Keepers of the House

by JH Fletcher

  ‘I thought you didn’t want anything to do with South Africa.’

  ‘You told me what that black bloke had to say, the meeting you went to. He was right; things are changing over there. Soon they’ll be crying out for investment. My bet is prices will sky-rocket, and sooner rather than later. Now’s the time to get in, before the rush.’ He drained the last ruby drops of port from his glass. ‘We’re looking at one or two mining prospects. I may go over there. If I do, it might be a chance to meet this cousin of yours.’

  ‘You want me to write and tell him?’

  ‘Let’s rather take him by surprise.’

  Mostyn’s suggestion troubled her. She knew his ways too well; buy cheap, sell on as soon as he could see a profit. It was not what she wanted for Oudekraal. ‘I don’t want you playing ducks and drakes with it. It’s my heritage, too, don’t forget.’

  He was unmoved. ‘You said yourself there’s no chance he’ll leave it to you. In any case, you’ve not seen the place for years.’

  ‘It was my great-grandmother’s home —’

  ‘She never went back, though, did she? Not once, in over sixty years. I know she used to rabbit on to you about it but, honestly, Anna, what could it have meant to her, after all that time? What can it mean to you?’

  ‘It means a lot.’ In saying it, found it was true. ‘Perhaps I should come with you. We could explore it together —’

  The idea attracted her enormously. She had hoped to honeymoon there; now, perhaps, it could become the place for a renewal of their married life. Which needed it so badly.

  Mostyn smiled easily. ‘The last thing I’ll need. Me trying to tie up a deal with your cousin and you coming all sentimental on me.’

  Anna sighed. ‘Come and walk round the garden with me, instead, then.’

  Perhaps, she thought, if we walk together, talk of other things, we may be able to restore the romantic feeling that Mostyn’s talk has dispelled so effectively.

  They strolled side by side but it was no good; the atmosphere was gone. Anna told herself not to be stupid. Mostyn had said nothing that was not perfectly reasonable; why should Pieter care what happened after his death? From his point of view, the proposal would have one big advantage, too; it would mean that Oudekraal would stay in what remained of his family. That should appeal to him. It made sense from her point of view, as well. Oudekraal would be reclaimed, as Anneliese had always wanted.

  Yet, no matter how she tried to persuade herself, doubt persisted. If Mostyn bought Oudekraal, it would be neither for Pieter Wolmarans’s benefit nor her own. It would be a straightforward business deal, entered into with an eye to profit. What Mostyn bought he could sell and, if he was right about the trend of prices in South Africa, that was precisely what he would do. If that happened, Oudekraal would be lost far more irretrievably than if Pieter had done what she suspected he intended, and left it to his neighbour and long-time friend.

  A wind came from across the water; Anna shivered in her thin dress.

  ‘Let’s go in.’

  And did so, but in a different frame of mind entirely from what she had hoped, all her thoughts of romance blown away by Mostyn’s plans, as chill and unwelcoming as the wind that even now was strengthening from the sea.

  Mostyn had finished his business in Johannesburg. Delighted with the deal, he spent a fun evening — success the biggest aphrodisiac he knew — and next morning flew on to Cape Town. He asked for directions when he picked up his hire car at DF Malan Airport. As instructed, he turned left when he reached the highway and headed towards Somerset West. A quarter of an hour after setting out, he took the left turn to Stellenbosch.

  He’d booked a room at the Lanzerac Hotel, just outside the town. There were vineyards on both sides of the road, mountains rising high and rugged beyond them, but Mostyn had not come here for the scenery. He ordered coffee in his room, had a shower and change of clothes and settled down to study once again the material on the South African wine industry that he had begun to read during the flight from Johannesburg. Oudekraal, he read, was the biggest wine farm in the district. It had a high reputation as a top-flight winemaker, with a string of gold and silver medals to its credit at the Stellenbosch and other wine shows.

  By the time he had finished, it was midday. He had a light lunch, took a stroll to clear his head and went back to his room to phone Pieter Wolmarans.

