At the National Hospital, they waited. And waited. Christo took Arno to Thys’ ouma. They waited again. She heaved herself out the chair as the doctor came through the swing doors and averted his eyes from her bulging belly.
‘He’s holding on, Mrs van Zyl,’ he said. ‘We’ll know more in a few days.’
Slowly, slowly the news improved. He’d live. He could move his hands. He had feeling in his toes. He could sit up and feed himself. He’d walk. He’d never play rugby again.
It was so unfair. His first game after working so hard to come back after injury too. She’d been so excited, so proud when he’d received his call-up to the team. Pa and Christo travelled through to Bloemfontein especially – not that they needed any persuasion. Arno was beside himself with pride and anticipation. When Thys ran out on to the field in his Orange Free State jersey, Arno shouted at the top of his little lungs: ‘That’s my Papa’ and the burly men all around them smiled and told him that Free State would win the Currie Cup for sure this year, now that Thys van Zyl was back in the scrum.
Thys took his first, faltering, unaided steps up the path to their new cottage in the grounds at Bloemfontein Hoërskool, the day before Western Province beat the Blue Bulls in the Currie Cup Final again. BHS was proud to have a man of Thys’ stature as a teacher at his school, the headmaster said.
Chapter 4
1983
Annamari and her mother sat on the stoep, looking out at the garden, across the wheat fields with the far poplar sentries, just visible at the boundary with Viljoenspruit and then beyond to the distant mountains. She tickled Kaptein behind his ears. The little brak twisted his head and licked her hand. Pa would never allow him on the stoep; Pa said dogs belonged outside. But Pa was with Thys and Christo cheering on Free State in the lounge. She couldn’t bear to watch rugby anymore.
‘What will you do if Arno wants to play? Or De Wet? It’s in their genes,’ Ma said.
Annamari shuddered. She prayed Arno had his father’s genes and would grow up too slender to qualify for the Free State team, even as a wing, or fly half. He was a slight child, smaller than most of the other boys in his Grade one class. Baby De Wet, however, was a different story. He already had enormous hands and feet – a tiny Thys in the cradle.
‘I’m going to get them a violin and take them to ballet class,’ she said.
Ma hooted with delight, waking De Wet who gurgled happily in his pushchair and then closed his round brown eyes again. Kaptein’s soft warm nose nudged her hand. She tickled him again.
‘I’d love to see your pa’s face when you invite him to Arno’s first recital. He’d just die if he had a limp-wristed moffie for a grandson.’
Annamari looked across the garden to where Arno and a dusky little girl in a tattered dress were tearing around, pretending to be fire engines. He’d also taken off his shoes and the children’s footprints chased each other down the dusty path.
She went to the kitchen to ask Rosie for more biltong and beers for the men and some fresh coffee and koeksusters, and a glass of orange juice for Arno. Rosie was draped on her old three-legged stool in the corner near the old stove, the one she’d always used, even after Ma got the new electric one.
‘If it was good enough for Ouma Steyn, it’s good enough for me,’ Rosie had said, wrapping her arms across her ample chest the day the white appliance emerged, fresh and shiny from its cardboard wrappings. Petrus had helped Pa lift it down from the back of Pa’s bakkie and carry it into the kitchen. Rosie had glared at the new interloper in barely bridled disapproval. But Annamari and Christo had gaped, wide-eyed in wonder, as the big white machine got hot, all by itself, after Pa plugged it in.
Rosie was always busy. For as long as Annamari could remember, when Rosie wasn’t cooking or baking or cleaning or washing or ironing or chasing her out of bed so she could do her room, Rosie would be sitting in the corner of the kitchen on her little stool, crocheting a blanket or something. But not today. Today Rosie was just sitting, her swollen brown fingers resting in her lap; her normally immaculate doek a little askew. The streaks of grey visible under that doek shocked Annamari. When had Rosie got so old?
‘Pretty will bring you the tray, Kleinmissy,’ Rosie said. ‘You go sit with your ma.’
The groan from the group in the lounge as she walked back to the stoep indicated that Transvaal must have scored.
