Rotten Peaches

by Lisa de Nikolits

  With nightfall only an hour away, I close up the house and I lock myself in Pa’s room. I have my supplies and my gun and I lie down on Pa’s bed. I had moved the bed back into the centre of the room and I made it up with fresh linens and a pretty yellow duvet from one of the spare rooms. I bought a big bunch of yellow, orange, and pink daisies and arranged them in a crystal vase in an effort to brighten up the brown masculinity of the room. I even bought half a dozen votive candles which I remind myself are a safety hazard, best I don’t burn the place down, with me locked inside it.

  My headache has backed off but my leg is burning. I crack open a bottle of painkillers that I picked up at the chemist and I wash down a couple of pills with the red wine I bought at the bottle store. I still don’t feel like eating anything but I half-heartedly chew on some soda crackers.

  My phone lights up with more texts from Dirk but I can’t be bothered to read them.

  I look around. I’ve transformed the room; it’s brightly-coloured, pretty and girly. But I killed three men in this room. I can still see their faces, Isaac’s in particular. Such hatred he had for me. I remind myself that the barred room will keep me safe. But still, despite the wine and the painkillers and the fresh new locks, I cannot sleep. I doze fitfully, wondering what I am going to do with myself. Perhaps this was a thoroughly stupid idea and I’ll have to go back to Joburg with my tail between my legs.

  39.

  THE NEXT MORNING I WAKE EARLY and I decide to explore the house before I just turn tail and run.

  I open the door to my mother’s bedroom. I take a cautious seat at her dressing table, and stare at myself in the mirror. I pick up her lovely silver-backed brush and run it through my hair, which immediately looks as if I’ve driven through a static wind-tunnel. I sigh and put the brush down.

  My mother’s bedroom is a world away from real life. I now understand why she spent so much time closeted away. The room is serene and sunny. Her sewing machine stands quietly in the corner of the room but I can still hear the whirring sound of her hard at work.

  I wish I could understand my mother’s constant desire for parties; why emerge from this sunlit glade into busy rooms filled with silly chatter and foolish laughter? Because clearly the socializing had not agreed with her, no sooner had she emerged, than she had to scuttle back, felled by a headache.

  I open and close the drawers of the dressing table, half-expecting my mother to march in and slap my hand and shoo me out of the room for touching things I had no right to. I notice that the bottom drawer is not properly closed and I give it a gentle nudge but something is blocking it at the back. I pull the drawer out and get down on my hands and knees. I reach my hand inside. Yes, something’s definitely in there, papers, tied with a ribbon. I don’t want to rip or tear anything and it takes some time to negotiate the package out of its narrow confinement. It’s a bundle of notes and letters, tied neatly with a faded pink satin ribbon.

  I look at the package for a while, thinking that perhaps the letters are from a member of my mother’s family. But no, my mother has no other family. She grew up an orphan in a foster home, she has no relatives to speak of and these letters look too adult. I harbour the fleeting thought that perhaps the letters are from my biological father, addressed to me, and my mother hoarded them, not wanting me to see them.

  I take the package to the kitchen, untie the ribbon and pick up the first letter. The writing is a feminine script, laced with decorative curves and swirls and long descenders. The envelopes are formally addressed, with the return address from a farm just down the way. Which doesn’t make any sense. Why would a farmer’s wife write to my mother when she lived a mere half an hour’s drive away?

  Marika Lamerdin. Who was she? I put the letter back on the table with the others and turn on the kettle. I need to prepare myself for whatever the letters hold. They must have been important for my mother to take such care to keep and hide them, and I’m a little fearful of what I’ll discover.

  The kettle boils noisily and I only realize that a car has pulled up in my driveway when I hear the slamming doors. I rush to the front window. It is the police.

  I grab my little revolver off the sideboard in the hallway and shove it into a drawer. Then I go outside.

  Two men walk towards me. One man is the same sergeant I spoke to the previous day, Lester du Toit, and he is with a partner, a man he introduces as Don Bethell.

  “Goeie moere Mevrou, good morning madam,” du Toit says. “Asseblief, please can we come in?”

  “Of course yes, I just put the kettle on, would you like some coffee?”

  I lead them through to the kitchen, taking care not to limp, and I make the coffee, and arrange Marie biscuits on a plate.

  “I’ve only got Ricoffy,” I say. “I hope that’s okay. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “You arrived the night before last,” he says and he looks at his notepad.

  “I did, ja.”

  “What time was that? And did you see Isaac when you arrived?”

  “Um, I came around four o clock and no, he wasn’t here. No one was here.”

  “You stayed the night all by yourself?” Bethell interjects. “Pretty stupid, né?”

  “I can look after myself. I was a bit worried when I saw that the door to the safe room was broken, but nothing happened and yesterday I got the locksmith in and he fixed it.”

  “Did you know that Isaac was implicated in a farm attack a couple of weeks ago?” du Toit asks the question and I am shocked.

  “No! What do you mean? Isaac would never do anything like that.”

  “He did. At least he allegedly did. The farmer’s wife swears she recognized him plus the farmer shot one of the men in the shin and Isaac was seen limping afterwards.”