  Whom he found at home.

  ‘I’m your cousin’s husband,’ he explained. ‘From Australia. I’m in South Africa on business and wondered if I might pay you a visit, if it’s convenient.’ His voice ladled charm. ‘Anna’s told me so much about you —’

  ‘Is she with you?’ The Afrikaans accent as thick as rope.

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ Mostyn soothed. ‘Other commitments; you know how it is —’

  ‘Where are you calling from?’

  ‘I’m in Stellenbosch.’

  ‘So close? Why don’t you drive out, then? I suppose it’s what you’ve come for.’

  Wolmarans was clearly less susceptible to charm than some. Still, at least Mostyn had his invitation. ‘I’ll be with you in an hour.’

  He drove out, following the route Anna had taken seven years earlier, seeing not the updated images of Anneliese’s childhood but the fact that the vineyards were well tended, the buildings freshly painted and in good order, the general air of prosperity that pervaded the valley. Sanctions or not, political turmoil notwithstanding, it was obvious that in this part of the country at least things were going very well, indeed.

  Oudekraal, like the rest, looked well maintained and prosperous. He got out of the car, feeling comfortable and relaxed, looking forward to meeting the man whose heritage, as Anna had called it, he had come to buy.

  Of course it would not be for sale but, in Mostyn’s experience, money always talked in the end and he had more than enough to shout the house down, if necessary.

  A man in late middle age came out through the front door of the house and stood with his hands upon the green-painted railing of the verandah that ran the length of the building. He stared down at him and Mostyn knew he was face to face with Anna’s cousin, at last.

  ‘Good day,’ he called, voice cheerful yet deferential, carefully tuned to what he judged would be Pieter Wolmarans’s wavelength. ‘Good day to you, sir.’

  Hand extended, he walked across the gravel drive and up the flight of steps to the house. Above him, Pieter Wolmarans looked. And looked.

  They shook hands, Pieter Wolmarans’s hand as hard as horn within his own. There was a table with a chair at the end of the verandah, looking out across the valley, but Pieter did not lead him there, nor into the main part of the house itself, but in the opposite direction, along the length of the verandah and around the corner to the little office in one of the stone outbuildings.

  Mostyn’s mouth kept working, compliments spraying like water from a hose, but his eyes missed nothing. All the buildings were in immaculate order, even the ground around the house so clean of weeds it might have been tended by hand, the rows of vines running up the breast of the hill as pretty as an advertisement.

  ‘Everything in tiptop shape,’ he declared approvingly. ‘That’s what I like to see.’

  Pieter Wolmarans said nothing.

  The office itself, housed in a building that must have been a hundred years old at least, was tidy and well organised, with modern, grey-sprayed furniture, files neatly arranged and work stations where two women in their thirties were busy before computer screens.

  At the back of the office was a smaller room behind a glass partition, and here Pieter led him. He closed the door and sat behind the desk, gesturing to the chair that faced him.

  ‘Sit,’ he said.

  Mostyn did so, crossing his legs.

  Pieter leant forward across the desk, his face expressionless. ‘And what brings you to Oudekraal, Mr Harcourt?’

  ‘I explained. I am Anna’s husband —’

  ‘And you flew all the w
ay from Johannesburg just to see me?’ A mirthless smile that did nothing to gild the heavy Afrikaans accent. ‘That is honour, indeed.’

  ‘I had business —’

  ‘Let me tell you something about country towns, Mr Harcourt. There is something called the bush telegraph. It means that everyone knows everybody else’s business. I daresay it is the same in Australia. You are an important man. Your name is known even outside your own country. You have extensive interests in the wine industry, worldwide.’ A wintry smile creased his mouth. ‘You see? We know all about you. I can assure you that if you’d had other business in these parts, I would have heard about it.’

  Mostyn was not used to being put on the defensive and didn’t like it. For the moment was bull-headed enough to stick to his story.

  ‘Anna has told me so much about Oudekraal —’

  ‘Of course. It is a part of her history, too. But that is not why you are here.’

