‘I’m just speaking to people who know my client well,’ Jack said. ‘Mr van Heerden respects and admires you and suggested that I might talk to you.’
‘Oh.’ De Klerk blushed. He hesitated. ‘Well, I admire him very much too.’
‘You do?’
‘Well, yes. He’s been a very good minister. He’s done a good job for our Church.’
‘But?’
De Klerk hesitated. ‘No buts,’ he said.
Jack decided to take the plunge. ‘Look Mr de Klerk, let’s be honest with each other. I’m acting for my client and in order to do that I must know the facts. I need to know what’s likely to be dredged up against him in court. If he has any skeletons in his closet, I’d like to see them now rather than have them jumping out to scare me in the courtroom.’
De Klerk smiled at the joke but then he became serious.
‘I’ve had my doubts,’ he said. ‘I’ll admit that. Someone in our community – I’d rather not say who – approached me to tell me they were concerned about the minister and a woman in Elsie’s River. Normally I’d have brushed it aside, I’d have told them they were speaking a load of old nonsense… But...’
‘But...?’
‘But this person isn’t a gossip or a scandalmonger. She’s a thoughtful woman who wouldn’t say these things lightly, someone who has always admired the minister.’
‘And how did she come to have these concerns?’
‘She’s one of Laura van Heerden’s little group, the women who worked together to help the needy in Elsie’s River.’
Jack drew in his breath. His heart pounded.
‘What gave rise to these concerns?’ he said.
‘She told me that Johannes van Heerden had once stayed on after the women had returned home. He remained in Elsie’s River after the work was done, telling the women that he still had obligations to fulfil that did not require them to stay.’
Jack paused.
‘There must be a simple explanation for this, don’t you think, Mr de Klerk? Perhaps there was business to be sorted out that evening, people in the community to talk to. Why jump to conclusions, without troubling to find out more?’
‘I thought that myself, Mr Neuberger. But when I asked Mr van Heerden straight out, he couldn’t give me a proper answer. He was awkward and confused, muttered a few things that made no sense and then refused to say more. It made me doubt. It was his own discomfort more than anything else that gave me pause for thought.’
‘I’ve spoken to Mrs de Villiers and Miss Botha,’ Jack protested. ‘They are part of the group and are wholly convinced of his innocence. Why did they not tell me this if they were there?’
‘Ah but they weren’t there. On that particular occasion, there were only three of them: the woman I’ve told you about, Mr van Heerden and one other.’
‘The one other?’
‘Miss Clara Joubert,’ Mr de Klerk said.
‘Clara Joubert?’ Jack struggled to keep the shock out of his voice.
‘Indeed.’
‘I’m seeing her later today.’
‘Well, perhaps you’d better ask her yourself,’ Mr de Klerk said. ‘I hope there’s an explanation of his behaviour, honestly I do. Look, Mr Neuberger, I’ve known the minister a long time and there’s no one who would be happier to hear that he’s innocent than me. But if he’s betrayed Laura, been sleeping with some cheap coloured girl, breaking this new law …’
‘Thank you Mr de Klerk,’ Jack interrupted. He didn’t want to hear any more of what the man had to say on this subject. ‘I’m sure he’ll prove his innocence. I’ll talk to Clara Joubert and one or two others and then, if it’s all right with you, maybe we could speak again?’
‘Of course. I hope and pray that what you discover allays my fears,’ he said.
‘And may I ask whether you have been approached by the prosecution?’
‘I have an appointment with Mr du Toit, the prosecuting counsel, in a few days’ time but I haven’t quite made up my mind what to do yet. I’ve already postponed the meeting once, to give myself a bit of time to think. To be honest Mr Neuberger, I’m a bit confused as to what to do for the best. I want to do what’s right – for our little community, for Laura, for Johannes’ – it was the first time he had allowed himself to call van Heerden by his first name – ‘but also for my country. My forebears fought the Zulu and settled the land and I have a duty to them to do the right thing, whatever that might be.’
