Twenty Chickens for a Saddle

by Robyn Scott

  Lots of love,

  Mum

  Dearest Robbie,

  The Lotsane has come down at last – later than needed for the poor old trees, but at least Oom Piet can feel smug. Anyway, it’s been flowing strongly for several days now and both dam walls are still totally submerged (but showing, as far as we can tell, no signs of collapse). We can hear the thundering river all the way from the house, and have been drifting to sleep to the wonderful sound of falling, rushing water over the dam wall.

  The horses are all in fine fettle. My latest strategy for Winnie is to give him presoaked whole mealie kernels, and I’m convinced he’s looking not quite so terribly thin as he was. You’ll laugh at me, but I’m still sure there’s a natural solution to counter his intestinal damage. I let him graze on our lawn, but he always ends up hanging around the kitchen door waiting for some more of my bread – success at last, even if it’s a horse that cannot get enough of it. He even prefers it to Coke, so I regard that as a real triumph.

  Living on the Fringe is going well and I am absorbed as ever (though, note, still writing to you!). I’m planning to send the ms to some South African publishers, when I get around to finishing it. The trouble, as usual, is that I am so distracted by other ideas for books – my current favourite being one on the placebo effect, which I’ve been reading up on. The power of the mind is truly amazing and we should be focusing on safe ways to harness it in medicine.

  Talking of that, gosh, I almost forgot. Jean K’s op went amazingly. I put her ‘half’ under before we went, and as soon as she saw Bernard’s chair she jumped into it and squirmed with pleasure. And then it was so easy to put her under fully. Bernard ‘was remarkably sanguine about the whole bizarre episode – me stroking her hand and telling her she was floating on clouds, walking in forests etc., while he sawed away at her jaw bone. He even admitted he had to stop himself from floating away too at one stage. Jean sends you a big thank-you hug.

  The sun is setting and the dogs are getting impatient, so we must head off for a walk.

  LOL,

  Mumsie.

  P.S. Dad and Lulu send their love. Lulu misses you and Damien terribly, as do I, but we are bearing up.

  P.P.S. More stationery on its way with Lyn, who’s visiting Mel next week.

  Dearest R,

  Hope your stationery arrived safely.

  Big news here is that we saw a leopard down at the Limpopo. The dogs of course chased, but it thankfully quickly disappeared. Then had another tense few moments when Keller jumped in the water pursuing a rabbit-sized cane rat in the reeds. She paddled around for ages, oblivious to our shouts, but emerged intact, with no visible sign of a croc gliding behind her like that last horrific time they all jumped in. I still shudder to think of it. Anyway, you can imagine what a frenzy Lulu was in.

  Just a few days later we found two dead kudu locked in battle – their horns were still interlinked, and it broke our hearts to look at them. One had a broken leg, and they must have died a slow lingering death because they couldn’t separate. Gosh, nature can be cruel. But on a positive note, the grass is looking amazing in Dad’s cleared stretches of bush. According to the grass book, the new varieties coming up are a sign of rapidly recovering grassland. Dad is so chuffed. Rivers still both flowing strongly, and we are having the most exquisite paddles in heavenly waters.

  Oh, had to laugh, Robbie. Jean v R came around for dinner and said he hasn’t been feeling very well. He’s convinced it’s the oranges he’s been eating. Said he has one a day. Can you believe it? The man lives on a diet of red meat and beer, and when he feels bad he assumes it’s the oranges. This place! I gave him a piece of my mind, as you can imagine.

  Anyway, on the subject of Jean, he’s also been looking quite chuffed recently. Some of his mates decided he’d been a bachelor for too long and put an ad – without his knowledge – in Landbouweekblad (the Afrikaans version of Farmers Weekly). This particular ad section (the equivalent of the Farmer’s Weekly ‘Hitching Post’) is called ‘Opsitkers’. This means ‘courting candle’ and refers to the old Afrikaner tradition of courting, where a candle was lit at the start of the visit, and when it had burnt down, the suitor had to leave. Anyway, we didn’t see the ad but apparently they said things like fun-loving 30-year-old farmer in the Tuli Block desperate for a wife…comes with thousands of hectares, many head of cattle, oodles of game etc. Jean was initially furious, but couldn’t help grinning as he described how he’d been inundated with scented, lipstick-covered envelopes. I do hope he finds someone, he’s such a lovely chap. Suspect, however, the female readership of Landbouwweekblad may not be Jean’s cup of tea.

