A Holiday To Remember

by Nancy Pirri

  Susanna held her breath while Janneman tiptoed across the yard. Any minute now, the dogs were going to wake, but she was ready. The moment the boerboel lifted his head, she threw her chunk of meat. The big dog turned his yellow head in the direction of the thump, and got to his feet, his nose on the ground. The other mongrels followed. More pieces of meat flew through the air. By now, Janneman had reached his target, and lifted the hatch to swing open the gate. He crouched next to the liberated exit, but the pigs didn’t move.

  “Come on, come on,” Susanna mumbled, her eyes trained on the dogs. She projected another morsel through the air, leading them farther away from the house.

  Janneman moved inside the pigsty. She could see him through the mesh, coaxing the slaughter pig. But the pig was overweight and lazy, and happy in his confinement where the food was plentiful and good. Janneman pushed, putting his full weight behind the pink bottom. His feet slipped in the mud as he exerted himself, but the pig didn’t budge. The meat ration was almost finished, and Susanna had gotten the dogs away as far as her throw could reach. She offered the last sacrifice and watched as it was gobbled up. Janneman was back to back with the pig now, his feet digging into the earth as he huffed and puffed, but all for nothing. The pig gave a distressed squeal, and at that, the dogs twitched their ears and turned their noses to the wind.

  “Oi, oi.” Susanna picked up a rock.

  The barking erupted. Like a pack of wolves, they stormed the pigsty. Janneman cowered behind the pig, shouting, “Jirre, Ouma!”

  Susanna threw the rock, but instead of hitting the boerboel who was leading the pack, it knocked the pig between the eyes. With a grunt and a buck, he shot forward, almost trampling the dogs. A light came on in the kitchen window, but by now, Janneman had clambered over the fence and was running as fast as his legs would carry him into the rocky part of the hill. When the dogs spotted him, they made a beeline, heading hard on his heels. Susanna had a difficult time dividing her attention between Janneman and the pig. The one was heading into the mountain, and the other down the valley, toward the ostrich camps and the elephant path. Seeing that the dogs were catching up with Janneman, Susanna loaded the rifle. If Janneman was caught, Susanna may as well burn ‘guilty’ onto her forehead with a cattle branding iron. She aimed for somewhere between the dogs and Janneman, pinched her eyes shut, and fired.

  The shot rang loud through the valley. The dogs braked, yelped, and turned back for the yard.

  “You devils!” Gertjie shouted into the night, standing on the stoep with a lantern in one hand and a pellet gun in the other. “I’ll kill you all!”

  Another shot echoed in the dark. This time the bullet didn’t come from Susanna’s gun. If there was one thing Susanna knew, it was trouble when she heard it. It was time to cut a line. She scurried down the hill with her head bent, until she was out of sight, and then made a run for it. She trotted home in uneven steps, asking God why he created her with one leg two inches shorter than the other all the way home.

  Janneman didn’t arrive until daybreak, his pants torn and his shirt ripped to pieces by the thorn bushes. Susanna swore everyone to silence about his state, telling them that Janneman had done the work of God, and that was all they needed to know.

  * * * *

  “I can’t leave you here on your own,” Dirk argued, “not after the bandits tried to rob Gertjie last night.”

  Susanna focused on her embroidery, something she hadn’t touched in ten years. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got the workers to protect me. You can’t sit here and babysit me like a woman. How far are the graves, anyway?”

  Dirk wiped a hand over his brow. “Neels’ is done. I think the other one would have been six feet by nightfall if we didn’t have to stop for the funeral.”

  “All this craziness of Gertjie, and just before the Christmas supper.”

  “The men searched all morning, but they couldn’t find a trace of the crooks. If Gertjie hadn’t surprised them, who knows what they would have stolen.”

  “Any sign of her pig?” Susanna said, not looking up.

  “Gertjie said she saw him running off in the dry riverbed, into the canyon. No man’s going to go down there looking for a pig. That’s elephant territory. One way in, and one way out. Besides, the pig’s probably lion food by now.” He shook his head. “Poor Gertjie. Now that her fattened pig’s gone, she has withdrawn from the Christmas supper. Couldn’t be consoled to slaughter another leaner one.”

