For one compressed second, they were level. Then they were gone. The road snaked before them and Shelley, Pieter and Sylvia were left to turn and twist on the back seat, still waving and peering through the stained rear window, watching the black children shrink, and their hands fall to their sides, and they continued walking in the wake of the car.
I like the picannins, said Sylvia happily, as though they were an ice cream or a favourite biscuit. They always wave, don’t they?
Yes, they do, said Janet.
Hektor-Jan muttered something about when they weren’t stealing eggs or mielies or getting the dogs all worked up.
Then they were there.
It was Pieter’s job to open the gate so that they could drive through.
He brought it clanking closed behind them.
The small house with its sprawl of outbuildings squatted beneath several eucalyptus trees. Their bark peeled in grey strips to reveal the bone of their trunks and the car tyres popped over the fallen pods and dry leaves.
There was the old door on its concrete block where the chickens were slaughtered. Janet still felt the tightening in her throat as all the headless fowls she had seen ran pell-mell into oblivion. They gushed blood as they sprinted then quickly keeled over. She would not let the children see that now.
There came the posse of braks. All tails and teeth and legs and paws. Enthusiasm and obsequiousness all in one. Raise a hand and they fell away. Pat your knees and you were swamped by dogs. A hopeless genetic tangle of brothers, sisters, aunts and uncles.
Wait said Hektor-Jan and he got out of the car and bellowed at the dogs. He raised his hand and they backed off cringing and with cautious tails. There were more dark faces, watching from the windows of the outbuildings, though these were older children. No longer picannins. No longer singing and dancing beside the road.
Hektor-Jan thumped the roof of the car. They could get out.
Why do they wear their school uniforms on a Saturday? asked Pieter.
Do they go to school on a Saturday? asked Sylvia. We don’t have to go to school on a Saturday. Today is Saturday. Why are they wearing –
And then the wire-mesh screen door crashed open to emit Oupa and Oom François, Willem and Koos. The old, the good, the bad and the ugly, as Hektor-Jan called them. Four Snyman men who had cut a future for themselves out of a small piece of farmland and acres of time. Hektor-Jan was the only one to have escaped. The only one to have run off with a Engelse vrou – an English woman – and to have three children by her. Drie klein kindertjies. So sag. So snaaks. So soft and strange. Three little townies even though they were burned brown from the sun. But there were no scabs on their knees, no festering wounds and they gazed in wonder at the stupid braks.
There was the skoonsuster, Janet. Standing cautiously, holding a large Tupperware box away from the dogs. She wore a nice dress and a smile. Things you did not see on the farm. There were no white women on the farm.
The Snyman men on the farm were not used to being around white women. There were black women, to be sure, but, wragtig, they rarely saw a white woman at all. Only in town and those women had been too much in the sun. The hair of the Snyman brothers had been recently moistened and lay plastered on their scalps. Janet could make out the furrows of the small combs, two of which peeped out at her from the long socks that the brothers wore. Khaki shorts and long socks and velskoene. Except for Koos, who always went barefoot. Pieter would once again want to go barefoot when they got home. He was fascinated by Oom Koos’s hardy feet that were impervious to thorn and stone and which featured an extra toe. He can count to twelve on his feet; Pieter was in awe. Twenty-two with his hands.
The older brothers beamed awkwardly. And then Sylvia threw herself squealing into their arms and all were smiles as they passed her around like a small doll. There were handshakes for Pieter, grave and serious, and for Hektor-Jan, the prodigal youngest brother. Then a kiss for Shelley followed by a quick kiss for her, Janet. Nervous lips fluttered somewhere on her cheek – François, the youngest brother – or in the air, about an inch from her face – Koos, the oldest – or smack on her lips taking her breath away – Willem, the middle brother.
Hallo, hallo, said Oupa from behind his large, thick-set sons. Janet always wanted to laugh. Oupa was so slight, so dusty and wrinkled and slight compared to his barrel-chested sons. It was hard to believe that they had emerged from him. Janet knew from the fuzzy pictures inside how big and strong Mrs Snyman had been. She needed to be. A regte, egte boervrou who had produced four sons on a smallholding near Springs. Four thick, strong men had sprung out of her and three of them still seemed a little bewildered. Only one had leapt beyond the wire fences and dirt roads.
