A Holiday To Remember

by Nancy Pirri

  “We can’t come uninvited, vrou.” Dirk glanced at the quiet yard.

  Susanna was already climbing down the cart. “They’re our children. And I deserve to know why they disrespected us by boycotting the service.”

  Dirk got down and tied the horses to the nearby tree.

  “Pollie! Boetie!” Susanna called, making her way up the garden path.

  Hendrik appeared in the door. “Ma, Pa, what are you doing here?”

  Susanna regarded her son with her hands on her hips. His hair was ruffled, and he sported a beard. She untied her bonnet and pushed past him into the house.

  “Where were you yesterday? The whole town was talking about it. You look like you had just fallen out of bed. Didn’t I teach you to get up with the crow of the rooster? Look, Dirk,” she said at her husband who hovered under the vine creeper on the stoep, “this is what city life does to children. Corrupts the best of them.”

  “Maaaaa,” Hendrik said, following as she made her way to the kitchen.

  Inside the small room, Susanna started to roll up her sleeves. “Look at this!” She motioned at the dirty pots and dishes. “Go fetch me water, Hendrik. Dirk! Don’t just stand there. Start a fire to heat the water.”

  “Leave it, Ma,” Hendrik said meekly, but Susanna was on a warpath.

  “Where’s Pollie?” she snapped. “Never go to bed with a dirty kitchen. Didn’t her English mother teach her anything?”

  Dirk busied himself with packing the wood in the coal stove, shooting Hendrik a sympathetic look. “Go get the water, son.”

  A pale and washed-out Pollie walked into the room, her hair unbraided and her feet bare. “Good day, Ma, Pa. What a pleasant surprise. I hope you’re staying for lunch.”

  “Gmf.” Susanna scrunched up her nose. “Not if it comes from this dirty kitchen,” she said under her breath.

  Hendrik returned with the water. “Pollie isn’t well, Ma.”

  “What’s wrong with her?” Susanna placed the marmite on the stove, and waited for Hendrik to fill it up.

  Pollie seemed flushed all of a sudden. “It’s still early. We wanted to wait...” She glanced at Hendrik, the red on her cheeks deepening.

  “You’re going to be grandparents, Ma,” Hendrik said. “That’s why we didn’t go to church. Pollie’s sick. Shooting cats since yesterday. Can’t keep a thing down.”

  Susanna lifted her chin. “There are plenty of bushes next to the church to vomit under. Everyone would have understood.”

  “I’ll put on the coffee,” Pollie said.

  “You go and sit at the table with your husband and your father-in-law,” Susanna said, and then added hastily, “but wipe it with a cloth first.”

  With the dishes done and the coffee brewing, Susanna planted her elbows on the table, regarding each family member with a silent message until her eyes rested on Pollie. “Pollie, I want to talk about bringing your foreign habits to our Christmas supper. This is a traditional community.”

  Pollie placed her hand over Susanna’s. “Don’t worry about the turkey and the Christmas pudding, Ma. It’ll be fine. I promise. I wanted to talk about names, if it’s not too soon. We wanted to ask your permission to name our baby Susanna Hendrietta, if it’s a girl and Dirk Hendrik if it’s a boy.”

  Susanna swallowed and swiped at an invisible fruit fly. “Well, as long as you don’t want to give it some fancy English name, I can’t see why not.”

  “I’m going to need some herbs for the stuffing,” Pollie said, jumping from the ox to the jacket, as their expression went, “and I was wondering if I could have some from your garden.”

  “I don’t have English herbs,” Susanna warned.

  Pollie was a gentle soul who never raised her voice, or hardly took offense, thus she said as sweet as ever, “I only need ordinary herbs.”

  “My herbs aren’t ordinary.”

  “Thank you, Ma,” Pollie said, and without Susanna realizing, the clever Pollie had settled the issue about her contribution to the Christmas dinner.

  * * * *

  The turkey looked like a wilted radish when it arrived in Grayton. Its comb hung down instead of standing proud like a rooster’s, and it was bald on the head in patches. The loose skin under its beak trembled as it uttered a pinched koeloekoeloekoe, which came out like a melancholic sigh.

