Fig Jam and Foxtrot

by Lynn Bedford Hall

  60 ml (¼ cup) finely chopped walnuts

  icing sugar for dusting

  Sift the flour, cornflour and salt into a mixing bowl, adding any bran left in the sieve. Mix in the castor sugar, rub in the butter, then knead until the mixture binds and forms a smooth ball. Knead in the walnuts. Line the base of a shallow, 19 cm cake tin with baking paper, and press the mixture in evenly. Prick all over, and pretty up round the edge with the tines of a fork, then score lightly into 8 wedges. Bake at 160 °C for 10 minutes, then reduce the heat to 150 °C and bake for a further 50–55 minutes. Unlike shortbread using cake flour, brown flour shortbread will be beige to light brown in colour. Cut through the wedges, leave in the tin until cold, sift over a little icing sugar (this is simply to jolly up the rather dull colour) and remove. Store in an airtight container with a little sugar sprinkled on the bottom to keep the shortbread crisp. Makes 8 large wedges.

  FARMHOUSE FINGER RUSKS WITH BUTTERMILK AND OATS

  Early morning coffee with dunking rusks is so much a Karoo tradition. The old-fashioned method of kneading and balling is probably the most popular, but it is time-consuming. This version is good and wholesome and much quicker – the soft, sticky dough is simply turned into a loaf tin (for a loaf of rusks) or a rectangular tin (for a flattish slab). Once baked, they are cooled, turned out, and cut into fingers. And you can make them with only white flour, only bran-rich flour, half white and half bran-rich, or in any proportion you like, as long as the total is 500 g.

  500 g self-raising flour

  5 ml (1 tsp) salt

  5 ml (1 tsp) baking powder

  250 ml (1 cup) sugar

  500 ml (2 cups) porridge oats

  75 ml (5 Tbsp) currants (optional)

  125 g butter, melted

  2 large free-range eggs

  about 250 ml (1 cup) buttermilk

  90 ml (6 Tbsp) oil

  Sift the flour, salt and baking powder into a large bowl. If using bran-rich flour, add the bran left in the sieve. Mix in the sugar, oats and currants, if using, then mix in the melted butter. In a separate bowl, whisk the eggs, buttermilk and oil, then add to the flour mixture. Combine well; the dough should be squishy and soft. If using a lot of bran-rich flour, you will need a little extra buttermilk. Turn the dough into either a 26 x 9 x 7 cm loaf tin, oiled and then lined (base and sides) with baking paper, or a 20 x 26 cm baking tin, lined in the same way. In both cases, spread evenly, levelling the top with your dampened hand and a wet wooden spoon. Bake the rectangular batch at 180 °C for 45 minutes. The loaf tin, being deeper, will take about 1 hour. Cool before turning out. For perfect finger shapes, cut off the crusty sides before cutting across into thick slices and then into fingers. Arrange on baking sheets lined with several layers of baking paper (as the rusks tend to brown quickly) and dry out in a very low oven, about 100 °C, for several hours, turning once. Once dry, leave to cool in the oven before storing. Makes dozens, depending on how thick and short or long and thinly you slice the fingers.

  BETSIE’S BLITZ COFFEE CAKE

  Betsie would have started this in a bit of a panic when she first spied the ladies through the kitchen window driving up the dusty farm road. By the time they had unlatched the three farm gates, driven through, carefully closed them again (so that the sheep wouldn’t wander), and finally parked under the pepper tree in the yard, it would be in the oven. And by the time they had thoroughly inspected the rose garden, the new foal, the shearing shed and the nesting hens, it would be baked. And then by the time they had gathered round the dining-room table, gossiped a bit, and started wanting tea, it would be ready – filled with mocha butter icing, or whipped farm cream.

