Bluestocking

• Introduction
• Table of Contents and Chapter Summary
• Sample Chapter: The Latin Names of Plants
• Sample Chapter: Old Books to a Dark Continent
• Sample Chapter: Miss Tessa’s Room
• Sample Chapter: North Country

Introduction

Before Bluestocking came Kites of Good Fortune, which had as narrator Anna de Koning, my grandmother eleven generations back. It has been said that the story of Annie Bergh, her Swedish husband and her Bengali mother is not an historical novel in the conventional sense. I agree; it was a long first chapter in my autobiography. Bluestocking is the second, even longer, chapter.

My middle name is Anna. It is a strong palindromic name, which I inherited from my grandmother, ‘mooi’ Annie Bergh. Her face was familiar; her portrait hung on the wall in my mother’s bedroom next to the medicine cabinet. The stories about her were mostly sad. I could not imagine a smile on that serious face on the wall. Half martyr, half saint, her presence hovered in the ether, casting a gloomy shadow. She had died of breast cancer in her early fifties, when my mother was eleven. Her eldest child was eighteen and the youngest three.

For many years I suppressed my middle name perhaps, subconsciously, thinking it might be bad luck. My Aunt Anna, whom I met on a few occasions, had enough bad luck to drive her a little batty. Then I made a discovery. Apartheid was in its hey day and I was riding the wave of my rebellion against my upbringing. Hypocrisy was my foremost foe. With like-minded friends I went to listen to a lecture by Dr H. F. Heese on his research for Groep Sonder Grense (Group without Borders). I soon discovered that my acknowledged Swedish ancestor, Olof Bergh, revered by my family for his blue blood, blue eyes and blond hair, had a beautiful illegitimate, half- Bengali wife with brown eyes and black hair. If my family knew the facts about Anna de Koning’s mixed race, they had been careful to conceal them. Where I grew up blue-blond was best; admitting to Bengali-brown out of the question. On the front of the publication supporting the lecture, was the ghoulish portrait of the ancestor of whom I had been taught to be proud despite the slur on his character in the history books of the time. His name made me glow with pride though his image was a disappointment. The real revelation was on the back cover: another portrait, another Anna - the original Anna - ‘Anna de Koning, daughter of Angela of Bengal, wife of Olof Bergh’. There it was, in black and white, the other side of the story. The pretty face stared at me and I imagined her smiling. Over her shoulder I could almost make out the ghost of her mother. You belong to me, I thought, we belong together. I will find out about you and let the whole world know.

It took twenty years before I would be able to examine my lineage and write Kites of Good Fortune. The research was an adventure in its own right: it took me from the Cape Archives to the Botany Library in London to my husband’s large Africana library in our house in Pakistan. As I tracked Olof Bergh’s well-documented life, I began to see a life for Annie. I knew the perils of the publishing jungle. I had written, and tried to sell, a couple of ‘exercise’ books before. So, I decided to please myself: I would weave my interests around the life of Anna de Koning. Even if I had to self-publish a hundred copies, my family and friends would not only know about my heritage but would recognize my passion for plants, textiles, music, silkworms, travel, love and life.

Now there is Bluestocking, a story about another Annie Bergh and her daughter Petronellie, my mother. This time I am exploring my moral and intellectual heritage. The title is taken from an argument I had with my mother: I was twenty, much influenced by my Lit Crit English courses and highly disapproving of my mother’s library books. After some superior remark on the subject, my mother rose to her full height:

“Don’t be so high and mighty, young lady. I, too, was a bluestocking once upon a time!” The term has been used to describe intellectual women since the 18th century and was particularly popular in South Africa the 20’s and 30’s. The official mouthpiece of the South African University Women’s Association was the Bluestocking. Incidentally, one of the founders of this association was Bertha Stoneman who left her indelible stamp on my great-aunt, Nellie, who insisted that only those who knew the Latin names of plants were properly educated.

The other bluestockings were, of course, the Puritans. There is much in the novel about the imperatives of Calvinism and the way in which it shapes the lives of people. The protagonists like Ds Macaulay (the Andrew Murray character) and Alwyn Cronje (based on my father) are counter balanced by Ferdi Buccholdt (based on C. Louis Leipoldt) and Floris Romein, a fictitious composite. My mother’s character is caught in the middle and, eventually, she must decide.

When Abbie Ferguson and Anna Bliss came from America, on invitation from Dr Andrew Murray - that arch-Calvinist- to establish Huguenot College, they planted Mary Lyon’s ‘head, heart and hand’ tradition on the Dark Continent. Here Afrikaans girls were for the first time taught what their brothers learnt: Mathematics, Science, English, Latin and Greek along with Astronomy and other subjects in a formidable academic curriculum. That took care of the ‘head’ part. The ‘heart’ was trained in disciplined daily devotions and Bible study. Extra-curricular activities such as Chautauqua Circles and clubs with a focus on temperance and missionary work, served to enhance the cultural and moral life.  The ‘hand’ was employed in the practical life; girls cleaned their own rooms, made their own beds and laundered their own clothes. Only cooking was left to outside staff.

It was this way of life that I was taught. Bluestocking is a reflection on this heritage.

August 2008

Back to top... Table of Contents and Chapter Summary

Introduction
-The rationale for writing a novel about moral and intellectual roots-

1. Head Heart and Hand
- Anna Bliss and Abbie Ferguson respond to the call to found Coligny College and prepare to leave Mount Holyoke-

2. Cornerstones and Strange Children
Bertha Stoneman visits Callaghan. We meet the strange son of the Reverend Buchholdt

3. The Latin Names of Plants
Nell van Ijssel tags along while Ferdi Buchholdt shows Dr Stoneman the local flora

4. Of Mission and Manse
Theresa Campbell and Chautauqua - Mission among the Batak - Ferdi Buchholdt’s blasphemy

5. The other side of the Mountain
Braam Beyers courts Annie Oelofse - He joins the Boer commandos, captured and executed as a collaborator - Annie is sent to Callaghan to teach and get over her grief

6. At Callaghan
Life in small town Victorian South Africa - Annie teaches and meets Tol van Ijssel

7. Old Books to a Dark Continent
Annie examines a consignment of schoolbooks sent from Ipswich MA

8. A Curious way to the Altar
Annie’s musical life -How Dominee Buchholdt played the violin in Sumatra- Tol shows Annie Braam’s grave

9. Fast Forward
Petronell’s life at Baviaanskloof - about rock paintings and /Kaggen, the mantis god - hints at an unhappy marriage

10. Valley of Shadows
Annie has breast cancer- summer holidays at Lambert’s Bay- paying for experiments in spiritualism

11 Peacocks and Pomegranates
Easter at Bonvin - a Rhodes scholar returns- the end of a romance

12. Miss Tessa’s Room
Annie dies-Petronell recovers from blood poisoning in Bains Kloof - The Strait and the Narrow Ways- The Hall in the Grove - Aletta parodies a sermon on Ohola and Oholiba

13. Disgrace
Tol van Ijssel is cast out by his father - his children are sent to live with his sisters

14. A New Place
Petronell arrives in Krugersrust and learns to live the life of a grateful and deserving orphan

15. North Country
Alwyn Cronje falls in love with Petronell- she meets his family

16. Options
Dr Stoneman re-appears -Petronell chooses a career and goes to Wits

17.What you Will
Isis Unveiled - Ferdi Buchholdt speaks on the Huguenots - Petronell stars as Olivia in Twelfth Night - her friendship with Alan Herwitz widens her horizons

18. Beguiled
Under the spell of Floris Romein- an affair of the spirit - comparative religions

19. Paths
- The dedication of the Concentration Camp Memorial - Alwyn returns - Floris unmasked - Alwyn’s ultimatum - Petronell chooses

