by Sally Andrew
I could smell when the rusk dough was ready. I let it cool, then cut it into chunks and put it back in the oven to dry out.
For lunch, I ate green beans and chicken-liver pate (made with apple and old brown sherry). Then I went back to the garden. As the shadows got long, I had some coffee with a delicious muesli rusk. I wondered whether Henk was coming for dinner. I would be happy with rusks and leftovers, but if he was coming I’d make a proper meal, maybe bake a sweet-potato cake.
I called Henk on his cell phone but got no answer, so I tried him at the police station.
‘Ladismith-polisiestasie,’ answered a woman in a lazy Sunday-evening voice.
‘Could you put me through to Detective Lieutenant Kannemeyer, please,’ I said in Afrikaans, in a Monday-morning voice.
‘He is not in today.’
‘Are you sure? He said—’
‘Ja, lady, I’m sure. It’s his day off.’
‘Oh.’
‘Can I take a message? He can call you back tomorrow.’
‘No. No thanks.’
I put down the phone and looked at my veldskoene. I suddenly felt hungry for cake.
The phone rang. It was Henk.
‘Maria. I saw a missed call from you.’
‘Ja.’ There was mud on the side of my veldskoene that the doormat had not caught. ‘Um. I was just thinking about making supper.’
‘I’m going to be late; I won’t be able to make it. Sorry.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘Okay.’
‘Maria . . . Are you all right?’
I heard what sounded like a bleat. As if he had Kosie with him.
‘Where are you, Henk?’
‘I’m working late.’
‘I called your office.’
I heard a woman’s voice in the background. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, maybe because my mind had moved to the sweet-potato cake recipe. I would dig up those potatoes, and I always had flour, cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla essence in my cupboard. I also had some cream cheese for the icing.
‘Sorry, I have to go,’ he said. ‘I’m in a meeting.’
The phone went dead, and I felt worried. Did I have walnuts? They were really important. I went and searched in my cupboard. I found the 150g packet of walnuts behind the baking powder. Phew. I now had all the ingredients that I needed for the sweet-potato cake.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I woke with the birds on Monday morning. They were all chirpy, but I was tired and had a sore stomach, after a night with bad dreams. Not the usual nightmares, but other stuff, about Henk. Dreams that I did not want to remember, because they were nonsense; Henk and I were fine. But even after my supper of sweet-potato cake with walnut and cream-cheese icing, I couldn’t forget that he’d lied to me, and that I had heard that woman’s voice.
Did I really know Henk? I shook my head to shake these thoughts away.
I warmed up yesterday’s breakfast leftovers and ate them at the kitchen table. I wasn’t in the mood for the pretty sunrise on the veld. I put the remaining sweet-potato cake in the fridge, in case I needed it later. Though I wasn’t sure this cake was the right one for the job. It had helped me last night, but this morning my belly still felt worried. This was a new kind of problem for me, one I hadn’t had before. To do with getting very close to a man, too close maybe . . .
The sun hit the stoep; it was time to go to work. I packed a tin of muesli rusks and set off in my blue bakkie.
I drove through the fresh green veld to town and parked outside the Gazette behind Jessie’s red scooter. I walked down the path between the succulents. One of them had a shiny yellow flower. As I got closer, I could hear Hattie and Jessie arguing in their friendly kind of way.
‘Ag, no, Hattie,’ said Jessie, ‘you’ve cut the meat out of my story.’
‘Fiddlesticks, Jessie,’ said Hattie. ‘There’s plenty of substance here without your unfounded allegations. And the article is too long anyway.’
‘But you said I could do a feature article.’
‘You know jolly well the length of a feature article, and yours was two paragraphs too long.’
‘But if we move the advert to—’
‘Jessie! When will you—’
They saw me at the door. Hattie caught her next words before they hit Jessie, and Jessie grinned at me.
‘Tannie Maria,’ Jessie said.
‘I’ve made some muesli rusks,’ I said.