‘Let me talk to a few more people and I’ll get Vera, my secretary, to call you and arrange another meeting before you see du Toit. Even if you feel unable to speak up for Mr van Heerden in court and act as a witness for the defence, at the very least I’d like to be able to persuade you not to appear for the prosecution. I’m sure, with a bit more information, I’ll be able to allay your doubts and bring you onto our side.’
They shook hands and Jack noticed his firm grasp and the evident look of relief on his face that this difficult interview had come to an end.
‘Now I must turn my mind to the church roof,’ he said. ‘Bricks and mortar are sometimes easier to deal with than people.’
Jack closed the door and went to sit at his desk. He pushed his chair back and stretched out his legs in front of him. He threw his fountain pen down onto the blotter in a gesture of frustration. This was all proving rather less straightforward than he had hoped. He rang through to Vera on the intercom.
‘Will you fetch me a sandwich from Lou’s?’ he said. ‘I’m going to work through lunch, so I can get my head straight before Clara Joubert’s appointment. Chopped liver, with a pickled cucumber on the side, and maybe a slice of their cheesecake?’
‘Yes Mr Neuberger,’ Vera replied curtly. Was she sulking? There were so many things that seemed to provoke her irritation. Perhaps fetching his lunch was another thing that she felt was beneath her dignity? He wished she would take more pleasure in her duties; sometimes he thought she resented every last thing he asked of her. But she was efficient enough once she got going and took a good shorthand. She had also come highly recommended by his cousin Isidore, so it would be awkward to look for someone new, just on the basis that he sometimes wished for a more cheerful presence in the office.
‘I’ll go for your sandwich right now. On white bread, or rye? It’s usually rye I know, but I don’t want to assume that and then find that you wanted white, Mr Neuberger. I know how much you enjoy your sandwiches.’
‘Rye, white, brown, whatever you like Vera. You know me, I’m not fussy. No, on second thoughts, make it rye. You’re right; rye’s what I like.’
‘Rye it is then.’
He was just about to put the phone down.
‘Oh, by the way, Miss Clara Joubert called while you were interviewing Mr de Klerk. She says she can’t make the appointment this afternoon after all.’
Jack frowned. ‘Did you look in my diary and suggest another time?’
‘Oh yes but nothing seemed to work for her. She said she was very busy at the moment and didn’t think it would be easy to find an occasion anytime soon.’
‘Thank you, Vera.’
‘Still want the sandwich, Mr Neuberger?’
‘No thanks, Vera. I’ll get one later myself. I’m not feeling so hungry any more.’
Chapter 11
1943
I wanted a collection. I wanted the thrill of examining it every day, adding to it, labelling it, displaying it, crowing over it, possessing it wholly. But I didn’t know what to collect. Terence had his Dinky cars but I knew that no one was going to buy me shiny new cars to put in a cardboard box in a toy cupboard, that I could take out and line up every day. I talked to Ada, who frowned. She looked like she was taking my problem seriously, as she always did when I came to her for advice. She swept her hand through her th
in brown hair, then placed her hands on her hips and sighed loudly.
‘Ag, Jackie I dunno. I used to collect marbles when I was seven like you. Spent half my life, squatting down, dirtying my broekies in the dust, looking to see if I could find one that’d fallen out of a hole in someone’s pocket. And then I lost ‘em all in marbles matches with the boys. They was too damn good. My friend Smoky Uys – sies tog, he’s dead now – he had a hang of a big collection of insects, nasty little goggas all stuck down with pins. The butterflies were nice but the goggas, ag sis man, they were disgusting. Smoky’s brother Smiley had a little box full of bottle labels. He washed ‘em off the bottles his Ma bought from the store. But they only drank lemon cooldrink and gingerbeer, so that’s all he ever had – loads of Stoney Ginger beer labels and SAB lemonade. Not much fun, man, just two kinds of labels. Leastways that’s what I thought. What’s a good thing for you to collect… I’m really stumped there Jackie. Right out of good ideas, man.‘
I was disappointed; Ada, though not a child like me, seemed to have more of a sense of what children were like than anyone else, whether it was knowing the right moment to surprise me with the secret offer of a sherbet lemon, or just noticing when I was down in the dumps and cheering me up with a silly joke. Maybe it was because she herself had been one of eight children and had helped her ma bring up the younger ones, but Ada seemed to know all the street games and rhymes, all the practical jokes and pranks that children got up to; I had been relying on her.
