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Not too much to ask, is it? It was in 1935 when Allen Lane, Managing Director of Bodley Head Publishers, stood on a platform at Exeter railway station looking for something good to read on his journey back to London. His choice was limited to popular magazines and poor-quality paperbacks – the same choice faced every day by the vast majority of readers, few of whom could afford hardbacks. Lane’s disappointment and subsequent anger at the range of books generally available led him to found a company – and change the world.

We believed in the existence in this country of a vast reading public for intelligent books at a low price, and staked everything on it’
Sir Allen Lane, 1902–1970, founder of Penguin Books

The quality paperback had arrived – and not just in bookshops. Lane was adamant that his Penguins should appear in chain stores and tobacconists, and should cost no more than a packet of cigarettes.

Reading habits (and cigarette prices) have changed since 1935, but Penguin still believes in publishing the best books for everybody to enjoy. We still believe that good design costs no more than bad design, and we still believe that quality books published passionately and responsibly make the world a better place.

So wherever you see the little bird – whether it’s on a piece of prize-winning literary fiction or a celebrity autobiography, political tour de force or historical masterpiece, a serial-killer thriller, reference book, world classic or a piece of pure escapism – you can bet that it represents the very best that the genre has to offer.

Whatever you like to read – trust Penguin.

1

September 1997

Eva pressed her forehead to the window and watched the ruffle of waves rimming the coastline recede from view as the plane nosed its way towards Johannesburg. The dirt roads were visible, clawed into a land pitted and scarred by drought. She knew the hell of driving them; how dusty and worn she’d feel after jolting along one, with nothing to look at for hour upon hour but rocks and thorn trees. Maybe, if she was lucky, a jackal, a snake. Africa lay stretched beneath her like the ravaged hide of some ancient beast, and something fierce shuddered inside her; a love that startled her and set off another round of tears, and she turned from the oval window and leaned back into her seat.

The girls sitting behind her were talking to each other. Sixteen hours into the flight and she still couldn’t identify the language. Definitely not Xhosa, she hadn’t heard any of the characteristic clicks, and not Sotho because she would surely have recognized the rhythms if not any of the words. At least they weren’t singing.

It was September, the plane only half full. Unlike the other passengers who had shifted around after take-off to secure a bank of seats for themselves, the three girls had stayed together. They wore dark-blue pinafores and light-blue shirts. They looked too old to be schoolgirls, but then Eva thought of the overcrowded classrooms in the townships, where twenty-year-old pupils shared textbooks and wrote their matric exams sitting on cement floors.

They sang for the first time just before the dinner service and their voices, full of sunshine and honey and dust, had disturbed in Eva some sodden longing for what used to be home. She wiped her eyes with a blue South African Airways blanket. She was crying for her father, because of her father. She shook her head in mild disgust at herself. Her mother was dead, worthy of her grief, and yet here she was weeping for that miserable ghost clinging to life in a hospital in Louis Trichardt.

She drank two small bottles of red wine with dinner and swallowed half a sleeping pill. She tucked the seat belts between her three seats and fashioned herself a bed, soft voices behind her murmuring something as she drifted off. In her sozzled state she imagined it to be a lullaby, the private twittering of doves in a thicket.

Now, with an hour left in what had seemed like a never-ending flight, Eva stared at the cratered red earth giving way to a smooth dun-coloured expanse mottled with dark green. Sand rivers, which flow for just a few weeks each year if the rains are decent, wound across the land like snail trails. Someone kneed her through the seat. The girls were giggling, piling on top of each other to look out of their small window and she impulsively leaned over her seat back, saying, ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

They nodded, two of them immediately raising hands to demurely cover their mouths while the third, a young woman really, looked curiously at Eva. She wanted to ask them what they’d been doing in America. Were they members of a youth group or a choir? Had a church sponsored their trip? The forthright gaze of the young woman deterred her from asking as Eva realized that she, in turn, would be questioned. She already had her lines prepared: she would claim to be an American tourist. She would lie to the girls, as she had for most of her years in New York, changing her story each time; one moment she was an immigrant from New Zealand, another a student visiting from England.

She slid back into her seat, her exhilaration tempered with shame. It had been ten years since she’d left the country, and left her father standing in front of the Dutch Reformed Church in Alldays. Now, he was dying. Her aunt Johanna had telephoned her three nights ago and begged her to return.