Hullo, Janet, said Oupa, carefully forming the sharp sounds of her name given to her by Amelia Amis. Janet smiled and held out her hands wondering why her mother, all soft vowels and gentle consonants, had given her daughter such a sharp name, so prickly. That was why she now had a Shelley and a Sylvia. So much softer and gentler.
Oupa shook hands with her. Shook hands gently and asked if she was well. And how was it going with her mother, that clever lady who taught at the big university in the city so far away and who was now in the care home and unwell. And was her own father coming to celebrate with them, the turning nine of little Pieter who looked just like his mother, jy weet.
The careful English words sprung rich and earthy from Oupa’s thin lips. His face was wrinkled beyond belief and his person small and shrivelled and yet he had given rise to four such strapping sons and his voice was deep and resonant. Maybe he had called them forth, summoned them out of their mother’s womb with his voice like a male Lorelei.
Janet let her hand be shaken carefully. I am fine, Pa, she said. Thank you. It’s been a while. And he agreed and let go her hand.
Come inside, he said waving aside the dogs that milled about hopefully and pushing past his awkward sons.
Janet turned to the house and clung to the box. She would stay calm. She would not let her eyes get that mad gleam that the chickens got just before they were slaughtered. When their eyes shone with hot beadiness. She took a deep breath. The Tupperware box was hard and square.
They stepped through the wire-mesh door into the square house. The children loved this house. Its brooding dinginess. Its air of waiting. Janet always expected to find a layer of dust and sorrow when she ran her finger along the old wooden furniture, the riempie chairs and ironwood table. But it was polished and clean. None of the men’s doing, of course. It was thanks to Dorcas, who looked after them. The old maid even now was summoned, by the deep voice of Oupa.
She appeared wiping her hands. She was one of the fattest women Janet had ever seen and Janet knew that the children were sizing her up: had she got even bigger since they last saw her. Had she sprung an extra chin, another roll around her middle. Janet tried to catch their eyes, but they were transfixed. Pieter’s mouth was a perfect O.
Tee, Dorcas, Oupa said curtly.
Dorcas ignored him and nodded at the visitors. Kleinbaas, she said huskily, her voice panting up from her huge chest. Kleinbaas was her name for Hektor-Jan, the youngest of the brothers. Kleinbaas, she said and nodded at Janet. Miesies, she wheezed and then came the moment that the children had been waiting for. Having pretended not to see them, Dorcas turned on nimble toes and threw her hands to her face.
Allawereld, she gasped, her chins shaking with emotion. Allawereld. Kleinbaaspietertjie, Kleinmiesiesshelley, Kleinmiesiessylvia. As ever she turned to Oupa in consternation. Wat vreet hierdie kinders, she said. What do these children eat. Hoe groot. How big, how big they are since the last time. Allawereld, my magtig, and her hand was at her mouth and she was shaking her head and her chins and chest were alive.
Tee, Dorcas, Oupa said again. The ritual was almost at an end. Dorcas would flash him a glance and swat him aside like a fly. Then she turned to Janet and breathed a profound Merrem from deep inside her chest and she took the Tupperware box with its
precious contents and she left the room gasping to herself as though distressed that the children had grown, that something was terribly wrong when children could grow so quickly. She shook her head and wobbled and muttered into the kitchen. Baas, she was saying, Miesies and then the roar of the kettle drowned her voice.
We shall sit, said Oupa.
So they sat on the assortment of chairs, some at the table, some dotted around the square room. Janet tried to look at Oupa’s face or at Koos’s feet, but already the children were staring up at the walls.
There’s a new one, said Pieter.
No, said Sylvia. That was there last time. It was. I remember its little nose.
Janet closed her eyes and prayed for tea, for the reassuring presence of the giantess, Dorcas, and her wheezing pleasantries.
Hektor-Jan rumbled into Afrikaans and the brothers hung on his words. But Oupa was watching the children.
Sylvia is right, he said to Pieter. We had that klipspringer six months now. But look over there, behind you over there. And Janet turned with the children to look on the wall and there, with glassy eyes and a tightly stretched grin was the head of a jackal. It was nestled between the heads of a bontebok and a tiny, striped springbok.
And before the children could ask, Oupa stood up and was detaching it from the wall and handing it to them.
Hektor-Jan barely noticed, but the blood pounded in Janet’s head as she sat dizzily longing for Dorcas and the tea. The children stroked the mangy thing. They touched its fur and its stiff ears and the horrid gash in its face, all teeth and dark space and they squealed at how sharp the teeth were and said, Look Mommy, look. And she was forced to look or to scream so she looked with all her might and tried not to see, but she saw. And Pieter must have sensed her shock as he leapt forward with the grinning head on its flat plaque.
