by Paul Almond
“No, Jack, you obviously haven’t been anywhere near a woman for a good long while. We always know what our man is thinking.”
What welcome words! During the evening, being with her like this, even his depression might evaporate. And he hoped it would go some way towards relieving hers.
* * *
“My Lord, this is delicious!”
Jack savoured every mouthful. He didn’t want to chew too fast, because then he’d have to swallow, and that would be one more mouthful gone. She had fashioned for him the traditional Boer dish, potjiekos.
“You didn’t make this from scratch?”
“Oh no! Traditionally, it was cooked by Voortrekkers in a three-legged iron pot. You have to keep it going, adding meat and vegetables, which I just did, to the rice and water, and simmer it for hours. It’s been going for days. Usually I don’t feel like cooking when I’m alone.”
And a good bottle of wine. They had already made a dent in the mampoer, which was so much stronger than Jack had anticipated. “This mampoer, what is it exactly?”
“Home-made. Hermanus makes it once a year, several bottles. You mustn’t drink too much. Some call it witblits...”
“Hope it hasn’t ‘blitzed’ my ‘vits’!” One of Jack’s many flaws was that he did enjoy a little drink from time to time. Or was it a flaw? Only if he drank to excess, he told himself. Well, before the dinner (the preparation had taken over an hour) he had certainly done that. And now, this delicious red wine: lovely, deep, rich taste. “You certainly make good wine here in Africa.”
“In the Free State, you mean, dear Jack. Thank you! And witblits actually does mean white lightning, so we know to watch out.” She lifted her wine, held by the lamplight so it glowed, and then took a mouthful. “My husband saved this. It was to be for our second wedding anniversary.” And then in spite of herself she clenched her eyes shut. Poor Catherina. Poor Boer Catherina.
Jack caught the cue. Five years being a parish priest, he knew what to ask and when. He began a gentle searching. She had been a schoolteacher. She had wanted none of this marriage business, no truck with men, she confessed, even though, with those angelic features, blue eyes and fair hair, she must’ve been the mark for a good many young Boers. Much like his grandmother Catherine, Jack presumed.
He was glad they’d begun eating because, with all the Mampoer earlier, he felt a bit off balance. Goodness! It would never do for a clergyman to be without his wits. These warm spoonfuls of stew, with its chunks of turnips, other root vegetables and pork, such an amazing taste, it all made him feel better. “Astonishing dish, Catherina,” he said. “You certainly know how to live well here.”
“I’m glad you like it, Jack.” He saw that she wanted to go on, but had stopped herself. He looked at her: soft, rounded features in this candlelight, with the lamp on the sideboard highlighting her blonde bun. What was happening? Everything so perfect. But at the same time, so dangerous.
Should he go ahead, venture onto this potentially risky ground? Or rather, try to help Catherina overcome her malaise. He sipped more of his wine. Yes, discover what exactly she was repressing. “You asked me how long it was since I had a home cooked meal. I told you, a long time. My mother prepared a lovely going away feast for me last time I was home. That was last summer. I miss my family so much.” No no, don’t grow maudlin, pull yourself out of it — it’s Catherina you’re supposed to be helping. “We had lots of relatives come. Old Poppa killed a porker. Not as tasty as this pot-what?”
“Potjiekos.”
“No, but it sure was good. How Old Poppa loves crackling! Mama knows how to roast a pork, no doubt about that.” All right, Jack, now time to probe. “So now I’m wondering, when was the last time you sat down to a family meal?” There he’d asked. Though he hadn’t added, “with your husband.” She looked at him, her blue eyes making a question. In his, he hoped she saw only warmth, and even yearning.
She dropped her eyes, took a rather large a gulp of wine, and answered, “Six weeks ago. We had a terrible fight. Hermanus was leaving and I did not want him to go. ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, ‘with having the British running the state? We would still have our restaurant. People would still come. We would still have to pay taxes. You know, we both treat our Kaffirs better than most. That would not change. They’d still work for us. Just because the British give them freedom doesn’t mean they’re going to stop work. They’ll still have to earn a living.