The shadow of the plane slid across the turquoise pools of Johannesburg’s northern suburbs, and buckled over ochre-coloured slag heaps piled beside exhausted gold mines. The wheels thudded on to the runway and the girls launched into ‘Nkosi Sikelel’i Afrika’. Other passengers seated in her section joined in, the white South Africans humming because the Xhosa words of their new anthem still eluded them, the blacks giving full voice. A smiling American family seated in the bulkhead stood up to watch, the father filming it all with a video camera. They were going on safari; Eva had overheard them talking to the steward.

What did they think? That it was an African custom to launch into song whenever a plane touched down, a way of thanking the great spirit in the sky for bringing them safely back to earth? She looked out at the long, dry, once green grass and the exhausted blue of the mid-afternoon highveld sky. She doubted it would be an easy visit; hopefully it would be a short one.

Eva had left in 1987, a month after her mother’s funeral. Lorraine had been cremated, which was an unusual occurrence in the Limpopo valley. Farmers and their wives and their dogs were buried, resting in the earth being reward enough for years of toil. Lorraine’s final act of rebellion had been to deprive the community of the grim satisfaction of watching Martin shovel earth on to his wife’s coffin. Instead, Eva and her father stood in the shade of the marula tree beside the church while the mourners nervously paid their respects. God forbid Martin should open his mouth and subject them to the jaw and tremble and buck of his stutter. They needn’t have worried: Eva held the fort beautifully. She clasped their hands in hers. Some expressed condolences in English, others Afrikaans, and she addressed each person in their language of choice. Within an hour it was over, no one left, apart from two little African boys staring at them from beneath a thorn tree across the street, and the dominee approaching to talk about how God’s hand is present in even the most hideous of accidents. Eva wanted to scream.

‘I’m going to drive back to Jo’burg,’ she said to her father without looking at him. She would not give him that, not even a glance at his hands to see if they were shaking, fingers of one hand worrying in the palm of the other.

She wept in the car. The goshawks perched on the telephone poles, the koppies rising out of the rock-strewn veld; the world that she loved seemed incapable of offering any solace, and Eva was grateful when darkness arrived and all she could see was the broken white line in the road, the signs announcing the kilometres to Johannesburg.

Weeks passed. Her uncle Hendrik, who worked as a stunt man in the South African film industry and had secured her a job as a production assistant on a soap opera, paid her a visit. She’d been fired; her hair was unwashed, her flat filthy. Alarmed he urged her to do something good for herself. Take a trip, he said, and he gave her enough money for a ticket overseas. Eva chose a night flight to Amsterdam. The lights of Soweto and Johannesburg were scattered beneath her like diamonds and rubies and tiger’s-eyes when the plane took off. Darkness and stars for eight hours, then the impossible green and density of Europe, the sombre civilized ocean beneath them as they flew into Schipol airport. She checked into a hostel, crawling out once a day for an apple pancake and a beer, unable to contemplate a future. Then one morning, a week after her arrival, she realized one certainty: she would not return home before his death. She went out and bought a train ticket to Spain.

He will want to be buried, Eva thought, as she waited with the other passengers in the line leading to passport control. And she knew where. The small cemetery outside Messina where the plastic flowers melted during the summer months. Damn him for dying. She handed over her South African passport and an African man with an explosive smile stamped it and said, ‘Welcome home!’

With the end of apartheid, Jan Smuts International airport had become Johannesburg airport. The Witwatersrand, the area encompassing Johannesburg, Randfontein and a few other towns, and which was named after a cascade of white water that the early settlers had seen, was now part of Gauteng – Eva had no idea what Gauteng meant. The conservative Transvaal, province of stoic farmers, sofa-sized rugby players and insatiable hunters, had been divided into the Northern Province and Mpumalanga. A new country, and she sensed it the minute she passed through customs.

Gone were the young, nervy-eyed, white soldiers with their machine guns. Instead the terminal seemed overrun with black taxi drivers asking her if she needed a ride. No, no thank you, she said, her eyes sweeping across their faces. In the past she’d have handled them with a certain confidence, an ongoing rapid discernment – trust this one, have nothing to do with that character – her white skin at least giving her the illusion of security. Now, she felt uncertain of herself.