Total wordcount: 63,980

Back to top... Sample Chapter: The Latin Names of Plants

3 – The Latin names of plants

Nell van Ijssel felt important as she led Dr Stoneman along the oak-lined pedestrian walkway. Her mother had surprised her after church:
“Father wants you to show Dr Stoneman to the pastorie this afternoon, Nellsen It will give you a chance to practise your English.”
Nell’s smile lifted her cheeks into little round balls on either side of her large button nose. Her blue eyes bulged with pleasure.
“Oh, thank you, Mother! Now I get to spend the whole afternoon with her. Did you put in a good word for me? “
“Your Father wanted Gretha to go but would rather go to the prayer meeting with Miss Campbell. She was quite amazed to hear that Dominee Buccholdt would allow such worldly activity on the day of the Lord.“
“He’s been making exceptions for Ferdie ever since he went on that trip with the German botanists. Gretha is using the prayer meeting as an excuse not to spend time in Ferdie’s company. She finds him quite insufferable. Opinionated, she calls him.”
“Which he is. And getting worse as he’s getting older. His mother has completely lost control of him.”
“Oh, I don’t mind him. He does know a lot, I’ll say that for him. It’s just that he doesn’t suffer fools. But Dr Stoneman’s education makes her fool proof.”
Her mother smiled. Nell had inherited her father’s politician’s wit.
“Let’s hope her DSc is a disguise for her gender, also.”
“Oh, she’ll be alright. Ferdie told me himself it is the silliness and ignorance in most women that he despises.”
“Not just opinionated but biased as well! You watch out, Kinna, don’t believe everything that young man tells you.”
They left Dirk van Ijssel’s townhouse while everyone was still resting.
Nell took her role as tour guide seriously. She pointed out the library, the post office, the courthouse, the rectory, the magistrates house, her grandfather’s house, each punctuated with fact or anecdote. Bertha Stoneman paid only partial attention. She still marvelled the breathtaking beauty of this man-made oasis.
Two days before they arrived by coach, having passed through a landscape of arid scrubland and barren rock. Callaghan seemed like a typical one horse town. It made Bertha wonder why everyone had told her that a visit to Callaghan was an absolute must. There were two streets: Main, running north and Park veering to the east. The only obvious buildings were the jail and two churches. The Dutch gleaming white, sending its spire into the blue like a prayer and, further down Main Street, the Anglican, sombre and squat among evergreens. A high connecting white washed wall obscured the thatched houses on the opposite side of the street. The stable doors at regular intervals were firmly shut against the afternoon sun. The immediate impression was one of inhospitality.
“And this is the town?” Bertha had whispered apprehensively to Theresa Campbell.
“Don’t worry, my dear, wait ‘till you see the other side. It will take your breath away,” promised her experienced colleague.
She understood what the fuss was about as soon as she emerged from the long passage of Oom Dirk van Ijssel’s townhouse and looked out from the pergolated porch: Beyond her lay a lush paradise of flowers, shrubs and tree extending all the way to the Jakkalsrivier. Mature oak trees and shrubs blended with bamboo and banana, blossoms and blooms. Neatly trimmed lawns stretched out in reassuring orderliness. Beyond the flower gardens grew vegetables and, beyond those, the citrus orchards extended towards the marshy banks of the river to meet reeds and pampas grass. Clusters of palm trees gave the scene an exotic touch, while distant cedars echoed the name of the deckled-edged mountains that formed the backdrop to the scene. It was as though earth and sky were perfectly balanced. Most amazing was the fact that this was supposed to be the middle of winter. The poplars had shed their leaves, ashen skeletons visible in the distance.  The oaks had only partially shed their leaves, and, as though teasing winter, added autumn’s burnt ochre to the mixed bouquet of polar and tropical species.
These were the gardens belonging to the residents of Main and Park Streets. In a curious inversion, the houses faced this communal space while turning their backs on the street. A watercourse provided ample water for drinking, irrigation and bathing.  The pedestrian walkway, connecting neighbours, was known as the ‘Front Way’, indicating the proper approach to the front door. The commercial thoroughfare was dismissively called the ‘Back Way’.
From his high perch on the veranda of the pastorie, Ferdie Buccholdt saw Bertha and Nell approaching. He met them halfway as they mounted the steps.
“You’re late,” he said, “I’ve had everything ready for ages. ”
Hazel eyes met grey, reaching for the first impression, calculating the risks and boundaries, weighing reputation against the reality of age and attitude.
Before her Bertha saw a boy on the brink of manhood. His smile was challenging yet cautious as though vacillating between confidence and uncertainty. Bertha thought of all the things people had told her about him: how brilliant he was, fluent in Dutch, German and English with a working knowledge of French Latin and Greek. How he had recently become a local source for esteemed botanists like Rudolf Schlechter and Harry Bolus. His articles in the ‘The Cape Illustrated Magazine’ bore the authority of one much older. He had every right to be self-assured, so why the hesitation. Those who had briefed her attributed Ferdie’ social awkwardness to the fact that he was taught at home – a victim of his mother’s social and his father’s intellectual snobbery. Whispered in confidence was a dark tale of Mrs Buchholdt’s irrational outbursts taken out on her children in the form of tongue- and whip-lashings alike. In public she appeared to be the devoted mother and wife but, to the neighbours and servants, the turmoil in the pastorie could not be concealed.
Ferdie was surprised at how young Bertha Stoneman looked up close. In church that morning she had blended in with the older females in the Van Ijssel pew. Now, the eyes behind the glasses reflected an almost juvenile enthusiasm and curiosity. The trim body, though soberly clothed, had a youthful energy. Her smile was jolly without the slightest hint of romantic innuendo.
“Where’s Gretha?” asked Ferdie, disapprovingly looking at Nell. “Why did they send you, Pipsqueak?” He clearly did not consider her worthy of the knowledge he was about to impart.
“Gretha is accompanying Miss Campbell to the Temperance prayer meeting. She is to report to the Wagonton branch when we get back,” explained Bertha. “Nell, here, is a good little guide. She has already shown me her botanical of pressed flowers and taught me the local names for many of the plants.”
“Vulgar names, you mean. I bet there is not a single word of Latin to be found in the whole girlish assemblage!”
“She has not been taught how to do it properly. Wait ‘till she has been through my hands,” she said, defending the grateful Nell. “But, come, let’s not waste anymore time. Let’s go! I can’t wait to see your collection. I was lucky enough to meet Mr Bolus in April on my first proper visit to Cape Town. He showed me specimens of the orchidaceae, oxalis and ericaceae you have been sending. He also has an impressive rock garden filled with the crassulaceae provided by you.”
“Did you see the first volume of Icones Orchidearum Austro-Africanorum Extratropicarum?”
The complete Latin title rolled off Ferdie Buchholdt’s lips as though it were his native tongue. Nell saw a small smile pass over Dr Stoneman’s face as she accepted the one-upmanship.
“Yes, it is truly magnificent. The clear descriptions so beautifully illustrated by the paintings. Mr Bolus mentioned your contribution to the text. But, now, guide me
through the veldt a little before we look at your specimens. On the way here I saw so many interesting plants that I want to ask you about.”
“I’m glad to hear you say ‘veldt’ like ‘felt’, not ‘welt’ in the German way. But to tell you the truth, the veldt is the world to me. The plants are in a bit of a dormant state this time of the year; we don’t have the abundance of blooms you see after the rains in August and September but there are quite a few blooming asteraceae and oxalis and, over there, closer to the river, are some crassula columnaris in flower.”
Nell followed Ferdie and Bertha in amazement as the English they used became larded with Latin. She felt like a stranger in her own country; familiar plants, known to her by their common names, transformed and enhanced by foreign labels. Suring turned into oxalis, common malvas into pelargonium this and pelargonium that. Heide donned the fancy name of erica as rooibos claimed the double barrelled aspalathus linearis. She was all ears as they stopped to examine various plants. Ferdie not only knew the names but also the growth cycles, propagation and habitats of each plant. In an uninterrupted monologue he talked of the differing terrain and vegetation in the nearby districts: Wuppertal, where his grandparents lived, Biedouw, Nardouw, Matsikamma, Gifberg and the Skurweberg looming to the right. He spoke with the conviction and passion of an evangelist. Gone was his usual cynicism. Like incense, the perfume of brush and bush mingled to intoxicate speaker and listeners alike. Here was the true Friedrich Buccholdt, the pastor’s son, preaching his own sermon on the gospel of the veldt.
It was after sunset when they got to the shed in the orange grove where Ferdie kept his specimens. Bertha praised his methods of preserving and labelling and in return was given a choice of duplicates to carry back to Wagonton with her.
“Come back in October if you want to see this world at its best,” said Ferdie on parting and added: “Oktober is waarlik die mooiste, mooiste maand. You tell the Doctor what that means, Pipsqueak.”
“October is truly the most beautiful month,” translated Bertha before either of the other two could say a word.
“What? You’ve not even been in the country a year yet and you already know some Afrikaans,” said Ferdie surprised.
“It’s a teachers’ trick. How do I know what my gals are saying if I don’t understand their language? And, yes, those gals are supposed to speak English at all times but no one sticks to it, especially if its something they don’t want the faculty to know. So, learning the language is a bit of defence. Besides, I like your language,“ she explained, “I think it’s very expressive, quite poetic. I’m a bit of a poet myself, you see, so I appreciate the poetic potential of this off-shoot Dutch they call Afrikaans.”
“You should talk to the Patriotte in Wagonton. They will set you straight how the ‘off-shoot’ has become a tree in its own right. It is closely linked to Boere pride.”
The last rays of the sun glowed on the red rocks of the Skurweberg.
“A completely new subject and, regrettably no time; we’re expected for supper.” said Bertha as she shook Ferdie’ hand, “maybe when I come back? Or you come to the Boland? Then I can also show you my doctoral thesis on the Anthracnoses.”
“I can hardly believe it’s a Sunday. I feel as though I have worked harder than on any weekday,” said Nell as they walked home. “All that Latin! How does Doctor remember it all?”
“Like anything that’s worth it. It takes work. But it all makes sense when you know a little Latin grammar. You will be taking Latin at Coligny won’t you? And never forget, my dear, do not ever consider yourself fully educated until you know the names of plants in Latin.”
This was a goal Nell would pursue all her life.