I talked to Terence instead.
‘You’ve got to have something really, really good,’ Terence said, scratching his head, as he’d seen adults do in similar circumstances. ‘Something really special.’ In his usual way, he was ready and eager to come to my assistance, seeing it as a joint enterprise and a shared adventure.
Together we puzzled and pondered and I wrote our ideas down carefully on a scrap of paper: bottle tops, bus tickets, buttons, birds’ eggs, stamps, stones, coins. I looked at the list hopefully but the vision of myself sitting with a collection of any of these things spread out all around me felt all wrong. Nothing brought the warm glow that I knew should come with being a proper, fully-fledged, totally committed, admired and respected collector.
‘Nope,’ I said, ‘none of them’s good enough.’
‘Nope,’ he agreed, frowning.
Walter and May closed the garage for lunch and we all sat down at the wooden table in the kitchen to eat frikadels and rice and Terence told Walter my problem. Walter sat and thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers excitedly.
‘I got a really lekker idea for you, Master Jackie,’ he said. ‘It’s what I collected when I was a little boy like you, seven or eight or thereabouts. My Pa got me started. He brought me some back and looked out for special ones for me. Then I started swapping with other boys – one special for two ordinaries, three ordinaries for a rare, one rare for a different rare and my collection grew and grew.’
Specials, ordinaries, rares. Beautiful, exotic, magical. What could he be talking about?
‘Matchboxes,’ said Walter. ‘That’s a lekker thing to collect. And you can store ‘em by who makes ‘em or by size or by picture – animals, birds, people, buildings, flowers, ships, whatever.’
‘Yeah, matchboxes! That’d be nice. No one I know’s a matchbox collector!’
Terence’s approval sealed it; the die was cast. I went home and told Ma and Pa that I was starting a matchbox collection. Pa seemed pleased.
‘Good idea, Jackie. All boys have collections. You’ll make lots of friends that way.’
Soon the customers started showing a bit of an interest in my matchboxes. I moved by tiptoeing steps out of the shadows at the edges of the store, and began to talk to the people I’d known since I was a baby but had never dared to address directly.
‘P-p-please Mr van de M-m-merwe. Do you have any m-matchboxes f-f-for my c-collection?’
‘Course, Jackie, my boy. No problem, sonny. I get through a whole heap of the darned things, lighting that blerry useless wood burner of ours, or having a smoke out the back. Mrs van de Merwe will be only too delighted not to have all my half-empty packets cluttering up the place. I’ll bring you a handful next time I’m in.’
‘Hey man, how many you got now?’ asked Arnie Fortune.
‘Over f-f-fifty.’
‘My God that’s getting to be a big collection. My cousin Barry used to collect them years ago. I’ll see if he’s got any left up in that attic of his and I’ll twist his arm to hand ‘em over to you. ’
‘I’ll get my sister in England to bring you some when she comes over on the Union Castle to visit. She’s coming next week and staying for two or three months, you know,’ interrupted Mrs Stern. ‘They’ve got nice colourful pictures of ships on the matchboxes in England, England’s Glory I think they’re called, and yellow ones with swans.’
‘Show me a rare,’ said Billy Edwards coming over to look at the handful I was stacking up on the wooden floor next to the sack of beans, and when Terence came into the store with his mother, we went into the back room and surrounded ourselves with my matchboxes, looking, sorting, counting, judging. Soon Terence began collecting matchboxes too and we had regular swapsie sessions, where we weighed up the value of one over another and shared our spoils.
