An Unquiet Place

by Clare Houston

  ‘Who was that?’ managed Hannah, not believing what she was hearing.

  ‘Gisela Badenhorst. She died last year. A fierce old lady, stalwart of this church. Strong as an ox until her granddaughter Marilie was killed. Marilie was married to the Barlow boy, Alistair. Have you come across the family?’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Hannah was crossing the road to the square, heading for home but so deep in thought she didn’t look up when Kathryn called across to her from where she was packing the last of her cooking equipment into her car. When Kathryn raised her voice and yelled like only a girl from the Flats could, Hannah stopped and changed direction towards her.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Alistair’s wife, Kathryn?’ said Hannah, coming to a halt right in front of her, her eyes flashing, mouth tight.

  ‘I didn’t think it was important. You said you weren’t interested in him.’

  Hannah slumped against the car next to Kathryn, resting her head on the window frame. ‘I’m not interested in him. I’m interested in his farm, and now it turns out he married into Rachel’s family. Every which way I turn, I bump into him. And he’s so mean to me.’ Aware that she sounded petulant, she looked at Kathryn, who was visibly struggling not to smile.

  ‘The twins are with their grandparents and I’m starving. How about you cook me some supper?’

  Kathryn parked her car outside Hannah’s gate and they walked up the back steps to the kitchen door. Bending down to stroke Patchy, Kathryn promptly sneezed. ‘I love cats so much and I can’t be near them – isn’t that the most unfair thing you’ve ever heard?’

  ‘Right up there with world hunger and wealth disparity,’ said Hannah dryly, though her mouth tipped in the beginnings of a smile as Kathryn laughed out loud and said, cheekily mimicking Hannah’s earlier tone, ‘You’re so mean to me.’

  Kathryn settled herself at the kitchen table with a glass of white wine and watched Hannah move around the kitchen, putting together omelettes and salad.

  ‘So I’ve got a journal written by a girl called Rachel Badenhorst from Silwerfontein. She’s separated from her family and goes to a camp called Goshen. The mother, grandfather, and children go to another camp, Winburg, I think. The father and two brothers are on commando. One of those brothers is Wolf, and I found his grave today in the Dutch Reformed church cemetery, along with his wife and son. Another grave there could be their father’s, but Rachel just calls him Pa.’ Hannah talked as she grated cheese and pulled sundried tomatoes from the fridge. ‘I’m not sure if Danie Badenhorst is Pa. And I don’t know how to find that out.’ She piled the filling and fresh rocket into the pan and folded the omelette in half. Pulling two plates from the cupboard, she slid the omelette onto one plate and set it in front of Kathryn. ‘The dominie, Morné, told me that Silwerfontein was the Badenhorst farm until Gisela Badenhorst married a De Jager.’

  Kathryn nodded, looking up from her plate. ‘I knew Gisela. She died last year only. She was an amazing lady, strong but fun. She farmed on her own after her husband died, until Karl was old enough to take over.’

  Hannah kept her eyes on the pan, finishing the second omelette. ‘And Karl was Alistair’s father-in-law?’

  ‘Yes, Karl and Esme are still on Silwerfontein … well, kind of. They have a house in Wilderness in the Cape, and Esme prefers to be there than in Leliehoek, especially since Marilie was killed.’

  Hannah sat down at the table with her plate and took a sip of wine. ‘And Marilie was married to Alistair when she was killed. Is that why he’s so awful?’

  Kathryn sighed. ‘Hannah, he’s not awful. He’s a mess. A lot happened around her death, and he’s had a very rough time. Don’t be too hard on him.’

  ‘I’m not hard on him – he’s hard on me!’ She pushed her half-finished plate away. ‘He won’t give me access to Goshen, and now I find that he’s inextricably linked to Silwerfontein too. I can’t win.’

  Kathryn put her knife and fork neatly together on the plate. ‘Look, Karl is a nice man. See if you can meet him and ask him about his family. Maybe there are letters or photo albums or something that will help. Alistair doesn’t have to be involved.’

  Hannah tilted her head to the side, deep in thought.