She stepped outside into the shock of the sunlight. Buses with spewing exhaust pipes and ads for Sun City painted on their sides trundling past, row upon row of cars in the vast parking lot – it would have been so cosmopolitan if it hadn’t been for that light, wild and fierce, as if gleaned from the eyes of animals that kill. She took a minibus shuttle to the Holiday Inn, listening to the earthy lilt of the driver’s voice, the white family sitting opposite her with their flattened accents that turned each word into a roughly carved piece of wood.

After a plate of prawns peri-peri from room service and a long shower, Eva made her way to the bar. Two large fibre-glass tusks flanked the entrance; inside, a group of Indian businessmen crowded the red Naugahyde banquets. She perched on a stool at the bar and ordered a glass of pinotage. In the mirror opposite her, she studied the reflections of the two blonde South African women seated to her right: long manicured nails, chunky gold jewellery and cell phones resting on the bar. She thanked God she had avoided that fate and glanced at her own reflection. She’d worn lip gloss and it hadn’t helped, her mouth appeared to be more downturned than usual, her eyes vacant. She was twenty-eight years old, but with her short haircut – it had been so chic in New York – and the emotional tumult of returning etched across her face, she looked odd, like a middle-aged teenager. She reached quickly for her glass of wine.

The blondes departed and Eva ordered another glass from the bartender who wore a Nehru jacket cut from Kente cloth.

‘An American who knows that pinotage is South Africa’s finest wine.’ He set the glass in front of her. ‘So, what part of the States are you from?’

‘I live in New York.’

‘Ah, the Big Apple.’

She laughed. He made it sound like a piece of fruit. The bartender wrinkled his brow as if he didn’t understand her amusement and, emboldened by the velvety pinotage, she said, ‘Yup. Maar ek’s gebore in Humansdorp en het op ’n plaas –’ The words tumbling out of her mouth like clods of earth flustered her. She hadn’t spoken Afrikaans out loud in ten years, and she knocked her wine glass over.

‘No problem.’ He wiped the bar clean. ‘Welcome home, Mrs – or could it be Miss?’

‘Miss, Eva –’ Her eyes fluttered away from his in embarrassment. She must have sounded like a holdover from the old South Africa; Miss Eva was the way the Africans who worked on Skinner’s Drift had addressed her. ‘I mean, it’s just plain Eva.’

‘Welcome home, not so plain Eva.’

Again she avoided his eyes. Surely he wasn’t flirting with her. ‘Van Rensburg,’ she added.

‘Oh, that’s a nice boere surname.’ He refilled her glass and slid it towards her. ‘A few years ago I would have been scared of someone with a name like that.’

‘Cheers!’ She raised the glass to her lips, unsure of how she should respond.

A smile curled ever so slowly across his face until his cheekbones jutted out like rock ledges.

‘Eva, is everything A-okay?’ He leaned towards her, close enough for her to read the name tag pinned to his jacket.

‘Great, Rapulana.’

‘No, no, you make it sound too American. Listen. Rah –’ his mouth opened wide as a lion’s. ‘Puu –’ his lips pursed as if he were kissing her. ‘Lana!’ He swallowed and sighed.

Eva turned scarlet. She ran her fingers nervously up the stem of her wine glass. And abruptly stopped, realizing that the gesture might seem provocative. ‘Rapulana –’ God, even saying his name felt like a sexual act. ‘Thank you. You’ve – well, you’ve given me quite a welcome!’

She finished her wine, reached for her bag and scooted off the bar stool.

‘Eva. Wait!’

‘Yes?’

‘I like you, Eva, but … you need to pay your bill.’

‘Oh, my God, I’m so sorry!’

She fumbled with her wallet and pulled out a one hundred rand note. When he walked to the register at the other end of the bar she fled, leaving him a generous tip.

Back in her room she was pacing. Would she have been so flustered if a black American had come on to her? Of course not. It was being back in the country where, just a decade ago, a black man would never have flirted with her that had shaken her confidence. She opened the blinds and stared at three planes parked on a distant runway. Swissair with its comforting red cross, and two others, which were obviously from an African country, cheetahs in full stride painted on the fuselage below a row of tiny windows. She had a Visa card, escape was still a possibility. But it wouldn’t be once she called Johanna. Her stomach turned over.