‘Lekker,’ said Jessie. ‘I was just discussing my article on Slimkat Kabbo with Hattie. Have you seen it? The unedited version?’
‘No, not yet,’ I said.
‘The discussion is over,’ said Hattie.
Jessie shook her head but did not speak.
‘Good morning, Maria,’ Hattie said to me. ‘Although you look like you didn’t have a good night.’
‘Oh, I’m all right,’ I said, turning on the kettle. ‘I had a nice weekend.’
‘Oh, ja, and what did you do?’ said Jessie, winking at me.
My face felt hot, and I looked down at the letters on my desk. Three envelopes and two printed emails.
‘Hey,’ said Jessie. ‘The mechanic. How did that go?’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I want to hear about what happened in Oudtshoorn.’ I set aside my letters and prepared us tea and coffee.
‘Ja, well, I told you about the hemlock. It was something I wanted to add to the article.’ She looked at Hattie.
‘Hemlock?’ said Hattie. ‘Sounds like a witch’s brew.’
‘It’s a fatal poison, and they found it in Slimkat’s stomach,’ said Jessie.
‘Maria also mentioned a poison. Have the police released an official report?’
‘No. It was the doctor who told Slimkat’s cousin, Ystervark. I went to visit his family in Oudtshoorn.’
‘Your article says his family are from the Kuruman area in the Northern Cape,’ said Hattie.
‘Ja, his parents are, but he’s also got family down here in Oudtshoorn. There’s not enough work up there in Kuruman, and they weren’t allowed to hunt. That’ll change now, after the land victory.’
‘So what did you learn from his family?’ Hattie asked.
‘They’re really awesome people. There’s a lot I didn’t put in that article, Hattie. That I learnt after I sent it to you. A lot of fishy business.’
Hattie sighed and said, ‘Does that mean a whole fishing basket of unsubstantiated allegations that may lead to libel action from big business?’
‘Hattie, don’t be like that. The Bushmen have been through hell. For centuries. And if journalists were scared to speak out against big business, we would have got nowhere by now.’
‘Speaking out using well-researched data is one thing. By all means, we can have an article on the historical abuse of the Bushmen. But to insinuate that a respected mining company or a cattle company is responsible for a murder . . . A murder that isn’t even yet on public record—’
‘Ever since they took up the land-claims case they’ve had death threats. Not just to Slimkat but other Bushman leaders too.’
‘What are the police saying?’
I passed Hattie her tea, and Jessie her coffee, and gave them each a rusk.
‘I met with the investigating officer,’ said Jessie, ‘a woman called Detective Mostert. Same surname as me, but no relation. Or none she’s likely to admit to – she’s a white lady. I told her it might have been the diamond miners or the cattle farmers who murdered Slimkat. Angry when they’d lost the court case. I asked her what she knew, but all she said is, “the case is under investigation” and that I must “wait for official reports, as irresponsible reporting could jeopardise the investigation”.’
‘I hope you paid attention to that, Jessie,’ said Hattie.
‘Ag, the police are full of nonsense,’ said Jessie. ‘Ystervark told me they were asking questions as if someone in the Bushman community might’ve killed Slimkat. They asked if the hemlock
was something a Bushman medicine man might use. They were also looking for an old shaman woman as if she might have done it.’
‘Well, for all you know, they may be right,’ said Hattie. ‘Most murders take place between people who know each other, after all. Maybe there was some feud between Slimkat and this old lady, and they’ve been hexing each other.’
Jessie snorted and then dipped her beskuit into her coffee. ‘I am worried the police are barking up the wrong tree. I’d like to spend some more time on the case.’
‘For goodness sake, Jessie, this is not a case – it is an article. And it’s written and edited now. Leave the police work to the Oudtshoorn police.’
Jessie frowned, shook her head and bit into the beskuit.
‘Jirre. These beskuit are awesome,’ she said, the frown disappearing.
Hattie nibbled on hers and said, ‘Gosh, yes, they are nice.’