  “Probably lived in a luxury camp in Cape Town,” Susanna said, eyeing the bird that sat on the back of Giepie’s mail wagon. “By the looks of it, it must belong to the vulture family. And that noise the thing makes, it’s straight from the devil, I tell you.”

  Hendrik lifted the cage down and turned to Pollie. “He looks a bit skinny. Probably took strain during the trip. You have time to nurse him back to health. I’ll slaughter him two days before Christmas.”

  “Two days!” Susanna looked from Hendrik to Pollie. “You need at least a week to hang him from the neck.”

  “It’s not game, Ma,” Hendrik said. “The meat doesn’t need ripening.”

  “If you say so.” Susanna turned her nose at the sky. “What do I know? It’s not like I’ve cooked your food since the day you were born.”

  “He is rather cute,” Pollie said. “It’ll be sad to kill him.”

  Hendrik kissed her on the lips. “I’ll do it at the farm, so you don’t have to see.”

  “Hendrik!” Susanna chastised. “Since when do you display your bedroom manners in public? And since when can’t a woman cut the neck of her poultry herself?”

  “Maaaa,” he groaned.

  “Never mind. Pollie, I need a hand with the garden. Can you help in the mornings?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Pollie glanced at Hendrik. He cleared his throat. “Ma, Pollie is going to open a school in town.”

  “What for?’

  “To teach the children,” Hendrik said. “You know Pollie was a teacher in Cape Town and Dominee–”

  “I know what a school is for,” Susanna said. “Why would she want to do that? We’re teaching our children their letters and numbers just fine.”

  “Dominee said it was a good idea, said I could use the church hall,” Pollie said.

  “The year is almost done. Why not wait until January?”

  “I want to teach the kids Christmas carols to sing during our Christmas supper. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

  “Never needed no choir before.”

  “And we can do a little concert, with a Mary and Joseph and a baby Jesus.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re going to have so much time on your hands. The rest of us have a banquet to prepare.”

  With a last glance at the Christmas turkey, Susanna walked off. If Pollie got busy with the kids and the carols, she wouldn’t have time to think about the turkey and the English pudding so much. Without her, Susanna van der Merwe’s help, Susanna was sure it would turn out a disaster. It was a pity, but because she loved Pollie as her God given duty demanded, she had to let it be. Punish those who thou love. Like her mother used to say, the best lessons learned were the ones that were felt. Let poor Pollie feel it. It would be the last year she’d send to Cape Town for a depressed turkey.

  * * * *

  As Christmas drew near, Gertjie’s anxiety mounted. The pig was fat, but she had slaughtered the ‘standby’ pig from the same litter for a tasting trial, and found the meat too sweet. She had given it too much milk and cream. For the next two weeks, the pig would feed on potatoes to balance the sweetness, but that could make the meat mealy. She had even tried sneaking castor oil into his food, but the stubborn pig sniffed it out and wouldn’t put his snout to it. Sam, her farmhand, had suggested feeding the pig handfuls of salt, which he liked, but it drove him to drinking gallons of water, which made him bloated and almost caused his stomach to turn. If the tummy turned, it risked being ruptured, and the meat would be spoiled with bitter juices from the spleen.

  Therefore, Gertjie set out to do the only thing she could. She gave Sam a piglet an
d sent him to Kleinrivier on the coast, a long journey of four days, to exchange the pig for the strongest dagga one could find between Grayton and Knysna. God would forgive her. All was fair in love and war, her mother used to say, and this was an act of war.

  Sitting on the stoep, smoking a zol, the rest of the stash hidden in the coffee tin where Marthinus would never look, she contemplated how to save the day. Come hell or high water, she’d be on the top of that recipe list. The money would be in her coffer under her bed.

  Marthinus came from the outhouse and stopped on the stoep. “Jirre vrou, are you smoking dagga?”

  “It’s medicinal, for my arthritis.”

  “Better give me some for my gout, then.” Marthinus sat down with a groan and held out his hand for the joint. He took a long drag and coughed. “Jirre, this stuff is strong. Where did you get it from?”

  “Ag, just from behind the mountain.”

  “Where?”

  “Sam stumbled upon it when he was herding the sheep.”

  “I didn’t know dagga grew wild in the valley.”

