‘Hands like spades and walks like a farmer,’ put in Lily.
‘Huge strides and big feet. You can hear her coming down the street before she’s even out of the bakkie, poor child.’
‘It’s because she grew up helping Hendrik on the land. Driving tractors, fixing windmills, they say she can even shear a sheep. Out in all weathers too, no wonder her skin looks like it does.’
Sophia shifted uneasily, thinking they were being a bit harsh.
‘Well you can’t expect a young woman to work like a carthorse and look like the Queen of England, can you?’
‘No,’ Anna conceded. ‘And of course her hair is beautiful.’
And indeed it was. A waterfall that hung to her waist. Thick and curly, and an astonishing red, shot with gold. Left to itself, Betsie could have worn it like a cloak, but she said it got in the way, reminded her of an Angora goat, and so wore it scraped back and tightly plaited.
‘I was visiting once when she was getting ready for bed and came to say goodnight to her parents. Her hair was loose and she wore a white nightdress and I tell you, she looked like a fairytale, if you know what I mean.’
‘What I can’t understand is how Hendrik and Gertie are happy with it all.’
‘With what all?’
‘Her planting potatoes and so on.’
Truth was, they weren’t. They would have been so delighted to have their daughter sitting quietly at home sewing, perhaps preparing a trousseau. Of course Hendrik did appreciate her help, especially not having a son and him getting on in years, and Gertie was equally grateful for Betsie’s help in the kitchen and the wonderful meals she prepared.
‘We must be thankful for her energy and devotion,’ they often told each other. ‘But what will happen when we pass on one day? She can’t stay here alone on the farm.’
It was a real problem. And so when Betsie came with the news that she had been invited to The Ball, they were truly thrilled.
‘And who,’ beamed Hendrik, ‘is the lucky man?’
Betsie guessed what their reaction would be, so she answered defiantly, for so good-natured a daughter.
‘Hamish McAndrew!’
Hendrik leapt up as though she’d thrown a snake in his lap and Gertie burst into tears.
Hamish McAndrew was a Scot who farmed in the district, and the fact that he had never been accepted by the community was altogether his fault.
The Corriebush townsfolk and farmers always made an effort to welcome newcomers. So they had visited Hamish, bearing bottles of brandy, freshly baked pies and jars of preserves. Then, having paid their respects, they had naturally discussed him. And all had agreed that Hamish McAndrew was ‘a funny man’.
‘Gruff,’ one of them noted. ‘Didn’t even ask us inside.’
‘Us neither,’ another chimed in.
‘Polite enough, though, took the roast chicken and said thank you very much. Definitely a foreign accent. Must be descended from one of those interfering Scottish missionaries who came out in the last century.’
‘Well, what I say is why does a man come here without a family, buy a farm, live there alone, not talking much and no curtains even? Did you notice that?’
‘He needs a woman. But with that moustache?’
‘Quite handsome, though, in a way,’ Lily conceded. ‘Big, strong man. But what does he know about sheep, I wonder?’
In time, however, they grew used to Hamish. He would attend stockfairs and pay good prices, cash, for sheep and cattle, and he always returned their greetings and doffed his broad-brimmed hat. But, having bought his stock, he would climb into his bakkie and drive off back to his farm, never taking time to pass the time of day. Their daughters, always on the look-out for a husband when a new man arrived in the district, soon gave up.
‘A lost cause,’ they decided.
And then Hamish asked Betsie to The Ball. Walked right up to where she was standing in the Corner Shop one Saturday morning, having come to town for provisions, and without lowering his voice he issued the invitation. Betsie blushed, and accepted, and that was that.
‘No good will come of this,’ Gertie told Hendrik after they had both calmed down. ‘But what can we do?’
In a way she was half relieved that Betsie had been noticed, but one thing could lead to another.
‘What if they get married, Hendrik? Our Betsie to a Scot? The man’s not one of us. After all, what does he know about the Great Trek? And Piet Retief?’
‘Don’t be silly old woman. It’s just a dance.’
