Child of the River

by Irma Joubert

  “Pérsomi!” His voice was hoarse.

  She lifted her head.

  For a moment she saw his face in the dim streetlight, then he stepped back and turned away. “Just . . . go back in,” he said, his voice choked. “Go.”

  ELEVEN

  DECEMBER 1948

  THE LOCOMOTIVE BEGAN TO HISS AND BLOW, THE WHEELS screeching on the iron tracks, the wagons jerking into motion. Pérsomi saw the white steam billowing and the black smoke rising into the blue sky. The acrid smoke burned her nostrils and the back of her throat. Her white blouse was covered in specks of soot.

  She gave herself up to the rocking motion of the train and took her last ride home from Tukkies. The Springbok Plains slept peacefully, as they had been doing for ages, under the scorching sun. Not a cloud was in sight.

  Sleepily Pérsomi leaned back in her seat. She would miss her life as a student, but she was excited, not sad. Monday she would start as an articled clerk at De Vos and De Vos, where she had worked with De Wet in April. Reinier would qualify as an architect at the end of next year. Annabel was in London, having secured the correspondence position she wanted.

  Over the slight melancholy and the vague excitement lay a deep uncertainty.

  Boelie.

  She had felt something in him that night. She had heard something new in his voice when he spoke her name, knew she had seen something in his eyes that fraction of a second before he turned away.

  But after he left, he did not contact her again.

  During the July vacation she’d caught the odd glimpse of him on the farm. She knew he was very busy. He and his father had things to sort out—hard things, painful things.

  In her last few months at varsity she was often called to the phone.

  It was never Boelie.

  Ma’s little house on the ridge had given up. One wall was collapsing, and the roof had sagged until one window was almost completely obscured.

  “Are you a lawyer now?” Oom Attie asked Pérsomi the first Sunday.

  “I’ve completed my studies, but I still have to do a two-year internship in a lawyer’s office,” Pérsomi explained.

  “But she’s getting paid,” her ma added at once.

  “You’ll be getting a lot of money now,” said Auntie Sis. “I suppose you’ll be too good for us.”

  “I’ll be earning very little. I’m actually still being trained,” said Pérsomi. “But the first thing we must do is fix this house.”

  Monday morning she drove to work with De Wet. At the office, Ms. Steyn was still behind the reception desk with the same purple hairdo and stiff corset. She gave Pérsomi some filing to do.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” she said. “I hope you know how to type.”

  In the afternoon Mr. De Vos called her into his office. She closed the door behind her, alone with him for the first time.

  He looked up without getting to his feet. Behind the thick lenses of his spectacles his eyes looked large. “I hear you fared well at varsity,” he said. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said.

  “You were strongly recommended by De Wet. We don’t usually take interns. Ms. Steyn also says you are reliable.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He began to shuffle the papers on his desk. “The next two years I’ll be acting as your principal,” he said, “which means that you’ll be working under my direct supervision.”

  “Thank you,” she said again, fearing she sounded like a fool.

  “At the beginning you’ll help chiefly with administration, but gradually we’ll introduce you to other tasks.” He focused on the papers. “A lawyer, especially one in a small town, is also an estate agent and auctioneer at cattle sales and especially at liquidation sales. We draw up contracts, supervise farm rentals, deal with wills and inheritances. It’s not only court work.”

  “Yes, I understand,” she said. That much had been made clear to her during her April stint.

  “Fine.” He seemed slightly taken aback by her acceptance. “In time I’ll take you along to hearings. For now, you can carry on here at the office.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said and closed the door behind her.

  When she and De Wet got into the car after work, he said, “I want to show you something.”

  He turned into a side street. After another block he turned onto an untarred road and stopped at the third house from the corner. “This is our townhouse, the one that was left to me by my grandfather,” he said, getting out. “Come, take a look.”

  The house had a small porch almost on the curb. The peeling paint on the green front door revealed that once it was gray. The brass doorknob and letter drop were tarnished green.

  De Wet unlocked the door. The linoleum floor in the dark passage was scuffed down the center. He flicked on the light switch. “Come see,” he said again.