  Kathryn put her hand on Hannah’s arm to draw her gaze. ‘Hannah, just be careful of his wife, Esme. She’s bitter and can be nasty.’ Hannah saw Kathryn’s expression intensify and her eyes become deeply serious. ‘Be ready for an attack.’

  A chill raised the hair on Hannah’s arms and she shivered. Glancing behind her at the closed door, she shook off the feeling, then leant across the table and poured them both another glass of wine. Wanting to lighten the mood, she raised an eyebrow at Kathryn. ‘I have a slab of Lindt dark chocolate in the cupboard. Could you bear it? Or do I need to eat the whole thing by myself?’

  The opportunity to meet the De Jagers came sooner than Hannah expected. She was finishing up in the shop when she heard the beep of a car remote. A large white BMW had parked outside the shop. A personalised number plate read, ESME, in green letters. The doorbell tinkled and a petite woman came in. She was dressed in skin-tight jeans and a small vest, and looked to be in her late fifties. Her peroxided hair was cut short in the back and blow-dried into a bouffant style in the front. The smell of hairspray and musky perfume filled the shop as she clattered into the reading room on high wedge sandals. A few minutes later, she appeared at the till with a stack of romance novels. She tapped with long acrylic nails on the counter and didn’t make eye contact when Hannah introduced herself. Hannah dawdled over ringing up the books, wrestling with how to start a conversation.

  She blundered in: ‘I’m interested in the South African War history of the area and I’ve heard your family goes back generations here.’

  ‘My husband’s family,’ said Esme, her tone dismissive as she stretched one hand to examine her nails.

  ‘Would it be possible for me to come to the farm and chat with your husband?’ Hannah ventured, gingerly.

  ‘We’re far too busy. We’re off to Wilderness soon, so …’ A bored expression settled on her face.

  Hannah, feeling a strong dislike creep over her, pushed, ‘Are there perhaps Badenhorst records or memorabilia in the house? Family’s important, after all.’

  Esme’s eyes froze over. She leant over the counter towards Hannah and spat, ‘You know nothing about family! Fokken stay away from me.’ She stormed out of the shop, beeped her car open, and threw the novels onto the passenger seat. Hannah stood in the doorway, watching the car disappear in a spit of gravel. She focused on a figure standing outside the supermarket. His face turned to her, pale.

  Alistair strode across the street, taking the stairs two at a time. Stopping on the stoep, one hand gripping the balustrade, eyes dark, he said, ‘What the hell just happened?’

  Hannah, still shocked by Esme’s outburst, and now feeling a slow slide of guilt, crossed her arms across her waist. ‘I just asked her about the old Badenhorsts and if there were any family records from the war.’

  Alistair thumped his fist against the pillar of the stoep. ‘You said you’d drop it!’

  ‘No, I did not!’ Hannah pushed herself away from the doorframe, her hands clenched at her sides. ‘What’s your problem, Alistair?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve been here what – a week? And you think you have the right to poke into other people’s lives. You know nothing about us!’

  Alistair took two steps towards her, his body threatening, but she was too angry to notice. She glared up at him, meeting stormy eyes. ‘I’m not poking,’ she spat. ‘I’m just trying to find out about Rachel Badenhorst, and every which way I turn, I come up against your bloody ego. You just can’t stand anyone getting in your face. If you would help me instead of fricking exploding every time you see me, I might get out of your hair a whole lot faster!’

  His scarred mouth curled into a sneer, but his tone evened out. ‘If only that were possible. You see, I can’t help with del
usions. The camp story is a fantasy and I’ve never heard the name Rachel Badenhorst. You’ve got your knickers in a twist over a few ghosts and a piece of fiction.’

  ‘My knickers have nothing to do with it, no matter how much you might wish otherwise.’ Alistair’s eyebrows shot up but she continued, ‘You do not get to tell me what I can and can’t do. Who I can and can’t speak to.’

  ‘Fine! Then stay away from Goshen.’

  ‘So you control whom your parents get to see, too? I don’t think so. I bet I can call up your dad any day of the week and get a guided tour of the farm.’

  ‘Hannah, I swear to God, if you use my parents for your own ends …’ He reached for her, but his hands curled and clenched in the space between them and he took a step back. ‘Just you try manipulate them – you’ll see the worst of me. I promise you.’