  “Hardly hard evidence,” I say. “Isaac wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

  “And yet now, one night after you arrive, Isaac is missing. And not only him but Elsie’s brother and her nephew.” This from Bethell who manages to sound accusing.

  “Oh?” I reply. I shrug. “Maybe they went to look for work?” I suggest. “In Magaliesberg?”

  “All three of them? At night? I don’t think so, no.” Bethell takes another Marie biscuit and dunks it in his coffee. “And why would Isaac look for work if he already had a job with you?”

  “Maybe he wanted more from life, how should I know? I never saw him when I got here. Maybe he’s been gone from here for a while. I’ve got no idea.”

  “Elsie says he was here when you got home. She says he left after you arrived.”

  “And did she say he told her he was coming back here?”

  “No.” Du Toit shifts in his seat. “She just said he went out with the other two.”

  “He didn’t come back here. What do you think happened?” I ask, my heart beating fast.

  “That he met with foul play. That they all did.”

  I laugh. “Foul play! What an old-fashioned thing to say!”

  The men exchange a glance. “Can we see your guns?” Du Toit asks apologetically. “We have to ask.”

  “Of course.” I lead them to my father’s study, unlock the glass cabinet, and I take out the rifle. “It hasn’t been fired. Check it.”

  I hand the rifle to du Toit who examines it. “Nice piece.” he says.

  “It was my father’s. He taught me how to shoot. I also have a revolver. I’ll go and get it.”

  I retrieve the revolver from the drawer and hand it to the constable.

  “You’ve got a lot of guns for a woman,” Bethell observes and I don’t bother to reply. I show them my gun permits then I lock them back in my father’s desk drawer.

  “If that’s all in order, is there anything else I can help you with?” I ask and I make a show of locking the rifle back into the cabinet.

  “Can we look around the house?” Bethell asks and I stiffen.


  “Why?”

  “Just to check the lay of the land, so to speak.” He takes a toothpick out of his pocket and starts to dig deep.

  “Follow me,” I say with ice in my voice and I lead them from room to room.

  “A groot big place for a single little vrou like you,” Bethell says and I turn to him.

  “I’ve had just about enough from you. We’re done here.”

  “Ja, we won’t trouble you any further.” Du Toit is uncomfortable. “But Bethell is right, maybe it’s not safe here for you, maybe you should to go back to Joeys.”

  “At least get a dog,” Bethell chimes in. “Get a boerboel. Tear those kaffirs apart, ja.”

  “How can you even speak like that? You disgust me. I respect all humankind. Get out of my house.” I herd them down the hallway, the irony of my words causing my ears to ring with the gruesome heavy sounds the bodies made as they tumbled down the mountainside, a sound I will never forget.

  “Ja jong, you must not have seen the things I have,” Bethell retorts but I ignore him and march them out the front door.

  “Wait one moment,” I call out as the men turn to leave. “Do you know Marika Lamerdin? She lives in the farm across the way, I believe?”

  “She’s been dead for years,” du Toit replies. “Why do you ask about her?”

  “I found a letter she wrote to my mother. I’d like to have talked to her. I have so few links to my childhood, it seems like everything has changed or gone.”

  “She killed herself,” Bethell says bluntly. “Hung herself.”

  “Hanged,” du Toit corrects him.

  “Ja. With her husband’s ties. Franz Lamerdin. The police thought maybe it was him who killed her and made it look like suicide but no, she offed herself. The evidence proved it. Plus Franz said if he was going to kill her, he wouldn’t have used his favourite church ties to do it.”

  “When did she die?”

  Du Toit scratches his head. “About sixteen, seventeen years ago, give or take?”

  Shortly after my mother passed away.

  “We’ll be on our way then,” he says and I can see he wants say something else but he turns away.

  “Maybe you need some friends,” Bethell offers. “You must get lonely here, hey? Maybe I’ll come back later and see if you are okay.”

  “No. Don’t come back.” I am sharp. “I don’t want you here, do you hear me? I want nothing to do with you.”

  “I’ll remember that when some kaffir comes to rape and kill you and you need my help. Oh wait, maybe that already happened, né, and you took care of everything.” He walks back up to me and I can smell his breath, a hot foul wind on my face and I try not to breathe. “Little girl thinks she can take the law into her own hands? I think Isaac came back here, with Elsie’s brother and her nephew. I’m not saying they were up to any good, but still. Elsie said everybody knows you’ve got a bad temper. And Elsie also said your father taught you all about guns and how to hunt. And then suddenly, the men disappear off the face of the earth. Strange coincidence, né? Something smells very fishy here.”

  “How come you believe Elsie over me? Given your racial tendencies, I would have thought you would give me credence over her.” My thigh throbs as if objecting to the whole situation and I want to touch the wound, comfort it, but I fold my arms across my chest and glare at Bethell.

  “I don’t like it when farmers take matters into their own hands. I’m the law here, not you. I’m not finished with you, missy.”

  “But I’m finished with you,” I say. My whole body is shaking and my coffee rises in my throat but I choke it down. I turn to du Toit. “Give me the name of your superior officer. I’m going to phone him and complain about abuse and harassment.”

