So it became Stienie, Stienie who turned up at our house more and more often when we came to town – for the cousins and the aunts were more often in town than on the farm – who came knocking at the kitchen door with a note or a message or a bowl of quinces, and sat down on the bench beside Mother’s chair spontaneously to talk. Usually Maans was also present, for he always brought us in to town and took us out to the farm again, and sometimes he had to wait in town for days while Mother delayed her return, and then Maans was told to walk Stienie back to their town house across the street from the church, to carry the bowl she was taking back or the coffee grinder she had come to borrow, or simply because it was getting late and Mother felt she should not be walking back on her own. When they left, the house was suddenly very quiet: Mother stooped to light the candle and I began to draw the curtains. Outside it was so dark that I could no longer see Stienie and Maans. The child I had raised had been lost to me for a long time.
So it became Stienie, and she and Maans were married in the church in town, and afterwards the wedding guests were received in the town house, not on the farm as might have been expected. It was probably Mother who had arranged it like that, in order to show off the elegance of the town house, but it might also have been Stienie’s own choice, for during the engagement she gradually began expressing wishes and making demands, regardless of how lovingly and meekly they were made. What Maans desired no one asked, and he fetched what was needed from the farm and endured the formalities and festivities, as he endured the uncomfortable tailcoat and white gloves, or the mocking and teasing of the young men against which he had no defense.
So it was Stienie. Why do I not remember anything about their engagement or their wedding? Is it by chance that one remembers or forgets, or does the memory have its own unfathomable rules? That it was a large and stylish wedding, that I know, even if only because it was discussed in the district for such a long time afterwards, but the only memory I have retained is of the shabby silk slippers Stienie gave to one of the maidservants years later with the passing remark that those were the shoes she had worn on her wedding day, almost as if she did not care. And yet other things, seemingly insignificant, stand out in my memory so clearly after all the years; like that quick, hungry look in Stienie’s eyes and the over-eager motion with which she stooped to pick up the handkerchief Mother had dropped, the glistening of the water in the furrow at twilight, and the coldness of the window-pane against my fingertips as I stood looking out into the darkness before drawing the curtain. And the first Sunday they accompanied us to church after the wedding, Stienie in a rustling dress in mauve and green stripes that had been ordered from Cape Town, a small hat with ostrich feathers and ribbons perched on her forehead – yes, that was the fashion that year, but those colours and that little hat with its feathers were just too elegant for our village. She must have realized it herself, and she wore her clothes defiantly, as if she wanted to notify the entire congregation formally of her new status and wealth; she acknowledged no one as she followed me to our pew; nonetheless she was aware that every head in church was turning to stare after her. Was that what she had yearned for, to make her entrance in our modest, thatched church as a wealthy and elegant newly-wed wife; had that been the extent of her ambition initially, or was it only the first step along a long and lonely road, the end of which she herself could not foresee?
5
Actually it was only the faces around the table that changed over the years, a changing pattern in the candlelight in a house where nothing changed otherwise. Pieter returned and Father passed on, Coenraad left us and Stienie moved in, but the course of our lives remained unchanged and the silence of our communion undisturbed. Our thoughts, our plans, our doubts or anxieties were never declared outright, but slowly and along indirect paths they found their expression.
She was very affectionate – that is to say, she always behaved very affectionately towards us, her fellow-residents and new relatives. She called Mother “Oumatjie”, and was inclined to embrace and cuddle her, which Mother endured and in her own way possibly even appreciated. Quite soon Stienie began calling me “Tantetjie”, and though she may have meant it kindly, I always found it somehow disparaging and demeaning. She never attempted to embrace or cuddle me, however, and I do not believe she ever felt quite at ease in my company.
When all was said and done, however, Stienie and I managed to live together in harmony. Initially she was still feeling her way, of course, uncertain of my established authority and sensitive to my being so much older, as well as her husband’s aunt; she always had her way, but she made her influence felt gradually and revealed her strength carefully, so that there were no outright clashes. But why should the two of us clash? For all those years I had stood in Mother’s shadow and obeyed her instructions; why then should it be harder for me to defer to Stienie who would sooner or later be mistress of the house openly and undisputedly anyway? She went ahead carefully and I knew how to yield, and so we managed to live together: the changes she made, no matter how far-reaching, were carried out wordlessly, appearing suddenly as an accomplished fact, and no one could say how they had come about. During those first years of their marriage that Stienie and I lived together here on the farm, I gradually and imperceptibly lost all control over the household and saw how my procedures and methods were done away with and supplanted one after the other. The lines were never drawn, however, and the battle remained covert and secret: quietly, lovingly, affectionately and with utter relentlessness Stienie came to power during the course of those few years and saw the triumph of her own will.