  Another bit of news is that Damien is moving to St. George’s Grammar in Cape Town, which has a great liberal tradition and a small friendly boarding house. His adopted parents have moved to the UAE, and he also wants to be closer to the action in a big cool city. You know Didge. It’s also much closer to Gran and Gramps and Karen, and so, if Damien ever does decide to play football, he will have some family to cheer him on. Will let you know how he settles in.

  I know you’re busy, but please do write soon. I am still working on Dad to write. He claims he’s set such a great precedent for himself with his last letter that he needs more time to concoct a work of similar genius. Lulu is painting you a card as I write.

  Lots of love,

  Mumsie

  Dearest Robbie,

  I know you’re coming home soon, but I thought you might like a few Tuli Block capers to distract you in the midst of your exams.

  Visitor-wise, it’s been pretty quiet here. But last weekend the Balls came down from Phikwe for Lu’s birthday and we were treated to the truly classic spectacle of Rawdon, Sally, and little James – all squashed on Rawdon’s ancient motorbike – roaring up the driveway. After 190 kms they were unsurprisingly exhausted and bathed in dust, but cheerful as ever. Luckily Dad had already collected Nicky on the way back from his clinic, or I expect they would have found a way to cram her on too. Always nice to be reminded there’s one family in Botswana odder than us!

  RE that subject, word has it our nickname in the Tuli Block is jnaaktie merute, which means ‘strange people’. I’m quite flattered, actually. God forbid if we weren’t considered strange amongst this lot. Except for Jean, of course, whom we do like so much. He actually calls the Northern Transvaal Afrikaners snaakse mense, as they are so different from the Free State Afrikaners he was brought up with. He says he used to laugh when he visited the Tuli Block as a boy and saw that all the men had combs sticking out above their socks!

  Anyway, we had a lovely time with the Balls, plus a little unplanned excitement during an evening paddle on the Limpopo. Sally, Rawdon, and I took the Indian canoe, plus the two jackies, and Dad paddled the little single. The kids stayed behind to decorate the gazebo for the party. All went well until a huge legavaan plunged off a branch overhanging the water. Then Watson yelped and dived off the boat. Sally and I both leaned over simultaneously to rescue him and the boat capsized right in the middle of the river. It was terrifying, and made even worse by the fact that I could barely swim due to hysterical laughter. I suspect all the noise kept the crocs at bay.

  Today we had great animal excitement of a rather different sort. Ben has not been looking good for several weeks, trailing in after all the other horses and then standing in his pen ignoring his food and looking forlorn. We had no idea why until today when Dad saw him weeing – or not weeing. He was actually just dribbling very thick pus-filled yellow urine. Then Dad felt his penis and realised the problem. Several kidney stones had lodged in his urethra. Dad got his scalpel at once and sliced open the constricted tip of poor Ben’s penis, while Lulu and I stroked his neck. Dad fished out three substantial stones, and then the most amazing thing happened. Enormous old Ben let out this tremendous groan, and began to widdle. He kept going and going – weeing and groaning in ecstasy for about five minutes (and that’s not my normal hyperbole). His eyes reminded me of Lulu’s when
you hypnotise her. Anyway, it was one of the most satisfying things I’ve seen in a long time. I wanted to groan too from vicarious relief. I knew how he felt of course – I had to have a catheter inserted after my second operation and could have kissed the nurse who released me from my agony.

  Don’t work too hard.

  Dad and Lu send their love,

  Lots of love,

  Mum.

  P.S. Dad may be an appalling letter writer but he still thinks of you. Knowing you’d hate missing the penis op, he put the kidney stones in a jar, especially for you to inspect later. They are in the fridge as I write (labelled just in case Ruth tries to get creative with the vegetable pie) awaiting your imminent return.