  To the left of the passage was the sitting room, with a bench and two big chairs, their seats threaded with rawhide and their cushions faded. To the right was a dining room with a table, six chairs and a sideboard. “My grandma always kept her linen in there,” De Wet said.

  “Oh,” said Pérsomi.

  They looked into the next two rooms. “These are the bedrooms,” said De Wet. To the left was a room with a double bed, a wardrobe, and a washstand with a basin and jug. To the right was a second bedroom with two iron bedsteads and a sloping table.

  The passage ended in a kitchen. “This is the kitchen,” said De Wet.

  “I see.” Pérsomi smiled.

  “Yes, I suppose it’s pretty obvious,” he said, slightly embarrassed.

  In the middle of the kitchen floor stood a table and three chairs. A stove and a crate for wood were pushed against the wall. A shelf next to the back door held a kitchen sink with two taps. The only other piece of furniture was a green dresser with two shelves, stacked with plates, bowls, and dishes. Cups were suspended by their handles on hooks. Several rusty tins were on display on top of the dresser. “This is where the supplies are kept,” De Wet said, opening a door.

  His pride in the house struck her as strange, considering the grandness of the Big House he had grown up in.

  There was a bathtub on clawed feet in a small room off the kitchen. A flimsy curtain strung on a cord covered the window.

  “And here’s the backyard, as you can see,” De Wet said, unlocking the back door to reveal a bare patch of earth with a single pepper tree, a dilapidated clothesline, and an outhouse. Khaki bush sprouted in the gray soil.

  Pérsomi didn’t know what to say. Surely De Wet and Christine weren’t planning to live here. Not after Oom Freddie and Old Anne had built a smaller, more modern house on the Le Roux farm. Christine and De Wet had been living in the original farmstead.

  “This was your grandparents’ home?” she asked politely as they prepared to leave.

  “Yes, before they moved into the Old House,” he said, locking the door. “After my oupa bought the Daimler, they seldom used it. That’s why it’s so run down.”

  It was dilapidated, in fact. They stood at the car, looking at the house. The downpipe hung at an angle, the walls needed paint, a piece of cardboard covered a window with a missing pane.

  “We’ll have to fix it up as soon as possible,” said De Wet and got back into the car.

  When they had left the town behind, Pérsomi asked, “Are you thinking of selling the house?”

  “No,” said De Wet. “Actually, Christine and I have a plan we’d like to discuss with you.”

  Surely De Wet wasn’t going to ask her advice?

  “Gerbrand will go to school in January. He’ll be six in June.”

  “I can’t believe how he’s grown!” said Pérsomi.

  “Yes,” De Wet nodded, “and you remember our little farm school closed down two years ago. Boarding school is out of the question. So we have a problem. He can travel into town with me in the mornings, but Oom Freddie can’t fetch him every afternoon and Christine doesn’t drive.
And he can’t wait for me until five without supervision, you can imagine how impossible that would be.”

  Pérsomi smiled. “Yes, he’ll demolish the school, or the office.”

  De Wet drove the car with his left hand on the wheel and his right arm propped in the open window. When he had to change gears, his right hand took over for the left one. “If we fix up the townhouse, you and your mother could live there. At twelve, Aunt Jemima could fetch Gerbrand at school, give him lunch, and look after him until I fetch him. He and his ouma get along well. And it would be better for you too. You can walk to work, it’s close enough.”

  Pérsomi sat motionless as the proposal slowly sank in. The house had a bathtub, and hot water. She’d have her own bedroom and bed. There was a stove, running water in the kitchen, and a neat outhouse at the back.

  “They use the bucket system,” De Wet explained, as if he were reading her mind. “Every second night the night cart picks up the buckets and exchanges them for clean ones.”

  “Do you really think my ma could handle Gerbrand?” she asked.

  “I do,” De Wet answered. “Especially once Gerbrand realizes the only alternative is boarding school. I’ll make it quite clear to him.”

  Pérsomi was quiet for a long time. When they crossed the bridge just before the farm, she said, “It’s a wonderful offer, De Wet. Have you seen our house recently?”