The cheetah planes glided towards the terminal. Gambia, Guinea Bissau, the names of African countries came to mind, countries that Eva could not place on a map. She looked at her watch – it was nine thirty – and picked up the phone. God knows what Johanna thought of her, wicked Eva abandoning her father when he needed her so. She dialled the number.

‘Hello, Johanna.’

‘Skattebol?’

‘It’s me.’

‘You’ve come home. Liewe Here –’ Johanna sobbed.

‘Yes, I’m in Johannesburg.’

Johanna blew her nose and wheezed. ‘Eva?’

‘Yes, I’m here.’ A deep sucking sound followed and Eva knew her aunt had reached for her inhaler.

‘But you are sounding like an American,’ Johanna said, and then, as if it were quite possible that an American was playing a horrible trick on her, she demanded, ‘Eva? Are you sure that’s you?’

Eva grinned. She piled two pillows together and lay on the bed, relaxing into the asthmatic gullibility of her aunt.

‘Johanna, I swear, it’s me.’

They chatted about the flight. Johanna wanting to know about the food on board and whether the plane had managed to fly the whole way without stopping for petrol.

‘Yes, we didn’t run out of fuel. So, how is he doing?’

Another trumpeting nose blow. ‘Oh, skat, I think he had another stroke while he was incinerated in the hospital –’

‘Incarcerated, but that’s not –’

‘What’s that, Eva?’

‘Nothing … never mind. Go on.’

‘Well, it’s terrible. He doesn’t recognize anyone. He just lies there and cries.’

Eva’s smile faded. The thought of her father in tears rankled her and she sat up and told her aunt she’d be in Louis Trichardt late the following afternoon. Johanna gave her a brief lecture on how she must not give any blacks a lift. ‘Even to the old women who carry all their belongings in a bundle on their heads. A person just can’t tell these days.’

She hung up the phone, the image of her weeping father still vexing her, and switched on the TV in time to watch the news. Fist-clenching black workers picketing the Pepsi bottling plant, a white game warden detailing the efforts to track a rogue lion that had killed several head of cattle belonging to a tribe contesting the borders of the Kruger National Park. And the Truth and Reconciliation Commission had wrapped up its hearings in Pietermaritzburg with testimony from a distraught African woman who spoke of gathering pieces of her husband after police firebombed their house. In two weeks the commission would reconvene in the Northern Province.

She switched to MNET, the twenty-four-hour movie channel, and swallowed the other half of her sleeping pill. Her thoughts drifted uneasily to Stefan.

She’d been tempted to call him from JFK to tell him she was flying to South Africa. A need for earnest decent Stefan to say, ‘That’s great, Eva. You’re going home.’ But she still felt ashamed of the way she’d behaved with him.

She’d met him in the winter of 1992 on the set of a TV commercial where she was working as a gofer. De Klerk had released Mandela from Pollsmoor prison and to say you were a South African was to be an ambassador of hope. No longer a pariah, you were now a desired guest at parties where you were supposed to speak eloquently about the struggle, you were supposed to tear up and talk about the walk from the darkness into the light. But Eva didn’t reveal her nationality to Stefan right away. She mumbled her usual nonsense about New Zealand, and then had to field several questions concerning fjords and sheep.

They began seeing each other, Stefan patiently pursuing, Eva feeling squirrelly about it all. He worked as a part-time set painter and photographed New York with a pinhole camera. He also took photographs of Eva. The transformation of her face into an eerie poltergeist-like blur appealed to her, and soon she had over a dozen of them taped to her refrigerator.

‘I should have one for my passport photo,’ she joked one August afternoon after they’d idly been discussing travelling somewhere together. They’d just made love and she stood naked in front of the refrigerator, trying to prise a tray of ice cubes from the depths of her ice-blocked freezer.

‘So let’s see your passport,’ Stefan replied.

She turned, the cool air a blessing on her back, and studied him. He hadn’t put his glasses on so she knew he couldn’t see her. He was unassuming and so terribly gentle and polite, like Neels, and she was tired of lying and feeling so lonely. Abandoning her quest for ice, she dug her passport out of a drawer, handing it to him with his glass of cool water from the tap.

‘South Africa? But you come from New Zealand.’

‘I lied.’

‘Why? Eva, my God, I read about it in the papers … your country is astonishing!’

She was stunned – sensitive Stefan had tears in his eyes. The tears she was supposed to have. She pulled on her panties. ‘You don’t know what it was like in the late eighties. When I first arrived in the city a Jamaican threw me out of his cab after I told him I was a South African.’

