I did not know you could hear the living.
What is the living?
Your mother is well, Jurie. Do not worry.
Ag moet nou nie huil nie, Mamma. Do not cry.
‘What is she doing?’ Maria is staring at me. She grips the rifle and holds it to her breast. ‘Is she mad?’
She is crying because of me. If you see her, tell Mamma I am sorry. I did not mean to do it. I am sorry.
‘Jurie killed him,’ I sign. Lottie stares at me. ‘He is saying he’s sorry, he didn’t mean to do it. Tell her!’
Lottie says, ‘Was it your son? Did he shoot the gun at Jackson? It was an accident, wasn’t it? He didn’t mean to do it.’
Maria lifts up the rifle. I think for one mad moment she will kill us both. She has nothing to lose.
‘What witchcraft is this? Who is she looking at? What do you know about it?’
‘If it is true,’ I sign and Lottie speaks, ‘you have nothing to fear.’
‘How do you know about Jurie?’ She is shouting now. The gun flicks wildly between us. ‘I promised him no one would ever find out what he did.’
‘But now that does not matter,’ says Lottie. ‘Your son has died.’
‘It does not matter?’ Maria’s eyes narrow, her mouth is cruel. I fear she will shoot us now, this moment.
‘We mean that no one can hurt him now. You did your job, you protected him the best you could. Now, you can come with us and explain to them that it was not you who killed him, it was not my brother, but your son. And your son is gone now, may he rest in peace. But you can help the living, you can save Caleb, you can free him. If you come with us and tell them, tell them the truth.’
‘Are you crazy? I am not going back there. They will lock me up again and punish me for escaping. I’m never going back to that hell, never.’
‘But what about Caleb? He helped you. He is going to die for you.’
‘He loves you,’ I sign and want to scream, I want to fall down and weep into the dusty earth. I hate this woman. I pity her, but I hate her more. I want her to do what we want, then turn into a pillar of salt and never exist or breathe again in this world.
Lottie steps forward, her hands out, pleading now. ‘They will understand. They will take into consideration what happened to you, what Jackson did to you. He committed a crime under British law. His crime cancels out your escape. You will not be prosecuted for it, I guarantee it. This lady’s mother has powerful friends, they will see to it that no harm comes to you, I promise you, Maria. I promise you on my mother’s life.’
‘Lies. All lies,’ says Maria, her eyes glassy.
‘Please,’ cries Lottie and falls before her feet. I cannot see Lottie’s lips now, but I know she is begging, pleading for Caleb’s life. She lifts her head and I see her say, ‘Save him.’
I am a thief …
I look at Jurie. He is chewing on a fingernail. He is useless to me now. He killed Jackson, but without Maria, no one will ever believe us.
Go now, Jurie.
A thief is a bad thing. Mother told me that. If you see her, you will tell her? I should not have taken his belongings. I never meant to be a thief. But I thought I could sell them, the watch anyway. And the penknife. And we might get some money for them and buy some soap and candles and some food.
What things? What are you talking about, Jurie?
The man’s things. I stole them. I took them from the tent after. After I found him with the gun and the blood on his shirt and the blood on the ground.
You found him?
Yes, I found him. He was dead. There was so much blood. Like the slaughter pit. But a man, a real dead soldier.
Did you kill him?
No!
Did you shoot him, Jurie?
No, I did not. Who says I did? They are a liar.
Your Mamma thinks you shot him, Jurie. She found you with the gun in your hand.
I was going to steal that too. She found me and I was so ashamed. I had the things in my pocket and I did not tell her about those. I was so ashamed I could not speak. But she said she would not tell anyone. She said she would look after me and we would get away from there and no one would ever know. But I kept the objects. I put them in my treasure box. The watch, the penknife and the book.
What book?
The man’s book. With his writing in it. I can speak English, but I cannot read it. I kept it anyway, his book and his sharp pencil. He wrote in it that day, because I saw the date in it.
When I turn back to look at Maria, my mouth open in shock, she is speaking to Lottie who still weeps on the ground between us. I miss the start of her sentence.