  “Yes, I have,” he said seriously. “But remember, both sides would win if your ma feels up to it. Discuss it with her, and we’ll all go and look at the house over the weekend.”

  They moved in the Saturday after Christmas.

  Early in the morning, Pérsomi woke and found her ma standing at the shallow grave next to the crumbling bywoner house, her face expressionless, her hands limp at her sides. She stood like that until Boelie’s pickup approached through the orange trees on the other side of the river. Then she returned to the house to wait inside.

  Boelie came with two laborers to help carry their possessions across the river. It was the first time she had seen him since finishing at varsity. She saw him from a distance, felt anticipation build.

  “Hello, Pérsomi, so you’re up?” he called when he was within hearing distance.

  Neutral.

  It hurt.

  “We were up at the crack of dawn,” she smiled. “Hello, Boelie.”

  He turned away from her and immediately began to give orders. They carried out the boxes filled with clothing and a few kitchen things. Her ma insisted on taking the wagon chest and the tea chest, as well as the rickety table. When Pérsomi attempted to stop her, Boelie said, “There’s enough room on the pickup. Let her take her things.”

  Pérsomi, Ma, Boelie, and the workers carried all their earthly possessions to the pickup in one go. An enormous wardrobe was already on the pickup. “My ouma says one of the rooms doesn’t have a wardrobe, so she made us take this monster,” Boelie explained. “How we’re going to get it inside, goodness knows.”

  On their way to town she and her ma sat in the cab with Boelie. She was intensely aware of his presence, of the casual brush of his shoulder against hers, of his hands on the steering wheel. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  He didn’t say much either.

  Her ma didn’t speak at all. She sat pressed against the door, clinging to the handle.

  De Wet was already at the townhouse. He unlocked the front door and handed Pérsomi the keys. “Oom Freddie and Christine had a team of cleaners in here yesterday,” he said. “Well, I hope the two of you will be very happy. I must go, I have an auction today.”

  “Thanks, De Wet,” Pérsomi called after him.

  “We’ll speak on Monday,” he said over his shoulder.

  Boelie stayed only long enough to carry their things inside.

  At dusk there was a knock on the front door. Her ma’s hands flew to her face. “Heavens, who can it be?”

  “I’ll go see,” Pérsomi said.

  At the door was a short, stout woman with a high bosom, her hair in a severe bun. Behind her stood a sinewy little man with a moustache like a shoe brush, his sparse hair slicked back, a turkey neck, and an overactive Adam’s apple. In the woman’s hand was a basket covered with a cloth.

  “Evening I’m Aunt Duifie and this is my husband Oom Polla we’re your neighbors and we’ve come to present you with this freshly baked loaf welcome in our part of town,” she said without taking a breath.

  “Good evening,” said Pérsomi.

  Oom Polla reached past his round wife to shake her hand. “Polla Labuschagne, a privilege to meet you,” he croaked.

  “Pérsomi Pieterse.” Pérsomi shook the proffered hand. “Would you like to come in?”

  They headed straight for the sitting room, where they sat down on the riempies bench, ramrod straight.

  Pérsomi hovered in the doorway. “I’ll . . . call my ma,” she said. “Can I offer you some coffee?”

  “That would be nice,” said Oom Polla.

  Her ma stood in a corner of the kitchen, eyes wide, hands wringing her apron. “It’s just the neighbors,” said Pérsomi as she filled the kettle. She popped another log in the mouth of the stove. “Take off your apron and come with me.”

  Oom Polla and Aunt Duifie jumped up when they entered. “This is my ma, Jemima Pieterse,” Pérsomi introduced them.

  “Polla Labuschagne,” said the man.

  “Duifie Labuschagne,” said the woman.

  “Good heavens,” said her ma.

  “We’re your neighbors,” said Aunt Duifie, “and we’ve come to present you with this freshly baked loaf and hope you’ll be very happy and please tell us if you need any help.”

  She spoke the way Gerbrand used to write, without punctuation marks, Pérsomi remembered. “Thank you very much, Aunt Duifie,” she said.