  The conversation was getting nowhere. For a moment longer they sat staring at each other across the surface of the desk but Pieter Wolmarans had apparently said his piece, had made it plain that he was interested neither in compliments nor small talk. Mostyn remembered what he had read about the legendary stubbornness of these old South African farmers and decided to come to the point.

  ‘I have a proposition I would like to put in front of you.’

  Not by a flicker did Wolmarans reveal the satisfaction he must have felt at pushing his visitor into such an admission.

  ‘So talk.’

  Mostyn did so. Instinct warned him that with this man he should waste neither time nor effort in hyperbole; he kept strictly to the facts, presenting them in as straightforward a manner as he could. When he had finished, he sat and waited.

  Pieter Wolmarans stone-still behind the desk. ‘So you are telling me you wish to buy Oudekraal?’

  The banker in Hatchet Harcourt would not accept so direct a statement. ‘Subject to proper examination, of course —’

  ‘No.’ As effortlessly as a knife pruning a vine, the single word cut off the flow. ‘I thank you for taking the trouble to fly down to make me the offer, but the answer is no.’

  Mostyn was untroubled by the refusal; at the start of negotiations, everyone always said no.

  ‘From your point of view, it offers advantages that perhaps I have not adequately explained.’ He raised his fingers one by one, enumerating each point. ‘You would have immediate access to the capital. You would be guaranteed tenure for life. Most important of all, Oudekraal would remain in the Wolmarans family. The proud tradition of over two hundred years would be maintained —’

  ‘No,’ Wolmarans said again. ‘Thank you once more for your interest, but the answer is still no.’

  His stubbornness rising like yeast to match that of the man facing him, Mostyn persevered.

  ‘As you said, I have interests in vineyards all around the world. These days, any estate wanting to compete in world markets has to invest increasingly large amounts of capital.’ He sighed with false regret. ‘It’s the way of the world, unfortunately. Already the smaller, private estates are finding they can’t compete. South Africa has been off the world scene for years, but that’s all changing. Where are you going to get the capital you need, if not from people like me?’

  Pieter Wolmarans’s voice was firm and deliberate. ‘I do not know what more I can say to you. Everything you tell me is true. But in no circumstances at all shall I ever consider selling Oudekraal. I would burn it to the ground before I did that.’

  Mostyn began to understand that Wolmarans’s objections were not part of a negotiation process, as he had assumed, but meant exactly what they said: refusal, cold, definite, absolute. Now, in place of stubbornness, he felt anger.

  ‘I have made you a fair offer —’

  For the first time, Pieter Wolmarans’s face showed emotion. ‘Can’t you understand plain English, man? The answer is no. No and no and no. Finish.’

  Mostyn was on his feet. ‘I hope you do not live to regret it.’

  Wolmarans was also standing. ‘One question. If I may. Does your wife know of your visit here?’

  Once again Mostyn’s anger spoke before his head. ‘Of course she knows! I discussed it with her before I left Sydney.’

  ‘And did she approve?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t she? It makes sense, for God’s sake. The whole proposal was designed to help you.’

  ‘I do not recall saying that I need help.’

  ‘You may not have said it, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need it.’ Mostyn dusted his hands, dismissing Oudekraal and its owner from his life. ‘My mistake. I obviously underestimated your resistance to new ideas.’

  Wolmarans stood behind his desk, making no move to escort his visitor off the property. His eyes were still, dangerous, with sparks of anger in their depths.

  ‘No fool like an old fool. Is that what you are saying?’

  In the doorway Mostyn turned. ‘You said it, Mr Wolmarans, not I. But you won’t find me arguing with you.’

  And was gone, in a whiff of sulphur.

  Left to himself, Pieter sat.

  Liefde God. Dear God.

  Presently, unable to bear the confusion of emotions that his visitor had aroused in him, he got to his feet, fetched his hat, and walked. Between the long terraces of vines. Up the steep slope of the mountain, the muscles cramping in his legs until, an hour after leaving the house, he arrived at the summit. His body felt the climb, but he was used to walking in the mountains and was not at all out of breath.

