As if reading her mind, Kathryn reached out and touched her arm lightly. ‘Sorry. I sometimes speak without filtering what I hear.’
‘Let me just clear something up, though,’ Hannah said bluntly, trying to cover her confusion. ‘I am not interested in starting another relationship. Especially with a self-absorbed bully of a man.’
Kathryn raised an eyebrow. ‘I agree. You’ve had one of those already, but Alistair Barlow is not like him, I promise you.’ She picked up their mugs and disappeared into the back, leaving Hannah wondering how Kathryn could know anything about Todd.
She called from the back, ‘Our church is having a fête on Saturday. Can you help at all?’
Hannah was happy to change the subject. ‘What do I have to do?’
Kathryn reappeared, grinning. ‘It would be great if you could manage the bookstall. We have had piles of books donated and the proceeds go to church funds, mainly supporting a farm preschool nearby.’
Hannah rather liked the idea of a small town church fête. She followed Kathryn out the front door and watched her lock up the shop. ‘Thanks for the tea, Kathryn. And for listening too – you’re good at it.’
Kathryn looked up from locking the door and grinned at Hannah. ‘Let’s pop over the road to the church now and I’ll show you the books. We’ll probably need to sort them or price them or something before the weekend. You can meet Douglas – he might tickle your fancy.’
‘I don’t need anyone near my fancy, thanks very much,’ said Hannah darkly, though Kathryn’s shout of laughter had her mouth curving into a smile. They crossed the road and Kathryn opened the wooden lychgate. A slate-paved path led to a stone church, but instead of going to the front door, Kathryn led the way around the side to a more modern building set towards the back of the property. A sign pointed to the church office, and another to the church hall. Kathryn stuck her head into the office door and called, ‘Douglas?’
A man’s voice answered from the hall next door, ‘I’m in here.’
The hall was piled with an assortment of loaded plastic bags, boxes of strange kitchen gadgets, and four trestle tables of old books. An athletic man in his early forties looked helplessly at the heaps of stuff. He was dressed in shorts and a Red Hot Chili Peppers T-shirt. He smiled widely at the two women as they came in. ‘I hope you’ve come to rescue me, Kathryn. I’m completely at sea with all this crap.’
‘Hannah, this is Douglas. He’s our new minister.’ Hannah looked at the man in surprise. He was unlike any minister she had ever seen and, as he came over to shake her hand, she saw his face compose itself with over-the-top charm.
‘I am so happy to make your acquaintance,’ he said, a dimple appearing at the corner of his mouth. ‘Please tell me you have come to help turn everybody’s junk into a decent fête. People in Joburg would never dream of buying second-hand rubbish, so I’ve never done this before. I’m beyond desperate.’
‘Don’t look at me,’ said Hannah, laughing at his pathetic, pleading expression. ‘I’ve hardly been in a church, let alone run a church fête.’
‘Perfect!’ Douglas crowed. ‘We can use your mercenary, worldly principles to make heaps of cash out of this dreck.’
Kathryn was poking through the piles, opening bags and hauling out old clothes and curtains which she was holding up to the light and discarding into two piles. ‘Oh shut up, Douglas,’ she said with a toss of her head. ‘How about getting to work rather than flirting with Hannah.’ Douglas winked gamely at Hannah, who laughed and shook her head at the inconsistency of this man and his role.
Then she got stuck into the piles of dusty books, and by the time she had sorted them into categorised wooden crates, it was dark outside and she was filthy. Kathryn had managed to unearth two clothes rails on wheels and she had filled them with dresses and coats, arranging them in a colour order which looked so attractive, Hannah wanted to browse through the dresses herself.
Douglas tried to sort the bric-a-brac but, with no appreciation for what he was doing, Kathryn eventually sent him off to buy them supper. He returned, bumbling in through the door with a carry bag in each hand, a bottle of wine under his arm. ‘I didn’t know what you liked, so I got a selection,’ he said cheerfully. He unpacked the food onto a free trestle table and, by the time the women had washed their hands, a feast was awaiting them. They tucked into pizza, salad, and an enormous box of hot chips, which was accompanied, rather incongruously, by a very good red wine and slabs of chocolate.
