stories should surface off the farm. I’ve only ever heard them here.’

  Alistair put his spoon firmly down. ‘What stories, Mum? I’ve never heard anything like that?’

  ‘I haven’t heard them for years and years, not since I was a girl really.’ Sarah buttered her bread and neatly cut it in half with a knife. Alistair looked across at her in disbelief.

  ‘And?’ He had found this day disturbing on a number of levels. Riding in the truck next to Hannah had stirred emotions in him that he hadn’t felt in years. Despite her trying her hardest not to touch him, an accidental brush of her arm against his had scalded him. He put down his spoon and pushed his right arm under the table. The faraway look in his mother’s eyes did nothing to soothe his disquiet.

  ‘You know that, as a child, I used to play with Kobie and Lena? I was in and out of their house in the workers’ compound a lot. There were stories that their mother had told them, to scare them into behaving, I thought.’ Sarah put her spoon down. ‘She would say that the ghost woman from the camp was looking for her children, and that Kobie and Lena had better be good or the woman would come for them. Kobie and Lena swore that they saw the ghost woman on the plateau, but I never did. And then I forgot all about it, till now. How strange,’ she said again, before picking up her spoon quietly.

  ‘Come on, Mum, that’s superstitious nonsense. We would know, after all these years on the farm, if there had been a camp here. The camps are all documented and accounted for anyway. The closest one was at Winburg.’

  Neil wiped the remains of soup from his bowl with a crust of bread. ‘Stories all start somewhere, though. Just because we lose the beginning of the thread doesn’t mean it never happened. That wind pump up on the plateau is pretty old.’

  Sarah smiled across the table at him. ‘I remember my grandfather telling me about that metal one arriving in a kit all the way from America. It was a big event on the farm.’

  Alistair frowned at his parents. ‘How is it that I don’t know any of this?’

  ‘Anyway,’ Neil said, not so deftly shifting the conversation, ‘I hope we see more of that girl. Maybe we should invite her round, Sarah?’

  Alistair pushed his chair away from the table. ‘Just warn me, please. I’ll make sure I’m out of the way.’ He came around to Sarah’s seat and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘Lovely lunch, Mum, thanks.’

  May 1901, Goshen Camp, Orange River Colony

  Dear Wolf,

  At night, I dream of the farm. I dream of you, my brother and my best friend. I see you in my sleep. You come in from the veld with your face brown from the sun, and the smell of wind and grass on your clothes.

  I think of our playing together as children, hiding from the little ones and feeling so grown up that we could build forts and swim in the river on our own. Then we were older. I had more work to do in the house and you were out helping Pa. Sometimes I brought lunch to you in the fields, where we lay on the grass and talked about being grown up. You wanted to breed horses. You said Pa would listen when you were older because your plan was good. I lay with the grass tickling my neck and looked at the sky. It was clear and bright, and I couldn’t imagine anything beyond the moment. Being happy with you.

  Now I dream of food, of being warm. I even long for the cauldron of washing, that boiling soap that made my eyes sting. Hot water and being properly clean is a thought too luxurious to allow myself in the daylight. I would never get out of my blanket if I let the dreams take me in the day. I wake every morning thinking I’m home. I open my eyes and the awful truth hits me that it is the nightmare which is real.

  Do you long for the past as I do? Do you dream of me, Wolf?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Patchy woke Hannah early again the following morning. The creeping sun on the deck drew her outside to curl into a chair with her cup of tea. Her thoughts returned to the previous day, as they had many times since she’d left the farm. That man. That bitter, arrogant man. How had he got like that? She pushed the thought aside. Who cares. If she could avoid him, all the better.

  The morning brought a steady stream of curious visitors to the shop. Barbara managed the till and shamelessly exploited the unusual surfeit of customers, persuading them to buy a paperback or a knitting pattern before they left the shop, while Hannah tried to be as friendly as possible while deflecting their personal questions. In all her years with Todd, she had perfected the art, and spent much time talking in depth about the other person. By the end of the conversation, the person left feeling like they had really engaged her but, in actual fact, had learnt nothing about Hannah at all.

  When the shop quietened down by lunchtime, Hannah’s kitchen had already accumulated numerous foil-covered dishes and various bottles of pickles and jams. As overwhelming as the people and their questions had been, Hannah had never experienced such a welcome from strangers before. She wondered if her Cape Town friends would’ve been as happy to see her as the residents in this new town were.

  ‘Barbara, do you mind if I sneak out and get a take-away coffee? I feel like I deserve one after that.’

  Barbara looked up from the computer, her bright orange reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. A beaded string looped from each earpiece and matched her Ndebele-style necklace. Her eyes crinkled and she said dryly, ‘You survived the vultures – you do deserve one. Go ahead, get me one too? Black, three sugars?’

  Hannah crossed the street and walked along the edge of the square where enormous plane trees projected deep green shade across the lawn. The bistro next door was open for lunch. Tables and umbrellas were set up on the deck, edged with boxes of tumbling geraniums and bright petunias. The school year was wrapping up in the next month. Holidaymakers from Gauteng would arrive at their country getaways and the town would burst open with activity.