  Susanna shrugged. “I guess if she’s not using the spot by the waterhole we may as well build our fire there.”

  * * * *

  Out of respect for the dead, Gertjie didn’t mourn her lost pig. It was just so sad that now she’d never have the engraving she dreamed of on her gravestone. Life wasn’t fair. The fact that Dominee said no sin will go unpunished by God didn’t soothe her. Marthinus came back when word of the attack got to him in town where he was digging. Together with their sons, he set off to track the spoor of the attackers, but the clever devils had gone over the rocks, leaving no trail.

  The only clue Marthinus had when he returned, the sun already high, was an old brown felt hat. Gertjie was lying on the bed outside on the porch, death creeping into her bones, when Marthinus threw the hat on the foot end.

  “I’m dying, Marthinus,” she said, pulling her feet up, “show some respect.”

  “That’s all we found,” he said.

  There was something familiar about the tear in the rim. It was scalloped, as if someone had taken a bite out of it. Gertjie shot up. Life pumped back into her body and death deserted her soul. She knew exactly where she had seen that hat before. She got up and rushed to the kitchen.

  “Gertjie?” Marthinus called after her. “Are you better?”

  She lifted the lid of the coffee tin and peered inside. Death was going to have to wait. God had given her a mission, and she had almost abandoned it.

  “Does that mean you’re making coffee?” Marthinus said from the door, hopeful.

  “Harness the horses and bring the cart around.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To Susanna’s.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve got business with her.”

  Marthinus knew better than to argue with Gertjie when she was dying.

  * * * *

  Susanna came outside, wiping her hands on a dishcloth, when Gertjie pulled up to the house.

  Gertjie jumped from the cart, the felt hat clutched in her hand. “Where’s Janneman?”

  Susanna eyed the hat. “Just here at the back, pulling weeds. What’s the trouble, sussie?” she said genially.

  “Tell him to come here.” Gertjie pointed at the ground. “Now.”

  “I can see you’re upset, sussie, so I won’t offer you coffee first.” She turned her head and called into the yard, “Janneman!”

  The old man approached, his brow pulled together. When he saw Gertjie, his eyes locked on the hat, and he came closer, head down.

  When he stopped in front of Gertjie, she shoved the hat at him. “What’s this?”

  He glanced at Susanna.

  “Tell her,” Susanna said. “The truth. And remember, God is listening.”

  “It’s my hat, Ouma,” Janneman said, his eyes swirling in their sockets.

  “Ja, I know it’s your hat,” Gertjie said. “What I want to know is what it was doing in my yard, close to where my pig was attacked?”

  “God is good to us, Janneman,” Susanna said. “Look now. You’ve got your hat back.” She turned to Gertjie. “Janneman lost it last week in the mountains, when he went looking for mushrooms. The crooks must have found it and kept it, and God struck them down to drop poor Janneman’s hat.”

  Gertjie glared at Susanna. “Is this true, Janneman?”

  Janneman twisted his fingers. “Yes, Ouma.”

  “Swear it.”

  “I swear, Ouma.”

  “Not like that! Swear on the Bible.”

  With that, Susanna hurri
ed into the house and came back with the big family Bible. “Put your hand on it, Janneman, and tell Gertjie the truth.”

  Janneman didn’t believe in Susanna and Gertjie’s God, and neither could he read, so he had no problem to put his hand on the black book and to say, “I promise on the Bible, Ouma.”

  Gertjie nodded primly at Susanna. Now that her theory had been proven wrong on the Bible, she gave in to her disappointment and sorrow. Her shoulders sagged. “I don’t understand why God is punishing me.”

  “Come inside.” Susanna took Janneman’s hat from Gertjie and handed it to him. With a flick of her head, she dismissed him.

  Janneman didn’t have to be invited twice. He made for the kraal, not looking back.

  Gertjie shook her head. “I said I’d make the meatballs for Neels’ funeral. I’d better get on with it, before death catches up with me.”

  Susanna nodded solemnly. “I’ll see you at the funeral this afternoon.”