  “Well, miracles happen.”

  He started giggling.

  Gertjie fixed him with a stare. “What’s so funny?”

  He drew on the zol. “Just how much I’m going to cry if your pig doesn’t win that contest.”

  “Have you lost your marbles, Marthinus Cornelius Johannes?”

  His laughter roared through the valley. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  She gave him a sour look.

  “Concentrate,” he said, smoking and laughing again. “If Susanna wins it’ll be the death of you and when you die I’ll cry. No, really, my bokkie. I promise you I’ll cry. Bhawwahwahw!”

  “Marthinus, you better go pray for forgiveness for your blasphemy. You’ve cursed me with your death wish.”

  “You know what? Your pig looks just like Susanna. Boowhoowooh!”

  “Susanna can’t help God made her that way.” She got up and smoothed out her dress. “I’m not listening to your sinful tongue. Put out the lantern when you come in.”

  * * * *

  A thin pillar of smoke reached between the mountain and the heavens. Susanna regarded it with a pleated brow. She wished she could see what Gertjie was brewing in her backyard. Her springbok had been strung by the neck and hung to bleed dry and cure. Tomorrow she’d chop up the meat, put aside the best cuts for the pot, and the rest to use for sausage and biltong. But even repeating her recipe over and over couldn’t put her mind at rest. That pig of Gertjie’s was haunting her sleep. It oinked in her dreams, taunting her. It wouldn’t surprise her if Gertjie had buried an unholy potato with sticks for pig legs under the full moon in her yard. That would explain her demonic nightmares. If Gertjie used Khoikhoi witchcraft, the pig was possessed. There was only one way to save Gertjie’s soul. The more she thought about it, the more she knew what she had to do.

  Galloping made her turn. Hendrik came riding into the yard, almost hanging sideways in his saddle.

  “What’s this now?” Susanna said. “Your horse is foaming around the mouth. Didn’t Pa teach you anything?”

  The young man all but fell from it, grabbing his hat and clutching it to his chest.

  Susanna went still. If she knew one thing, it was trouble when she saw it. “What’s going on, boetie?” When his chest heaved with the effort of catching his breath, Susanna said, “Magtag Hendrik, did the parrot steal your tongue?”

  “Ma, it’s Neels. He died this morning.”

  Susanna walked to the kitchen with deliberate steps, Hendrik following uncertainly. “Ma, did you hear what I said?”

  “I’m not deaf, Hendrik.” She took the bottle of mampoer from the shelf and poured a stiff tot. Hendrik regarded her gratefully, until she threw back her head and swallowed the liquor in one shot.

  She made a face and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “What happened?”

  Hendrik flopped down on a kitchen chair. “Snake bite. Black mamba. Didn’t have a chance.”

  “Did they catch the snake?”

  “Ma! What does it matter?”

  “When’s the funeral?”

  “Dominee said the men must start digging after the worst heat. We can’t put him in the ground on Christmas day. It’ll have to be tomorrow.”

  Susanna sat down heavily, the chair creaking. “Poor Neels. To have gotten the kiss of death so young. And all alone with no family.”

  “Dominee said you must organize the women to prepare a tea for after the ceremony.”

  “Yes, yes. Will have to make do with meatballs and sausage rolls. Don’t have time for much more with all the preparations for the Christmas supper going on.”

  Hendrik got up, his shoulders stooped. “I’ll be off then. They need me at the dig.”

  “Make sure they dig down to six feet. Not an inch less.”

  “Yes, Ma.”

  * * * *

  Dominee was preparing his funeral sermon when Gertjie burst through the door. He got such a fright he squeezed his quill and messed a blotch of ink on the page.

  “Dominee,” she gasped, “I have serious business today.”

  “Calm down, Gertjie. I’m writing Neels’ funeral service.” He pressed a cloth on the clot, smudging it over his words.

  If he was hoping the morbidness of his task would shame the woman for her interruption, he was wrong, for Gertjie clasped her hands together and said, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to dig another grave.”

  Dominee jumped to his feet. “Who died?”

  “Not yet. But soon.”

  “Who’s sick?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Gertjie.” He used his preacher voice to exude his authority. “You’re not talking sense.”