‘… to me,’ she says. ‘Now you know the truth, they will come looking for me. You have ruined everything, coming here. All I wanted was my home. And you two English women have come here with your pity and your lies and you have destroyed my last chance of peace.’
I believe she will do it now. I believe we are about to die. I clap my hands to make Lottie look.
‘Ask her, did Jurie ever say he killed Jackson? Did he ever actually tell her he did it? Ask her!’
Lottie drags herself upright and speaks for me.
Maria listens coldly. ‘No, he never spoke again. I told you that. What difference does it make?’
‘Then how do you know he did it?’ asks Lottie.
‘I found him holding the gun. He had blood on his hands. He never spoke a word afterwards. When I found him, I asked him over and over, what happened? I found him beside the body with the revolver in his hand. He never spoke a word to me after that moment, not one word. I said I would never let anyone get him for what he had done and he nodded and he cried. I knew he had done it.’
‘You’re wrong!’ I sign. ‘He didn’t do it. He stole some items from Jackson. He put them in his special box.’
‘What?’ cries Lottie.
‘Translate!’
She does so and Maria frowns.
‘How does she know about that? How do you know about that? You can read my lips, can’t you? You can understand me. What do you know about my son?’
What was the book, Jurie? Was it a diary?
I think, yes. A book you write in, with dates. Pages and pages.
‘Maria,’ I sign and Lottie repeats. ‘Do you still have your son’s special box?’
‘No one knew about that, not even Caleb. How do you know, eh? Again I say, what witchcraft is this? Tell me, or I will kill you. I mean it, I’ll kill you both. Who have you been looking at, over there? Tell me!’
She is screaming now. Her finger is on the trigger and I feel the blue-white light may come for me soon, very soon.
‘Jurie is here. Your son is here. He is a ghost, a spirit. I can see him, I can talk to him. Nobody knows I can do this, not even Caleb. Only Charlotte. Jurie told me he did not kill Jackson, that he stole some of his possessions, and that is what he cried about, that is what he thought you protected him from. He hid them in his special box, with a book, a diary. Do you have it, Maria? Do you know where it is?’
Maria stares at the space beside me. Jurie has walked away, weary of me now. But is he? He turns and points. There is a small mound of earth behind the cowshed, like a molehill. He points to it again.
I want to walk over there, I want to dig up that earth and look in there. But if I move, Maria might shoot me. I turn and look at her.
‘Jurie?’ she calls weakly. ‘Is he here?’
‘Yes.’
Maria’s face collapses. ‘Jurie? Where is he? Take me to him.’
‘He cannot see you, he can only see me.’
‘Why? Why you?’
‘I do not know. I have never known. But I can see them and they can see me, and talk to me.’
‘What does he say to you?’
‘He said he was sorry. That he did not mean to be a thief. He said to tell you he was sorry.’
Maria is crying and drops the gun. Lottie should grab it, or I. But we do not. We watch her weep.
> ‘Is he here right now? Can you speak to him?’
‘Yes. He’s over there, by the barn.’
Her eyes scan the space, desperate to see her son, but fill with tears as she knows she cannot.
‘You believe me?’ I say. ‘You believe some can see the dead?’
‘Yes,’ says Maria, calmer now. ‘I have always known about them. My grandmother spoke of them. I wished I could see them too, but I never did.’
Perhaps other people are like Maria. Perhaps I could tell others one day.
‘How is Jurie?’ she asks. ‘What is he doing, right now?’
‘He points at the ground. Did he bury his special box there?’
‘Yes.’
‘We must see it, Maria. There is a diary in it, Jackson’s diary. We must have it.’
‘Take whatever you wish. Just take me to my son.’
She steps over the gun, walks to me and stands before me, broken, helpless, asking me with her eyes to do this one thing for her, though she has no right to ask it, only the right of a grieving mother.
I take her arm and she leans on me. We walk slowly over to the barn, where Jurie is still pointing at the earth.
I buried my special box there, when we arrived. I buried it there so Mamma would not know.
‘Tell him I knew about the box,’ says Maria. ‘I saw him do it. Boys are always up to something, their little secrets. I did not care. I did not mind anything he did.’
I explain this to Jurie.