  She tilted her head to the side, her eyes wide, though her words slid with sarcasm. ‘There’s a worse side of you? And I thought the twisted half was bad enough.’ As the words left her lips, she wished she could pull them back. She watched his face receive the blow. He seemed to stagger, all anger leaving his body like a breath exhaled.

  As if injured, he stumbled away from her back to his Toyota and drove off, hunched over the steering wheel. She walked back into the shop, locking up as she went. In her kitchen, she automatically switched on the kettle and stood staring out at the garden. Her heart still thumped and her stomach churned, nausea and guilt so thick in her, she didn’t notice the kettle subside on the counter next to her.

  Thirty minutes later, Hannah knocked on Alistair’s front door, shame and nerves tangling. The dogs thundered down the passage and scrabbled on the other side of the door, but no footsteps followed. Hannah retreated down the steps to her car but paused at the driver’s door. She had been awful. Yes, he’d provoked her. He’d been unfair in his accusations, but neither justified her nastiness. She glanced back at the house and sucked her lower lip between her teeth. Dammit. She headed around the house and stepped through the herb garden at the back door, rosemary scenting the air as she brushed past. The stable door to the kitchen was half-open and the dogs had beaten her to it. Grant stood on his hind legs, a crocodile grin on his face. She reached to stroke his head and saw Alistair sitting in the dim kitchen, elbows propped on the table.

  ‘Not now, Mum,’ he said, his hands pressing into his eyes.

  ‘It’s me,’ said Hannah.

  For a few seconds they stared at each other, and then Hannah said quietly, ‘May I come in?’

  He shrugged, getting to his feet as she stepped inside the kitchen.

  ‘Alistair, I came to apologise …’ Hannah shook her head, hating the weary pain in his eyes. ‘You made me so angry. I should never have said those things. I don’t know why I did.’

  He drew in a breath and ran his hand into his hair, tugging on a chunk at the front. ‘It’s the truth, after all – isn’t it? I am twisted. And angry. And a bully.’

  Hannah had prepared herself for rage, had wondered if she would even make it through the door. This beaten man disabled her. She leant against the counter.

  ‘It was Esme, or rather my talking to Esme, wasn’t it?’ Her voice softened. ‘It’s about your wife?’

  ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘Nothing. I mean, I heard that she died.’

  ‘She was killed,’ he said, his tone flat.

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked past her, to the yard, and she felt him retreat somewhere else.

  ‘What happened to … to haunt you like this?’

  Alistair slid to sit on the floor. His face paled, naked with a pain that brought tears to Hannah’s eyes. Something seemed to loosen in him as he said, ‘Marilie …’ He swallowed. ‘My wife. We married young. Too young, really. We were so careful not to fall pregnant in those first years. We were loving our lives. Had such big plans. She was showjumping competitively, doing really well. And then, when we thought the time was right, we couldn’t fall pregnant anyway. We spent a fortune on specialists and treatments but for nothing. Marilie became obsessed, then bereft, then depressed. I started suggesting we look at adoption, but the chances of getting a white child are pretty much nil in this country.’ He must have caught Hannah’s frown because he smiled a small, sad smile. ‘Marilie wouldn’t consider a black baby. We started fighting.’ His fingers rubbed across his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked straight at Hannah. ‘We were fighting that afternoon – I told her to get over herself. I actually said, Would you rather be a racist than a mother?’ He shook his head. ‘If I’d held back those words … She wrenched away, told me to get away from her.’

  Hannah’s heart ached for him, the way he sat crumpled in his own kitchen. She wanted to cross the room and touch him, but fear won. There was too much emotion in the room. Too intense for her to go near.

  Alistair picked at the fabric of his jeans. ‘Her groom was loading her horse for an event. She stormed away from me and took over the loading, but she was so angry, she tried to rush the horse. He must have picked up on her emotion because he wouldn’t go in. And then, suddenly, he backed off the ramp and knocked her over. Her foot got caught in the lead rein and, with her screaming at the groom, the horse spooked and bolted. He dragged her a few paces and then started kicking and stamping on her to get away.’ Alistair’s voice cracked. ‘The groom was trying to get to the horse and I was trying to get to Marilie when the bungee cord holding the horse snapped and whipped. It sliced my face.’ He lifted his hand to cover the white scar. ‘I didn’t notice. By the time we got to her, she was dead. Her skull smashed on the driveway.’ He drew a shuddering breath. ‘It was my fault.’