Back to top... Sample Chapter: Old Books to a Dark Continent

7 – Old Books to a Dark Continent
A tentative knock woke Annie from her nap.
“Who is it?” she asked as she hurriedly straightened her hair.
“It’s only me, Nell,” replied a hushed voice from the corridor.
Annie pulled on her housecoat and opened the door. There was Nell van Ijssel bent over a large box of books. She looked as though she might drop them any minute.
“Come! Quickly put them down here on Ferdi’s chest. You didn’t carry this all by yourself from the Post Office, did you?”
Nell heaved the box onto an ornately carved teak chest.
“No, Tolla borrowed a wheelbarrow and came along Park Street with me. He wanted to come in but I sent him on his way. We all know Mevrou always rests this time of the afternoon. I got Sien to let me in quietly. Well, there you are, the books Gretha promised.”
Nell van Ijssel had developed into a young woman since Annie had last seen her. Her hair was neatly coiffed in a schoolgirl’s bun and her face shone with enthusiasm. It was a curious fact about the Van Ijssel children: they either had the dark hair and aquiline features of the father or they were blond Boonzaaiers with the mother’s chubby cheeks and round face. There was not a mixture between the eight of them; they were either ‘icy’ Van Ijssel or ‘bonnie’ Boonzaaier. Nell definitely belonged to the latter.
“Well, shall we look at them? They’ve come a long way, you know. According to Miss Bliss they were passed along to Coligny from Bloemhof many years ago. And even then they were old. We found them tucked away in a corner when we sorted through the library before the end of term.”
Nell picked up a faded green linen-bound book.
“Look, it’s Adam’s New Arithmetic,” she said reading the title, “that will be useful even if it’s old; the facts have not changed.”
The inscription on the flyleaf read: Julia Ames, Ipswich Female Seminary 1854.
On the paste down flyleaf opposite her name was a pen-sketch of an oval faced girl in a bonnet. ‘Pretty Julia’ read the sub-title.
“That’s her!” said Nell excitedly, “That’s the owner of the books. A schoolgirl just like me but fifty years ago. And look what her friends wrote here below her name.”
There were short verses and jokes in a variety sloped and upright cursive. Annie and Nell took turns in deciphering them:
‘Hush my dear, lie still and slumber
Great black spiders guard thy bed
And mosquitoes without number
Gently buzzing o’er thy head.’
“That one is from Ellen. A pun on the Cradle Hymn,” giggled Nell.
“Schoolgirl irreverence never ages,” said Annie making it clear that she herself was just a little too old for such nonsense. Her tone was meant to dampen Nell’s high spirits but the girl was irrepressible:
“Oh, look, another irreverence!” she cried.
‘A horse bit his master
How came it to pass?
He heard the good parson
Say all flesh is grass.’
She was relieved to hear Annie’s short laugh. But the moment of shared mirth was short-lived. Annie took the book from Nell.
“This one is from Lally. Now, here is someone with the right attitude.”
‘Study hard, dig deep
And you will find treasures sweet’
“Doesn’t rhyme, doesn’t scan too well either, but, I agree, the idea is good. Deep digging is what you can do with this box of books, Aunt Annie.”
Nell looked to see what effect the honorific had. Far was it from her to be disrespectful; it was the custom to address anyone above the age of consent as Aunt or Uncle. Mr, Mrs and Miss defined a more formal relationship.
Annie accepted the ‘aunt’ without demur as she went on to read the last inscriptions:
‘As virtue is its own reward
So vice is its own punishment’
And
‘A charge to keep I have
A God to glorify’
“Written by two anonymae, since there were two of them, both girls,” said Nell, beaming at her own cleverness.
Now Annie smiled broadly and gave Nell a friendly nudge.
“ I know just enough Latin to know that you are being pretty witty, Nellsie. They told me you were a clever girl.”
Nell pulled another book from the box. She held up the olive green volume with its leather back and sturdy ribbed linen binding.
“Here,“ she advertised, “in golden letters just for you: Andrews Latin Reader!”
She checked the front flyleaf. Yes, this book had also belonged to Julia Ames. No rhymes this time but a list of Latin roots used in English. Inside the back flyleaf she found a list of Julia’s classmates and:
“Recipes! One for Sponge Cake and one for Soda Cake!”
“It looks like Julia had half her mind in the schoolroom and the other in the kitchen. Like most girls, I must say,” said Annie.
“Not anymore. Not me,” protested Nell.
“No, your expensive education gives you a choice.”
The remark sounded like a topic on the debating society list. It was tempting to enter into a discussion and gauge Annie’s opinion on the status of women but Nell was enjoying the warmth of the moment too much to risk disagreement. Instead, she returned to the recipes.
“This ingredient I don’t understand: ‘selaratus’. What’s that?”
Annie read the recipe again.
“Well, I think that it’s the rising agent. You need something to boost the rising power of the eggs or so they taught us in cooking class at Good Hope. Maybe that’s what they call baking powder in America.”
“Oh? Right!” said Nell, impressed.
Annie felt the gratification of one who had just made a clever chess move.
With a satisfied smile she returned to the book box. The next book looked brand new: the cover was a rich aubergine with the letters G&L embossed in gold on a large medallion. She ran her finger over the letters like a blind person reading Braille.
“What care they took to make books beautiful back then,” she said, hugging the book. “My father gave all his beautiful old books to the library here in Callaghan, you know. And not a single one survived the fire. So sad.”
For a moment the vapour of sorrow seemed to envelop them as Annie pulled her own personal loss around her. The intensity of this sudden mood-swing made Nell nervous. She moved quickly to find a diversion. As she picked up Parker’s Philosophy a loose page fell out. It was in the now familiar handwriting of Julia Ames.
“It’s a letter from Julia dated 1879. That must have been when she donated the books. She writes from Newburyport, in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and signs herself ‘Mrs Wm. Dummer’. This is what she writes. I’ll try and read it in my best American accent:”
Dear Friends in Africa,
I am sending you the books I used before my marriage when I was studying at the Ipswich Female Seminary. I hope they will be as useful to you as they were to me. I became aware of your need when, recently, I visited my parents’ home on Mt.Pleasant in Ipswich, a town south from Newburyport, and my present home. My mother and I attended a lecture by Miss Juliette Gilson, on furlough from her school in Africa. She painted such a clear picture of her work among the Zulu and, lately, the Dutch girls. It was so interesting to hear her describe the landscape of Natal and the Cape and to hear the same hymns we sing in English, sung in Zulu and Dutch. Miss Gilson made it clear that, though the groups differed in language and culture, the need was the same: books and equipment. Mother gave a donation for equipment and I went home to find these books on the shelf in my room where I bid them farewell when I got married.
I must say it was an eye-opener to realise that there were now seminaries like Mt Holyoke all over the world. We knew Mary Lyon when she taught at the Ipswich Female Seminary and my whole family has always been a great supporter of her remarkable institution in western Massachusetts.
I would have gone to Mt. Holyoke myself had I not been such a homebody!
I am not made of the stuff that missionaries are made of but I do admire their courage. If this gift can help to light up the Dark Continent and support the education of the young African women, so much the better.
I conclude with a couplet once quoted by a friend:
‘Study hard, dig deep
And you will find treasures sweet.’
Be of good courage and steadfast in your faith! I hold you in my prayers and thoughts!
Sincerely yours,
Mrs, Wm. Dummer

“Well, she sounds like a benevolent and well-meaning lady. But isn’t it odd how people overseas think of us as ‘African’ whereas we think of ourselves as nothing but European,” said Annie bemused.
“There are those who say that we are not as ‘European’ as we think,” said Nell, “I have heard it said that the historians have deliberately left out unfashionable facts.”
“Don’t listen to those people, Nellsie. It’s all politics. I know nothing about politics. And I doubt Mrs Wm. Dummer worried her ‘preddy liddle’ head about such things ‘eether’,” said Annie trying her tongue at an American accent.
“I must say you sustain a jolly convincing American accent, Nell. Just listen to that ‘steadfast’ and ‘courage’ and ‘thought’ I’ll never forget how Miss Campbell caught us out at Otterdam once when we copied her accent behind her back. We made a whole list of them: Dance, chance, half, glass, class, grass, turning all those ‘a’s’ on their side. Good natured Miss Campbell; all she did was sing ‘rooi rok wil sy dra’ rolling the ‘r’s in what she thought was a Boland bry.”
Nell was glad to see Annie relaxed again. She smiled sweetly as she spoke; no wonder she was known as ‘mooi’ Annie. Her dark hair was pulled back from her handsome brow. The dark hazel eyes were punctuated by a pair of firm eyebrows and the straight nose sat quietly above the well-proportioned mouth. She held her head high and her shoulders back as though naturally posing for a camera. The soft satin of her housecoat emphasised her essential femininity. Nell thought about the talk among her sisters and agreed. Annie would make a lovely wife for Tolla if only she would put Braam Beyers out of her mind.
As though she could read her mind, Annie asked:
“ Forgive me if I’m wrong, Nellie, but I’m curious. Am I being discussed over at Wartburg?”
Not so fast, thought Nell, I’m not giving any secrets away. With a wily grin she said evasively:
“Yes, we’re all happy that you have come to grace the society of Callaghan. Sharp wits, benevolent hearts and handy hands are always needed in Callaghan. Not to speak of pretty faces. And you seem to possess all of the above, Aunt Annie.”