  3 XL free-range eggs, separated

  250 ml (1 cup) castor sugar

  125 ml (½ cup) sunflower or canola oil

  125 ml (½ cup) milk

  20 ml (4 tsp) instant coffee granules, dissolved in 45 ml (3 Tbsp) lukewarm water

  500 ml (2 cups) cake flour

  15 ml (1 Tbsp) baking powder

  a large pinch of sea salt

  a pinch of cream of tartar

  5 ml (1 tsp) vanilla essence

  sweetened whipped cream flavoured with coffee, or mocha butter icing using 750 ml (3 cups) icing sugar

  Using an electric whisk, whisk together the egg yolks, castor sugar, oil, milk and dissolved coffee granules. When the sugar has completely dissolved, sift the flour, baking powder and salt right in, and whisk at high speed for exactly 1 minute. Whisk the egg whites until stiff (either do this first, or use clean beaters). Add the cream of tartar and whisk again until stiff and voluminous. Using a metal spoon, fold the egg white mixture into the batter, along with the vanilla essence*. Pour into two 19 cm layer cake pans, lightly oiled and bases lined with baking paper; tilt pans gently to spread evenly. Bake on the middle shelf of the oven at 180 °C for 30 minutes until risen, pale brown and firm. Leave to stand for a few minutes, then turn out onto a rack to cool before sandwiching the layers with filling, and covering the top.

  * Fold in 50 g chopped pecans at this point – optional, but special.

  VIRGINIA

  ‘Virginia my dear, I think we’ve arrived,’ the Colonel said as they stepped out of their car and walked to the front gate of Number Four, a large, bow-fronted Victorian house with a FOR SALE sign nailed to the post-box. The gate creaked loudly as they pushed it open and Lily hurried over from the house opposite.

  ‘Yoo-hoo! I was just having tea on my stoep when I happened to see you.’ She put out her hand. ‘I’m Lily from over the way.’

  ‘Blake-Sampson,’ said the Colonel. ‘My wife, Virginia.’

  Lily pumped their hands. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you. Are you buyers? I do hope so. The place has been empty for ages. You’ll probably get it for a song. Come.’

  Without waiting for a reply, Lily ushered them along the pavement. ‘I’ll take you straight to Daleen. She’s the agent you know, and her office is right over there above the Corner Shop.’

  ‘Well, my dear,’ the Colonel remarked to Virginia later that day as they sat in the lounge of the Corriebush Boarding House, sipping gin and tonic, ‘that was a piece of cake, wasn’t it? Talk about a song! I’d call it a gift.’

  ‘Precisely what we wanted, William, and it just fell into our laps. I can’t wait to move in so that you can get started. When do you think the furniture will arrive?’

  ‘Should be here the day after tomorrow. Port Elizabeth isn’t far away after all.’

  ‘It’s coming in one of those big vans,’ Lily told Herman, her husband.

  ‘Been sitting there in storage ever since they arrived. Came with them on the ship from London. They’re English, you know.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ he asked

  ‘Because they told me, that’s how. I called on them this morning.’

  ‘So soon already?’

  Lily gave a pained sigh. ‘Ag, Herman. When a person’s sitting in a boarding house in a strange town, a friendly face is a welcome sight.’

  ‘Not sticking your nose into their business, are you?’

  Lily ignored him. ‘They’ll be moving in tomorrow, and I’ll be lending a a hand.’

  Herman sniffed. ‘And asking a lot of questions no doubt.’

  ‘Not a lot, just one thing really, because we’re neighbours after all. I’d like to know what they’re doing here. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s reasonable, but don’t ask it straight. Don’t say: “What are you doing here?” Let them rather tell you. It’s more polite that way.’

  Lily gave nothing away when she returned from her day of helping.

  ‘Sjoe! The dust!’ she exclaimed and went off to have a bath. Herman waited. Powdered and changed, she went to the kitchen to make the supper. He put his head round the door. She was peeling potatoes.

  ‘Lovely fresh ones,’ she remarked. ‘I think they’re Van der Planks.’

  Some time later, Lily tinkled the bell, Herman came in from the stoep, an
d they sat down to eat. Still she said nothing.

  ‘Dammit Lily. What are they doing here?’

  ‘Herman, you should have seen the furniture! Grand isn’t the word. Even a piano, never mind all the silver and pictures and stuff. And the books! Never seen so many books outside a library.’

  ‘So what are they doing here, Lily?’

  ‘They even brought a cat basket.’

  ‘LILY!’

  ‘Salt and pepper?’ she asked, and when Herman did not reply, she put down her knife and fork, dabbed her lips with a napkin, shooed the dog from under her feet and took several sips of water.

  ‘You are going to be very, very surprised.’

  Herman raised an eyebrow, but carried on eating. ‘Well, don’t you want to hear?’ she asked.