Stefan patted the bed. ‘But you don’t have to lie about it any more.’

Reluctantly, she sat beside him.

‘Tell me something, Eva van Rensburg. Anything.’

It was the hour when sunlight graced her studio apartment. Sparrows were hopping through the ginkgo tree outside her window and her neighbour had the baseball game on his TV.

‘I grew up on a farm,’ she said.

Within the week, Stefan had bought a copy of Cry, the Beloved Country that he carried in his backpack. Alarmed by his growing passion for all things South African, Eva told him that she was not interested in politics, or discussing her childhood. But often, after making love, she’d stare out of her window at the yellowing leaves of the ginkgo tree, the sleet, and tell him about life on Skinner’s Drift. The day she was riding her horse and came across a huge knot of python uncoiling in the morning sun, the Limpopo running muddy and strong after summer storms.

It was Stefan who told Eva that expatriate South Africans, even those holding foreign passports, ‘Even kiwis like you,’ could go to the UN and vote in the country’s first democratic election. He urged her to go and she did. And she lied, telling him how wonderful it was to cast her vote when in truth she’d felt too ashamed, too filthy to join the line and she’d fled to a bar and ended up in a stranger’s bed. Soon after that, in a wash of self-loathing, Eva broke up with him.

A year later they were seeing each other again and South Africa had set up the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Stefan followed it avidly in the papers, reading about Vlakplaas, the farm outside Johannesburg where hit squads were trained, where die manne, members of the Security Police, could relax, have a drinking session, a braaivleis. He was on fire with the country’s suffering and the more he talked about justice and healing and compassion, the more alienated Eva felt.

‘What do you think?’ he asked her one evening as she poured a jar of pasta sauce into a pot. ‘Do you think people like Dirk Coetzee should get amnesty?’

Eva shrugged and began chopping black olives for the sauce.

Stefan paced the length of her apartment. ‘He tortured people. You know, they did that on Vlakplaas. And yet’ – he stopped, ran his hands through his sandy-coloured hair – ‘I find this so remarkable. I think that South Africa could forgive him. The heart of your country –’

‘Please, can we have one night when we don’t have to talk about all of this. I told you, I’m just not interested in politics so why you keep on –’

He looked at her in confusion. ‘I don’t get it. How can you know about all of this and not care?’ His voice began to tremble. ‘They burned a body on that farm, Eva. They sat around and drank beers and watched –’

‘Don’t you dare cry!’ Eva flung the chopping board to the floor. ‘Don’t you dare snivel in my apartment over my country, my history, my life!’ She was on the verge of tears but when she spoke again her voice was calculating. ‘You’re so in love with that fucking country. Well, guess what? I’m not. I’m never going back. And you want to know something else? I lied to you. I didn’t even care enough to vote.’

Stefan took off his glasses and rubbed them on his turtleneck.

They ate their pasta in silence. If he’d been a dog his ears would have folded back in appeasement. In bed that night, the fingertips tracing the length of her spine told her that he still cared about her, despite her outburst. It didn’t matter, she could not forgive herself, and when she didn’t roll over and move into his arms he stopped and left her alone. A few days later she once again ended the relationship.

Thanks to the sleeping pill, Eva slept until ten. She devoured a plate of fresh pawpaw then took the shuttle bus back to the airport where she rented a car for the five-hour drive to Louis Trichardt.

She headed north on the N1. Beyond the outlying suburbs of Pretoria flat-topped thorn trees dotted the veld on either side of the road. Donkeys grazed near clusters of shacks built out of rusted car doors, sheets of corrugated iron, sacking, and anything else their broken inhabitants could find. Occasionally she passed a farmhouse surrounded by a tall security fence. A dry thirsty light washed over everything.

She knew the road well. There stood the one-pump petrol station, now abandoned, that her father had patronized. The owner had been a lean, thin-lipped Afrikaner who sat in a deck chair, cold Castle in one hand, pack of Lucky’s in the other, and watched his black employee pump the petrol. There the bend in the road where her father once ran over a rinkhals, reversed over it to make sure it was dead, and then, despite Lorraine’s protestations, invited Eva to look at the long grey-brown snake, its tail still violently whipping about.