What was concealed under that gentle nature? Occasionally there was a brief episode when the carefully sustained performance seemed to be taking its toll, and she would lose control, so that something of her true feelings showed: for a brief moment a glint of anger or impatience would flare, for a moment the abiding tenderness would be belied by a quick, deprecating movement of head or shoulders, or the voice would take on an unusual sharpness. These were mere moments, as I have said, and they did not occur often during those early years of her marriage, and yet it seemed to me as if that hint of rage and resentment was more honest than the unfailing kindness we were accustomed to.
She bore with me, that is what it boils down to, and why should it still be denied? She bore with my presence in her home because she had no other choice, and when the chance came to get rid of me, she was only too glad to leave me in town alone until she needed me again: let me be honest, for that is how it was. There was never any tenderness or affection for the peculiar spinster aunt she had been saddled with in her marriage. “Oh, Tantetjie has always been shy,” I once heard her tell visitors in the voorhuis as I lingered in the kitchen, unwilling to join them; and once, years later, when we were living in the new house, I entered the voorhuis and, invisible behind the net curtain, I heard Stienie, an older and mellower woman by then, remark to her guests on the stoep, “Yes, but you must realise, Tantetjie is strange,” with the same deprecating tone that I remembered from years ago. I was standing behind the net curtain in the voorhuis, among the gleaming furniture, and dispassionately and without regret I realised that in all those years I had not even managed to earn her approval. She still merely put up with me in her home and at her table.
To Pieter Stienie showed more or less the same kindness as to the rest of us, for he was family, and she called him “Oom Pieter”, but she saw him only at meals or when he accompanied us to town, and so he did not bother her. It took a while before I realised that she always spoke of “Maans’s uncle” to others, as if the mention of Maans maintained a certain distance between them; and it took even longer for me to notice that she always avoided addressing Pieter directly or looking him in the eye, no matter how hard she otherwise tried to conceal her distaste. Pieter did not fit into her plans for the future either, though she could not undertake anything against him as long as Mother was still around; later, when Mother and I were living in town, Stienie arran
ged it so that Pieter no longer joined them for meals, and when I returned to the farm years later, I found that his food was sent to his room outside. He probably preferred it that way himself, yet I never felt that it was right.
At last only old Dulsie remained on whom Stienie as a young housewife could exert her will. By that time the old woman was totally confused and almost blind, but she had raised us and Father before us, and we were used to her, so that she still occupied her place in the corner of the kitchen, her pipe clenched between her teeth, without anyone taking notice of her muttering. However, Stienie maintained that the old woman scared her, and that she was dirty and smelly, and at last she succeeded in having Dulsie moved out to a small room behind the shed where one of the kitchen maids was told to take care of her. I often took her her food myself, though Stienie did not approve, and sat with her in her stuffy, smoky room for a while, but she no longer recognised me and she probably did not even notice when Mother and I moved to town. She died while we were in town, and I do not even know under which of the stone mounds in the graveyard she lies. Did Maans bury her inside or outside the wall, and would he still be able to point out the place today if he were asked?
Thus we lived together on the farm for a few years, Mother and Maans and Stienie and I, but there were many interruptions when Mother and I went to stay in the town house. It could not have been easy for Mother to see Maans, the apple of her eye, so completely under Stienie’s thumb, for though he remained loving and considerate towards her, Stienie also invaded that relationship relentlessly, and though Maans still discussed farm matters with Mother as of old, it was Stienie’s opinions he expressed, her advice or assurances he listened to, and more and more often Stienie would act as go-between and mediator between Mother and her grandson. Early on everyone naturally expected that there would soon be a baby, and when that did not happen, Mother became impatient and disgruntled, and then it was almost as if she lost interest in Maans and Stienie, just as she had stopped taking an interest in the farm after Father’s death, and once again she retired to the town house and consoled herself with the life-style and status she enjoyed there. Two or three years after Maans’s marriage – or perhaps it was not even that long, I no longer know – it was more or less wordlessly decided that she would establish herself in town permanently, and equally wordlessly it was presumed that I would accompany her. It is very wise of her, the guests in the voorhuis declared, nodding over their coffee cups; after all, she was no longer young and life here in the new town house would be much more convenient than on the farm, with her daughter to look after her and the church and even a doctor close by. Perhaps; but while they spoke like that, I watched them and noticed how they would pause for a moment and glance at Mother sharply, as if giving her a chance to contradict them and confirm their suspicions about the move. They believed Stienie was behind it, but though they dearly wanted their suspicions confirmed, Mother kept silent. Perhaps the comforts and the church and the doctor did play a role, but in town our lives were not really very different. By the time we moved, Mr Aling had already received his demission, so that for the next five years the congregation was without a minister yet again, and though it was true that there was now a doctor, he never came to our house, not until the end, when Mother was undeniably dying and allowed us to send for him at last.