That evening Annie examined the rest of the books:
Whately’s Easy Lessons on Reasoning in formidable brown linen was elaborately embossed on front and back. Four firm pencil lines obscured the word ‘Easy’ on the title page. Above the word Julia Ames had written made her own correction, changing the title to: ‘Hard Lessons on Reasoning’! Annie smiled; Julia obviously shared the male view on women and logic.
There was Olmsted’s School Astronomy, Parker’s philosophy, The Elements of Geology by Loomis.
It was Chapter XIV in Jarvis’s Physiology that intrigued her. It discussed in detail states of mind – daydreaming, intoxication and fits of passion. It talked about the causes of insanity. Bereavement was not mentioned though she knew it to be the cause of her present imbalance. The chapter concluded with a view that most causes of mental disorder are within the control of the individual.
Annie sighed at the thought of such responsibility.
As she was about to close the book this, something fluttered to the floor. It was a poppy, paper-thin but complete on its hairy stalk. How amazing that this flower that once grew in a garden so far away, soaked up the sun and rain of that place, fed bees and butterflies. To think that it could have been preserved with no particular purpose and no plan for its destination. And yet, here it was like a message of survival. She held the poppy up to the lamplight; its pale red translucence kissed her lips and cheeks. It was odd, but it was almost as though the presence of the flower instilled in her a new resolve. Almost physically she felt the turmoil of her grief move aside as a desire to take control entered her heart. 
She carefully placed the poppy at Psalm 23 in her Bible, combining the old solace with the new. She turned down the lamp and slept through the night for the first time since Braam’s death.

Back to top... Sample Chapter: Miss Tessa’s Room

12 – Miss Tessa’s Room

Carbolic, was her first thought as she lifted her heavy eyelids. Fumes of disinfectant burnt her nostrils and turned her stomach. The room was stuffy and dark just like Mammie’s room before the funeral. Perhaps she was back in Mammie’s room? Did the funeral really happen? As she tried to move, a sharp pain shot up her leg into her groin. Alarmed, she lay still, trying to remember.
They had all gone to Frisdaalen to say goodbye but it was like saying goodbye to a ghost. Mammie, skeletal, her skin pale and translucent was almost unrecognisable. In a haze of morphine, her eyes were unfocused and her words were slurred. For three days they waited for the end: Tilly took care of the little ones, Aletta and Anna wandered as far away from the farmhouse as possible and Petronellie sat cowering in desperation in the dark passage outside Mammie’s room, breathing fumes of carbolic and decay. This vigil secured her a seat on the hearse, bumping across the Pakhuis pass to the New Cemetery in Callaghan. There on the arid hillside devoid of shade or shelter they buried her mother. Nearer my God to thee blended with ashes to ashes and promises of the last trumpet. Every muscle in her body ached as jelly danced before her eyes. She joined the line of siblings to cast a handful of dirt on the coffin. Hours, months, years sang the mourners. Forever motherless, wept her heart.
That was when she ran. Down to the river and into the reeds, flailing and stumbling towards wherever. There was the plank, the rusty nail going right through the sole of her shoe. Quickly she pulled it out. A nuisance, slowing her down like this.
It was only after she was found, given calming syrup and put to bed that she felt the pain in her foot again. The last thing she remembered was the red band streaking around her foot and up her leg.
The door opened and tentative footsteps came towards her bed. She opened her eyes again and saw a soft, brown bespectacled face above her.
“Oh, Miss Pieternellie is awake?”
The voice matched the face in kindness. The woman moved to open the heavy velvet curtains and inch or two. Over her maid’s uniform she wore a starched, white nurse’s apron.
“Where am I? Who are you?” asked Petronell weakly.
“You’re in the land of the living again, thank our Heavenly Father, Miss. We thought you had joined your dear departed mother. Wait, I’ll just go and tell Miss Lita. She’s in charge here. I’m the helper, Maggie.”
Miss Lita entered the room with a wide smile and a sense of purpose. Her grey hair was pulled back in a traditional bun, her wrinkled face had a healthy sheen and her blue eyes twinkled gently.
“Welcome back klein Nellie. For a while there we thought we had lost you. Remember me?  I taught your Aunty Nell all there is to know about Domestic Science.
I visited Callaghan more than once. I was the inspector’s assistant. I think I even inspected your Sub A class. Didn’t you have Miss Krige?”
The chatter forced Petronell to surface. Miss Lita? Oh, yes, Miss Lita was a household name at Wartburg, her recipes and household tips often incorporated and passed along. She clearly remembered that inspection and her animated rendition of Little Miss Muffet.
“Didn’t you recite Miss Muffet? I remember Mr Jordaan being very impressed with your explanation of curds and whey. You practically gave a complete lesson on cheese making! It certainly helped Miss Krige’s inspection score. But look at you, now? No longer a little Miss anymore. You’re practically grown up. And I’ve grown old. No more teaching or inspections for me. Just the relaxed life of running this teachers’ retreat in the Kloof.”
Petronell knew about the Coligny teacher’s retreat in the mountains above Wagonton. Laval teachers sometimes took advantage of its fresh air, the spectacular views and the hiking trails along the Witte River. It was Aunty Nell’s favourite spot for botanizing.
“So, that’s where I am? How did I get here? How long have I been here? How long do I have to stay? What’s wrong with my leg?”
The high pitch of her voice was laced with panic. Miss Lita sat down on the side of the bed and stroked her arm.
“There, there, little Miss Muffet. So many questions! Don’t get into a fuss. They bundled you up in Callaghan and drove you here as fast as they could. That was five days ago. Since then Maggie has been applying her potato and devils claw poultices to suck the poisoning right out of your blood and I’ve been doing everything to break the fever. And, look at you! You’ve come through!”
Miss Lita pulled the bedcovers away to examine Petronell’s leg.
“That swelling has gone down remarkably, Maggie, don’t you think?”
Petronell turned her passive face towards the wall. Who cares? She thought weakly. Why did I not just die? Why did they not leave me alone?
“The fever has exhausted the patient, Miss Lita. She’ll feel better when I’ve given her a wash and changed the sheets.” It was a cue for her mistress to stop talking.
“You’re the nurse,” said Miss Lita, beating a retreat. ‘I’ll see you when your eyes are brighter, Miss Muffet.”

Smelling of Lifebuoy, between crisp sheets and revived by beef tea and honey toast, Petronell felt more inclined to take in her immediate surroundings. This, she was told, was ‘Miss Tessa’s Room’, reserved for Miss Theresa Campbell the legendary Coligny faculty member. Everyone knew about Miss Campbell; all over the Union of South Africa and the mission fields beyond were kindergarten teachers implementing the methods taught to them by Miss Campbell - Theresa to the world, Tessa to her friends. She had retired to this room at the Retreat, filled it with all her books and memorabilia but had died the year before. Petronell remembered the eulogy given at the assembly at Laval. It was as though the room was left to mourn. It was as though no one had the courage to sort and dispose of the remnants of a once vibrant life.
On the wall directly above Petronell’s bed hung a framed copy of the De Breede en de Smalle Weg depicting the ways of sinners and saved. She had seen it on many a farmhouse wall together with the grainy portraits of ancestors, elephant tusks and antelope horns. It was sometimes used at a teaching device in Sunday school but Petronell had never been able to study it closely.
An insert with text in English covers the title at the base of the poster: Matthew 7:13-14. Verses memorized at an early age by anyone worthy of their Sunday school seal:

13
Enter ye in by the narrow gate: for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction, and many are they that enter in thereby.
14 For narrow is the gate, and straitened the way, that leadeth unto life, and few are they that find it.
Lower case letters in India ink, lined up with military precision beside red capitals, leave no doubt as to the way the calligrapher had chosen.
Burlesque statues of Venus and Bacchus support the sign ‘Welcome’ over the gate to the Broad Way. Some sinners have arrived in a hackney carriage to join a jolly drinking party. But most them are depicted compromising their souls in one way or another along a wide road. Easily recognized are the drunks and the vendors of drink, the gamblers and the cruel, the pickpockets and the thieves. Each wicked action is punctuated by a verse from the Bible though it is not obvious what some of them are. Petronell suspects the adulterers and idolaters, the speculators and the money lenders are all secreted within the walls of the establishments of commerce and entertainment lining the left side of the bustling street. But even the Broad Way narrows as it passes past warring armies and under a railway bridge to the inevitable day of Judgement. The scales, the burning city and the damned cast into the pit of eternal hellfire serve to remind the viewer of the many scary sermons on the subject she had already heard in her young life. Hours and hours on hard pews cowering before the thundering promises of divine retribution unless, unless…..
The realm of the Strait Way extends to the right. A suitable text urges the traveller to enter through a narrow, low gate set in a high wall. It is as though crouching to enter already prepares the righteous for the challenging ascent. A church on the on side, its clock at ten minutes before midnight, and the crucified Christ on the other immediately reassure him. The road to salvation is sparsely populated: a man drinking from the spiritual fountain, a mother leading her child, some offering food to the hungry and shelter to strangers. Widows and orphans are housed in sturdy institutions. The green grass lining the upward winding way is overgrown with texts extolling God’s love. They are the supposed antidotes to nightmares, the recommended extinguishers of the fires of hell. Petronell knows them all by heart. After all, she was the proud owner of a Sunday school diploma complete with all five seals. The rainbow that spans her diploma also spans a gloomy chasm while the Strait way continues to the New Jerusalem, mysteriously distant, encircled by a halo of light.
Overseeing the lives of saved and sinners alike the Eye of Providence peers from its triangle as it radiates shafts of light. That all-seeing eye had always made Petronell uneasy. Why only one eye? If only the sides of the triangle were curtains that could be opened to reveal first two eyes, the whole face and, perhaps, the whole face of God?
She stopped herself from considering such daring possibilities and turned her head away from the wall to take in the rest of the room. She was struck by the exact symmetry of the arrangement on the opposite wall. In the centre stood a tall display case.  Terracotta and brass artefacts formed part of a display on the upper shelves while the lower shelves housed objects of childhood: several dolls, a golliwog, a rag ball, a Jacob’s ladder and a set of jackstraws. Two lower bookcases flanked the display case. On the shelves, behind diamond lead glass stood a collection of fact and fiction that informed the personal world of one woman. Faded spines of older books were offset by brighter hues of more recent acquisitions. Sets of encyclopaedias and series subscriptions in serious colours stood grouped together while books of larger format lay neatly stacked horizontally.
Above the bookcases Egyptian wall hangings covered the walls. Stylized figures, in appliqué, go about their daily business in strange choreography. Among pyramid and palm, there are warriors marching, farmers ploughing, scribes writing and musicians playing. All are turned sideways with large eyes, sculpted hair. Some men have comical, short stubby beards. Men wear loincloths and women show bare shoulders above their knee-length wraps. These are the people of Egypt as Moses must have known them thought Petronell as her eyes caressed the subtle blues, reds and browns of the naturally dyed linen. She wondered at the way long-stemmed lotuses, plume like reeds and even the odd, unsettling snake are incorporated in the designs.
‘My Life in a Museum’ would be a good title for an essay, thought Petronell, as she lay back exhausted.
Soon she was encouraged to wash herself and move about. This was followed by instructions to take the air on the chaise longue on the veranda with its pretty gingerbread fretwork and magnificent view of the mountainside and the gorge below. It was here that she immersed herself in the characters from The Hall in the Grove. She picked the book more for its red cover with gold and black spine than for the title but Miss Lita said it was a good first choice; if she liked it she should read the Chautauqua Girls series, also by Pansy.
“Strange name for an author,” said Petronell.
“Those were different times, Kinna,” replied Miss Lita who seemed to know a lot about popular literature for a Domestic Science teacher. “Pansy was, of course, her pen name. I learnt all about her from one of Miss Tessa’s Chautauqua Circles. Wonderful they were, those Circles, to give a broader education to a practical person like me who is just interested in food and embroidery and callisthenics. That’s how I learnt to appreciate poetry and ancient history. And Miss Tessa was a wonderful Circle leader. You can see her resources right there in her room. It wasn’t only what she had learnt from all those many books; it was also where she had travelled. All over the ancient world: Italy and Greece and, of course Egypt, Alexandria where she worked. I know all about the scarabs, hieroglyphics and cartouches. And, oh, the beads! She used those to teach us about the stones used to build the New Jerusalem: chalcedony and onyx, carnelian and peridot, transparent beryl and golden green chrysoprasus. When I have a moment I’ll tell you all about the objects in the display case.”
“I’d love that. But what about Pansy?” asked the girl, politely bringing the older woman’s wandering thoughts back to her first point.
“Oh, yes, Pansy. She was really called Isabella Macdonald Alden. Alden being the name of her husband who was a minister. Apparently many of the characters in her books are loosely based on parishioners she knew and, so to mask her own identity and shield her husband’s position, she took a pen name.”
The Hall in the Grove soon tells Petronell all she wanted to know about the summer camps on the shores of Lake Chautauqua. In order to sustain the intellectual and spiritual gains made at summer school, Chautauqua Circles sprang up all over North America. Members were offered an opportunity of a four-year study course in subjects ranging from philosophy and the classics to astronomy and science. She follows with interest how the opinionated Mrs Fenton and the uneducated, but intelligent, Caroline Raynor join form a Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle in Centreville. The learned, and widely travelled, Dr Monteith supports the idea that every person should have the opportunity to achieve his potential. As eminent member of the group, he uses the Circle to bring some ne’er do good ‘loungers’ off the street. Then there is the privileged flibbertigibbet, Aimee Allison, the judge’s daughter (Petronell likes her best) and the cynical son of Dr Monteith. This is the merry troupe that sets off for Chautauqua that summer. Cultural activities are alternated with religious rallies, astronomy and classics wrap around prayer meetings and it is soon obvious that most of the characters will be converted or reformed in one way or another. How and when this happens, and to whom, is what keeps Petronell reading.
“Of course, that’s how Miss Tessa and Dr Stoneman knew each other,” informed Miss Lita, “Miss Tessa went to the original Chautauquas with Dr Stoneman’s aunt. In those days it was a summer school for Sunday School teachers. That’s where they all learnt to make models of the Holy Land. Just like Miss Tessa, the missionaries took that useful teaching tool with them all over the world.”
“Yes, in Hall in the Grove they talk about that. People pretend to take tours and recite verses from the Bible that refer to different places.”
Miss Lita enjoyed mollycoddling her young charge. It was easy; the girl was compliant and stoic. She followed the prescribed domestic and religious routines without a murmur: Morning and bedtime devotions were performed as regularly as making the bed and brushing teeth. Miss Lita watched with gratification as the girl’s mood improved along with her leg. Gradually Petronell progressed from listless performances of Bach sarabandes to tentative versions of Chopin waltzes. When she finally burst forth with an energetic rendering of the Rondo alla Turca, Miss Lita knew it was time to take a picnic to the waterfall.
Life at the Retreat soon gained its own rhythm. In the mornings they sat on the veranda making bazaar items like guest towels, cheval sets and anti-macassars. Often Maggie pushed Petronell into service by giving her peas to shell or rice or beans to sort. The housekeeper made the latter into a moral metaphor:
“There you are, Miss Pieternellie, think of those stones in the rice as evil, everyone of them a work of the devil. Find each and everyone one of them and cast it out as you would every sin from your heart!”
“You should have been a preacher, Maggie,” smiled Petronell.
In the afternoon Petronell moved back into her cocoon to nap and read until teatime. She tried to tackle the articles in some of Miss Tessa’s Chautauquans - the volumes that supported the studies of generations of Circle graduates – but discovered that she liked reading fiction, however dated, much better. Perhaps I’m too young for the bluestocking life, yet, she thought whimsically as she took in the advertisements in one Chautauquan after the other. Typewriters and encyclopaedias seemed appropriate for the serious Circle member but the frivolity of the women’s items made her smile. She imagined Caroline and Aimee ordering their hairpieces and bustles to take to camp the next summer.
A walk followed tea. Miss Lita showed her the best places to watch the sunset. On the way back to supper she would invariably find a new specimen to press for the botanical she was making.
After supper they were joined by the staff for Bible study. Maggie brought her own chair from the kitchen while the younger ones followed the unwritten rule and sat on the floor. Those who could, read their favourite passages, those would could not, recited. Psalm 23 and the Sermon on the Mount seemed to be the most preferred. Sometimes Miss Lita took requests, knowing full well the Old Testament favourites would be Daniel in the Lion’s Den, the Discovery of the baby Moses and the Parting of the Red Sea. She had her hand ready to open the New Testament on any of the Miracles and Paul on the road from Damascus. Prayers were followed by hymns accompanied by Petronell.
The staff said their solemn goodnights and their mistress and her guest took up their handwork. Sometimes they listened to records on the Victrola. Petronell appropriated Dido’s Lament from the first minute she heard the cello descending into the buzzing of the needle on the disc. She held her breath as she tried to follow the words. She thought she heard ‘laid in earth’ and certainly caught ‘trouble’ but it was when Maggie Teyte intoned the repeated plea: ‘remember me’ she thought her mother must be calling from her grave. She sat very still, aware of the fact that Miss Lita was watching out for hysterics. Quietly she walked over to the Victrola, changed the needle and turned over the record.
“Oh, good,” said Miss Lita at the opening bars of the Habanera, “ no need to wallow in morbidity.”
But Petronell knew she had found the perfect funeral song, accommodating pure sorrow without obligation.

