by Sally Andrew
She looked up and gave me a bright smile, then clapped her hands together like a kindergarten teacher on the first day of school.
The room was clean, the walls lemon-yellow. There was an orange couch and a white plastic table, and in the corner, on the floor, a box of children’s toys. High up was a long narrow window with white curtains that waved softly in the breeze. Between the curtains, I could see a grey-blue piece of the Swartberge and a section of sky.
‘So how can I help you, Mrs, um,’ she looked down at her clipboard again, ‘van Harten.’
‘Ah,’ I said.
‘English or Afrikaans?’ asked the poppie.
‘Um . . .’
Her questions seemed so difficult. I looked at the window.
‘Are you cold? Shall I close the window?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘No, thank you. I like fresh air.’
I struggled to sit up straight in the armchair; it seemed to be swallowing me. She was perched on the edge of hers, her head tilted to the side, like a bird. Her birdie-poppie eyes were bright, but it did not feel like she could see me. How could I describe to her the dark things from my past that still live inside my head? And my very personal problems with Henk?
‘What’s on your mind?’ she asked.
I stared down at my hands.
‘How about,’ she said, ‘just to get us warmed up, I’ll give you some abstract pictures to look at, and you tell me what they remind you of.’ She pulled some sheets from her clipboard and handed three of them to me. ‘Just look at the top one and tell me what it reminds you of.’
That was easy. ‘It’s a pumpkin fritter with lots of syrup and butter.’
‘Okay. And how does that make you feel?’
‘Hungry.’
‘Okay. Let’s have a look at the next picture, shall we? What can you see there?’
‘A group of people dancing around a fire. And on the fire is a potjie pot, with lamb potjie in it. And here, in the middle of the flames, are two big black eyes staring at me. They can see right into me.’
‘What do they see?’
I shrugged.
‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘What do you think of the third picture?’
I looked at that one for a while.
‘Arms and legs and blood,’ I said. ‘There’s a woman who’s been torn in half, and a man who has been stabbed in the heart. See, here is the knife. And they have both been run over by a tractor; look at the tyre marks. They are all flat and squishy, like a pumpkin fritter.’
‘All right!’ she said, sitting so far forward in her armchair I thought she would fall onto the carpet. ‘And how does that make you feel?’
‘Hungry?’ I said. ‘It’s nearly lunch time, isn’t it?’
‘Hmm,’ she said, and wrote something on her clipboard.
I swallowed. ‘My boyfriend . . .’ I said. The word felt funny on my tongue, at my age.
‘Mm?’
‘Henk. He wanted me to get help. He thinks I’m traumatised after my kidnapping. There was a murderer . . .’
‘You were kidnapped?’
‘And locked in a freezer, but I escaped, although he nearly shot me, with his bow and arrow.’
‘Gosh,’ said the poppie.
‘But it’s not that, it’s not that giving me the trouble.’
‘The trouble?’
‘Nightmares and shaking and that. Anyway, I haven’t wanted to tell Henk, but I know my troubles are not about the murderer. He’s dead and gone. My trouble is with him, Henk, coming in to my life. Getting close and all that,’ I said.
‘You are finding intimacy with him difficult?’
‘No. Yes. What do you mean by intimacy? I really want it to work out. But it’s just getting worse. Getting close to him makes me worse. It brings up the trouble. Especially when we . . . if we . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Isn’t our time up?’ I said.
She glanced at her little silver watch. ‘No, we still have plenty of time.’
She looked at me, and I was quiet. She lifted her eyebrows to help me continue, but I held my mouth closed. It just wasn’t right to tell this young girl about my private life. I looked at the window. The curtains were still now. Still and heavy.
‘Mrs van Harten,’ she said. ‘Perhaps tell me about some of the difficult feelings you have. And anything you have noticed that makes your feelings better or worse.’
I sat thinking on what she said. A little breeze moved the curtains again. A Karoo robin caught my eye as it flew past the window.
‘That’s an interesting question,’ I said.