You know my Mamma?
Yes.
Where is she?
She is beside me. You cannot see her.
Is she a ghost?
Something like that.
Can you talk to her?
Yes.
Tell her I miss her.
I will.
I sign to her, he misses you. Somehow, the gesture communicates my meaning and Maria nods, understands because she knows what he would be feeling.
‘Tell him I love him. I will always love him. One day soon I will die and I will come to him. I do not want him to be lost here, wandering alone, not to see me, to worry. Can he go on, or must he stay here?’
Lottie joins us, translates for me.
‘I can tell him to go away. I’ve done it before. If I tell them to go away for ever, they never come back. Do you want me to do this?’
Maria looks into the air before us, her eyes searching for something they will never see in this life.
‘No. I cannot bear to lose him again.’
‘It may be kinder. They are not happy when they wander.’
‘No, let him stay.’
I nod.
Maria kneels down and thrusts her hands into the dirt. She digs quickly and efficiently, like an aardvark. The box is unearthed and she pulls it out. She twists a tiny screw on its side and it opens. Inside are many treasures: shells, pebbles, buttons, two pennies with the head of Kruger, a feather. Underneath these treasures are the watch, the penknife and a small journal, navy blue leather with a brass clasp. Maria holds it in her hand.
As I reach out to take the diary, I think of Jackson. Why his Visitor was not to be found, why he did not wander the place of his death as they all do. And I recall Tom, our fruitless search for sad Tom Winstanley who never came back. And then I know.
‘Jackson did it,’ I sign to Lottie. ‘That’s what I think the diary will tell us. He shot himself. That’s why he never came back. Just like Tom. It was nothing to do with the sea. It was suicide. That must be the rule. Suicides never return.’
Lottie’s eyes open wide, she glances out to the distance – her mind travelling through time and space back to her past, to the sea, to her youth – then her gaze returns to me. She nods. Maria hands me the book and I open it. Tiny pages, meant for appointments and reminders, filled with cursive script from the first week of the war until his death, written in smudged grey pencil. I turn to the last page with writing, and Lottie reads it out loud.
‘This is the last will and testament of Arnold Ewart Jackson. I hereby leave all my worldly goods to my mother and father. I have no wife and children and no siblings. I leave everything to my parents, who have always been kind and good to me and proud of me even when I do not deserve it. I know I have done wrong things and I am sorry to all the people I have hurt. I hate this bloody war and I am glad to be shot of it. I am sorry for my parents that they will have to live with the shame of me doing away with myself like this. It is a cowardly thing to do, I know it. But I cannot bear this life any more, I cannot. I wish to shuffle off and not bother with it any more. I cannot live with myself, so when I have finished writing this entry, I will put down my pencil and pick up my revolver and shoot myself in the chest. I am thinking of my parents at the end, as I will not shoot myself in the mouth, it being horrible for the open casket I know they would want. So that is that. I must get to it. Goodbye then.’
17
‘Come with us, Maria,’ I sign. ‘Come back with us.’
I cannot believe I am suggesting it, but it is what my hands decide to say. When Lottie translates Maria shakes her head, distracted.
I cast an urgent look at Lottie, who adds, ‘We will find a safe place for you to stay.’
‘We can bring Caleb to you.’ Now I am amazed at myself. Why on earth would I offer that, to deliver him – the one I love best – into the hands of the one I hate most? But I do offer it, and I know it to be the only right and true course of action. She looks at me as I say this. I can glimpse in her eyes that she understands me, but they glaze over and she looks past me.
Short of tying the woman to our cart, we cannot persuade her. She will not speak to us. She drifts away, beyond the cowshed and the irrigation ditches out into the wilderness, her head bowed, her arms hanging by her side. Looking for her son.
I say to Lottie, ‘I fear she will lose her mind.’
As we settle on our cart, I tell Lottie to call out to her once more, but to no avail. As we trot away the way we came, I see her turn and shuffle back towards the farm. If she stays here, I think she will starve here, die here.