Miss Lita was in a bad mood when she came back from the Post Office. Earlier a message had come to say that Dr Stoneman would call at noon. There was no telephone at the Retreat; all calls had to be made from the Post Office. It was obvious that Miss Lita did not relish a trek uphill in the heat of the day. The conversation had not improved her temper.
“Your sisters are already arriving tomorrow,” she announced accusingly.
“Sisters?” She tried to make her question sound like an apology. She knew Tilly was due soon to help sort Miss Tessa’s things.
“Yes, by special request from all three of your aunts who were Dr Stoneman’s former pupils, Mathilda is bringing Aletta with her. The poor woman seemed to have been unable to resist their petition. Your wayward sister is apparently in need of fresh air a distance from the temptations of the modern world.”
Petronell sighed. “What has she done now?”
“I don’t have details; phone calls are too expensive for gossip as you well know. Besides, in that public place the whole world is listening. There was some talk off going to Cape Town for a weekend under false pretences. And lying about it.”
Petronell’s troubled face stopped Miss Lita.
“Don’t worry, Kinna, it’s not your fault. Every family has a black sheep or two. I remember how I suffered because of my sister’s bad reputation. It was almost as though I had to be twice as good to prove to everyone that I was not half as bad as she was. You’re lucky you have Mathilda as a good example. Everybody loves Mathilda, so sweet and helpful. Don’t you worry about Aletta; we’ll give enough work to drive out all delinquent thoughts.”
But Petronell was worried. Aletta’s behaviour had gone from bad to worse ever since the news of their mother’s illness. She had broken every rule at school and seemed impervious to punishment. She had publicly resigned from the Student Christian Movement and had become resistant to any attempts to bring her back to the fold. She scornfully referred to her compliant sisters as ‘toady’ and ‘goody two shoes’. Mild- mannered Tilly, with her forgiving heart who gave everyone the benefit of the doubt, had often come to Aletta’s defence. According to her psychology books this destructive behaviour was Aletta’s way of dealing with grief. Be that as it may, thought Petronell, as long as I don’t have to be in the way of her destruction.
And now, like bad weather, she was on her way.
Petronell was on the front porch, working on her copybook, when the sisters arrived. She looked up to see Aletta striding up the garden path. Her hair was bobbed and her dress was inches shorter than any dress Petronell had ever seen. She did not seem to be wearing a corset of any kind either. Her body moved freely as she sprinted up the steps, well ahead of Tilly who was coming up behind, struggling with dustcoats and bags. Petronell shifted behind the ferns hoping to go undetected a minute longer but Aletta spotted her.
“There you are, Mouse! Don’t think you can hide from me Petronella Johanna!”
Her white teeth shone as she forced a smile of sisterly affection. Was the blush on her cheeks natural or did Petronell spot rouge?
Aletta responded nonchalantly to Miss Lita’s icy welcome and seemed not to notice the great deal of attention paid to Tilly.
“My dear Mathilda, it’s so good to see you all grown up. How long has it been since I taught you to make a perfect blancmange? And now you are almost a teacher yourself? I am so happy to have your help. Miss Tessa’s room needs to be packed up but first we need an inventory. You’ll be sleeping on the job, as it were; I have put two cots in with klein Nellie. But you are having the bed while your younger sisters use the cots.”
Aletta gave Petronell a conspiratorial wink as if to say: that’s us put in our place! The wink made Petronell nervous; she was not sure she wanted to be on Aletta’s side.
Once in the room, Aletta seemed to invade it with the full force of her brazenness. She flung both French doors and all the shutters wide open, pulling the curtains as far apart as possible.
“Light! Air!” she shouted. “God, is this where you’ve been cooped up? No wonder you’re so pale!”
“Close the shutters; it keeps the room cool, as well you know. And, please Aletta, do not take the Lord’s name in vain,” protested Tilly mildly. But Aletta was in no mood to be corrected. She paced about like a caged animal.
“Just look at this place! So this is where Saint Theresa dwelt, the lovely Broad and Narrow Way staring down at her every morning when she woke up.”
She knelt on the bed to take a closer look at the picture.
“I bet she new all of those verses by heart and would recite them to herself as she follows the righteous up the little trail to heaven. As for the other side. The fun side, where real life exists. I wonder what she thought of all those sins? I wonder if she even knew what sodomites and harlots did? I bet she had not memorized the worst, or is it the best, chapter of all. Do you know which one I mean? It’s right here,” she said pointing to what looked like a parade ground, “there is the little obscure reference. I bet you two don’t know about Ohola and Oholibah the famous whores from Egypt?”
She rose to stand on the bed as though it were a stage. She spread her hands as she looked down on her sisters.
“Let us open the Holy Book at Ezekiel Chapter 23, my dearly beloved sisters, so that you may become wise to the impure, but exciting, ways of harlots!” she droned in the monotones of a preacher. The bed had become a pulpit.
“Read how these sisters Ohola and Oholibah had their breasts pressed,” she said, creating a cleavage of her own for her audience. “How with painted eyes, bedecked in jewels they lusted after and enjoyed many men. Men in blue and scarlet with the vigour of stallions!”
Tilly and Petronell stared, intrigued. Encouraged, Aletta continued: “From verses one to forty-nine; on and on goes the lascivious saga of sex and violence…..”
“Stop!” boomed a voice from the door. Miss Lita’s mild face was transformed into that of a raging demon. Tilly and Petronell looked at each other like two people counting the seconds between a flash and crash.
“Devil’s child! Get down from that bed!” she shouted while moving in on Aletta.
She grabbed the soft flesh of the girl’s upper arm in a tight pinch and pulled her from the bed. Aletta flinched and pulled her arm away.
“They warned me about you! There’ll be no lunch for you, little blaspheming madam! You will start with the inventory right away!”
At lunch Tilly gave all the details of the latest episode in Aletta’s chequered career: “ It would not have been so bad had it not been for the fact that she led Hester van Wijk astray an took her to Cape Town with her. Actually it was Simonstown where they met and stayed with naval officer and his wife – a contact Aletta had through one of Pappie’s associates. It looked fine on paper. They had permission to go. Only, it turned out the officer’s wife wasn’t there, nor any other chaperone. Miss Meyer got it all out of Hester, the whole story of the drinking and the dancing and who knows what else, though both Aletta and Hester deny any immorality. And I believe them.”
Petronell could see from the pursing of Miss Lita’s lips that she did not.
“So Hester was sent home from Laval and, apparently, got the hiding of her life. Ds van Wijk was so angry that he quite forgot that she was practically a grown woman. His wife had to stop him from killing her, it was so bad. Miss Meyer would have sent Aletta home but which home would she send her too? Pappie is away so much on business. Who would supervise her if she went back to Callaghan? None of the aunts were willing to take her. She was like a prickly pear that no one would touch. So Miss Meyer took pity on her. Again. Extenuating circumstances, she said. Again.”
“Miss Meyer is a saint,” interjected Miss Lita, “Always optimistic about reform and rehabilitation. Was Aletta not punished at all?”
“She wasn’t allowed to take her exams. Now she’ll have to take her last year all over again. That’s a huge punishment I’d say. Not that she cares. She plans to persuade Pappie to let her take a secretarial course and forget about school.”
“The first step on the Broad Way,” sniffed Miss Lita.