  P.P.S. Damien delighted as some photographers chose him for a photo shoot. They needed a model for an illustration of how not to look as a student. With his long unkempt hair, which St. George’s has been remarkably tolerant about, and scruffy look, he was immediately selected. The funniest part is that it has appeared in an Afrikaans school textbook – cousin Daniel discovered it and is brimming with pride. What a hoot, although Granny was outraged. Anyway, you can form your own opinion when you and everyone else converge on the farm next week. There’ll be fourteen of us staying in the house. What fun.

  Four of the fourteen were my school friends Sheena Stirling, Michelle Brice, Tiffany McGaw, and her sister, Rachel. “Don’t worry about us,” Tiffany told her parents as the four set off from Bulawayo. “It’s good tar road almost all the way. Anyway, Rob’s Dad’s a doctor, so if anything happens on the farm we’ll be fine.”

  I was already back at home. Mum had picked me up in Bulawayo several days earlier, and we’d joined, at the farm, Dad, Damien, and Lulu, as well as Mum’s sister Alison and our two young cousins Kim and James. They were visiting from New Zealand, where Alison had moved just after we left. Five-year-old James was desperately excited to be in Africa: place of endless adventures, where anything can happen.

  The phone rang late in the afternoon, just when the Bulawayo party was expected to arrive. It was Tiffany, calling from Sherwood, where the four girls had been given a lift after crashing their car on the dirt road, just twenty kilometres from the farm. Tiffany, who was driving, had lost control, skidded, swerved, and then swerved even more when Rachel grabbed the wheel, trying to help. The little car had flown right over the fence, smashing into a tree on the other side. Tiffany and Rachel were fine; Sheena had a big gash on her arm, Michelle on her face.

  They were sitting at Sherwood, covered in blood, still bleeding, and waiting for help.

  “Shit,” said Mum, dropping the phone. “Shit. Shit. Shit. I can’t believe it. Of all bloody days.” For that day only, Dad was away in Johannesburg, collecting medicines and staying with his old friend Colin Miles, a pilot who’d trained with Grandpa Ivor. He’d be driving back the following morning with Colin’s daughter Dominique and her boyfriend, who were joining the chaotic party. Mum phoned Dad, who said, “You’ll probably have to take them to the hospital. But before you go, try Jean. Hasn’t Sonja just arrived to stay with him? Maybe she can go with you.”

  Sonja van Riet was a softly spoken, five-foot-two heart surgeon. She offered at once to accompany the rescue party to Sherwood, and we collected her at Jean’s farm.

  Sheena and Michelle both urgently needed stitches. Michelle’s gash stretched hideously across her face; her hair was matted with blood. Sonja said, “Michelle should really see a plastic surgeon.”

  Michelle said, “My parents are going to kill me.”

  “After they’ve killed me,” said Tiffany.

  Mum said cheerfully, “Rubbish. They’ll be celebrating that you’re safe. Now, where do you suggest we take them, Sonja? Gaborone? Jo’burg?”

  Sonja said, quietly, “Well, just to make absolutely sure, you should take Michelle to Phikwe tomorrow for an X-ray. But I can stitch them both up. If they don’t mind that I’m a bit out of practice.” Then she explained that, in addition to her main work as a heart surgeon, she’d also done some plastic surgery.

  Mum said, “What about your equipment?”

  But Sonja had brought her extra-fine sutures with her on her visit to the Tuli Block.

  So everyone drove back to the farm, where Sonja spent more than three hours stitching up Sheena and Michelle, watched by everyone, including a wide-eyed James, who was still awake when Sonja finally finished at ten o’clock that night. Michelle had seventeen stitches, which would later leave her with only the faintest of scars.

  “Done,” said Sonja. “I hope that’s okay.”

  Mum said, “Give me a sec, and I’ll drive you back home.”

  “No, Linda,” said Sonja. “Please don’t worry, I’ll walk. If you don’t mind lending me a flashlight.”

  We all stared at her in amazement; the walk to Jean’s was five kilometres, through the bush. “For goodness sake, Sonja,” said Mum, laughing and hugging her. “You deserve a ride in a limo. I’m just sorry I can only offer a bakkie.”

  Sonja said, “Well, you’ve had a busy day. I really don’t want to trouble you.”