I tried again to sit up, but my feet didn’t quite reach the floor and that armchair wasn’t letting go, so I just leant back into it.
‘When I feel worried,’ I said, ‘potato salad – with cream and mint – makes it a lot better. I still feel lonely sometimes, although it’s a different kind of loneliness from the one I used to have, before Henk. In some ways it’s worse, because he’s right there, but . . . Anyway. Cake. Chocolate cake helps with loneliness. And with frustration, if it’s a good cake, that is – a satisfying one. With peanut butter. Cakes help with lots of problems. And you get so many different flavours. But you know, now that I think about it, you have to be careful. If you are feeling guilty, for example, and you eat chocolate cake, it can make it worse. Of course, cakes are perfect for celebrating. But you asked about difficult feelings . . .’
I was excited now and waving my hands about. This was important stuff. And very helpful for my recipe advice column. I should make a chart of foods to go with each of the problem feelings.
‘Shame . . . and guilt – these are my most difficult feelings,’ I said. ‘I can’t sleep and I shake and I remember . . . things. I see things that happened long ago as if they are happening now in front of my eyes.’ I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. ‘And I’m scared of what might happen, in the future.’
I paddled myself forward with my hands so that I was now on the front of my armchair, my feet back on the floor.
‘I must give it more thought . . . I’ve been eating chocolate cake for shame, and I don’t think it’s the right thing. I think maybe I need something lighter.’ I looked at the orange chairs and yellow walls. ‘With citrus. Maybe a lemon meringue pie . . .’
‘Mrs van Harten . . .’
‘Call me Maria,’ I said, feeling friendly now that the counselling was helping me so nicely. ‘Tannie Maria.’
‘Tannie Maria, do you maybe eat as a way of escaping your feelings?’
‘No . . .’ I said. ‘I’m trying to help. To help my feelings. Trying to feel better.’
She looked down at her skinny legs and then up at me, her eyes running across my length and width.
‘Have you ever been on a diet, Tannie Maria?’
CHAPTER SEVEN
I sat at my stoep table with the first diet meal of my life in front of me. Cucumber, lettuce, tomato and a boiled egg. No dressing. I wondered if I should eat the diet pills before or after the meal. The counsellor had recommended these pills, and I’d picked them up from the chemist on the way home. I decided to have them after my lunch, like pudding.
I looked through the diet sheet she’d given me and shook my head. I’d never use these recipes in my column; they gave punishment instead of comfort. Punishment to those who enjoy food and have a little padding.
I clicked my tongue and looked out onto my lawn. Two of my hens were scratching through the compost heap, their rust-brown feathers fluffing up as they pecked at tasty treats. The other three were lying in the shade of the lemon tree. It was a warm day but not too hot – the right weather for Welsh rarebit. I looked at the boiled egg on my plate; it would go so well with a piece of buttered toast and a creamy sauce made with cheddar.
I distracted myself while I ate, by answering one of the letters I’d brought home with me. The handwriting was beautiful but spidery, and the paper was thin, almost see-through.
Dearest Tannie Maria, it said
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There is a man I fancy who is quite a bit younger than me. I think he may fancy me too. He definitely fancies my shortbread.
When it comes to love, does age matter? Or is it just a number?
The man has a sweet tooth and I need some more treats for him. Maybe something savoury too. I think variety may keep him visiting more often, don’t you think?
Here’s my mother’s excellent shortbread recipe for you. She was a fine baker.
Yours faithfully,
A lass almost in love
Hmm, I thought, nothing says ‘kom kuier weer’ – come visit again – like Hertzoggies, those little coconut jam tarts that General Hertzog used to love. I thanked the Scottish lass for her mother’s shortbread recipe and sent her my mother’s recipe for Hertzoggies.
I told her that age doesn’t matter (unless the boy is under sixteen, of course, and then you must make sure the only treats you give him are the ones above the table). And I gave her a recipe for cheese scones made with mature cheddar. As cheddar matures, the quality and flavour improves.
Your young man may realise that mature women are more delicious.