  Cutting across the corner of the square, she passed a blanket shop. Rows of multicoloured Basotho blankets hung on display. Hannah’s mother had inherited four Basotho blankets from Hannah’s ouma, blue with black lions marching across the width. They were used every winter and Hannah could hear her mother in her head: Sixty years old and still as warm as when they were bought!

  She wondered if her parents had tried to contact her. She hadn’t checked her phone since arriving in Lel
iehoek. Its battery had no doubt died by now. She brushed the thought of her parents aside, pausing in front of a pink-and-white-painted shop. A sign hung above the door, ‘Coffee and Cake’. White-painted tables and chairs filled the interior. The décor was eclectic, glass jars jostling with old-fashioned tea tins and pink-and-white daisies. The effect was girlishly charming.

  A large glass cabinet filled with beautiful pastries, cakes, and iced biscuits ran the width of the shop. The decadent smell of fresh brewing coffee filled the room. A waitress came out from the kitchen, carrying a tray with floral cups and two tea pots covered in crocheted pink tea cosies. She smiled at Hannah. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’ Two older ladies were seated in the window. They only paused in their stream of chatter to smile at the waitress, before digging into enormous slices of carrot cake.

  ‘May I help you, sweetheart?’ the waitress asked, returning to the counter.

  ‘I’ll have two coffees to go, please.’

  The waitress began pulling levers and twisting knobs on a coffee machine. ‘My kids say this beast is straight out of Willy Wonka’s factory. They could be right too.’ She looked up at Hannah. ‘You visiting Leliehoek?’

  ‘Um no, I’m working at the bookshop. I arrived on Friday.’

  The woman’s face lit up. ‘Oh my goodness, you’re Hannah! Of course, I should have known … I mean, you wouldn’t have your surfboard in the middle of the Free State, would you?’

  ‘Pardon?’ Hannah tried to hide her confusion.

  ‘Oh,’ said the woman, ‘it’s just that the picture of you in my head was in a wet suit with a surfboard under your arm.’

  Hannah nodded slowly. ‘I suppose, coming from Cape Town, people might assume I’m a surfer.’ Though nobody ever had before.

  ‘I’m also from Cape Town, but not Kenilworth,’ said the woman, putting two take-away cups and lids in front of Hannah, and gesturing to a large ceramic milk jug and bowl of sugar.

  Hannah was too mystified by the interaction to reply. How did this woman know she surfed, and where she’d lived? She clipped the lids onto the cups and pulled out her wallet to pay.

  ‘I’m Kathryn, by the way. My parents still live on the Flats, but I haven’t been back to the Cape for years.’ She shook her head at the money in Hannah’s hand. ‘Your first visit to the shop is on me. Tell Barbara I made red velvet cupcakes just for her.’ Kathryn turned and began packing the cupcakes into a white box.

  Hannah glanced at the cabinet full of beautiful cakes. ‘You make all of these?’

  ‘Aren’t they gorgeous?’ Kathryn grinned. ‘Who would’ve thought that a girlie from the Flats would end up with a boutique bakery in the Free State? Not me, anyway!’

  It dawned on Hannah for the first time that she was speaking to the owner of this lovely place. ‘It’s an amazing shop. I can see it’s going to be a disaster for me.’

  Kathryn giggled in delight. ‘Wrecking people’s diets is my goal in life. Why would you live a life of denial when there is lemon meringue in the world?’

  Hannah picked up her coffees and the cardboard box, laughing. ‘You are so right. Thanks for these, Kathryn.’

  ‘See you soon, Hannah,’ she said, waving cheerfully. ‘So glad you’re here. There’s something in the air, and it’s all to do with you. Exciting times, I think.’

  Hannah turned and left the shop, her brows drawn. What was it about that woman? So strange, but not bad strange. Just a light unsettling that stirred something in Hannah, like a warm breath on her skin. She shook off the feeling as she crossed the square back to the shop.

  Barbara had opened a foil-covered quiche and warmed it in the microwave while she tossed some salad onto plates.

  ‘I met Kathryn,’ said Hannah, sitting down at the table and picking the cherry tomatoes off her plate. She popped them into her mouth one by one as Barbara lifted two large slices of quiche onto their plates. ‘She sent your red velvet cupcakes.’

  ‘She’s a honey,’ said Barbara. ‘Bakes like a dream. I think she keeps the Women’s Guild afloat single-handedly. People come just for the tea afterwards.’

  ‘At the church?’ said Hannah.

  ‘St Luke’s, the Anglican church. She’s very involved there. It amazes me how someone who has had as much trouble in her life as she has had, can be so warm and open. She’s a special girl.’

  ‘She’s had a hard life?’ Hannah put a forkful of buttery pastry and asparagus into her mouth.