  Hannah slid down to the floor across from him. They were both silent for a few moments, before Alistair said, ‘My dad sat with me on the driveway until the ambulance came, holding a towel to keep my face together. I had her head in my lap, trying to keep her brain in her skull.’ He gestured to his face. ‘This is to remind me what I did.’

  Hannah brushed her eyes with her sleeve. ‘And Esme?’

  ‘She made Karl shoot the horse. Rooi Baron. I can’t imagine how Karl managed to do it, but he did – for Esme. How Marilie loved that horse. Sometimes I wondered if she loved him more than she loved me. Esme never forgave me for Marilie’s death. I can understand that. I don’t hold it against her. But she’s unstable – maybe she always has been – and what happened pushed her over the edge.’ He tipped his head back against the cupboard. ‘Better to stay away from her, Hannah.’

  Hannah uncrossed her legs and stretched them out on the kitchen floor. She met his gaze. ‘I’m sorry I caused trouble, Alistair. Kathryn warned me and I just barged ahead anyway. I was so convinced the De Jagers hold the key to unlock Rachel’s story.’

  He stayed where he was, looking too wrung out to react as he had earlier. ‘Why are you so determined to keep going? Did you come to Leliehoek for this?’

  Hannah sighed. ‘I really didn’t. I ran away from my life. Came here on a complete whim and the minute I drove out of Cape Town, I felt a weight lifting off me. All the expectations of my parents and my supervisor and …’ She was about to mention Todd but changed her mind, not wanting to bring him into the room. ‘It all lifted. I was on my own with my destiny in my own hands for the first time.’ She smiled. ‘That sounds so clichéd.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘When I found Rachel’s journal, an excitement lit in me. I haven’t felt that in years.’ Pausing, she tilted her head before saying, ‘Actually, I can’t remember ever feeling it.’

  ‘How is that possible?’ he asked.

  ‘How is what possible?’

  ‘That you, of all people, haven’t been passionate about anything?’

  Hannah shrugged. ‘People in my life have always made decisions for me and I went with the flow. I followed the academic path my parents had chosen for themselves. I got involved with someone before I had even figured out who I was for myself. Instead, I became what he wanted.’
She smiled at him. ‘So all this … passion … is new.’

  ‘As much as it irritates me, it suits you.’

  Hannah pushed herself up off the floor and crossed to him, offering him a hand up. ‘I’ll remind you next time you get angry with me.’

  Taking her hand, his eyes serious, he said, ‘Can we be friends, Hannah?’

  She smiled up at him, liking that her hand felt small in his, liking it perhaps too much. ‘We can try. But you must know first that Rachel has her hooks in me and I won’t give her up.’

  He dropped her hand, shoving his fingers into the back pockets of his jeans. ‘What will you do if you discover that this camp really did exist?’

  Hannah leant back against the counter. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t actually thought that far. I suppose we’d have to get some experts in.’

  His face darkened immediately. ‘No people on the farm. I don’t want cars and strangers. No.’

  Hannah took a step towards him and put a hand on his arm. ‘What if we keep it really quiet? No fanfare. Just an historian?’

  ‘We don’t,’ he amended it quickly, ‘you don’t even know if the journal is true. You prove that Rachel was a real person and then I’ll think about it.’

  Hannah felt the immediate conflict. She had gained ground with him; he was going to consider the possibility. But what if she couldn’t prove that Rachel was real? She had found nothing so far. More than a little dismayed, she nodded.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  By the time Hannah arrived home, it was dark outside. She drew the curtains and then stopped in the passage, hovering over the phone. Should she call the De Jagers or not? Putting Alistair’s and Kathryn’s warnings aside, she pulled a sticky note from her pocket and dialled the farm number, holding her breath while the phone rang. Please let it be Karl. Please let it be Karl.