Two hours into the drive she passed Boshoff’s Nursery where her mother had bought her rose bushes. Eva braked sharply. She made a U-turn and pulled into the gravel driveway and scanned the aisles. There were no roses in bloom. A young black man watering the potted palms waved and she waved back, but her heart was racing as if she’d been caught doing something illicit, and she put her foot on the accelerator, gravel clattering against the car as she sped away.

The Soutpansberg, the mountains looming behind Louis Trichardt, were veiled in cloud when she drove into town at dusk. Barefoot young white boys with bristly haircuts zigzagged their bicycles down the tree-lined residential streets, while the town’s maids and gardeners trudged in the direction of the African location.

Eva carried her suitcase through her aunt’s garden gate. A curtain in the small window next to the door parted and then closed and she heard several locks and bolts sliding open. The door swung wide and there stood Johanna, bosom heaving, arms reaching for Eva.

She’d matured into a tannie, the quintessential Afrikaner auntie; grey hair tucked into a cobwebby hair net; a green apron, bordered with tiny zebras, over her respectable navy dress. She embraced Eva warmly, then stepped back, clutched her hands as if in prayer and urged, ‘Naartjie, Eva. Boerewors – biltong – vetkoek!’

‘What?’

‘We must turn you back into a South African, Miss John Wayne. Say it after me. Naartjie –’

‘Tangerine, spicy sausage, beef jerky and a terribly fattening piece of fried dough,’ Eva translated with a smile, and she lugged her suitcase into the lounge.

‘Beef what? En jy moet eet kind. Jy’s te maer.’

‘Thin is fashionable in New York.’ She shook her head – not even two seconds in the house and Johanna was feeling out where her loyalties lay, nudging her to the Afrikaner side of the family.

‘New York!’ Johanna harrumphed.

Two dainty glasses sat on a marble-topped washstand and she opened the small cupboard at its base – designed to hold a chamber pot – and, with a flourish, produced a bottle of Old Brown Sherry. She poured each of them a glass. ‘To Eva, who I never thought I’d see again. And now she’s here!’ She sobbed and downed her sherry and told Eva to relax, soon she’d have dinner on the table.

Eva poured herself another drink and looked around the room. Nothing had changed. There were the two springbuck skin rugs that her father had given Johanna, the heavy glass-fronted cabinets out of which books would surely skitter but a gun would comfortably rest, the two riempie benches with their sagging ox-sinew seats. She remembered her mother’s name for Johanna’s house. Voortrekker Suites.

‘Kos is op die tafel!’ Johanna rang a small bell and summoned her niece to the dining alcove.

They took their usual seats at the dining table set with heavy-handled silverware and crocheted lace doilies. And as Johanna cut into the venison pie and served the pumpkin fritters dusted with cinnamon sugar, Eva was assailed with memories of the obligatory once a month Sunday lunches.

Her father would sit at the head of the table looking oppressed in the jacket and long trousers he’d worn out of respect for his sister. Her mother would be at the other end, unruly blonde hair pulled into a small tight bun that made her face even more moon-like, the surprise of coral lipstick on her generous mouth, her pale eyebrows etched with brown eyebrow pencil. And then there was the table, laden with a huge roast leg of lamb, sodden vegetables and a braised ox tongue that Eva refused to taste and that seemed to mock the family with its insolent curving tip. ‘Neem vir jou nog ’n snytjie tong, boetie?’ Johanna would ask, her plump hand resting on Martin’s arm. ‘You should learn how to cook tongue, Lorraine, it’s his favourite food.’ When she resumed her one-sided conversation with Martin, Lorraine would tap toes under the table with Eva and murmur, ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try the tongue, Evie?’ Unable to contain her laughter any longer Eva would flee the table for the toilet where she would try to compose herself. On her return, she’d find her mother, eyes rolling like an excitable horse, pestering Johanna, waving her serviette at her sister-in-law and demanding that she speak more slowly so she could understand her Afrikaans. It was only during the car ride back to the farm that Eva resumed the vigil she kept over her father’s moods, anxiously watching the set of his jaw while her mother dissected the hours they’d spent at Voortrekker Suites, ready to change the subject if she sensed that her mother was going too far.

‘Skattebol, another slice of pie?’ Johanna asked.

Eva started. ‘No, I’m fine right now.’

‘A little more sherry?’

‘Sure.’