  ‘It’s a rough story, but I’ll leave her to tell you. All I’ll say is that she’s triumphed.’ There was silence between them for a while as they ate their meal, sipping their coffees.

  ‘I’m going to spend the afternoon on the computer,’ said Hannah. ‘I’ll be in the shop for the rest of the day. If you want to go home, it’s fine with me.’

  ‘I think I might just do that, thanks. I need to get to the bank in Bethlehem. And tomorrow is book club here.’

  Hannah looked up. ‘Book club?’

  Barbara smiled at what Hannah knew was a slightly panicked look on her face. ‘On a Tuesday afternoon. We have about fifteen women who come regularly. They buy a book and, when they’re done, they review it for the group. It’s great for sales.’

  Hannah sat back in her chair. ‘Do we have to get anything ready?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Barbara, looking over her orange reading glasses. ‘They take turns bringing eats and we provide tea and coffee. There are some women who have never done a review, and I doubt they read a book at all, but they’re here every week. It’s fun – you’ll enjoy it.’

  ‘Hmm,’ was all Hannah could manage.

  After Barbara had left, Hannah searched the history section of the shop, pulling out books on the South African War. There were a number with chapters on the camps. Sitting at the table in the reading room, she began to jot down relevant information in a notebook next to her.

  When the British army had occupied the Boer capital, Pretoria, in June 1900, they had thought the war was largely over. In fact, it was only the beginning of a new, brutal phase. The style of battle shifted to guerrilla warfare. Mobile groups of Boers, commandos, were difficult to pin down, and the war looked set to drag out indefinitely. In response, Lord Kitchener embarked on his scorched earth policy with the intention of cutting all supply lines and support for the Boer commandos. Farms were burnt, crops destroyed, and stock killed. Floods of refugees began to pour into the camps, which had been set up initially to manage the crisis. But poor administration, inadequate rations, and the subsequent waves of disease set in motion a misery which saw the deaths of more than twenty-six thousand people. Most of these were women and children.

  The photographs brought the history painfully to life. Hannah pored over the pages. A homestead with a pall of smoke hanging above it, and bundles of linen and furniture piled outside, three British soldiers posing formally in the foreground. A line of soldiers on a stone wall with guns raised shooting cattle. A field of horse carcasses, a man standing with his foot propped up on one, like a hunter. Women in deep-brimmed white kappies sitting exposed in a row of open cattle trucks about to leave for the camps. And then the children. Naked, skeletal bodies arranged before the camera. A little corpse held tightly by her blank-faced mother. Hannah felt nauseated. How could she not have known the scale of what happened?

  She began searching for a reference to the camp called Goshen. She found lists and tables and graphs all detailing official records of the camps. She found maps with black dots marking the camps across South Africa’s landscape. There was no camp called Goshen.

  When the shop doorbell tinkled and a customer came in to browse, she packed up the pile of books and moved across to the computer. On Google, she found herself sidetracked by other journals from the war. There was one account of a mother who had hidden her children in caves to escape the British camps. They had managed to evade capture until the end of the war, though the memory was punctuated with the pain of desperate times. By late afternoon, Hannah
had found nothing about Goshen Camp, but her head was whirling with pictures and stories from the war. It occurred to her that perhaps the journal had been written as a piece of fiction. It lacked the blunt voice of other women’s real testimonies and was altogether more personal. It was as if the other accounts were protest pieces, full of bitterness against the British for wreaking such destruction on their people. Perhaps Rachel’s story was no more than a writer expressing her own pain through the horror genre of the camps. Perhaps it would be better just to leave the story alone.

  Hannah cashed up and retreated to her apartment. The house was quiet and still warm from the afternoon. Patchy stretched and yawned on the kitchen table. Hannah picked up the journal. The covers of the book were worn, but there was no indication of when or where the ledger had been printed. It certainly looked authentic, but then you would never know whether the account inside was written during the war, or ten or twenty years later. With no facts to back up the writing, it could be a work of fiction. Or perhaps this person had been in a camp and changed all names to avoid trouble. But that didn’t fit with what she had seen this afternoon. There was nothing careful about the virulent writings of other Boer women from that time.

  Hannah opened the ledger to where she had left off reading. The cramped writing crept on and on across the pages. The words jumped at her, and she couldn’t help picking up the story again.

  I make myself useful. I make friends by being helpful and hope that an extra ounce of rations will come my way. I carry buckets of water. I collect fuel for the neighbours so I can sit by their fire. I watch the children when their mothers are too tired to get up. I show them games that we played on the farm, and tell them stories. I show them how to write their names.

  The medical officer visited last week and found I could write. It is useful to him that he can leave me here and visit less, not worry about keeping records himself. Now I make lists. Endless counts of sick people and dead people. Why do names on paper mean more to the British than the people who belong to those names? The lists can’t save them, but somehow they have saved me. I get paid for my lists, and now I can buy a tin of meat every now and then. I will help anyone with any chore, but the food I keep secret and eat quickly, hidden under my blanket. I know these secret tins are my only chance to survive this camp.