Every year, everyone in Corriebush and the district went to The Ball. The husbands and fathers, the wives and mothers sat on chairs around the perimeter of the dance floor and watched while their daughters – in their long, full-skirted dresses of lace and tulle – swirled around the floor to the waltz and the foxtrot, with plenty of Paul Jones’ in between.
Betsie wore a long, pink dress with rosebuds and puffed sleeves, her red mop swept up in a ribbon, and everyone agreed that she looked surprisingly attractive.
Hamish wore a tartan kilt. They were shocked. Betsie did not seem to mind that his legs were showing, and it had to be said that he really could waltz. His back was straight, his dark hair smoothly sleeked, his moustache waxed and twirled. He even smiled at her as they swept around the room. And Betsie was gone.
It was a quiet wedding, no fuss, because Hendrik was struggling a bit, and no honeymoon. They went straight to Hamish’s farm, Sweetwater, after the ceremony. And overnight, as it were, Betsie became a new woman.
‘Never known anyone to change like that,’ the women remarked, after visiting. ‘She’s even wearing rouge.’
‘And high heels.’
‘Perfume too. She’s still our Betsie, but she certainly is different.’
‘She’s quite the lady now. You can be sure she won’t be working on the land anymore.’
‘And did you see the curtains she’s made? I didn’t even know Betsie could sew.’
It was all true. Betsie had emerged like a butterfly from a pupa and in no time transformed the dull, dreary house into a comfortable home. It was still sparsely furnished – Hamish had been a bachelor for a long time – but there were cushions on the chairs now and flowers in the vases and the kitchen was always dense with the aroma of baking.
Betsie was delighted when the women came to call. If she looked through the window and saw a puff of dust on the road leading up to the farm, she would blush with excitement.
‘Visitors!’ she would call to Hamish as the car clunked over the cattle grid and stopped in the yard, the driver giving a loud blast on the hooter. She would tear off her apron, pat her hair, and run out to meet them. The women always shrieked and hugged and talked all the way up the steps and into the house, and Betsie would rush straight to the kitchen to see to tea. They all helped her lay the cloth on the dining-room table, put out the cups and carry the cakes through before settling down to talk.
Betsie would never pour until her husband was seated at the head of the table. Having taken his place, Hamish would sit there in silence and utter dismay. His farm was going to hell.
The reasons for his marrying Betsie had become a little blurred over the last few months because he had grown so fond of her. His wife was so sweet-natured and cared for him so lovingly, prepared such delicious meals and had made his place so homely that somewhere at the back of his mind, in moments of total honesty, feelings of guilt were surfacing. He had married her simply because he hoped that she would pull his farm together. Now he was ashamed of himself. Betsie couldn’t be both on the land and in the house, the rains hadn’t come, the farm was actually going backwards, and he had run out of money.
‘Would you rather have her on a tractor in dirty overalls then?’ he sometimes asked himself.
The answer was no, but he was anxious and confused, and so he sat sullenly through the tea parties, brooding and glowering.
They wondered why he didn’t leave and go outside. They didn’t know that he st
ayed because the gossip and frivolity took him away from Outside. Outside was nothing but a space of depression. The veld was dry, the stock were thin, and the bushes munched down to brittle grey cobwebs. So he would stay, and blow on his tea, and say nothing, and sometimes Betsie would put her hand in front of her mouth and say in an aside, ‘Ag, he’s a bit shy, you know. Don’t worry, it’s nothing.’
‘It isn’t nothing,’ Anna often said darkly on the way home. ‘We should have warned her. Better have stayed on the shelf than marry a closed book.’
‘Yes, and did you see how he frowns over his tea cup? Looks such a thundercloud I get quite frightened,’ admitted Nellie.
‘But then another day I swear I saw him wink at her.’
‘And yet she doesn’t look unhappy. Perhaps it’s a game they’re playing.’
Sophia had the last word. ‘You never know what happens in the bedroom.’
What happened in the bedroom was a little bit of foxtrot and, when Betsie fell pregnant, Hamish boarded a mailship and went to Scotland.
‘He says there’s family money there,’ Betsie told them. ‘Says he wants to provide properly for his son. Send him to school in England. Nothing but the best. He’ll be back soon, don’t worry.’