Hello, Meneer Jakkals! he shouted imitating Oupa’s Afrikaans and his voice was a yipping y sound of Hello Meneer Yuckulls and the head leapt at her face.
It was the youngest brother, François, who had been watching and who gently took Pieter’s arm and led the jackal away from Janet’s face.
Let us sit hom terug, he said mixing up his English and his Afrikaans. He was a man of few words. He sat down again with a smile at Janet as the children were now off, looking in the house for Diepseun the tortoise.
Thank you, François, Janet said and he smiled again and she tried to smile.
The deep Afrikaans voices circled around her like a storm and François shrugged and smiled even more broadly. How is your play, he asked suddenly.
But before Janet could tell him that she had indeed got a part in the play, before she could describe the magical world of Brigadoon, Dorcas appeared on the crest of a huge bronze tray. It might have been an old firescreen, such was its size, and she set it down with medley of teaspoons and chattering crockery.
And François stood beside her, a solicitous presence, whilst Meneer Yuckulls leered from the wall and they all gathered around, even Dorcas who sang most sweetly as they raised their voices to Pieter who returned and stood there with his sisters and blushed. Happy birthday, dear Pieter, happy birthday to you. And Sylvia yelled the hip hip hoorays at the end and it was the barefooted Koos who said, Nog ’n piep, for the final hooray.
And that cheer was the signal. Maak toe jou oë, said Francois with a hand on Pieter’s shoulder. Close those eyes. He led Pieter to a chair. Pieter, who was already blind with excitement as he sensed what was coming.
Koos flapped from the room with his bare feet and Hektor-Jan winked at Janet. She had no idea what was waiting outside. But then she knew. All the panting animals above her, around her. Of course, she should have known. What a good idea. Was it a good idea – the new baby, and now this. Something else to worry about unlike the old and faithful Jock. You read about babies and –
In came Koos with a squirming bundle of brindle legs and ears. François’s hands held Pieter’s eyes shut. Oupa let out a cackle and both Shelley and Sylvia gasped. Before Koos could hand over the puppy to Hektor-Jan to present to his son, Oupa was on his feet and pulling at his pocket. He tied the yellow ribbon around the dog’s neck. They could see its head now – a Rottweiler, no plaas brak, no farmyard mongrel.
And into Pieter’s trembling arms came baby Jock. The new Jock of the bushveld – and from some breeder in Springs whom the brothers knew and who gave them a good deal. It was all gasps and delight, licks and squirms. Janet had to hold Sylvia back so that her brother could hug and hug the GOD who had become DOG, and Janet saw Shelley smile softly and knew that the bright magnets on the fridge would soon spell a different message. Little Pieter remembered to say thank you – a whole round of thank yous to all the Snyman men, as well as to his father and mother. As he brought New-Jock for her to stroke and admire, he whispered, I am so happy, Mommy. I am so happy.
Janet laughed to see such fun and the puppy’s fur was softer than midnight. It glowed black and its caramel patches were delicious.
Then Dorcas clapped her hands and proceeded to dish out the cake she had made in Kleinbaaspietertjie’s honour whilst Oupa insisted on pouring the tea from the old cracked teapot, tea brewed in honour of the daughter of the English professor who lectured in the city, but who now languished closer to home. Which was presumably where her father was. He was due to join them but Janet had said that something must have come up as it was unlike her father to be late, so do carry on. And they did. And the trifle was kept for later.
Watched over by the heads of various beasts with their glassy eyes and desperate hauteur as well as by the more immediate, more kindly Dorcas, they sipped their tea out of the old tea service. Paper-thin china that rattled in tiny saucers and which became Lilliputian in the meaty hands of Hektor-Jan and his beefy brothers. Their eyes strayed briefly to Janet as they slurped delicately. François even had his baby finger pointed to the ceiling in a little salute to Janet’s Englishness and, just like last time, she had to fight back the impulse suddenly to cackle with laughter. It was made worse by the silent chomping of the children as they mowed through the moist slices of chocolate cake and the tense slurps of tiny tea from the men who usually gulped out of big mugs. And Dorcas watched over them all with a tender impatience, as she wanted her chance to pour from the special teapot and to offer around the jug of thick milk. And above Dorcas, around them all, on every wall, like some bizarre tribe, there circled the gaping beasts, slain and staring with beheaded surprise. It was as though the house had sprung a welter of heads, which strained and pulled each wall towards a facing wall, their eyes bulging with the effort, their mouths gasping. They wheeled around the puppy, which was squirming with life and making nuzzling sounds against Pieter’s tummy. Janet wanted to stand up and shoo them away, the laager of dusty old heads. Shout, Be off with you, Go, Voetsek, but more tea was on its way and Sylvia was trying to get onto her lap, maybe already jealous of the tiny New-Jock.