In the unflattering light of the dining alcove her aunt’s face looked wrung out and deeply lined. She’d never married and Eva had a vision of a teenage Johanna, stocky legged and frowning, in a school playground, one arm wrapped tight around her stuttering little brother, a fist raised at his tormentors.

Eva relented, after all the fritters were delicious. ‘Tannie, die pampoen is baie lekker.’

Johanna’s lips quivered, she removed the hanky that she kept tucked between her breasts and dabbed her eyes and thanked God that her niece was home. She prayed for Martin’s recovery and stared at the ceiling as if to check that her words had taken flight.

Eva promptly drained her sherry glass.

Johanna did the same, eyes flitting to the ceiling once more as she cried, ‘And please forgive me for not making him leave the farm!’

‘I’m sure you did everything you could,’ Eva soothed.

‘No, I went to the farm a few weeks ago. I hadn’t seen him in months and I cooked him a tongue, three chickens and a melktert. Like an expedition, I’m telling you. All that dust and that twisting road down through the koppies. It was terrible! I got there in the middle of the day and found him sleeping on the sofa with all the curtains closed. I made us some tea and when he stepped outside I saw that he hadn’t shaved in days and – forgive me for saying this,’ Johanna clutched Eva’s hand, ‘he smelled, bad, like he wasn’t washing himself. I wanted to cry when I looked at his feet, all swollen and red.’

Through a thickening fog of Old Brown Sherry and jet lag, Eva stared at the veins on her aunt’s hand, winding like rivers on a map, dividing into tributaries. She knew she should have some sort of emotional response, her aunt was telling sad stories about her father’s decline – when Johanna had called her in New York and said, ‘he’s dying’, her heart had almost stopped – but all Eva felt was immense fatigue, her head about to fall into the plate that held the last pumpkin fritter. She blinked at it, too good to waste. She picked it up and tried to concentrate on Johanna’s words.

‘I should have made him come home with me. But by the end of the visit he’d cheered up. You know why? That bloody dog stole the tongue. Ach, I was angry. But my boetie was laughing and if that’s what it took I would serve tongue to that animal once a week. I thought he was going to be all right. Two weeks later I got a call from the hospital.’

Johanna tilted the sherry bottle, less than an inch left. Eva declined and Johanna finished it.

‘He gave me something to give to you. I was in the car and he came out of the house with a box and said, “When my time comes, give these to Eva.” I told him to stop talking such rubbish, but he insisted.’

Eva struggled to keep her eyes open. ‘He gave you something?’ she mumbled.

‘Those diaries, the ones your mother kept. I put them in your room. Kind? Is jy wakker? Come, come, you must go to bed.’ Johanna ushered Eva down the hallway to the spare room. She peeled back the sheets on a sturdy single bed with a dark wooden headboard. Eva kicked off her shoes and pulled off her jeans and flopped on to the bed.

‘Do you want your pyjamas?’ Johanna asked when she returned with Eva’s suitcase.

‘Don’t own any,’ she murmured.

‘Brush your –’

Eva shook her head.

Johanna stood beside the bed, chuckling. ‘Look at you! Miss America with no pyjamas in my spare bed. Sleep well, skattie.’

At three in the morning Eva’s eyes snapped open. She fumbled for the switch on the bedside light, uncertain of where she was. Two paintings hung on the wall opposite her, one of pale-skinned women with pastel headscarves sitting in the shade of an oasis. In the other, haggard men with white beards were leading a string of camels down a sand dune. Ah, yes, Johanna’s house. She remembered her aunt talking about the diaries and wriggled out of the tightly tucked in blankets to search for them. In the corner of the room she spied a thick crocheted blanket folded on top of a cardboard box marked CASTLE LAGER. She tossed the blanket on to the bed, lifted the flaps and saw the familiar pebbly grain on the black leather covers of her mother’s diaries. A small envelope rested on top of them. She withdrew a sheet of paper and recognized the spidery child-like handwriting.

For Eva. From your father.

Goose bumps rippled across her forearms. She’d had no contact with him for a decade; because of his stutter Martin had never befriended words, spoken or written, and it was through letters from Hendrik and Johanna, letters she reluctantly opened, that Eva learned about her father’s decline.

She read the two short sentences again, then closed her eyes as she guessed at what remained unwritten.