By the end of the summer, when I went back to school, word had spread that I had a lekker collection of matchboxes and boys approached me in the schoolyard with the offer of a swap – a matchbox found on a table in a café in Seapoint, one given by an uncle in Durban, another that came all the way from New York in the pocket of a merchant seaman lodging in Parow. I overheard Mrs Coetzee telling Miss Williams, my new teacher, that she was surprised and delighted to see that at last I was beginning to make some friends.
But now my matchbox collection was growing bigger and getting in Ma’s way.
‘Wherever I look there are blasted matchboxes,’ she muttered crossly. ‘Your room’s full of them and it’s just not fair on Sauly. He’s barely got space to walk in that room of yours, let alone play with toys.’
‘But he likes them. He says so!’
‘He’s just being nice. It’s his room too and it’s not right that he has to trip over your matchboxes all the time.’
Pa suggested that he might be able to find a space for the collection in the big new shed he’d built in the yard, to house the goods from the wholesalers and farm co-ops. He said he was sure he could give me a shelf, in among the sacks of corn and beans and rice, the boxes of cereals and cigarettes, the shoe leather and bicycles, the plates of glass, the bales of string and twine, the chaff, the lucerne and other animal feeds. Over the next few weeks bit by bit he cleared a shelf and finally labelled it with a big cardboard sign, written in ultramarine blue ink, ‘Jack’s Matchbox Collection’.
One evening, after the store had closed, he helped me carry all the matchboxes down and put them on my new shelf. I looked at the rows of tidily stacked boxes with pride. Pa stood with me, side by side. He moved to kiss my head but at that moment I looked up at him and he seemed to change his mind. I thought I saw tears in his eyes but I couldn’t be sure. Quickly he reached for a box of Garibaldi biscuits and took it out to re-fill the jars in the store.
*****
A few days later, Mr Choudhary came into the store. He hadn’t been in for a while. I liked seeing him, all dressed in white, with his cap fitting snugly over his sleek black hair, so different from the other men in their khaki shorts or their linen suits, their faces burnt and red, or leathery from the sun. Mr Choudhary always looked cool, no matter how strongly the sun was beating down on the store, making the rest of us feel sweaty, sluggish and slow.
‘He’s not a customer,’ Ma had told Ada, when she asked why he never bought anything when he came. ‘He’s not here for our biltong or our biscuits. He lives in District 6, the M
alay quarter. They have shops of their own and their own things, like spices for curries and things like that, to suit their own tastes. No, he’s not a customer. He’s here to talk to my husband about the money and the insurance.’
Every few months Mr Choudhary appeared, with his leather briefcase and a new idea for Pa to consider.
‘Oh my God, not another scheme,’ Ma would say after he’d left and Pa was sitting at the table with the papers spread out in front of him. But he’d helped Pa find a lender that time when they’d needed the money to buy the truck, and that had worked out fine. And he’d got the insurance to pay out when the roof had leaked a few winters back. So Ma seemed happy enough with Mr Choudhary and didn’t complain too much about the time he spent chatting to Pa, taking him away from the customers and the jobs that needed doing at the store. Mr Choudhary was Pa’s financial adviser, so she said, if anyone asked, and she seemed to like the sound of that, as if they were a proper business, on a good, sound footing.
Now Mr Choudhary was back, with his briefcase. Pa took him to one side of the store where they talked, while Ada looked after the customers who came through the door. They talked about the price of paraffin, of candle wax, of flax and lucerne and rice and oil; they talked about cheaper wholesalers and lower taxes, about bank interest rates and lenders; they talked about Mr Hertzog and Mr Smuts and how nothing that useless government did seemed to make a blind bit of difference, how the country was going to the dogs.
‘All out of ideas,’ said Mr. Choudhary, folding his arms across his body. They talked on and on, about war and economics, inflation and deflation, immigration and emigration until Pa finally said,
‘‘We’d be better off with a King, like the English!’
Mr Choudhary leant towards him, now, speaking more softly, in low tones. I wondered what he was saying and came up closer to hear.
Off the Voortrekker Road Page 9