  ‘Ja, I’m waiting. Get on with it now, old woman.’

  ‘Just let me fill the kettle.’

  ‘Ag, come on Lily, enough is enough.’

  ‘Well then, as you know I’m never one to beat about the bush, so I’ll tell you straight. The Colonel is writing a book.’

  ‘He’s come to Corriebush to write a book?’

  ‘He’s come here to write a book.’

  ‘What’s wrong with England, then?’

  ‘Nothing wrong with England.’

  ‘Then why does he come to write a book in Corriebush with all his stuff?’

  Lily shrugged. ‘You said I mustn’t ask a lot of questions, so I didn’t,’ she replied smugly. ‘So that’s all I know. For the present.’

  William Rupert Blake-Sampson was just eighteen years old when the Anglo-Boer War broke out. His application to read English at Oxford had just been approved, but his father had been a Colonel in the army in India, and William and his older brother would never have missed a chance to fight for the glory of the Empire. They signed up right away, confident that the war would be over in a matter of months, maybe even weeks. A handful of Boer farmers would hardly be a match for the English army. William felt supremely confident and invulnerable, standing on the deck of the troopship as it left Southampton on a bleak December day in l899. Several thousand voices sang lustily as the ship slipped its moorings and headed into the Channel. ‘Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye…’

  Shortly after his arrival at the Cape, William was posted as a mounted infantryman – one of about 100 000 men under Lord Roberts’ command, who set out on a march from Bloemfontein to their target up north – Pretoria. William did not get far. Just six days later, in the veld beyond Smaldeel, his horse went lame. He dismounted, and discovered a gash on the horse’s right back leg, probably caused by shrapnel when they had come under fire the previous day. It was a shallow wound, but already it was infected, with green flies clustering around and burrowing into the flesh. The men closest to William had stopped when he did, but he’d waved them on, saying he would clean it up as quickly as he could and follow on slowly. He should never have stopped, and they should never have ridden on. In this war, in this country, the enemy fought from the hills, appeared from behind kopjes, sheltered in kloofs and valleys, and could ambush a whole regiment by hiding in a donga, or ditch. The terrain was totally unfamiliar to the British, but it was home to these Boer men of the veld and they used it to brilliant advantage.

  William spoke soothingly to his horse while he used his pocket knife to remove as much of the shrapnel as he could. It was when he was about to disinfect the wound that he began to feel giddy. It was the month of May, but the cruel summer heat had not yet given way to autumn’s cooler weather. The humidity was unbearable, the veld bleached to a lifeless, dust-choked desert. Sweat poured down his face, his neck, his back, down his legs in their baggy breeches and into his boots, and above him the sky began to spin in pale, dizzying circles. He felt his way to a rock, sank down and reached for his water bottle.

  The rifle was pushed in between his shoulder blades with such force that William’s head snapped backwards.

  ‘Stand up Tommy, and don’t turn round. Put up your hands and don’t move or I might just miss the fatal spot, and then you’ll die here slowly, lying in the dust like a helpless, grovelling worm.’

  For one insane moment William thought of ducking and turning and fighting the Boer with his fists, but his body was shaking uncontrollably. He could not even lift his arms. His tongue was thick and his voice was a strangled gasp. ‘Shoot,’ he heard himself saying. ‘Just shoot and get it done.’

  ‘Don’t be in such a hurry man,’ the voice behind him said. ‘Suffer first. Perhaps you were the one who burnt down my father’s house? Set fire to everything we owned, even our sheepdogs? Or were you one of those who stood and smiled as my mother and sisters were carted off in a wagon to the concentration camp? Tell me Tommy, was it you?

  Were you one of those bastards? Take your time, Tommy, take your time before you answer. I can wait, while I decide on the best punishment for a scavenging coward.’

  William stood, still trembling, vaguely aware of the red ants swarming around his boots in the livid, hot red dust. And then suddenly his fear turned to rage, and he heard himself shouting defiantly.

  ‘I saw four of my friends shot to pieces by you Boers!’ he shouted. ‘Shot and bleeding and left to die while you ran back to your hills to hide!’

  His anger made him reckless and he started to turn round, but the rifle bit deeper into his back.