‘Where’s Arno?’ she asked Ma as she tucked the blanket up under De Wet’s chin before settling back into her chair. Kaptein had also disappeared.
‘There.’
She looked towards the old jackalberry tree. It was a magical tree. She and Christo had seen it transform from a fort or castle into a tank or tractor or haunted forest. Years later, it had been her refuge when she came home for the school holidays, sitting with her back against the rough bark, dreaming of the day she’d walk down the aisle on Pa’s arm to become Mrs Thys van Zyl.
‘What’s that man doing?’ she asked her mother as the new farm supervisor emerged from behind the tree. He was dragging the little girl behind him, his bony fingers biting into her stick-like arm.
‘So sorry, Mrs Steyn, Mrs van Zyl. It won’t happen again,’ he called as he pulled the child towards the garden gate.
Arno ran after them, crying. Annamari hurtled down the stoep stairs. What had that man done to her child? She hadn’t liked Stefan Smit the moment Ma had introduced him. He reminded her of a rabid meerkat. Or that character in David Copperfield – the one who was always wringing his hands. Uriah Heep. She remembered because Mr Franklin, who insisted they read Dickens and Shakespeare even if they were doing English Second Language, said he could never understand why some strange British rock band had taken the same name.
‘Wait. What’s going on?’ Annamari demanded.
Stefan Smit turned and bobbed his head. His khaki fringe flopped over his milky eyes and he brushed it back with nicotine-stained fingers.
‘Sorry, Mrs van Zyl. I’ve told this hotnot kid never to come near the farmhouse but she just won’t listen. I’m sorry she disturbed you. I’ll make sure it won’t happen again.’
He bobbed his head and turned to go.
‘Wait,’ Annamari said, more emphatically this time. ‘Why is Arno crying?’
‘This kid pushed him over. That’s why I ...’
‘She didn’t. She didn’t.’ Arno rushed forward, grabbed the girl’s hand and tugged, trying to pull her out of the farm supervisor’s grasp. The girl looked terrified, tears slipping down her pale coffee cheeks as she was tugged this way and that.
‘We was playing and then he came and grabbed her and he said I mustn’t play with kaffirs but I wasn’t. Me and Bootie was playing,’ Arno howled.
‘Let the child go, Mr Smit. Please.’ Annamari cut him short as he opened his mouth. ‘The children can play together if they want. But I appreciate your concern.’
The man stepped back, frowning. ‘She’s a little troublemaker this one,’ he said. ‘The Coloureds always are. She doesn’t belong here. She belongs with her own people.’ Then he flashed a sickly half-smile and whined: ‘I was just trying to help. I’m very sorry if I upset your little boy.’
‘Would you like to join us for some coffee, Stefan?’ Ma called from the stoep.
‘Thank you, Mrs Steyn, but no. It’s not my place. I’ll just go back to my room.’ With a final shake of the girl’s arm, he turned and limped swiftly through the gate.
When he’d gone Annamari turned on her mother. ‘How could you invite him to join us? What if he’d accepted? Okay, I’m sorry for him. What happened with his wife and daughter was really terrible. But he gives me the creeps.’
‘You’re being unfair, Annamari. He’s had a terrible time. He just sold everything after the funeral, got on a bus and came down here. He said he couldn’t bear to be in Pretoria anymore. He doesn’t know much about wheat farming, I grant you, but Pa and Petrus will show him. And having him here will take a lot of pressure off Pa.’
‘Christo s
hould be doing that now he’s finished the army.’
‘And next year? When he’s at Maties? Anyway, he’s still young. He doesn’t need the responsibility of the farm just yet.’
Annamari looked away and bit her lip. Christo was only eighteen months younger than her. And she’d welcome some responsibility for the farm. She’d give anything to be able to live here again. But Thys wasn’t a farmer, not like Pa who’d grown up with Steynspruit’s air in his lungs and farming in his DNA. But Thys, poor Thys, he didn’t know the first thing about farming. He had a career to build in teaching. He was going to be a great teacher – perhaps headmaster of a top school like Grey’s one day. And next year, when she finally finished matric, she’d also become a teacher. She’d already made enquiries about doing a nursery school teacher certificate at the Technical College.