  “Ag now, that’s not necessary,” du Toit says placatingly. “Come now Bethell, let’s leave, man. No need for rudeness from anyone. These are not easy times, for any of us. We are here if you need us,” he says to me.

  “I want your private number,” I tell du Toit. “Your cell. In case your friend here comes back, in which case I will call you. But you should strongly encourage him not to return.”

  Du Toit hesitates for a moment but then he pulls out a pen and writes his number on the back of a police business card. I nod my thanks and take the card.

  I stand on the verandah and watch them drive off in a cloud of dust. My heart is a beating fist against the wall of my ribcage. I sink down on the polished red steps and hug my arms around my chest. My clothes are damp with sweat and there’s a ringing in my ears.

  I try to focus on the dust devils dancing across the dry land and I tell myself I’m fine. They’ll never find the bodies. Pa had said so and Pa was never wrong.

  It’s only midday but I mix a stiff gin and tonic and return to my easy chair on the verandah, sipping and thinking. My phone buzzes while I’m in the kitchen mixing the drink. It’s Dirk, and once again, I ignore him.

  I sit with my feet propped up on the railing. Secret lives. Lives with secrets. Fewer are those who travel through life without secrets than those who do not.

  I’m afraid to read what Marika wrote. I’m afraid to find out who my mother was. The answers to my questions lie in those letters but I can’t bring myself to read them. Not here, anyway.

  I finish my gin and tonic and go inside. I need some peace and quiet and I know just where to find it.

  40.

  I PACK AN OVERNIGHT BAG. I lock the house and put a new padlock on the gate. I drive to Sun City, a luxurious resort like a mini Las Vegas in the middle of the scrub and veldt. Within an hour and a half, I’m in a room overlooking the golf course, with the enormous swimming pool off to the side.

  I’ve come to this hotel because I could not read the letters in my father’s house. Now I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to pluck up my courage. But still, I cannot not read them.

  I have a long bath, then I order a steak sandwich with monkey gland sauce and a bottle of wine from room service. Then I force myself to begin.

  The letters are not in any particular order and I organize them by date. This takes me much longer than I planned and it’s close to midnight by the time I’m done. I tell myself that I’m not procrastinating, I’m justifiably tired, and I decide I’ll read them in the morning.

  But when I wake in the blue-black hour of predawn, I can put it off no longer.

  Hands shaking, I begin to read. I’m grateful for Marika’s precise penmanship, although the ink has faded and it is hard to make out a few of the words.

  The first letter is brief. It is an apology.

  Dear Ariana, I am so sorry, please, forgive me. I never meant to be so forward. I meant what I said, I do love you. I am in love with you. But please forgive me for approaching you with too much honesty. It will never happen again.

  The letter is dated: 1st February, 1985. I was three years old at the time. My mother was twenty-two and she would have been married to my father for little more than two years.

  The next letter is happier.

  Ariana, Liefling, you gladden my heart! Thank you for not being angry with me, I can’t tell you. You mean the world to me! See you at the next party, I cannot wait.

  I read the letters slowly. Some are no more than party thank you notes bearing loving words filled with longing for the next meeting. I wonder how the women managed to slip away and be together and how no one else noticed what was going on. Or perhaps they did, but they didn’t comment or care. At least those ridiculous parties made sense now. This also explained my mother’s headaches. She must have been anxious about being discovered, while excited at the same time. Because she clearly reciprocated Marika’s feelings.

  The next letter tells me all I need to know.

  My Liefie Ariana, how I long to see you again. Your loveliness is the medicine my life craves. You are the only one who gives m
y life meaning with your grace and your beauty. I watch with wonder as you fill the room with your laughter and I live for the moments when I see you. Even when we are with others, just to be in the same room as you fills me with joy.

  Franz is such a boor, not that that surprises me, or you! I told him I have terrible women’s problems down there and cannot have him in my bed any longer, because no one belongs in my bed but you. He told me I am doing him a favour.

  I wish I could tell him, like you told Ruan. That was very brave of you. Ruan is a good man. I wish Franz was a good man like him. But I am only a plain farmer’s wife who must earn her keep, while you are so beautiful and Ruan loves you as much I do. He would do anything for you. You do know that, don’t you? That I would do anything for you.

  I wish we could run away but I know we would not survive. Running away together is a pipe dream. Sometimes, when I am milking the cows, or feeding the pigs, I let myself dream. I dream we are far away and have a place of our own and I have you all to myself, all day and all night.

  Please, let us make a plan to meet soon. You and me, alone. Perhaps I can pick you up and take you into town to get more fabric. I miss you so much.

  My father had known all along.

  Ag Pa. Not only was I not yours by birth, but then Ma betrayed you and yet you still looked after us. You gave me such a good life. Imagine me and Ma and Marika living together. Although that said, Marika never mentioned me in her daydreams, it was only her and my mother. I guess I would have been left behind.

  I force myself to carry on reading. It is harder near the end when I read about my mother’s illness and how frightened she was. I feel bad. I should have been home. I should have been with my mother at the end. But she had Marika and my father, and she didn’t die alone. And besides, she never mentioned me anyway. That stings but it shouldn’t be news to me.