  Late the next day, when Dad arrived back from Jo’burg, he and Damien towed the battered car back to Sherwood. Everyone else was by then installed by the pool, sipping stiff drinks, which Mum was still prescribing for aftershock, along with the usual Rescue Remedy. She had quickly squashed a plan for one of the Bulawayo parents to drive down and collect the girls early. “Nonsense…now the girls need a good holiday more than ever – they must stay. And there’s nothing like a big fright to make life seem even better…We’re going to have a fantastic time.”

  And we did.

  Dearest Robbie and Lulu,

  I can’t believe the holidays went so quickly. Even harder to believe, Lu, is that you are at school now too – that all my birds have finally flown the nest. The house feels so strange, like it has lost its heart. But enough of that, as I know you’re both dying for larm updates, and the last lew weeks have been quite newsworthy – for the Tuli Block.

  Dad’s had a recent run of interesting medical/veterinary dramas. First, a farmer brought around one of his labourers who’d had his penis and testicles basically bitten off by a rather savage boerboel Aog. Dad, unfortunately, could do nothing for the poor chap and sent him straight off to hospital.

  Then the other day, Roy and Charlotte Young came over with their son, Adam (can’t remember if you’ve ever met him?), who was dripping blood from a big gash on his forehead. He had dived into the Limpopo (for fun!?) and split his head on a rock before any croc could get near him. Dad had a quick look and said, “Now let’s all have a cup of tea first.” So we had a leisurely cuppa in the gazebo, Adam dabbing his bleeding wound all the while. Then Dad stitched him up.

  He is amazingly impressive in emergencies, old Dad. Remember how he did the same thing when Damien split his head open on the side of the pool – made us all have tea first to calm down. Shame, he’s really quite low about his clinics these days, the same old story.

  Lots of love,

  Mumsie.

  P.S. Please do both write when you have some time. As you know, I’m always agog to hear your stories. Robbie, Dad and I chuckled for ages over your last letter. Has your petition come to anything? Gosh, I sometimes pity your teachers. Damien’s, too, come to think of it. One of his teachers is also, according to Damien, a real problem and has been setting them tests on subjects she hasn’t properly covered. When dialogue did nothing, Damien rallied the whole class to boycott the next test. But come the test, after expressing great enthusiasm, everyone else chickened out at the last moment. Not old Didge, though. He sat through the entire test, arms crossed, and didn’t write a word. Got zero, of course. So proud of him. The teacher told him that while she respected his stand, she ‘wasn’t going to change his mark.

  By the way, he’s finally established his computer business with a Chinese classmate – registered as Tseng Scott Technologies – after we lent him R10K. He says it’s going well (and t
o tellyou as much). He’s already got several orders, one from a teacher.

  P.P.S. Talking of science, I feel a bit like an impatient scientist with the results of a fifteen-year experiment at last coming in – the complete results, now that Lulu’s with you.

  Dearest Mum and Dad,

  So sorry it has taken me ages to reply, but between school, business, and riding, I’m pretty frantic. Anyway, here goes making up for my slack correspondence.

  Firstly, Mum, to answer your question re the petition. In the end I collected more than twenty signatures, which I handed to Sister Angela. I decided that having a whole class of O-level results in severe jeopardy warranted going straight to the headmistress. She was a bit surprised, but really quite nice about it. Although she did look a little affronted when I said my specific request, on behalf of all the girls who’d signed, was to have Mrs. Beale transferred to another class. She said she’d get back to me, and she did thank me for bringing it to her attention.

  We didn’t get the transfer, unfortunately. But she did get a talking-to, and the lessons have been much better since then. We’re paying customers, after all, can’t understand why we shouldn’t demand good service. Did Damien’s lone boycott produce any results? Please tell him my stationery business is going excellently too.

  On the subject of boycotts, I had another run-in with a teacher – Mrs. Taylor, this time – about asking too many questions. Got blatantly ignored in one lesson, so I didn’t say a word for a whole week. It was really funny, as there were suddenly long awkward silences when Mrs. Taylor asked if anyone had any questions. Eventually she basically asked me to start talking again. I agreed but took the opportunity to make a point. I explained that asking questions was the only way I kept interested, and if I wasn’t interested, I’d only be wasting her time as well as my own and might as well not be there. She just nodded. I later heard from another teacher that the comment got passed around the staff room. So hopefully all the other teachers will take note.