  He stopped and looked down at the chequerboard spread of the valley, the range of hills beyond with, in the hazy distance, the glint of the silver sea.

  It was the place where he had brought Anna when she had visited, all those years ago. Could she really have known that her husband was coming here? Was it possible that she could approve of the idea that he should sell — sell! — his heritage in such a way?

  If it were true, it would mean that he had misjudged her most seriously. He had all her letters in a drawer of his desk back at the house; not in the office, where instinct had directed him to take his recent visitor, but in the house itself, along with all the rest of his personal papers. He would have to read them again, to see whether they contained any hint of such an attitude. If, with the knowledge he now had, he detected any such thing, it would change a number of ideas. He did not want to believe it, was determined that until he had read them he would not believe.

  The steep climb had driven away some of the toxins of Mostyn Harcourt’s visit. Now he drew from his hip pocket his grandfather’s silver flask, took a swig of the brandy it contained — Oudekraal’s best, he had sat by the still himself — wiped his mouth and sat down in his usual place, his back to the tree that might have been tailored to fit it. He had been brought here first by his grandfather, who had told him how his grandfather had brought him to the same place, seventy years before. Such little things. Yet not so little, perhaps: all part of the enduring fabric that had been Oudekraal for almost two hundred and fifty years.

  He liked to think how, even before his grandfather’s grandfather, the members of his family had come to this place in turn, generation by generation, to seek consolation and fulfilment from their land. He settled himself deeper into the earth, making himself comfortable. As always his mind turned to the past, the landmarks of what had been his family’s history.

  Back in 1886 phylloxera had nearly destroyed the Cape wine industry. Christiaan Wolmarans had rescued them, the first farmer in the valley to use the grafted vines that could withstand the disease. At the time many had said he was a lunatic; there had been high talk about the criminal irresponsibility of those who brought such material into the country, but Christiaan had stuck it out, as he always did, and in the end it was those who had objected most vociferously who had fallen on their faces.

  In 1904 began the catastrophe of over-production, and it was his grandfather’s turn. Deneys, not long back from
the Anglo-Boer War, helped to establish the Wine Growers Co-operative that saved the industry by controlling production and, eventually, the price of the wine itself.

  Without their efforts, the Wolmarans would have been driven off the land years before, like so many others. As it was, Oudekraal had been in continuous ownership longer than any other wine farm in the Cape. Two hundred and forty-two years. A proud record.

  It was a great thing to be wedded as securely to your work as his grandfather had been. Not that he had ever neglected his family. Wedded to wife, wedded to work, he used to boast. It made for a well-rounded life. He had been a contented man although he spoke often, with regret, of the sister who had fled South Africa after the Anglo-Boer war. Right up to the present day, there was talk how Anneliese van der Merwe and the man with her had destroyed the traitors by fire.

  Deneys Wolmarans would never discuss it, Pieter thought, and neither shall I allow my mind to dwell on it. It happened so long ago; it is not for me or anyone living to judge, and the lady herself has been dead these many years. All the more shame, therefore, that when Anna had phoned him all those years ago, his first thought had been of scandal, of Anneliese’s crime returning to confront the present as, eighty years before, it had the past.

  I should have been ashamed of myself, he thought, as he had thought so often before. God will resolve all things, as the preachers are always saying, although how they can claim to know so much more about these matters than the rest of us has always been a puzzle to me.

  The Wolmarans family had been first in everything: the first to plant grafted vines, the first to see the advantages of central marketing. In 1905 his grandfather had become the first in something else as well. He went to Cape Town alone and came back behind the wheel of a six-cylinder De Dion motor car. All red paint and gold tracery, two brass oil lamps in front, the spoked wheels a canary yellow. It must have looked very splendid, indeed, and Deneys had no doubt been determined that all his neighbours should see it and eat up their hearts with envy of the man who owned the first motor car ever to enter the valley.