But Betsie did worry. Hamish was not a good farmer, and she suspected that he was in debt, but he had never ever mentioned any family fortune overseas.
‘Why don’t you just go back to your parents, Betsie?’ Nellie asked her, a question which made her quite angry.
‘Because I really care about him! He gave me his name, made me a woman, never raised a hand to me.’
‘But what will you do, Bets, if he doesn’t return?’
‘He will. When he left here he didn’t know it, but there was a lock of my hair in his sporran.’
Sophia let out a gasp. ‘In his what?’
‘His sporran. He’ll come back. I’m not worried.’
If Betsie had looked into Hamish’s bank balance, she would have been very worried. If she had known that he had not set foot in Scotland since had he visited with his father at the age of seven, that he knew of no living relatives, and that he had sailed away in a desperate effort to find a way out of the situation because he really cared deeply about her and his child – if she had known the extent of his hopelessness she would have been very worried indeed.
Hamish had plenty of time to think on the long voyage to Southampton, and once the ship had docked he wasted no time in heading directly north. Even though he had been so young when he had visited Scotland with his father, he had a clear image of his grandparent’s cottage in a small fishing village on the west coast, and as the train rattled across the Highlands to Kyle of Lochalsh, he realised he could not be far wrong, because everything looked so familiar: the fierce, craggy mountains, the clumps of yellow gorse, the rushing brown streams and long-haired cattle. He’d been here before, and all he had to do was to walk a few miles up the coast from Kyle, and he was sure he would find the place. And he did, arriving in the late afternoon on a wild, wet winter’s day.
‘McAndrew?’ the postmaster shook his head. ‘Buried long ago, son. Don’t know if there’s any family left, or where they went. But go and ask at the pub. If any man knows, you’ll be sure to find him in there.’
‘McAndrew? You a McAndrew? First one I’ve seen in many a year. None of them left in these parts. All gone now. But where you come from, lad?’
Old Jock gave a roar of surprise and slapped his glass down, leaving a pool of whisky on the polished counter. He wiped it with his sleeve. ‘Africa? Africa you say? Hoots mon, you’ll be needing a stiff drink then. Come on chaps, all chuck in, a double drink on the house for this fellow, he’s come a long way, he has.’
One drink led to another, as each man in the pub stood Hamish a round.
‘Tell us about the crocodiles, Mac. I hear they’re as big as submarines!’ and Hamish would make up a story.
‘And the elephants? They say Africa crawls with elephants!’
‘And snakes as thick as a caber.’
Lots of stories, until Hamish was so befuddled he forgot his pride and told them the truth. He was one of them, a Scot, down on his luck with a run-down farm and a pregnant wife and he was looking for money.
Well now, they didn’t give money away, they said, but they would take him on a bet.
‘You lose, you’re done for. You win, and we’ll pass the hat. Fifty pound from every man here if you spend one night alone in Locharney Castle.’
The men nodded eagerly.
‘Alone lad, but for the ghosts!’
‘The last fellow went stark mad and he’s still in chains somewhere!’
‘Och come now Jock, can’t you see the poor chap’s not fit for it?’ Hamish drained his glass. ‘Done!’ he said.
Locharney Castle stood on the very edge of a cliff facing the Outer Hebrides. Built in the l5th century by the wealthy head of a noble clan, the castle was once surrounded by gardens and fountains, the interior filled with carved oak furniture, suits of armour, flamboyant tapestries – all the riches of an ancestral home. But when Joshua McTavish fell off his horse and subsequently died from his injuries, his wife, the Honourable Lady Eleanor McTavish, grieved until she lost her mind, and her relatives put her away somewhere.
The castle stood empty. Over the years the whipping salt spray and vicious winds mercilessly raked the castle, battering the stately ramparts into grotesque shapes, like broken teeth. The garden soon became a swamp, and all the magnificent treasures disappeared from inside. All that remained was the vast entrance hall, the solid, sweeping staircase, and the shattered upper gallery.
‘G’bye laddie!’ they called as they shot the bolt in the massive front door and left Hamish standing, a little unsteadily, at the foot of the staircase in the dark.