She sat down again and changed the subject. ‘Who is that kid?’
‘It’s the new girl’s child. She started last month. Pretty – she’s Petrus’ daughter or niece or something. I got her in to help Rosie because Rosie just can’t cope on her own anymore.’
‘That child’s Petrus’ grandchild? But she looks Coloured.’
‘Ja. Apparently there was some problem with that in the township. She was being teased by the other kids. Did you notice her eyes?’
Annamari nodded. They were startling – a bright, bright blue. Very odd for a kaffir, or even a Coloured.
‘And there was also a problem with her going to the township school. Petrus said the headmaster wouldn’t let her enrol and called in the cops or the welfare or something. I’m not sure exactly. Anyway, Petrus was worried they’d take her away so he asked if they could come stay on Steynspruit until it all blows over. She’s a sweet little thing really, I suppose. I hardly know she’s around.’
‘How old is she? She looks about the same age as Arno.’
‘Petrus said she’s nearly seven.’
‘She doesn’t look it. So where does she go to school now?’
‘She doesn’t. I told you. The school won’t take her.’
‘Why don’t they send her to her father? He must live in the Coloured township. She could go to the Coloured school.’
‘Who knows? Who knows who the father is? You know how kaffir girls are. They just sleep around and breed like flies.’
Annamari flushed and looked away. She knew some of the farmers’ wives in the district said pretty much the same thing about her, well – the sleeping around part anyway.
Pretty, wearing the same colour pink overall with matching apron and doek that Rosie always wore, walked through the French doors. She put her laden tray carefully on the table but it wobbled and the coffee slopped onto the tray.
‘Sorry missis,’ she said, backing away, looking like a stray brak waiting to be whipped.
‘It’s okay, Pretty. You can just leave it,’ said Ma, mopping up the spill with the lappie that hung on a nail in the wall. Pretty melted back through the French doors.
‘What’s wrong with that girl? She looked like she was going to cry,’ Annamari said.
Ma handed her a mug and held out the plate of koeksusters.
‘She’s a strange one. A bit simple I think. She hardly says a word. But she cleans nicely and Rosie is teaching her to cook. Petrus says she’s honest – well, he would, I suppose. I’m sure she’ll be okay.’
Arno bounded up the stairs and grabbed two koeksusters in his grubby little hands, the thick syrup dripping down his arm.
‘Don’t be greedy. Put one back,’ Annamari said.
‘It’s for Bootie,’ he said and tore back down the stairs to the little girl who was waiting quietly under the big jackalberry tree, Kaptein at her side.
Annamari smiled at her mother, pleased that Arno had found a playmate at Steynspruit.
Chapter 5
Five years later: 1989
Annamari looked up from putting fish fingers and chips on a plastic plate for De Wet and glanced questioningly at her husband. Thys never came home at lunchtime. It was just a short walk from the main school building across the road to their new house, but he preferred to eat sandwiches in his classroom and get some marking done before practice. And today the first team was playing Sentraal Hoër. He should be with them. But she hadn’t heard the school bell yet, so why...
‘Papa!’ De Wet yelled, sliding off his chair and hurling himself at his father’s legs.
Thys didn’t pick up the stocky child and swing him around, eliciting shrieks of delight, as he usually did. When Arno was home, he would also join the fray and all her men would eventually collapse in a heap on the couch.
But not today. Today Thys looked grim. Even more grim than when they’d heard about President PW Botha’s stroke on the news.
‘Nou hier kom ’n ding,’ he said. ‘This is trouble. Mark my words.’
‘But they said it wasn’t serious. Anyway, I thought you didn’t like PW.’
‘I don’t. But he’s weak now. He’s finished – you’ll see. And then who knows what will happen.’
So far, Thys had been right. He was always right.
‘De Wet, go play outside,’ Thys said.
A cold hand froze her heart. She put the pan down on the stove, and turned to face her husband.