“But Hermanus was angry, furious at the British, in fact. For my sake he had tried to stay home. But once the war was going strong, he decided to leave.” She took another drink of wine. Jack remained silent. “And so, I prepared him this dish.”
She glanced at Jack and then looked back at her plate, and took another mouthful. “He always loved it. He loved potjiekos. And so, although I was still angry at him, I prepared it for our last meal.”
“Did you fight over dinner?” Jack asked.
She shook her head. “We just remained silent. It was awful. Because he knew I loved him as much as I could. He was rather abrupt, you know. I think he loved me in his own way, too. But we did have a good life together. I had settled in. And, as a matter of fact,” her lip trembled, “he was all I had.”
She took a breath. “You see, my brother died a while ago. My mother went when I was young. So I used to live with my vader and take care of him. But even before this war was declared, vader went off to learn how to fight. He trained with them, and then, they came and told me... They told me that he...” She stopped speaking, put her hands to her face.
Jack reached out and rubbed her shoulders gently. She took his hand and clung to it with a fierce grip. They remained silent like that, Jack saying nothing.
Then she pulled herself together, took another large gulp of wine, and cleared her throat. “So father was killed right at the beginning. That was another reason I didn’t want Hermanus to go. Not the perfect husband, no. But certainly, from what my women friends told me, better than most. I didn’t want to lose him.” She was managing to keep herself under control. “Please, shall we talk about this later? Let us have this dinner as though it’s all very normal. Let’s eat as if we knew each other all our lives. Let’s have fun, drink, and forget the past.”
“What a splendid idea!” Said Jack. “And there’s so much I need to forget too. That’s why,” he cleared his throat and took a swig of wine, “that’s why I would love to do just what you say. Forget...” And enjoy his dinner with this beautiful woman.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Now what’s this?” Jack looked down at another tasty dish.
Catherina had gotten up, taken their empty plates into the kitchen, and brought back dessert. “Malva Pudding. It’s Dutch. I also... I also made it for the last...”
She helped them both, and Jack tasted it. “Marvellous!”
“I thought I had better make up for that awful cake I gave you at tea-time.” She giggled.
He smiled, and went on eating. They reverted to discussing inconsequential things: their backgrounds, and what little she remembered from a trip to Holland that her father had arranged when she was quite young. Jack revealed more about his ministry, about Bishop Andrew Hunter Dunn, and what other things he had been doing in Northern Quebec. They kept off the subject of the war.
Finally, when the two candles on the table had burned down and they had eaten their fill, Catherina got up. “I’ll make tea, Jack. You go sit on the sofa and put your feet up.”
“Wonderful,” breathed Jack, and got up. But he found his head spinning. He made his way gingerly to the sofa and sat rather suddenly. Were his wits in fact blizted? Or was he falling in love? He didn’t know which — only that it was delightful: being cared for in a cozy home, far from war, far from those “comrades” who misunderstood him, just as if he’d been lifted out of time into another glorious dimension. There was Catherina in her kitchen, making tea just the way his mother used to. Or indeed, Lorna. No no no, forget her. In any case, a
ll delightful.
In came Catherina bearing two cups of tea. She sat beside him on the sofa. “Tell me what has been bothering you, Jack.”
Jack winced. “It would take a lot of telling. Perhaps we should still just enjoy the evening.”
“No, I want to know. What could a wonderful warm man like you have to regret?”
Should he tell her? His job, after all, was to help her into a kind of happiness. That’s what clergymen did. They didn’t pour out their souls. But then again, she did ask. And she had a right to know; she had cooked him a delicious meal and lifted him right out of himself.
So he did tell her the bare bones: how he had been ordered by his commanding officer to go back to minister to the wounded and those suffering from enteric fever. And how he had sat with them, some dying, day after day, until he could take it no more. And then, the most unkind cut of all, he told her, staring straight ahead, body frozen: those men who had returned from battle alive and safe now resented his absence and blamed him for being a coward.
“I can understand, Jack.” She nodded. “Just so unfair.”