  When Gertjie drove off, Janneman didn’t wave as usual. He didn’t look her in the eye, but kept his gaze on the ground. Only then, Gertjie’s suspicions were raised again.

  * * * *

  After the quick funeral service in the church and a procession following Neels’ coffin to the cemetery, Dominee put the men back to work. They complained, but Gertjie had made a substantial donation to the church, so the digging continued. Tomorrow was Christmas. Dominee had another matter to put to rest before he gathered his flock for the celebration.

  The women waited in the hall where the tea and refreshments had been served for the mourners. As soon as he entered, they all started speaking.

  “Now, now,” Dominee lifted his hands, “one at a time.”

  He didn’t like that Susanna and Pollie were excluded, but he had already too much on his plate, too many disasters to deal with.

  “This nativity play on Boxing Day,” Jakoba complained, “why must Pollie involve all the children? We need them to carry wood and water.”

  “It’s a good play,” Dominee said. “I’ve seen it. It’ll make a nice surprise for Mr. Harris.”

  “Impressing people is a sin,” said Gertjie. “We never needed to impress nobody before. This competition has turned us against thou neighbor. We should call the whole thing off.”

  “Against our neighbor,” Dominee corrected.

  “You wouldn’t have said that if your pig didn’t escape,” Jakoba said sternly, “besides, don’t you have some dying to do?”

  “Dominee!” Gertjie exclaimed. “Do you hear how she talks to me?”

  “Ladies. This,” Dominee cleared his throat for the business word he was going to use, “this advertising will bring a lot of business to Grayton.”

  “And sins,” Gertjie said.

  “Sins are everywhere. Isolating us isn’t going to keep them at bay. I trust in my flock.”

  “But what about the children?”

  “The men can carry firewood and water when they’ve finished setting up the tables.” The more Dominee thought about it, the more he liked the idea. It would mean having less time to sample the mampoer. “Just before supper, Pollie will bring the children down to the river singing the carols they’ve practiced. It will make a superb exhibition for Mr. Harris, and demonstrate how cultured we are.”

  A few heads nodded in agreement.

  “Maybe it’s not such a bad idea after all,” someone mumbled.

  Seeing the opportunity for reconciliation had arrived, Dominee jumped on it. “We need volunteers to help cut the sheets for the costumes, and to make the angel wings.”

  No hands went up. Dominee sighed deeply. It was tiring work being the shepherd of a divided flock.

  * * * *

  Wagons had been arriving since the week before, and Pollie went around to each family to summon the children for her nativity play. They worked none-stop in the church hall; cutting paper circles for the base of the candles the children were to carry, to protect the little hands from the hot wax. When they weren’t cutting out wings or gluing feathers, they practiced the carols, which posed an unforeseen problem, as Pollie only knew them in English, and the children spoke Afrikaans. The words came out all wrong, but as long as the melody was there, Pollie decided to let it slide. Next year she’d make a better effort and start longer in advance.

  Her turkey was slaughtered and plucked. The stuffing was made. The day after tomorrow it would go in the clay oven for six hours, which meant Pollie had to start before daybreak if she wanted to be ready with the children at sunset.

  She walked to the river where her mother-in-law was preparing a space for their Boxing Day cooking fire.

  “Hello, Ma,” she said as soon as she saw Susanna with a grass broom in the hand, sweeping around a clearing.

  “Pollie, you must let me teach you the secrets of my game pot.” Swoosh. Swoosh. The broom kicked up dust.

  Pollie looked at her mother-in-law with a little frown. “Are you alright, Ma?”

  “What would be wrong with me? If you think I’m going to keel over like a wet fish and die like Gertjie, you had better think again. Do you think I’m weak?”

  “No, Ma.”

  “You know I don’t have a daughter to hand my craft down to, and if the baby you’re carrying is a girl, you don’t want to teach her silly turkey recipes.”

  Pollie smiled. “Yes, Ma.”

  “And you mustn’t feel too bad if nobody eats your turkey. Grayton is a God-fearing, tradition-fast community.”

  “Yes, Ma.”

  “Where’s Hendrik? I need him to move these branches for me.” She pointed at a heap of wood on the side.