  “I saw it, Dominee. Marthinus cursed me.” Her voice trembled with doom. “I’m going to die.”

  “Saw it where, Gertjie?”

  “Why, in the tealeaves.”

  Dominee sat down again with a sigh. “You know that’s an evil practice. What does the Bible say about fortunetelling?”

  She lifted her chin. “I can’t help it that I was born with the caul.” The corners of her mouth pulled down. “God gave me this gift for seeing the future.”

  “There’s no reason to believe you’re going to die. You’re in good health.”

  “So was Neels.”

  “Only God knows when our time is.”

  “And God sent me a message, Dominee. He spoke to me like he spoke to Moses in the burning bush, and to Joseph when—”

  “Alright, alright.” Dominee held up his hands. “But I can’t just tell the men to dig another grave for nothing. Grave digging is hard work.”

  “So is dying, Dominee.” She gave a labored sigh. “I’ll pay for it.”

  “We have Christmas and the supper and this business with the newspaper to worry about. Surely your grave can wait a day or two?”

  Gertjie turned her head sideways. She wiped at the corner of her eyes with her apron. “If you say so, Dominee. I guess I’m not as important as a festival or a newspaper.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “My only consolation in my forthcoming death is that I’ll go to my grave with the first prize in my hands. Everyone will remember me, and my name will be eternalized in print. All I ask is that you put on my grave the words, ‘Winner of the First Grayton Annual Food Festival’.”

  “Gertjie, let’s not get ahead of ourselves now.”

  Gertjie wasn’t to be swayed. No matter what Dominee said, she was certain that her death was imminent. Till this day, Dominee can’t explain how Gertjie eventually wore him down and made him agree to dig her grave next to her parents’ under the graveyard oak tree.

  * * * *

  Any animal that needed to be slaughtered for the Christmas supper had to be killed the day before Christmas, as no work was permitted on the day. Susanna knew that Gertjie was sharpening her knife, even as she, Susanna, was washing the blood of her processed sprin
gbok from her hands. She prepared a marinade of cumin seeds, crushed peppercorns, coarse salt and vinegar, and laid the meat inside to prevent it from rotting. Dirk wouldn’t be home for the night. The men were digging the two graves around the clock now, taking shifts with the lanterns. It was as if God had sent her a sign. If there was one thing Susanna knew, it was a sign when she saw one.

  With the springbok meat soaking, she pulled her shawl around her shoulders and walked to the farmworkers’ houses on the hill.

  “Janneman!” she called from afar.

  He exited from his hut, his hat in his hand. “What is it, Ouma?”

  “I need you to come with me. We’re going over the mountain.”

  “Houwk, Ouma.” He looked at the sky. “The day is gone.”

  “Bring a lantern, and fetch me the rifle, just in case we come across a lion or hyena.”

  The white of his eyes were big in the darkening day. “Yes, Ouma.”

  An hour later Susanna scoffed and swore as her weary legs battled down the steep side of the mountain. God will surely reward her for her good work. She was an obedient disciple. Janneman walked in front with the lantern and the rifle. He said nothing, but glanced at her from time to time over his shoulder, his wrinkled face lined with worry.

  When Gertjie’s farmhouse came into sight, Susanna took the rifle and lantern from Janneman and put out the light. She steered them around the back, from where the henhouse and the animal enclosures were visible. She motioned for Janneman to lie behind a rock, while she lowered herself to her stomach and studied the surroundings in the moonlight. God had sent her a full moon. The yard was quiet. Nobody moved around. Gertjie was alone, her menfolk digging in town.

  She jabbed Janneman in the ribs with her elbow. “See the pigsty?”

  “Yes, Ouma?”

  “Go down there, and open the gate.”

  Janneman stared at her with owl eyes. “What’s this now, Ouma?”

  “Are you deaf, man?” she whispered.

  “Houwk, Ouma.”

  “Don’t make a sound, or Gertjie may get a fright and shoot you.”

  “No, Ouma, this is not a good idea.”

  “Do you want a hiding? Go. Quickly. Make sure the pig gets out.”

  When a trembling Janneman got to his feet and shuffled down the hill, Susanna called softly after him, “The fat one.”