Jack felt close to tears, like a little boy again. Was it the drink? “Yes,” he said, “unfair...” He heaved another great sigh and took a sip of tea. “And then, of course, being a clergyman and having to watch the killing, and the cruelty, all of which goes so much against everything I...” He shook his head.
Well, at least he had spilled it out. And to someone who cared.
Both of them remained silent, and then he broached the other enormous question. “So what happened to Hermanus?”
“He left six weeks ago.”
“But surely, he’ll be back soon?”
She shook her head. “No, Jack, he won’t ever be back. They told me he’s missing, and I know very well what that means. I’ll never see him again. I’ll never be able to say I’m sorry for the mean things I did to him, I’ll never be able to tell him how happy I was at the little things he did for me, little moments of tenderness that I know cost him the world. He was brought up to be strict, hard-working, God-fearing, and to put nothing ahead of striving for his family.”
“And you never had children?”
“No. We were together just three years. I didn’t want them yet. And you see, being a teacher before, I knew something about how we could still enjoy each other without bearing any of the fruit.”
Jack reached out and touched her hand and she clutched his. “Such an awful thing,” he said, “this war...”
“Yes,” she answered. “But on that last night, why didn’t I say to him all the things that I should have said? Why didn’t I say, you’ve been a good husband, Hermanus? I could have. Why didn’t I ask him to forgive my acts of meanness, my bursts of anger. Oh dear Jack, I’m so unhappy.” She let tears fall.
Jack could not restrain himself: he put one arm around her and held her tight. She sobbed and sobbed. He comforted her with soothing words, stroking her, and as she calmed a little, she reached up and kissed him.
What a feeling! He turned his head, found her forehead, and kissed her. Then she lifted her mouth, found his, and suddenly their lips were pressing into each other’s, two longing beings seeking respite from such a long, deep loneliness.
The last thing that night Jack remembered, after he woke in the morning, was lying on Catherina’s bed while she helped him out of his uniform and then placed a pillow under his head and caressed his brow. Just the way his mother used to. Was that why he had reached up both his arms?
She leaned into them, and then closer and finally got into the bed next to him. He held her close.
Oh yes. Jack the clergyman then gave himself up to such a forbidden pleasure, such an extraordinary delight. Surely the primrose path direct to an eternal bonfire.
Now he opened his eyes and saw her standing over him, sunlight flooding through the curtains and over her flowered flannel dressing gown. She held a cup of tea.
“Here, dear Jack, I’ll put this on your side table. But you must go back to sleep; you need it. If you don’t drink the tea, no matter. But now, I must open the café for morning coffee. I’ll be back at lunchtime, when I close. You just lie here and forget about everything. Thank you for helping me forget. Thank you, my darling Jack. Thank you.” She put down the tea and turned and closed the door behind her.
Jack tried to sit up, but his head was spinning. Had he drunk too much? Oh yes, and that was a big enough mistake, and well, even a sin. As he lay there, he remembered his comrades back at camp. Now he was away without permission. He’d broken military rules. And by loving her with his whole body, he had broken an even worse biblical injunction.
Don’t think about the future, Jack told himself, you badly need sleep, and as if to prove himself right, after a gulp or two of tea, he drifted off into another world once more.
* * *
Jack became vaguely aware of someone moving about the room. He woke up.
Catherina turned as she saw him open his eyes. “I’m back. Good, you slept. I’ll bring us in some bread and cold boerewors (sausage) for lunch, and we can have a snack. Then I must go back to the tea-shop again for the afternoon. But no reason for you to move; you stay here, don’t get up, just rest, and then I’ll make us another special dinner again tonight.”
An angel. But how could an angel appear when he had broken rules left, right and centre, sinned atrociously, and slowly but surely descended into an infernal abyss?
Later that afternoon, Jack treated himself to a lengthy bath. Soaking in the warm water, he avoided thoughts of Otter and the camp — tomorrow he’d deal with all that. Right now just savour this unexpected experience. How extraordinary to lie with the voluptuous and experienced Catherina! His previous adventures (as a youngster on the Gaspe or during his first year at university) had been in haymows or woods, buggies or sleighs, most awkward and unfulfilling.