  ‘Bloody fool,’ the man said. ‘Tell me how old are you Tommy? I’m standing right behind you and I see there’s still a bit of green behind your ears.’

  William remained silent.

  ‘Tommy, HOW OLD ARE YOU?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘Child. Poor, ridiculous child fighting a war you cannot win. Why don’t you go home to your mother? Eighteen years old and already a thief and a bastard. Poor, ridiculous child.’

  Suddenly the aching thrust of the rifle ceased. A hand gripped William’s shoulder and spun him round.

  Facing him was a young, powerfully built Boer, with thick black eyebrows and a dark beard, not yet fully grown. They stood there, the two soldiers, and looked at each other for an eternity, blue eyes staring straight into brown, both unwavering. And then the Boer put out his hand.

  ‘Gideon Loots,’ he said. ‘Now give me your water bottle, your rifle and your bandolier. Your boots too. Take your lame animal, it’s no good to me. But I’ll have that stupid helmet of yours, I’ll turn it over and use it to water my horse. Why don’t you wear a real man’s hat like we do? And now voetsek! Go! And run before I change my mind. If you go up that road you’ll find your foolish comrades somewhere near Welgelegen.’

  Lily repeated the whole story to Herman, exactly as she had heard it from Virginia.

  ‘And now the Colonel has come to find Gideon Loots. All his life he has remembered this man, and he wants to shake him by the hand and thank him. And now that he’s retired, he wants to write books about his military experiences, and especially the one about Gideon, and the war.’

  ‘But why must he write it in Corriebush?’

  ‘Because it’s small and quiet and far away from the battlefields, so he will be able to think fairly and clearly. That’s what Virginia says. Also, he thinks Gideon Loots might have come from these parts. He’s done some enquiring.’

  ‘But Lily, that war was a terrible thing. They were our enemies, remember, and now they want to come and live with us?’

  ‘Now you’re being really stupid, Herman. What’s past is past, I say. Every nation makes terrible mistakes. One doesn’t forget, but one has to forgive. Forgive, and you will be forgiven. It’s the way of the world, and if it isn’t it should be.’

  ‘You’re always right, old woman.’

  ‘Yes I am. And all of us are going to make them as happy as can be, especially Virginia. She’s rather quiet, a private sort if you know what I mean, and she could get a bit lonely with him being busy at his desk all day. The Colonel told me he thought if they brought some of their furniture she might settle down more eas
ily.’

  ‘Hmmph. Not much for the poor lady to do in Corriebush.’

  ‘Nonsense. We’ve already planned a welcome picnic by the river. You can’t come, it’s for women only, so we can really let our hair down.’

  Nellie and Maria, Sophia and Anna, Amelia and Lily all contributed to a giant picnic hamper. The day was soft and sunny and they had just settled onto the rugs and started on the chicken when Virginia drank half a bottle of wine.

  The group stared in astonishment, especially Sophia, who prided herself on never touching a drop.

  ‘Not since the day I fell out of the plum tree and my mother gave me brandy to steady my nerves and it made me so tight I took a knife and chopped off a fowl’s head.’

  Sophia told the story whenever there was liquor around, but this time she just sat and watched, horrified, as Virginia tossed back three glasses of wine in a few gulps. After which she started talking.

  ‘She totally ignored my chippolatas,’ Lily told Herman later, ‘but, poor woman, she had to get it all out, because underneath the silk blouses and shoes from Italy, she’s really a very shy and lonely person.’

  ‘So the wine loosened her tongue.’

  ‘Loosened her tongue, and helped her tell us everything. She sat there on the rug, drained the last drop in her glass, hugged her knees and off she went. Like this.’

  ‘It’s the Colonel,’ Virginia began.

  The women started to fidget with embarrassment, afraid of what they might be going to hear.

  ‘No no, it’s not what you think,’ Virginia went on hurriedly. ‘I adore my William. He’s the kindest, most loving gentleman on earth. The trouble is, he fell in love with a Red Cross nurse, coming home on a ship. You know how things are on a ship.’

  They nodded.

  ‘We know how it is on a ship.’

  ‘And especially after a war, when people have been fighting and frightened and desperately missing their families, they tend to fall in love very quickly. But William says he found out she was engaged to a man in St Ives, and so he quickly ended the relationship.’

  ‘Then he married you?’