The diet pills made a poor pudding, but reading and writing those delicious recipes helped a bit. The phone rang. It was Henk. His voice was warm and sweet like hot chocolate, and it made a smile run through my whole body.
‘Are you doing all right?’ he asked.
‘I went to see someone today . . . She put me on diet.’
‘Ag, no, you need a counsellor, not a diet-lady. There are counsellors who come here to the police station. They help crime victims.’
‘I’m not a victim,’ I said. ‘And she is a counsellor. She thinks I use food to escape my feelings. And that I’m fat.’
‘Rubbish, you’re lovely.’
‘She says I should exercise too. You don’t think I need to go on diet?’
‘You’re the best cook, and your body is just right. Sorry, I must go now. I’ll come see you tonight?’
‘I don’t know what I’ll cook, with this diet and all—’
‘Forget the diet,’ he said. ‘See you later, bokkie.’
Bokkie. He called me bokkie. A little buck. My body was just right, he said. It was worth going through some trouble to get close to a man like that. I could at least try following the poppie’s advice . . . Maybe going for a walk would take my mind off food.
I put on my veldskoene – my comfortable leather veld shoes – and headed out of my garden gate. It opened into the veld, and I walked on a narrow animal-path between the small bushes and succulents. The sun was hot, and I wished I’d brought a hat. I followed the path towards my old friend, the gwarrie tree. I sat down in its shade, a little out of breath, on a low branch.
‘Hello, Gwarrie,’ I said. It was a very old tree, maybe even a thousand years old, with thick rough bark and dark wrinkled leaves.
I thought of what Slimkat had said: ‘The land doesn’t belong to us; we belong to the land.’
I could see by the little piles of shining bokdrolletjies on the ground that the tree was used to visitors. The little buck poos looked a lot like chocolate peanuts. I wondered if that is how the sport of bokdrolletjie-spitting began.
A flock of mousebirds landed in the upper branches. They had scruffy hairstyles and long tails. When they saw me, they chirruped and flew away. My worries seemed to fly away too.
A breeze picked up and brought with it a sweet, unusual smell. I looked around for what it might be and saw a patch of grey-green bushes with flowers of little yellow balls. I walked to them and bent down to sniff. The smell filled my nostrils and tickled the back of my throat on its way down to my lungs. It was something like lemons but was also sweet like honey. My thoughts scratched in the back of my mind trying to find just what it smelt like. Maybe it was a smell-memory, passed down from the faraway days when we all used to hunt and gather like Bushmen. I stopped trying to name it and started on the path back home.
The vygie bushes were filled with dried seed pods, but now and again there were small flowers on the ground that had jumped up after the little bit of rain: a pale purple orchid, a tiny bunch of Karoo violets.
Then, maybe because I had stopped trying, I remembered what that smell reminded me of. It was Japie se Gunsteling – that famous orange and lemon pudding – Japie’s Favourite – from my mother’s cookbook, Kook en Geniet. Cook and Enjoy. I would make some for Henk tonight. The walk home was much quicker, and I picked a lemon from the tree as I passed through my garden, into the house.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When I’d finished cooking, I showered and put on my nice underwear. I dabbed a little perfume behind my ears and between my breasts.
The phone rang, and I went to answer it, wearing only my panties and bra. It was Henk. I blushed, even though I knew he couldn’t see me.
‘I’ve made a pudding for you,’ I said. ‘I’ve changed Japie se Gunsteling to Henk’s Favourite. I didn’t have enough orange juice, so I used my homemade Van der Hum instead.’ Henk just loved my naartjie liqueur.
‘I’m sorry, Maria. I can’t make it tonight.’
I sat down on the chair beside the phone table.
‘I have to leave town for a few days,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Has something happened?’
He was quiet a moment, and then he said, ‘We agreed you wouldn’t get involved with my work. You know how I feel about dragging you into anything dangerous . . .’
We’d had this discussion a few times before. After the death of his first wife, he couldn’t face the idea of losing me. He’d been very upset when I was nearly killed by that murderer.