After Dorcas had danced about the room, waltzing tea into their tiny cups and smiling with pride as every drop was drunk and the cake demolished, Oupa muttered something to Koos.
It was a signal to the men, for they all stood up. Teacups were carefully returned to the tray and Dorcas gruffly thanked. Pieter was hauled to his feet – told that he should take his dog. It was old enough and strong enough.
There was a brief hiatus as they all went to the loo like a row of schoolboys. No one hopped from foot to foot but the chain clanked and the toilet flushed loudly in the passage next door and then they all had guns and Sylvia was on the brink of tears as she asked why she could not go too.
Hektor-Jan’s eyebrows appealed to Janet and she stepped in.
Sylvia, she said gently. Sylvia. And she could feel the yearning of the creatures above and around her. Their mute appeal. Please, they seemed to say, please, no more. Not another one. Yes, your son might have to aim and shoot, but not your little girl. Surely not your little Sylvia.
Janet caught Sylvia up in her lap. The little girl strug
gled hotly and Janet held her and seemed to squeeze the tears from her. It did not help that Shelley was tying her laces more tightly and was joining the men. If Janet silently appealed to her older daughter to stay, Shelley ignored her. Maybe she knew that her mother had to remain with Sylvia; maybe she would keep a maternal eye on Pieter who was in the passage already hefting a .22 rifle onto his little shoulder and watching Oupa tie a leather thong around the puppy’s neck.
Sylvia squirmed violently as the men disappeared. François called goodbye, but the rest departed to the creak of the screen door which closed by itself with a final slam. Janet was left with her daughter on her lap sitting uncomfortably beneath the ranks of dead animals. Out there, out in the veld, they would seek another deer or rodent or little predator-cum-scavenger to kill. She and Sylvia would have to wait like Dorcas, sitting in the quiet cave of the house, whilst the men roamed the veld, hunting. Part of her was terrified; part desperately amused. Sylvia was so hot on her lap, shuddering to herself.
The heavens were clear after the rains. It was all so clear and simple. They walked out into the blue of the sky and the yellow grass, already bleached and bronzed by the sun. Hektor-Jan breathed in the morning air and felt his heart flower with sudden happiness. He was a child again. Instantly, he stepped out of his old, thick body and he felt lithe and he looked at his father leading the way with Koos, Kaalvoet Koos – Barefoot Koos. It was a relief and a joyous sadness to know that nothing had changed and that everything had changed.
The old .22 in his hands. Well, it was a most familiar weight, the heft of the warm wood and the smoothness. It led in a straight line to memories of similar mornings and afternoons and even nights. Like Kaalvoet Koos, they were all kaalvoet back then. The grass springing between their toes, warm and soft. The dogs licking their ankles and panting. Laughing at the way Blikskottel lifted his leg every fifth step even when he was dehydrated and empty. And Bliksem who could sense a tarentaal hiding in the wild grass from fifty yards. And the manliness of his older brothers. And marching with his brothers was his son and his elder daughter. They both had the old rifles, the very ones he had practised on as a child. The cans clinked and leapt in his mind. All the cans he had shot off the rocks like metal salmon leaping. His first guinea fowl. Warm and limp. A thin trickle of purple blood and the spotted feathers. The comical cone on the head like a dunce. Blue and red. And the eyes closed, dreaming it was still alive. The power he felt. The strength and power that came shooting along the rifle. The bullet burst out one end, but the feeling of invincibility thudded out the other, jarring his shoulder with greatness. He smiled. And Pieter walking without looking. How he had eyes only for his new dog. It was the perfect present and his heart tightened with both fear and joy. But old Jock was buried deep and still in the earth and here was the new Jock, snuffling and panting with a huge smile on his face, the bloody stump of his tail a blur of happiness.
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