I took a sip of my coffee and smiled. I was always glad when my food was a peacemaker.
‘Hey, Tannie M,’ said Jessie. ‘I saw your Detective Kannemeyer yesterday. He had that lamb with him.’ She laughed. ‘In the Oudtshoorn police station. I didn’t talk to him. He was meeting with Detective Mostert. Reghardt tells me Kannemeyer’s helping out there. As a volunteer, in his off-time.’
I put down my coffee cup and took in a big breath and let it out again.
‘Tannie M?’ said Jess. ‘You okay?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I felt a lot better after Jessie’s news, though my stomach was still a little sore.
I was worried about Slimkat’s death, but Hattie was right, it was for the Oudtshoorn police to handle. And I was glad Kannemeyer was helping them. His job was to be a policeman and mine was to answer letters.
I picked up the pink envelope with a Ladismith postmark on the top of my pile. I wanted to ask Jessie what the policewoman, Mostert, looked like, but that would’ve been silly. Henk works with policewomen all the time, and it had never bothered me before. What had happened to me? Was it all because we’d got so . . . close? I pulled my attention back to the letter in front of me.
Dear Tannie Maria,
I don’t know what to do. My darling sweetheart (who I will call Ginger) is not willing to go public about our love. I want to get married and shout it from the rooftops. It’s not because she doesn’t love me. We adore each other, and she has agreed to marry me.
We have been best friends since we were 12, and lovers since we were 15. When she visits me, we spend hours just kissing and looking into each other’s eyes (okay and some other things too). She makes my heart sing like a fish eagle and her eyes light up when she sees me.
The main problem is her father, who is a very religious man (her mother died long ago). Ginger still lives with him, although she is 19 (like me) and has a job. Because of her worry about him and what he will think, we hardly even hold hands in public (well, only under the table).
She thinks he has started to get suspicious about us, because he has been reading her passages from the bible about Sodom and Gomorrah, so she has been even more restrained. We have to make up for it by holding each other very tight when we are alone. We lie entwined, saying our special names to each other.
I cannot give up on my beloved; she is my angel, my delight, my sweetcakes. But I cannot go on hiding my love. It crushes my very soul. I think I must tell her father straight that there is no sin in love. To deny and hide it is the sin.
Yours in turmoil,
Meg
Dear Meg,
You are right: it is no sin. Your love is a wonderful thing. But the truth is that people in small towns sometimes have small minds. And some religions are conservative and are never going to change. If you are open about your love, you may get a lot of bad responses. I think your love is too young and sweet to deal with all that bitterness. It sounds like Ginger does not feel ready for that.
I suggest that you and Ginger leave the town you are in. Go away from her father and others who may judge you.
If you don’t want to go far, you could try Barrydale, which is more open-minded and has a lot of gay people living there. Or move to a big city like Cape Town or Johannesburg, where there is much more freedom. There you will find a minister who can marry you when you are both ready. You are young, there is no rush.
I spent some time thinking what recipe to give to these lovers, Ginger and Meg. Something they’d enjoy making and eating, and that they could give to Ginger’s father to soften him up. Something sweet, of course. Koeksisters! Those two pieces of slim dough, twisted tightly around each other. Soaked in syrup spiced with ginger and nutmeg. Yes, that was perfect.
After I’d typed up the recipe for her, my mind stayed on the subject of ginger. I thought it might be just the thing for my problem: the strange kind of worry that I’d felt since Kannemeyer and I had become lovers (lovers, the word Meg used). Ginger is spicy and exciting but also soothing. And it is good for indigestion. I had a delicious recipe for a ginger cake, with icing made from condensed milk and lemon juice.
I opened another letter in a brown envelope. It was written on lined paper and in careful big handwriting, like a school essay. It was not from a child but an old man. It was in Afrikaans, but here is the translation:
Dear Tannie Maria,
I have lived many years now. I have cooked many rabbit stews and they are good. But a new recipe is welcome from you. A bigger problem is I would like to know what to do with rabbit ears. Every part of the animal has a good use for eating or making something. Nothing is wasted. My grandfather would know what to do with the ears but he is gone long ago. And now most people buy their meat from the Spar. Even the butcher does not know what to do with rabbit ears.