Angrily, she crumpled the sheet of paper and tossed it to one side. She knelt beside the box and carefully removed the diaries, arranging them on the floor in three rows in chronological order. The first was a composition book, the kind Eva had used at school, and on the cover Lorraine had written 1974. The last diary – she noted this with a twist in her stomach – was for 1984.

She scooted a few feet away from them as if to get an overview. They’re nothing more than daily entries about life on the farm, she told herself. Still, the notion of what her mother might have discovered unsettled her.

Eva stood up abruptly and moved back to the bed. She would not read them. There was no need to. She knew all there was to know about the farm. And her father knew, and why the hell had he asked Johanna to pass these on? She didn’t have one jot of sympathy for the ruin of a man that her aunt had described, almost destitute in his own house.

Yet, when she was a child she’d always been curious about those diaries, wondering how her mother saw her and her father and their life on the farm. A quick look, that’s all she’d need now. She scooped up the composition book and turned to the first entry of 1974.

3 FEBRUARY
We have a home! Not a farm that we are managing but our very own. Skinner’s Drift! It is roughly three thousand hectare with the most extraordinary red sandstone rock formations marking the eastern border. The interior is harsh with a few baobabs and lots of stunted mopane trees, but we are living close to the Limpopo in a rundown double-storey farmhouse with a red-tile roof and iron grille work on the windows. We walked the river this afternoon. It’s dry but that happens for a few months each year. And the floodplain is rich and perfect for crops. Martin carried Eva on his shoulders and I’ve never seen him so happy. Eva kept asking questions and insisted on answering them herself. Later we found a puffadder coiled behind the toilet. Martin shot it and in the process cracked the cistern. So much to do and I should go to sleep, but I’m so excited! As I write this, Eva is sleeping on a camp bed in our room and Tosha is at my feet, wondering what to make of the sound of a hyena calling. As am I!!!

Eva could see the river winding through the trees beyond the farmhouse like a deserted highway. The sand was the colour of milk and honey in the lazy light of late afternoon, the silence broken by the mewling cries of the grey louries.

4 FEBRUARY
A day of unpacking and trying to understand this house, this new life. The world here is so different from the Eastern Cape. No ocean, no smell of the sea, instead we smell potatoes! There’s a plant that grows on the banks of the river and it smells exactly like chopped raw potatoes. Dolf Claasen our neighbour visited today with tales of leopards and elephants. The era of big game roaming in this area is coming to an end, but there is still plenty of wildlife on the Botswana side of the Limpopo. It’s just dawning on me what it means to be living on the border. Right now I could take my cup of tea, walk across the dry riverbed (nervously, because Dolf has spooked me with his elephant stories) and be in another country. And I love the fact that I am finally living in a double-storey house. Call me hoity toity if you like but we’re coming up in the world. No more one-bedroom farm managers’ homes for us, buckets in the kitchen to catch the leaks and an outside toilet. Eva will have her own room and we’ll have an office downstairs. In a few days I’m driving into Louis Trichardt and Johanna will show me the shops.

6 FEBRUARY
An African man showed up at the door this morning, hat in hand, saying that he would work hard, asking us to please give him a chance. His name is Ezekiel and he worked for the previous owners and my sense is that he’s a good, trustworthy man. Martin has him tearing down old chicken coops, clearing away a lot of rusted junk. He lives in a shack near the river. I gave him a few slices of bread for lunch and asked him if he wasn’t scared when the elephants come through. He laughed and said that when he hears them he lies very still on his bed.

Eva closed the composition book and placed it back on the floor. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to tear away from the image of Ezekiel standing at the kitchen door, crumpling his hat in his hands, hoping the baas will give him a job and he won’t have to move on. It would have been better if he had. She hadn’t seen him since the day her mother was killed. She’d left, travelled far away from Skinner’s Drift, and he’d continued to work for Martin.

Her chest felt tight, the room airless and she opened the window and slipped her hand through the burglar bars. She rubbed her fingers together as if feeling the texture of the night. The Soutpansberg were two, maybe three miles away. It was still wild country, and her thoughts skittered around the leopard that would be prowling the ravines at this hour, the anxious baboons huddling together on rock ledges. No jackals though. Phukubje, that was the Sotho word for jackal, Ezekiel had told her. They mated for life and they preferred flatter, more open terrain.

LISA FUGARD

Skinner’s Drift

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Contents

SKINNER’S DRIFT

1

September 1997