‘I thought ministers weren’t allowed to drink,’ Hannah said to Douglas, who was now stretched out on his side on the hall floor, reclining on his elbow and looking more like a feasting Roman than a priest.
‘That’s the Methodists,’ he said with a grin. ‘I chose the Anglican church precisely for the reason that we drink wine every Sunday. Red wine is biblical, after all.’
‘You give rocks what people think of you, even if you weren’t allowed,’ said Kathryn, sitting cross-legged on the floor, guarding the box of chips on her lap.
Douglas smiled across at her. ‘True. My wife couldn’t handle the scrutiny, though.’
Hannah’s brows shot up in surprise. ‘Your wife?’
Douglas kept his gaze on Kathryn. ‘My wife, Kristy, hated the fishbowl life which comes with church work. She felt constantly watched and judged. She left me three years ago for an accountant who works office hours.’
Hannah glanced between Kathryn and Douglas, wondering at Kathryn’s silence and a certain spark in the air. Douglas sighed dramatically, breaking the tension, and launched into an impression of Donkey from Shrek, singing at the top of his voice that he was all alone.
Kathryn shook her head and Hannah burst out laughing.
June 1901, Goshen Camp, Orange River Colony
Dearest Wolf,
A different kind of man came into the camp yesterday. Reverend Charlie from a new church in Bethlehem. It is called the Methodist Episcopal Church. I don’t know what that is – all we ever knew was the Dutch church where Pa would go to nagmaal. Unlike any black-robed dominie I’ve seen, this man wears a brown suit with a stiff, clean shirt underneath. He holds himself upright, proud and comfortable in his skin. I had forgotten what that looks like. He spoke to us of freedom and not living under the hand of any other man. He spoke with a kindness we don’t hear in the camp. He looked at me directly, met my eyes when he spoke – and I knew that he saw me. Really saw me. A year of looking past one another and finally, someone who sees me, Rachel Badenhorst. He said he’d come back. Said he had connections in America who would send money for us. I want so badly to believe him.
CHAPTER TEN
Hannah walked across to the church early, and found Douglas coordinating a group of men as they pitched canvas gazebos and set up trestle tables under the spreading plane trees in the church garden. She lugged the crates of books from the hall to her stand. Luminous price stickers and a homemade sign were the final touches. Douglas sauntered over, relaxed in his black-and-red Killers T-shirt, a lightning bolt emblazoned on the back. Hannah wondered what his parishioners would make of it.
‘You’re amazing,’ he said, his arm casually pulling her into his side. ‘New in town and already jumping in, boots and all.’ Hannah allowed him the familiarity, certain his interest lay with someone else, and enjoying his charm, for what it was worth.
She smiled up at him and gestured to the church grounds now buzzing with people setting up stalls. ‘Looks like you pulled it off.’
He threw his head back and howled in an outrageous accent from the American South, ‘It’s a miracle from the Lord, hallelujah!’
Hannah, laughing, punched him on the arm. ‘You are the most irreverent person I know, and also happen to be the only priest I know. How’s that possible?’
Douglas quickly moved out of range, rubbing his arm and grinning at her. ‘I need to go set up my music equipment – my fans await.’
‘I hope he matches his music to the audience,’ said Kathryn, coming u
p behind Hannah. Her wildly curly dark hair had been caught up in a bun at the base of her neck, leaving black tendrils loose about her face. She was holding the hands of two small children, both as striking as their mother, with dark, curly hair and big brown eyes, but framed by faces much fairer than Kathryn’s smooth brown complexion. ‘This is Matthew and Emma-Jane,’ she said, pulling them in front of her and stroking the tops of their heads. ‘Say hello to Hannah, guys.’ The children greeted Hannah shyly and slid round their mother’s legs till they were hiding behind her. Kathryn turned and crouched down in front of them. ‘Granny and Gramps are at the jumble stall inside the hall, and I’ll be making pancakes right over there. Go and explore, but don’t take a single step out the gate, you hear?’ The twins nodded, but were off like two hares springing away from their mother’s catching hands.
‘They are beautiful, Kathryn,’ said Hannah, watching them dart between the tables and guy ropes.