I asked, ‘Has someone been killed?’
He didn’t reply. It was getting dark now, and the first toads started calling in their deep cracked voices.
‘Did it happen in Oudtshoorn?’ I asked. I could smell the orange pudding caramelising.
‘Maria, this is what I wanted to avoid. I’m sorry, I must go now.’
In my underwear and oven gloves, I took out the hot pudding. It was perfect, all golden-brown on top.
‘I am so sorry,’ I said to Henk’s Favourite.
I phoned Jessie and told her about my call from Henk. ‘I’m worried about Slimkat,’ I said.
‘I’ve been a bit worried too,’ she said. ‘I called him just now but got no reply.’
‘Has Reghardt said anything to you?’ I asked. Reghardt worked with Henk and was Jessie’s boyfriend.
‘Just that he’s busy tonight,’ she said. ‘I’m going to Oudtshoorn first thing tomorrow. For the festival. I’ll find out what’s happening and let you know.’
I ate my diet dinner and listened to a frog calling for its mate.
The pudding cooled, and I put it in the freezer.
The frogs and crickets sang me to sleep. But then my nightmares woke me. I heard myself shouting, ‘No! No!’
It’s lucky my neighbours are far away, or they might have come running to see if someone was being killed.
When the sweating stopped, I was left with the shame shaking through my body. My body remembered things that my mind tried to forget. I went to the bathroom and wiped my face with a wet cloth. And then I went to the kitchen, because the kitchen was my best friend.
Although my hands were still shaking, they got the pudding from the freezer into the oven. My fingers and head felt far from each other, but I managed not to break anything. As I waited for the pudding to get hot, I watched Venus rising. The planet seemed so very far away.
When Henk’s Favourite was ready, I sat on the stoep and ate that warm orange pudding until my mouth and hands and belly came closer together; even Venus felt closer. Finally I was whole again, and the shaking stopped.
CHAPTER NINE
I drove in early to the Gazette that morning. The Karoo hills looked soft and quiet in the dawn light, as if they were still sleeping. The sunrise painted the sky a baby pink and blue. As I drove, it looked like the hills were rolling over in
their veld beds. They had a better night’s rest than me, I’m sure.
The troubles from my past sat heavy on me, and on top of them were fresh worries about Slimkat. I wished I could chuck my problems out the car window. I felt the cool morning breeze on my face. I sighed. And the wind blew the sigh back into my mouth.
I let myself into the office and looked at the tin of buttermilk rusks that lived on my desk. Was there any point in having coffee without beskuit? Although the orange pudding had interfered a bit, I was still trying with that diet. For breakfast, I’d eaten a fruit salad.
Hattie had printed out some emails for me and left them on my desk. And there was that letter from the teenager who wasn’t ready for sex. She was worried her boyfriend might leave her. It’s not unreasonable for a man to expect his girlfriend to be his lover. Otherwise they are just friends. He may have patience for a while, but how long can it last? But it didn’t feel fair to say these things to the seventeen year old.
I picked up another letter, an email this time, with yesterday’s date on it.
Dear Tannie Maria,
I wonder if you remember me.
It is because of your letters that we started the Ostrich Supper Club. You got us to meet each other at the Farmers Co-op in Oudtshoorn. I was so shy before that (what with the scars after the accident), and the Supper Club has helped me so much. I’ve started to feel almost normal, and now I’m dating one of the people in the club.
Anyway, at this year’s arts festival, our Ostrich Supper Club is doing a little project with the sponsorship of some ostrich farmers. We have made an ostrich recipe booklet (including some of your great recipes!) and we are having a cooking demonstration and a small dinner at one of the stalls near the beer tent tomorrow night. I hope you are attending the KKNK, and it would be so wonderful if you could come as our guest of honour. You started the whole thing going, and we are all big fans of your ‘Love Advice and Recipe Column’. Sorry for the last-minute notice, but we are a bit deurmekaar when it comes to planning. We are better at eating and chatting and drinking red wine.