What would it be like, he wondered, to stay in Bloemfontein? Other soldiers had decided to stay. Wouldn’t he love to live here and work in the tea-shop beside this Catherina. Among the enemy? Well, that did seem such a foolish thought now — the enemy! Oh yes, these people his fellow Canadians had come over to shoot and kill. How easily he had been manipulated back then. What about that?
But were he to stay, what about his calling? Could he ever give up his cherished vocation? Perish the thought! He had seen the cathedral, so there must be a bishop. Would that prelate not accept Jack with open arms? Not if this wicked applicant had come with armed force to destroy the Free State. Well then, what about some other religion, the Dutch Reformed Church perhaps? Most churches were aching to get trained men. But he didn’t even speak the language.
Just listen to me, he thought, as he lifted himself from his bath and began to dry himself. Crystal mountains in air — and all for the love of a beautiful woman. Well, was it love? Oh yes, what else? He had so little experience. He thought that’s what he must be feeling: with all her gentleness, her kindness, and that wonderful time they’d had last night. The way she cared for him — wasn’t all that love?
But look! When you were so attached to Lorna, he lectured himself, you made no move, well, no practical move, and she had left. So don’t let this second opportunity slip past. Yes, but first, should he not find out how she felt? Hint, at least? Get her feelings? But wouldn’t these become apparent if they spent more time together? Of course, but how could he do that? He’d be off soon, if not into the fight, then into the military lock-up. Could he put her through another loved one leaving?
Don’t be silly, he told himself. Here you are, facing months, possibly years, in jail for being absent without leave. A deserter, surely. You could even be shot for that. And what about your bishop? Career ruined! Should he ask her to marry him under those conditions? No, better wait until he faced this new future squarely. Spinning with thoughts, he dressed and went in to her rooms to wait for her.
Once again they had a most wonderful dinner. Jack was careful not to drink too much beforehand,
although they did consume another bottle of this time not very good wine. As they were eating, he felt transported into the wonderful world where love reigned. What a delicious healing, coming as it did two or three years after his time with Lorna. Had he been smitten since then? No sir. Of course in the north of Canada, some of his parishioners’ daughters had taken a shine to him. He’d been invited to family dinners, not just as the parish priest, but because those pretty young farm girls — well, never as lovely as Catherina — had their eyes on him. Families saw a match with a young clergyman as being worthy, their daughters never left to starve. But truth is, he received such a pittance in return for his long weeks of work — well hardly work, but visiting the sick, tending to the thousand other details thrown at him in each parish, perhaps not quite as onerous as on the Canadian Labrador when he adjudicated disputes, questioned boundaries, settled scores — all that was done in northern Quebec by proper magistrates and courts of justice — but still, a very busy life, and not an unrewarding one.
Here, he would face the same duties. But for pity’s sake, stop looking so far ahead! Had he not learned that? The future always contained frightening, often impossible, events. But look, he told himself, when that very future ended up being today, right here and now, had he not been ready? Able to face whatever? Of course.
He allowed himself again to stare at Catherina in the candlelight — so beautiful. His heart blossomed. Oh yes, if this were not love, he didn’t know what love was.
When at last they had eaten their fill, she blew out the candles. What now?
Well, without discussion, they went into her bedroom and slipped once again onto her glorious feather bed, only too ready to give themselves up to delights so long denied.
While Catherina slept, Jack lay savouring the memory of each lovely portion of her body, letting his thoughts soar. What an idyll!
How wonderful it would be to lie forever beside her. To hear the call of their children as they awoke at dawn, getting them up from their sleepy beds and sending them off to school. And then, while she worked in the tea-shop, he’d write his sermons or visit local dignitaries. No hardships here like a Canadian winter, certainly. Whatever his new church might offer as sustenance, she would also need to work in the tea-shop. Hard to make a living out of this desert. But again, here he was, building more palaces in the air. After all, he had known her now, what, just twenty-four hours? Was he being a fool? Yes, but how nice. So be a fool.