  “Still digging auntie Gertjie’s grave. And afterwards the men are going to cut down the tree to put up in front of the church.”

  Susanna stopped sweeping and sighed. “The tree would have been up by now if it wasn’t for Gertjie’s ippiconners.”

  “What’s ippiconners, Ma?”

  Susanna waved impatiently. “You know—this thing from which she’s always dying. She’s been dying for years now.”

  Pollie stifled a laugh. “Oh, you mean hypochondria.”

  “Whatever. Why are you here?” Susanna said, as if wondering for the first time why Pollie came down to the river.

  “The children have almost finished the decorations. We have pinecones and sugar biscuits on ribbons and Jakoba made a star for the top. What else do you normally hang on the tree?”

  Susanna pulled her nose up. “In my day we didn’t have a tree. All this tree stuff is new nonsense, blown over with the South-Easter from Cape Town, no doubt.”

  “Alright. I’ll go then to send the children out to play while we adults wrap the gifts.”

  “Gifts,” Susanna said with disdain. “Didn’t have those in my day.”

  “It’s just little things the women and men made. I’m sure it’ll make the kids happy.”

  “You’re spoiling them.” Susanna started sweeping again. “Only God knows how my grandchild is going to turn out.”

  * * * *

  Christmas Day arrived bright and sunny. The youngsters had been up as early as their parents, eager for the gifts that awaited on the communal tree. The men had chopped down a young pine tree and carted it on Marthinus’ wagon to town, where it was pulled in place with ropes, and planted into a hole they had dug.

  “I’ve dug far too many holes during the last two days,” Dirk had complained, but Hendrik just winked at his wife, who was the overseer of the decorations.

  They had worked well into the night, when the children had been sent to bed. Seeing their faces now, Pollie thought everyone in town should be glad they had made the effort with the tree.

  Parcels wrapped in oilcloth and tied with string hung from the branches. The boys’ ones were marked with a green leave, and the girls’ with a flower. The kids scampered around to collect random gifts. There were oxen and horses carved from wood for the boys, and small ragdolls for the girls. The campers and townsfolk gathered under the tree to
exchange gifts. Jakoba got a set of polished ox bone serviette rings, and Susanna got the coffee grinder she so badly wanted. For Hendrik there was a new pair of shoes, and for Pollie a roll of fabric from Cape Town for maternity dresses. Susanna saw with satisfaction that Dirk immediately lit his pipe that came with a bag of tobacco, and her Hendrik admired his pocketknife. Even Dominee’s bag was stocked with jars of apricot jam and peach chutney, green grapes preserved in brandy, and curried fish conserve.

  After the gift exchange, the townspeople left to get ready for the service, while those who camped by the river went back to their wagons to have coffee and rusks for breakfast, and to clean up and get dressed in their Sunday best.

  Dominee exceeded all his previous services by breaking a new preaching time record.

  “My bum is getting sore on this wooden bench,” Dirk complained, which earned him an elbow in the ribs from Susanna.

  There wasn’t a living soul in a hundred mile radius who wasn’t in attendance. It was the biggest show ever, which inspired Dominee’s extended deliverance. When Dominee’s message had been served, people mingled outside, catching up on news, and then scattered to their dwellings or a shady spot under a tree to rest as God Himself had done on the seventh day of creating the world.

  * * * *

  On Boxing Day, the coffee fires were lit long before dawn. The baking, chopping, cooking and grilling started before the first cock crowed. The area around the river where the women prepared their dishes on open fires, or in anthills hollowed out for ovens, was bustling with activity and excitement. Orders were called out, instructions given, and from time to time each one would stop what he or she was doing to peer over the shoulder of a neighbor at her cooking. Jakoba’s efforts evoked the most curiosity and discussion.

  “What’s so special about smoking beef sausage?” Susanna said with her nose in the air. “My grandmother smoked snoek long before it became a fashion. Jakoba’s only smoking the whole campsite out like a beehive. Before dusk we’ll all smell of root.”

  “We’re smelling of root anyway, as we’re spending the day in front of this fire,” Dirk remarked.