On the way back we are quiet, haunted by Maria. Once on the train, we are moving closer to Caleb and away from Mimosafontein, her hold on us weakening. We discuss how to convey our good news. How will we reveal our source? We will have to tell Caleb we saw Maria, but what of his lawyer? Will the counsel reveal Maria’s whereabouts to the authorities? We cannot have that. We will have to say she left that place never to return. And how do we explain Jurie’s involvement? We decide we cannot. We must say we found Maria and she was not willing to come back for fear of imprisonment. But she had found the diary in her son’s effects and gave it to us to clear Caleb’s name. I know this is the only way, but it rankles. It will seem to Caleb and all who hear the story that she chose to save him, that she was simply waiting for someone to find her so that she could proffer this vital piece of evidence and only her justifiable fear of return to the camp prevented her heroic act. Caleb will not know that it was me, that I am the one who has the gift that solved the mystery, to talk with the dead boy and find the crucial evidence. That I saved his life. He will never know that.
From Pretoria railway station, we walk straightway to the hospital. Caleb is seated on his bed, dressed and shaven, his hair newly cut short above his ears with the curls tamed into a side parting on top. His back is upright as a board – he is stronger, and it is good to see. Beside him an older man with white hair and a stack of papers in his hand speaks earnestly. They turn and look at us together. Caleb’s eyes light as he sees us, yet dim as he fears the bad news he must tell us. But we have news for him, and for his counsel. We produce the diary, Lottie imparts all the necessary, the counsel is astounded and leaps up.
‘I cannot believe it!’ cries the lawyer. ‘What marvellous detective work, ladies. Caleb, do you hear this? Do you understand? You will be free! This proves it absolutely. You will be exonerated, old chap.’
Caleb has listened to everything with int
ense concentration, but not yet spoken. He takes the diary of Private A. E. Jackson and reads the final entry.
‘It is true then,’ says Caleb. He looks up at us both. ‘You have saved my life.’
‘They have, they have!’ crows the counsel and takes his leave of us, telling Caleb to remain here while he informs the court of this new evidence. He explains that it may take a few days to confirm the authenticity of Jackson’s diary, but he cannot see why all charges will not then be dropped and the trial cancelled forthwith. He bustles off between the beds and with alacrity informs each nurse and the doctor of Caleb’s news. There is much shaking of hands.
At last, Caleb smiles and seems to understand his turn of fortune. But I know his face, his eyes, very well. There is something missing there, something not quite right. When things have quietened and Lottie is conversing with the doctor about Caleb’s health, I talk with him alone.
‘How was Maria?’ he asks. ‘Where did she go?’
‘She was not well. She grieved for Jurie so. We tried to bring her back with us, Caleb, we tried and tried. But she would not come. She appeared to wander out on to the veldt, but the last we saw she turned back to her homestead. She may still be there. We lied to your counsel. We did not want him to know she might still be on the farm, in case he might inform the authorities and seek her as a witness. We wanted her to be free of all that. Did we do right, Caleb?’
He takes my hands and holds them fast. He looks at me deeply in the way I have oft hoped he would.
‘You did, Liza. You did everything right. You always have. Thank you. Thank you, my dear. My lovely girl.’
And he breaks down, he cries as I have never seen a man cry. He has hold of my hand and his hot cheeks burn against it and his warm tears soak my skin and his fist crushes my fingers. Lottie comes running and many heads are turning, bobbing, then they look away to spare him.
Within a week, Caleb is a free man. The court ruled that Arnold Jackson ‘did wilfully injure himself’. Telegrams have been dispatched to the Crowes and Mother. We receive back grateful congratulations and overflowing joy, straightened into the few clipped words permitted to the telegraphic style. Lottie and I have spent our time discussing our plans. What to do next? Caleb will soon go back to his regiment and we must move on. But to go home? Or to travel onwards, to trace our original plans backwards, by ship to Gibraltar and up through Spain and France from there, to explore Europe as we planned that lifetime before? We cannot think of reasons why not. We have achieved what we came here to do, spectacularly, beyond our wildest hopes of success. Lottie is happy, I can see that. She is content and complete – her beloved brother free – excited too about ideas of further travel and adventure. Our Grand Tour is welcome to me, but only as an escape from a difficult truth, not as an escapade to be embraced.
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