Back to top... Sample Chapter: North Country

15 – North Country

Oranges grow well in Krugersrust. Soon after her arrival Petronell discovers the orange grove between the carriage house and the cowshed at the far end of the property. She walks past the paw-paw trees guarding the tool shed and the abundant bamboo watching over the chicken coop. She skips over the irrigation furrow and finds herself in the presence of citrus, the friends from her childhood. There they squat in neat rows: the stocky, dark green navels and valencias, the pale lemons and grapefruit, the long-limbed naartjies and a single kumquat. 
Every afternoon she takes her mending to sit in their company, breathe the fragrance of their blossoms. And with deep nostalgic longing she thinks of distant Callaghan, her paradise lost.
One afternoon she spots a butterfly flitting from tree to tree. The yellow and brown creature is unmistakeable: it is a painted lady, vanessa cardui, herself. Petronell remembers former lessons in butterfly watching: wait until they sit perfectly still, then approach as quietly as possible, casting no shadow. It is as though the butterfly is waiting for her. Petronell admires the orange and black markings on the upper under-wing, the false ‘eyes’ on the lower. The beige body straight, the antennae alert.
“I knew your friends in Callaghan. They also like orange trees,” whispers Petronell, knowing that talking to butterflies is daft.
The butterfly moves its body, flies away and comes back. It has a special glint in its small, black beady eyes.
“Back for more compliments, are you? You are lovely. Look at your lovely pointed proboscis. Oh, yes, I know all about the anatomy of butterflies.”
“Who are you talking to?”
Vanessa cardui takes off swiftly as Rosa casts a shadow over its perch.
“Oh, just to a butterfly. Don’t you ever talk to insects?” challenges Petronell, expecting a rebuff but to her surprise her snooty cousin concurs:
“Yes, I talk to my silkworms. They grow much bigger if you do. And then they spin the most enormous cocoons. Just wait ‘till September, I’ll show you. But I came to tell you there are two boys looking for you. Mother says to take them into the morning room and not to let them stay too long. Father is due back at six.”
Petronell already knows the one boy; he is Oelof Malan from her Latin class. The other boy she knows from sight. Everybody knows him: he is Alwyn Cronjé, captain of the cricket team, captain of the rugby team, chairman of the Student Christian Association, prefect and hero. Why has Oelof brought him here?
“I brought you a maths tutor, Petronell,” explains Oelof
“So, this is where the Bolandse Nooientjie lives?” says Alwyn as he takes in the opulent surroundings, “I have always wondered what it looked like inside this palace. Yes, don’t laugh, to people like me this is a palace. Wait ‘till next Nagmaal weekend; you’ll see many farm folk walking by especially to stare at this house. It’s the closest to a palace they’ll ever get.”
Alwyn’s eyes smile while he talks and his light tenor voice falls soothingly on the company. His presence makes the ‘palace’ seem less like a trap to Petronell.
“I’ll show you around,” offers Petronell.
When they come to the parlour Alwyn asks her to play the piano.
“Just one piece,” she says, “we’re supposed to be visiting in the morning room; the parlour is only used on Sundays.
She opens Gems from the Classics at the place where she had sewn in the music for Les Adiuex. This was Miss le Roux’s parting gift to her; two sheets of precious music culled from one of her own albums. She plays the piece with restrained emotion. Alwyn watches the straight back and the curly black bob, the fingers firmly coaxing a curious blend of passion and sadness. The impression of vulnerability is overwhelming. This is the girl everyone was talking about: the girl from the Cape with her bry and her highbrow interests in Latin and Shakespeare. The girl with a history shrouded in mystery. An intriguing girl, a girl from another world though from the same country. And as she turns around on the piano stool at the end of the piece, she sees the look of love in the eyes of the boy before her. It is like a life raft to an exhausted swimmer.
At school, word is soon out that Alwyn Cronjé is taking a special interest in Petronell van Ijssel. Suddenly she is included in conversations and invitations and those who teased her about her pronunciation stop baiting her. Oom Theo makes enquiries into Alwyn’s moral character and is assured by headmaster and dominee alike that Petronell has nothing to fear from such an upstanding boy; his plans to study theology at Stellenbosch is no secret and both men support him. Aunt Dorie congratulates Petronell on her catch and smiles knowingly when Petronell denies any romance.
Their friendship develops slowly; there is little touching and much talking. But Alwyn knows how to caress with his eyes and Petronell stares back lovingly. There is no doubt in anyone’s mind that they are an item, a ‘case’ as it is popularly known. Alwyn tells Petronell that he respects her. It is a loaded word that implies protection from unwanted physical attention from him but sets the limits on seductive behaviour from her. Petronell understands the imperatives of respectable conduct and feels safe.
Alwyn becomes not only Petronell’s maths tutor but also her local guide. Together they explore Krugersrust: the church square where Boer confronted Boer when the conflict between different Calvinist factions threatened to erupt into civil war. They stand under the historical syringa tree where a peace was signed between Potgieter and Pretorius, the leaders of these factions. Alwyn tells her how his father brought a badly wounded comrade to the half-finished Dutch Reformed church, then used as a hospital. One afternoon they climb to the old fort where Alwyn tells her about the battle of Nooitgedacht and the heroism of Beyers and De la Rey. Together they gaze across the plain beyond and imagine the advancing British troops, the Boer commandos preparing for battle. These stories help to give Petronell a new sense of belonging as she gradually puts place and people together.
Petronell is surprised when Alwyn is invited to Sunday lunch. Are the rules being relaxed in the name of matchmaking or is she being set up for failure? Is Alwyn invited test his refinement and social skills? She has heard both aunt and uncle criticising those who did not meet their social standards. ‘Boorish’ and ‘rough diamond’ were their favourite descriptions. She knows they will be scrutinising posture and table manners, courtesy and politeness. But Alwyn brings a jar of preserves for his hostess, pulls out Petronell’s chair and waits until everyone is served before he starts eating. He knows about fish knives and desert forks, he sits up straight and never does he lean his elbows on the table. The formal atmosphere soon relaxes as Alwyn engages Oom Theo in a wide- ranging political discussion: they talk about everything from the land act to the future of the urban Afrikaner and industrialization. They are in agreement on the importance of education and the prejudice of the English ruling class against the Afrikaner .
“Just because the Voortrekkers were busy clearing the land rather than acquiring English book learning doesn’t mean they’re stupid. I know, I grew up among people who apply their intelligence in practical ways. But my generation is different; those of us who were born after the war, have the opportunity to be educated. We will go to university and become the new leaders of this country, capable of debate and philosophy like any Cape snob,” says Alwyn bristling with ambition.
The conversation turns to the Mission Field and Aunt Dorie’s experience in Nyasaland. From Alwyn’s comments on her anecdotes, it is obvious that they share a zeal for the salvation of the heathen soul. It is in this context only that Blacks are discussed.
“The Lord commands us to be fishers of men,” says Aunt Dorie, “and that’s the order I followed when I went to the Kongwe, Bible in one hand, the lamp of Flrorence Nightingale in the other.”
“Noble and courageous is what missionaries are.”
This opinion gets Alwyn a second helping of date pudding and custard.
Petronell contributes little to the discussion, afraid of controversy, anxious to be agreeable. All she can do is bask in the sunshine Alwyn has brought into the chilly house she is supposed to call home.
“There will always be a place for you at our Sunday lunch table,” says Aunt Dorie when Alwyn takes his leave.
“First class fellow despite his humble beginnings,” patronizes Uncle Theo, unwilling ever to give unconditional praise.
Petronell feels like a tightrope walker who has suddenly been given a safety net.

Alwyn is an expert at keeping others happy. It is a skill he learnt as a small boy when he realised that he was a replacement for a little brother who died in the concentration camp. It is a message stamped on his mind every time his mother showed him the photograph of poor dead Thysie, tears streaming down her face.
“This is your brother just before the war broke out. He was just four years old. But a lively little fellow. See how bright his eyes are?”
She sobs and holds little Alwyn closer to her. Her misery is suffocating but Alwyn stays and stares at the picture of the sainted boy in knickerbockers and velvet vest.
“But now I have you. God is good; he answered my prayers and he gave me you.You’re my gift from God, Alwyn. You’ll be everything Thysie was and more.”
And the little boy sits silently under his mother’s wing, feeling the full weight of his responsibility to fulfil that prophesy.
From an early age he does his chores without complaint. He gets up early to help with the milking before he walks the two miles to the little farm school on the other side of the koppie. His father has bad lungs due to an injury during the war and frequently needs help lifting and carrying. There is only one Black family indentured on the farm; after all the setbacks of the war and the subsequent pestilence that wiped out the cattle, Alwyn’s father finds it hard to make ends meet. After school and at weekends, the boy works alongside his father and the Black labourers to herd and plough, plant and tend. He learns the skills necessary to become a farmer and he knows his father expects him to leave school after Standard Five. This expectation is thwarted, however, by Catherina Cronjé’s promise that her son would become a man of God, a fisher of men, a shepherd of God’s flock. She is lucky; the boy is bright and good rains three years in a row have resulted in money in the bank. She persuades her husband to hire more help and let Alwyn go to boarding school in Krugersrust. The school finds a scholarship to ease the cost of high school and the prayers of the parish gives the plan divine sanction.
Alwyn is determined not to disappoint his parents, his teachers and the parish. Now, he has taken on Petronell. The first time she cries and tells him of the humiliation in Callaghan, he offers her a clean handkerchief and dares to put an arm around her shoulder.
“You’ll learn to live with it. It’s like the war; my parents have had to learn to live with the memories of all the suffering and loss.”
He sends her a carefully copied duplicate of Vergewe en Vergeet, the poem by Totius. It is taken from Trekkerswee , an anthology of poems about the trials an tribulations of Afrikaners who left the Cape Colony in the previous century. The poems have a sombre Old Testament ring to them; the poet is, after all, a dominee himself. Vergewe en Vergeet with its touching image of the devastation of a tender acacia is an icon of the Afrikaner struggle, frequently recited on occasions of commemoration. Petronell knows the poem well and understands Alwyn’s message: it is encouraging her to be patient and positive, to apply the metaphor of the recovering acacia to herself. But, like the little tree, she knows that the mark of her trauma will never quite disappear.