‘Arno,’ she said.
‘Arno? No. No, he’s fine.’
‘Then what?’
He took her hand and led her to the couch.
‘Sit,’ he said.
Her legs buckled.
‘Annamari...’ His eyes welled with tears. ‘Annamari – there’s been... there’s been a... Your parents...’
‘There’s been an accident, hasn’t there? They’re hurt? Where are they? Which hospital? They’d bring them to Bloemfontein if they were badly injured, wouldn’t they? Or Bethlehem? I’m going to phone Ouma to come and look after the boys. Then we can go.’
She started to stand up, intent on reaching the phone. Thys pulled her back down, onto the couch.
‘Annamari listen. It’s bad. It’s really bad.’
She wanted to hit him. Now tears were spilling down his face and he was squeezing her hands in his giant paws.
Arno drifted in through the lounge door, his backpack slung over his shoulder.
‘Ma, De Wet is rolling on the grass outside in his uniform. You said we weren’t allowed to play in our uniform – oh, hello Pa.’
‘Arno, put your bag down and go join your brother outside.’ Thys’ voice was a bit muffled but Arno dropped his backpack and retreated.
Thys took a shuddering breath, wiped his eyes and gripped her hands so hard she winced. He didn’t seem to notice.
‘Annamari, they’re dead.’
Who? What was he talking about?
‘Oh liefie. I’m so sorry. Pa and Ma. And Christo. They’re all dead.’
All of them? Pa and Ma? They couldn’t be. She’d spoken to Ma just last night. Ma said she was making boontjiebredie stew for supper. She hadn’t said they were going anywhere today. They were at Steynspruit. She started to get up, to get to the phone, to call the farm and show Thys that this time he was wrong. He pulled her down again. She opened her mouth to object. Christo would never have been in the car with them. Not today. He was too busy with the ploughing. Her throat was stuffed with cotton wool. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breathe.
‘Annamari, did you hear what I said?’
‘When... where... what happened?’
‘Terrorists. They cut through the security fence, broke in to the house and shot them. Must have been last night some time. Stefan Smit found them this morning when he got back from Pretoria.’
‘Christo too? In the house? What about the dogs – why didn’t they bark? Warn them? Have they caught them? How many broke in? Why did they shoot? Pa always said they wouldn’t resist if, when, if someone broke in. He said all they usually wanted was food and money and weapons. That’s why he didn’t keep a lot of ammo on the farm, just in case. And Christo... Ma never said he was
going to be there, he shouldn’t have been there, he wasn’t supposed to be there, he...’
She couldn’t go on. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t possible. It was a lie. It was a horrible, disgusting lie. It was just like Stefan Smit to phone Thys and lie, just to upset her because he knew she didn’t like him and he was just the kind of slimy bastard who would do something like that.
‘When did Stefan Smit phone you? He’s a fucking liar, you know he is,’ she said, wrenching her hands free.
For once, Thys didn’t object to her swearing.
‘It wasn’t Stefan who phoned. It was Wynand. Wynand Vorster. He’s in the Murder and Robbery Squad now. Stefan called the cops as soon as... He thought they might be able to catch the bastards before they crossed back into Lesotho. Wynand said they were searching but so far they’ve found nothing.’
She thought she heard De Wet crying outside. Arno’s fault probably. They all tended to forget that the tough-looking little boy was still just a baby.
‘Thys, we have to tell the boys. How are we going to tell the boys? What are we going to say?’
***
The Corolla ate up the road. Bethlehem disappeared behind them. Thys changed down, overtook a truck, changed up again. They stopped at a road block. A police officer came over. Thys wound down the window. The officer muttered something. Thys nodded. Camouflaged soldiers cradling R1 rifles removed the barrier. The Corolla pulled off, sped up. Thys reached out, switched on the radio. It crackled. He turned it off. She looked down at her hands. She unclenched them. The Corolla hummed. It passed a tractor. It passed a donkey cart. It passed a car. She looked down. She unclenched her hands.
When Time Fails Page 3