But I also have another problem, which is even bigger. You are with the newspaper and the newspaper can change things. I have been to the council, but they do not have ears for what an old man like me has to say.
I live outside Ladismith, not far from Route 62, close to a corner with a rocky koppie on one side and the Groot River on the other. The cars go fast here, and every day I go to the road, and many days I find a dead animal there. Sometimes an animal that is not dead, and I put it out of its suffering. The animals cross over to come and drink at the river. It is very bad manners to kill them like that.
I have started to dig a tunnel under the road. I used to work in a mine, so I know what I am doing. But the ground is hard and my hands have arthritis, so it is very slow. There are more animals getting killed than I can eat. My freezer is small, but I make biltong and coats.
Two weeks ago, I found a new kind of rabbit in a donga, the ditch beside the road. Smaller than the rabbits I have seen before. It was not dead, and I was going to end its suffering, but then I saw that only its leg was broken, and maybe I could fix it. It was shaking all over. I wrapped it in my shirt and I carried it home. I made a splint for its leg with some sticks and gave it water and a carrot.
This rabbit is now getting strong, but she is still limping. She likes to lie under my bed. I feed her grass from the veld, and carrots. I keep her in the house away from the jackal and the rooikat. She sits by the window in the sunshine. She is every day reminding me to dig that tunnel, but I am not as strong as I used to be. Can your newspaper ask the council to dig a tunnel for the animals? And they must make those speed bumps that will slow the drivers down when they get to that corner by the river.
I would be very grateful and so would Donga (that is her name because that’s where I found her).
I have some good recipes I was going to give you for porcupine. A stew with butter beans and red wine. Also a way to braai the skin so it is crispy and fat. Like pork crackling. But my fingers are sore now from all that writing.
Jan Magiel
PO Box 47
Ladismith
6655
Sjoe, I thought. I would need help with that one. My mother had cooked us rabbit sometimes when I was young, but I
didn’t know her recipe, and I couldn’t remember anything about ears. I would look through her cookbooks when I got home.
‘Jessie,’ I said. ‘Look at this letter. Maybe you can interview this old man. Write an article.’
Jessie took the letter from me and read it fast. She had done a speed-reading course at university; her eyes moved like lightning, and her lips didn’t move at all.
‘Hmm. Ja. I am writing a weekly environmental article, and this could be a good one. I’ll interview the old man and the council too. I think I know the corner where he lives . . . that little shack against the hills. What do you think, Hattie?’
She handed the letter to Hattie.
‘Fabulous,’ said Hattie, when she’d read it through (not as fast as Jessie but faster than me). ‘Human interest. Environmental issues. A nice change from libellous murder allegations.’
‘Well, there is the murder of all those wild animals.’
‘Murder is an intended action; these are accidents.’
‘If the council could take action to prevent the deaths and they don’t, then maybe it is murder. Or at least culpable homicide.’
‘Don’t you mean bunnicide?’ said Hattie.
‘It’s not funny,’ said Jessie, but she was smiling. ‘Animals have rights too.’
Hattie sighed and said, ‘Just write the piece, Jessie, and I’ll look at it when it’s done. If you want to avoid my edits, make it an environmental article, not a murder story.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
On the way home, I picked up the ingredients at the Spar for the ginger cake. There was a special on Karoo cream, so I bought two bottles. And on pork shank, so I bought a kilogram of that. I chatted to Tannie Elna le Grange. Elna had spoken to the cousin of the woman who’d stabbed her boyfriend in the heart; the woman had said that although she was in jail, she’d never felt so free. Then Elna told me that she’d heard that Bushmen and satanists were dancing around a fire outside Ladismith, and the Dutch Reformed Church was getting worried.