In July Petronell and her family are invited to spend a week at Buitenzorg, the Cronjé farm. After careful enquiries about the condition of the roads, Oom Theo decides to risk taking the roadster. His enthusiasm for a holiday on the farm is explained when Petronell overhears him say to Aunt Dorie:
“These farmers are the backbone of our nation. I look forward to being in the company of people who sacrificed so much for our freedom.”
He turns:
“A warning, though, Nellsen: don’t let them hear you speak English!” cautions her uncle over his shoulder.
From Krugersrust, the road follows the foothills of the Magalies through orange groves and tobacco fields until it rises to cross the gap known as Olifantsnek. An excited Rosa explains that the Nek takes its name from the shape of the mountain, lying like a giant elephant with its trunk stretched before it.
“See, you can clearly see the ear and the tusk! And even the eye if you have a good imagination.”
They eat lunch at the scenic stop at the top of the pass, overlooking the lush subtropical valley. Confidently it stretches along the banks of the Hex river. The landscape on the other side of the gap stands in stark contrast: before them the arid scrubland of the High Veldt extends unbroken to a distant horizon. The sky seems paler, the earth ashen grey. The temperature has dropped by several degrees making travel rugs a necessity rather than an accessory to the journey. Clouds of dust follow the car and envelope the passengers whenever they stop at numerous cattle gates. Picannins Oom Theo has come prepared with a sack full of ha’pennies which he casually casts out to the piccannins who appear from nowhere to open the gates.
It is late afternoon when they finally reach Buitenzorg. Word has preceded their arrival and they find a welcoming party of farm workers at the outer gate. Alwyn and his family await them at the garden gate. Catherina Cronjé does all the talking. She is a small, wiry woman dressed simply in a long dress, apron and bonnet. This is how Petronell had always imagined a Voortrekker woman. Her smile is friendly but her eyes are dimmed by the shadow of suffering. Like the acacia in the poem, she too bears an indelible mark. Alwyn’s father is affable but retiring and allows his wife to organize the visitors, their accommodation and luggage. The house is not large but there are enough beds if Alwyn sleeps on a mattress in his parents’ room. Petronell and Rosa share a room. Since the appearance of Alwyn, Rosa has been sweet and sisterly towards Petronell. This is because she has an enormous crush on Alwyn. Like so many little girls before her, she realises that being in Petronell’s good books is the only way she can assure access to the object of her affection. And Petronell tolerates her as a ‘third wheel’ knowing that the credibility of this particular chaperone is insurance against accusations of impropriety from her uncle.
As soon as the sun has dipped behind the nearest ridge, cold air invades every nook and cranny. Animals huddle together and humans pull on extra layers while gathering around the nearest fire. The warmest place in the farmhouse at Buitenzorg is the kitchen where the cooking stove is stoked with maize husks. July is harvesting season and fuel is plentiful. The small heating stove in the dining room offers the guests a convivial gathering place in the golden light of a single candles placed on the table and sideboard. The supper is sumptuous: bredie and pumpkin fritters, yellow rice and sweet potatoes. The lettuce and tomatoes from Oom Theo’s garden is an out of season treat for the High Velders who can cultivate only frost resistant vegetables during the winter months. The souskluitjies, as the dessert dumplings are called, are as light as a feather, swimming in a sweet butter and cinnamon sauce.
The conversation is friendly and exploratory. Questions from the townsfolk are answered in ponderous detail: the size of the farm and the maize fields, the size of the herd and the in and outs of milk production. The raising of chicks and the market for hens and eggs. All these topics combine to form a picture of a full and busy life, the life of the present. Questions about the past will only be asked when the present-day security and well-being has been established.
The discussion is interrupted when Maria, the kitchen maid, appears at the dining room door.
“Baas?” she says tentatively, hesitation and apology in her manner.
“What is it, Maria?”
There is more than irritation in Thys Cronjé’s impatience; it is as though he is expecting trouble.
“Samuel, Baas. He comes with news of Johannes.”
Thys Cronjé pushes his chair back with an apology. He is clearly on edge. His voice can be heard from the back door where Samuel is giving him bad news.
“When? You should have given him another beating! It’s going to cost you twenty bags of mealies, you know that?!”
When he returns, the mild-mannered man is transformed. He tells the story of Johannes in rapid volleys of disapproval and disappointment.
“This is what you get! We raised that boy like a son. He pestered us to go to school so we said: two years at the mission school. Enough to read the bible and do some sums. Then back here to the farm where his work is. But no, that was not enough for Mister! After two years he ran back to the school and the reverend persuaded us to let him stay for another year. And now he has run away again. I had Samuel discipline him, I disciplined him myself but nothing helps. His head is filled with high hopes of the fortune he can make on the mines. Now Samuel tells me he has also joined the African National Congress. He found a membership card on him. Imagine! Next thing we hear is he’s a union leader! And that after all we’ve done for him!”
He turns to Petronell.
“I’m sorry, Nooientjie, this means Alwyn here is going to have to do Johannes’s work. He’s not going to have time to show you the farm; we’re harvesting and need all the hands we can get.”
Petronell plays the good sport.
“No need to apologize, Oom. Perhaps Tante will have some work for me here around the house? I am a farm girl, after all.”
“Yes,” adds Aunt Dorie, “we didn’t come to drink coffee all day and watch other people work, did we Theo?”
Oom Theo’s face says ‘speak for yourself, Dorie’ but he offers graciously:
“The only farm job I’m good at is repairing riempie furniture.”
The farm has a way of drawing one into its rhythm, subjecting one to its routine, familiarising one with its habits. So it is for Petronell as she gets to do the chores of her childhood. She tries to ignore the low ceilings of the house the chipped utensils and the total absence of any modern convenience. She hides her revulsion to raw meat and bravely helps Alwyn when he butchers a pig. She pretends to be interested in candle making and soap production. As the week progresses she begins to feel accepted by Alwyn’s cautious mother.
This confidence is shattered on the morning of their departure. Petronell and Rosa are outside the kitchen window waiting for the car to be loaded. There is a thin layer of ice on the water in the rain-water barrel. They both pick idly at the ice when Rosa turns mischievous and splashes Petronell right in the face.
“You little devil!” shouts Petronell in English, “I’ll get you for this!”
She lurches forward to grab the girl but finds herself restrained by an iron grip. Catherina Cronjé has appeared from nowhere. Her eyes are wide with anger, her small body bristling. She shakes Petronell’s arm with her one hand while lifting the other. For a moment Petronell thinks she might strike her but all she does is wag her finger close to the shocked face before her.
“Don’t let me ever hear that language out of your mouth again!” she roars.
“That is the language of murderers and marauders, of those who killed my baby and burnt down my house before my very eyes! Never will that language be heard on this farm ever again, do you understand!”
She releases her hold on Petronell’s arm. The stunned girl, not knowing whether to apologize or defend herself, hesitates. The Fury before her continues her tirade:
“You people from the South know nothing! You call yourselves Afrikaners but you have no idea what it means. While we were suffering in concentration camps, you were singing English love songs in your parlours. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look down on everything here. But let me tell you, I am not ashamed of our modest home; to me it is a palace compared to the tent the British forced me to live in. So, don’t come here with your pretty missy manners and, above all, don’t speak that despicable language!”
The outburst has gathered an audience. Alwyn puts himself between his mother and Petronell.
“Toe nou, Ma,” he tries to mollify her but infuriates her further.
“Don’t you ‘toe nou’ me, Alwyn, you’re the one who brought the little madam here!”

What could have been a warm leave-taking has turned into a frosty farewell. Oom Theo murmurs platitudes, Aunt Dorie offers gratitude while Petronell mumbles an apology but cordiality has been replaced by caution. What is most noticeable and hurtful is the way Alwyn lines up with his parents and can hardly bring himself to shake Petronell’s hand.

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