‘Yes, they are,’ smiled Kathryn, ‘and they keep me on my toes.’
‘Is their father around?’ Hannah kept her gaze on the two children in an effort to keep her tone light.
‘We’re still married, but he’s been gone five years now. Disappeared just before the twins were born. We only found him last year.’ Her face held shadows of pain as Hannah met her eyes.
‘Why did he leave?’
‘He’s schizophrenic … living on the streets in Durban. A friend saw him begging at an intersection, but he won’t come home. We’ve all tried. He nearly broke his parents.’ Kathryn shook her head and swatted her hands around, brushing away the past like a stinging insect. ‘I’d better get cracking with my pannekoek – I’ll send some over. Cinnamon sugar?’
Hannah nodded, with a smile for her new friend. ‘And a bit of lemon, please.’
By mid-morning, the church grounds were full. Douglas’s surprisingly talented busking drifted over the busy stalls. Help for Hannah had arrived in the form of a small, neat man who introduced himself as Moses Motala. Quietly spoken and highly efficient, he was soon managing the stall pretty much single-handedly. Listening to his interactions with customers and friends, Hannah eventually figured out he was the mayor of Leliehoek, and liked him all the more for his humility and friendly nature.
She caught glimpses of Alistair helping his father cook eggs and bacon. He didn’t look her way, even when Neil raised his spatula in a big wave across the lawn.
Hannah waved in return, a smile on her face for Neil, though her thoughts had clouded over. Bloody Alistair.
Her irritation was arrested by Douglas’s voice over the sound system, ‘And now, a song for the new girl in town. For Hannah Harrison.’
Hannah’s head jerked up, and a flush spread rapidly up her neck as his clear, mellow voice began a reggae song in her honour.
A deep belly laugh erupted from Moses, and he clapped his hand onto Hannah’s shoulder. ‘What do you think of our priest? He’s a blast of fresh air for this town.’
‘He’s a blast, all right,’ muttered Hannah, holding her hands to her hot cheeks.
The end of the song brought scattered applause and whistling for Douglas, who bowed dramatically, and then blew a cheeky kiss towards Hannah and another to Kathryn, who stood watching him with her arms folded and good-humoured exasperation on her face.
Hannah turned back to her books, but not before she caught a glimpse of Alistair Barlow. He was watching her, a frown darkening his face before he quickly composed himself to face his mother holding a roll for him to fill with egg and bacon.
By early afternoon, the fête had wrapped up. Hannah and Moses packed up their stall, pleased with themselves. Huge reductions and special deals towards the end of the day had cleared the books. Amused patrons had walked away with their arms full for a few rands. When a group of men arrived to take down the gazebo and move the tables back into the hall, Hannah wandered out through the gate to stand on the pavement.
The Dutch Reformed church stood over the road, an imposing building compared to the little Anglican church. Hannah slipped through the gate into the grounds. Here, a large cemetery filled most of the property and Hannah strolled among the gravestones, glancing at the inscriptions with interest. A thought occurred to her and she moved to the older part of the cemetery, where the headstones leant over and the engravings became less clear. She walked along the lines of graves until she stopped in front of three graves lying alongside one another. The first was the newest, and the headstone was carved in the shape of an open Bible. One side read, Daniel Stephanus Badenhorst, 1910–1961, beloved husband, the other side, Maria Jacoba Badenhorst, 1915–1965, beloved wife. The second and oldest headstone was a simple weathered stone marker, and Hannah had to bend low and trace the letters to be sure of the name, Danie Petrus Badenhorst, 1855–1920. The last headstone was an ageing marble cross set on a plinth with Corlie Johanna Marietjie Badenhorst 1882–1939 engraved on the horizontal bar of the cross. Below, on the plinth, was another name, Wolf Daniel Badenhorst, 1885–1943.
Hannah’s heart tripped at the sight of that name. Wolf. She quickly searched the rest of the cemetery but could find no other Badenhorsts and then, thinking that Rachel might have married and changed her name, she checked again for any graves marked Rachel, but there were none. Her mind filled with questions: Was it just coincidence that there was a Wolf Badenhorst buried here? Coincidence that his dates set him perfectly in the frame of the South African War? This Wolf would have been fifteen years old at the outbreak of war, and Hannah knew that boys much younger rode with the commandos, though perhaps unofficially. But if this was Rachel’s Wolf, where were the others whom she wrote about? Where were little Lizzie and Oupa Jakob and wild Kristina? And where was Rachel?