Groping, he found the banister and sat down on the first step. He was suddenly stone-cold sober. He shivered. On either side of the door were tall, domed windows, empty of glass, and an icy rain was driving in, making pools on the stone floor and bulleting against the walls. Outside, the wind howled and shrieked and threw itself against the old ruin, bent on flattening it, tumbling stone upon stone.
Behind Hamish the stairs creaked. He turned and saw, through the arrow slit on the landing, the palest of moons briefly shafting through the clouds. It caught the bare branches of a tree and threw dancing skeletons on the wall. Then it was pitch dark again. An owl hooted nearby, its drowsy call half-suffocated by the gale. And then suddenly the wind dropped. The rain stopped. The castle shuddered and sighed, and then the night became dead still. It was hideous.
From somewhere above the step on which Hamish sat came a frantic, scratching noise. Then a soft shuffling. Muffled sniffing. Something, someone, was coming down the stairs, and the black silence was broken by a terrible, terrifying scream. When Hamish tried to stand up, he realised that the scream was his, and he was surrounded by rats. Snuffling, scurrying, enormous rats. He was sober enough by now to feel ashamed.
‘Coward!’ he shouted out loud, kicking at the creatures. ‘What on earth would Betsie say?’
Slowly he climbed the steps and went to sleep on the smooth, flat landing.
Next morning was calm and sunny, birds were singing, a few had flown in and were drinking from the pools of water still on the floor. Hamish stood up, stretched, and slowly started down the grand old staircase. He had stayed the night, won the bet, and he held his head high. He could not know that his hair had turned snow white.
The key turned in the great brass lock, and Jock flung the door wide open. ‘Well now, lad! Looks as though you made it! A whole night alone in haunted old Locharney. But hang on a minute, fellow! Hang on! Not alone are we?’ Jock was looking past Hamish’s shoulder.
‘Who is the red-headed lass standing quietly behind ye?’
‘And that,’ Hamish said, ‘is the whole story, Bets. I’m so happy to be home again. Now show me the wee lad.’
Betsie took his hand, le
ading the way. ‘He’s got bright red hair,’ she smiled back at him.
Hamish had come away with one thousand pounds in bet money. He was able to refence and restock his farm, and bought a house, Number One, in Corriebush. Hendrik sold his farm and he and Gertie moved in to Number One, keeping an eye on the place, and paying Hamish a small rent. And when they passed on, Hamish and Betsie moved to town and retired to Number One, leaving an expanded and prospering Sweetwater to their three fine red-headed sons.
The women of Corriebush, a good bit older now, were jubilant.
‘We must eat our words,’ said Maria.
‘What a fine man after all,’ proclaimed Lily.
‘Just goes to show, life is full of surprises.’
They sat on Anna’s stoep, smiling rather smugly, while Maria carefully divided, into six slices, the Dundee cake Betsie had brought them for tea.
BETSIE’S RECIPES
When it came to cooking and baking, Betsie had a foot in two camps. Her skills and natural preference lay in the foods she had enjoyed since childhood – the roasted Karoo lamb, the sweet heavy puddings, and the tea-time bakes for which farmers’ wives were justly famous. Her marriage to Hamish presented a real challenge. Scottish food was absolutely foreign to her, but in a flush of eagerness to please her husband, she hunted down a book of international recipes in the Corriebush library, and set about experimenting with this new cuisine.
After a disastrous fiddle with a sheep’s paunch and pluck, Betsie begged off haggis, and Hamish stepped in to help. Scottish women, he told her, had a flair not only for baking (think cakes and scones and shortbread) but also for making the best of whatever ingredients were at hand – good stuff like prime beef, Highland honey, oatmeal in abundance, and chunky root vegetables for hearty soups.
Betsie learnt quickly, adapted where necessary, and was soon able to serve reasonably authentic, wholesome meals. The baking side was easy. This was familiar territory for her, and in no time she was able to lay on a traditional Scottish tea when the women came to call. But she really was happiest dipping into both cuisines, with broths and bredies, oatcakes and oblietjies mingling like old friends on her table.
Fig Jam and Foxtrot Page 2