  “To my knowledge and if I’m not mistaken you’re the new agent,” said Oom Polla. His watery eyes blinked as he looked at Pérsomi.

  Agent?

  “At Mr. De Vos’s office,” the man helped her.

  “Oh, that’s right, I’m the new clerk.”

  “And you’re from Mr. Fourie’s farm I saw the Fourie boy brought you what a shame that the farm went to him and not to Mr. Fourie himself”—Aunt Duifie took a quick breath—“and the other Fourie boy got this house but my lips are sealed it’s none of my business.” She pursed her lips and piously folded her chubby hands in her lap.

  “You seem well informed,” Pérsomi said cautiously.

  “Around here we know everyone’s business because anyone’s business is everyone’s business in our part of the world,” said Aunt Duifie.

  “We look after each other,” Oom Polla said, nodding earnestly.

  “I think the coffee is ready,” said Pérsomi. “Thank you very much for the bread, Aunt Duifie. I’m sure it’ll be delicious. I’ll put it away in the kitchen.”

  When she returned, Aunt Duifie was holding forth, with Oom Polla adding an occasional word. Her ma sat frozen, her eyes darting from one to the other.

  After coffee, Oom Polla solemnly got to his feet. “Don’t worry about a thing, my girl,” he said. “Aunt Duifie over here and I will look after you and Polla Labuschagne is a jack of all trades, even if I have to say so myself.”

  But the sentence had been too long for his short breath and he succumbed to a violent coughing fit. “Phthisis,” Aunt Duifie whispered, “from years on the mines. He’s on his last legs, Oom Polla.”

  When they had left, her ma said, “Heavens, Pérsomi, that woman makes my head spin.”

  Early in March 1949 Mr. De Vos roped Pérsomi in to help with a hearing. “It’s time you learned how to do an investigation, collect facts, prepare your witnesses for court,” he said. As a habit he avoided looking at her and fumbled with his papers. “The most important thing is to find out whether your client is lying or not.”

  “And if he’s lying?” asked Pérsomi.

  “Then you must decide whether you want to con
tinue being his lawyer,” said Mr. De Vos.

  “What do you do in a case like that?” Pérsomi asked.

  For a moment he looked up, then lowered his eyes again. “I don’t continue,” he said gravely.

  She nodded. She was glad. She wouldn’t want to either. “And if the state appoints you to defend the client? If you have no choice?”

  “Those cases are channeled to lawyers according to a specific formula and we deal with them free of charge. It’s generally considered a kind of charitable action and is handled with integrity.” He stacked his papers neatly. “A case like that can sometimes escalate without the lawyer being remunerated, but it’s an exception to the rule.”

  “Can a lawyer refuse an appointment like that?” she asked again.

  “I suppose, but a refusal would be frowned upon.”

  “So if you know the person is lying, you have to choose between your conscience and being frowned upon by the rest of the legal community?”

  “Your conscience doesn’t have to play a role. You work according to legal criteria,” Mr. De Vos replied, slightly impatient now. “Here, take this correspondence and work through it so that you know the background of the case.”

  That night she told her ma, “Today I helped prepare for a trial.”

  “Oh. Gerbrand has a book now, he can read words. He’s teaching me to read as well. He’s very clever, just like his daddy.”

  “He’s bright,” Pérsomi agreed. “Next week I’ll make my first court appearance,” she said.

  But her ma had already gone to her room.

  Boelie brought firewood once a week, sometimes eggs as well, and vegetables for Gerbrand’s lunch. De Wet brought fresh milk every day. Gerbrand had a mug of milk when he came home from school. But there was always enough for Pérsomi and her ma as well.

  One Saturday morning in April she heard a knock on the back door. She had just washed her hair, and it was plastered to her scalp. Her feet were bare, her housedress too short. The coffee had just begun to percolate on the stove. Expecting Aunt Duifie, she opened the back door.

  Boelie stood two steps below her. His khaki shirt was stretched across his shoulders, the sleeves almost too tight for his tanned forearms. “I put the wood next to the door,” he said.