Hannah wandered back towards the gate and, as she came around the corner of the church, she nearly bumped into a large, older man unlocking the church door.
‘Ekskuus,’ he said, smiling, a grasp on her arm to keep her from over-balancing before he let go quickly. ‘Kan ek help?’
Hannah replied in Afrikaans. ‘I was looking in the cemetery, and I was wondering if the church keeps records of births and deaths?’
The man looked quizzically at Hannah. ‘We have the registers in the vestry – are you looking for something in particular?’
‘I can come back when it suits you, though. I don’t want to trouble you.’
He smiled, his eyes behind spectacles crinkling in the corners. ‘I’m waiting for the flower lady to bring the arrangements for tomorrow’s services. Now is good, actually. My name is Morné,’ he said, holding out his enormous hand for Hannah to shake. His grip was firm and dry.
He led Hannah through the dim, quiet church. Tall stained-glass windows reached for the roof, casting soft patterns of glass onto the carpet. At the front of the church was a door to the left, and Hannah stepped into a room crammed with odd things. Flower vases competed for space with a wooden crib, straw spilling through the slats onto the carpet. A tall cupboard filled one wall and, when Morné opened it, Hannah caught a glimpse of silver jugs and chalices. Hannah, who had only been in church a few times to attend the weddings of friends, now found herself intrigued at the paraphernalia stuffed into this little room. From one shelf, Morné drew out three thick, bound registers, and set them on a table. ‘Take your time. I’ll be in the church. Call me if you need anything.’
Hannah settled down at a table and opened all three registers until she found the oldest one, whose dates were closest to the time period she was looking for. The first entry began in 1903, and she scanned through the entries until she came to the marriage of Wolf Badenhorst and Corlie du Plessis in 1909. In the entries of the following year, she found the birth of their son, Daniel, and then three more children over the next few years. In the next register, Hannah found the entry of Daniel’s marriage to Maria Brandt in 1934; they had their first daughter, Gisela, that same year. Like in the graveyard, Hannah could find no earlier references to other Badenhorsts, no earlier marriages of oth
er daughters, and no deaths, apart from those she had seen in the cemetery.
Before she could open the third register, Morné had stuck his head into the room and smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry to interrupt, the flowers have arrived.’
‘I think I’m done too,’ Hannah said, stretching her arms above her head. She glanced at her watch and was startled to see she had been hunched over the registers for an hour.
‘Find what you were looking for?’
‘Not really.’ Hannah closed the books and handed them to Morné, who slid them back into the cupboard. She watched him thoughtfully. ‘What happened to the farming families around here during the South African War? Were the locals affected much?’
‘Oh yes,’ he said, his back to her as he locked the cupboard, ‘very much so. Most were on commando or sent to the camps. My impression is that the farms were abandoned. It took years for them to be resettled. And some families never returned.’ He stood back for Hannah to precede him through the door into the church before he pulled it closed behind him. ‘My great-grandfather was sent to Ceylon as a prisoner of war. He never went back to the family farm near Bethulie. Settled in Bloemfontein after the war, where there was work.’
As they walked back through the quiet church, Hannah breathed in the strong scent of lilies from an enormous arrangement on a pedestal. ‘Did anyone from this area resettle here?’
Morné opened the church door for her and came out behind her. ‘I’ve been here for twenty years and have never found out much about those days. The old folks are long gone, and the younger generation’s not so interested, especially since 1994. Who wants to dig up that old Afrikaner stuff?’ He locked the church door and stood with Hannah on the pavement. ‘The one family I know of who has stuck it out since those days are the De Jagers on Silwerfontein.’ Hannah tried to keep her face neutral, her heart tripping at the name of Rachel’s farm. It hadn’t occurred to her to pursue Silwerfontein. She had been so caught up with Goshen. Morné went on, oblivious to her struggle to keep her composure. ‘Karl de Jager’s father married the Badenhorst girl and took over her family farm.’
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