But whatever the case might have been, Mother decided, and so the two of us moved to town. At first we still went down to the Karoo with Maans and the rest, but in later years Mother did not feel up to it any more and we stayed in the Roggeveld for the winter. Of course Maans and Stienie always came to stay when they were in town, though these visits gradually became less frequent too, for during those years the road down Verlatekloof was constructed and the railway line ran from Worcester to Matjiesfontein in the Karoo, and more and more often we heard that Maans had taken Stienie down to catch the train to Worcester. She visited friends there and shopped, and she always maintained that she had to see the doctor, as if our local doctor could not be trusted. People had a lot to say about this, but it is true that she often complained and, after all, why should she not go to Worcester if it made her happy, for they were still childless and there were no compelling duties to keep her at home. In due course she sent for one of her relatives, a widow, to live with them on the farm, and when she was away old Betta was left in charge and looked after Maans. He came to visit us in town regularly, but we hardly ever saw Stienie except at Nagmaal, and over the years it was almost as if we had become strangers to each other.
For ten years Mother and I lived together in town. Could it possibly have been that long? But it could easily be verified – we came to town in the spring after Mr Aling’s departure and Mother died in the same year as Mr Reyneke’s wife; the date of her death can be seen on her tombstone. The arrival of visiting ministers and later the regular Nagmaal services when we had our own minister, the post-cart bringing letters once a week and the periodic arrival of itinerant traders and transport-riders, those were the milestones of our existence and weeks and months often passed without any other interlude, so that the weeks and months and finally also the years melted together and, looking back, I can scarcely believe that Mother and I spent ten years together in that big town house.
It was a good time for Mother. The town was not big, but there were distractions we had not known on the farm, with visitors from other villages, people coming in from the farms, and neighbours dropping in. Even during her last years Mother could not have been considered sociable but, unlike before, she now enjoyed it when callers arrived unannounced – for it was always others who came to her, never the other way round. Visiting ministers or other distinguished guests were entertained by us as a matter of course, often spending the night, and she enjoyed the opportunity to impress them with the decanters, the coffee cups and other tokens of our wealth. Moreover, during the years we were without a minister, the elders would often solicit our help with some document that I had to write or read or translate, or a news report that needed interpretation, just as when Father was still alive. They were still a bit resistant and reluctant, for though I was nearly middle-aged, I was still a woman, after all, and they disliked the idea that I knew more and was capable of more than they who were men in important positions. But, as I have said, in the years after Mr Aling’s departure, when there was neither minister nor parsonage, our town house filled that gap, and it was at the regular meetings in our voorhuis that church matters were discussed and finally also, I might say, concluded. If I look back over the years with complete honesty, I would not describe Mother as devout or even as a particularly religious person, notwithstanding the claims made in the eulogies after her death, but as Father’s widow, as a leading member of the congregation and a strong-minded woman, she exercised an exceptional influence in her own way.
Was that what Mother had finally wanted – the wealth, the status and the power in this restricted environment of town and congregation? I think so. Or perhaps it was not so much the money and the status and the power, as the security these provided, the fact that those people with the wild eyes, the shabby wagon and the scrawny dogs were finally banished to the shadows for good, outside the circle of lamplight where she was entertaining her guests in the voorhuis; perhaps that was the reason for her greater tolerance, the knowledge that the battle had been fought and the desperate effort of all those years was no longer necessary, the last spirits of the past having been exorcised. Only once did she flare up as in the old days, when Mr Van der Merwe came to us as minister, and in his zeal to straighten out the neglected congregation, reopened the question of her seat among the wives of the elders. It was the beginning of a long and bitter battle with wide repercussions that divided the congregation anew, and our home was the scene of much lively debate, and many heated and unruly discussions occurred, for Mr Van der Merwe was quick to make enemies and Mother soon used the conflict to her own advantage. Exactly what was said and done, how they negotiated and planned and schemed,
I never knew, for I busied myself in the kitchen or in the garden and took no part in it; but Mother retained her seat in church, and during the short time Mr Van der Merwe served in our congregation he never once set foot in our house, though his wife sometimes called on Mother.
The discord, the angry conferences in the voorhuis and the rows with the church council continued, however, and after four years Mr Van der Merwe received his demission. Mr Reyneke, who succeeded him, was a more cautious and more flexible young man, and he and his wife called on Mother regularly and showed suitable respect for her position, so that she developed a liking for them. Gradually the serious rift in the congregation was mended; but until the very end of her life, when it was no longer possible for her to leave her room or even her bed, Mother retained her honorary seat in church, the black-clad figure increasingly gaunt, but the back as straight as ever. In those years she ordered from Worcester a cape, embroidered with glittering jet, which caused a mild sensation and to which the women of the congregation reacted with spite: such a display of elegance did not suit her, and she was not really comfortable with it herself, but for years she wore that embroidered cape to church every Sunday, glittering among the paler women.
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