reading

ISBN: 9781483554075

CHAPTERS

CHAPTER 1

First Sunday: An Unwelcoming Welcoming Service.

CHAPTER 2

First Monday: Just George, an Incident at the Post Office and those Dogs next Door.

CHAPTER 3

First Tuesday: The Women’s Auxiliary: The Good, the Bad and the Holy.

CHAPTER 4

First Wednesday into Thursday: The Godfather and Trouble over the Road.

CHAPTER 5

First Thursday: Biltong Sandwiches, Knapsacks, Neighbourly Troubles and a Troublesome Visitor.

CHAPTER 6

First Friday: Black Friday, Green Paint and Red Faces.

CHAPTER 7

First Saturday: Mrs Thomas takes the High Road and the Low Road.

CHAPTER 8

Second Sunday: Crossing the River: The Parable of the Prodigal Son.

CHAPTER 9

Second Monday: Hospital Ins and Outs.

CHAPTER 10

Second Tuesday: Another Day at the Office.

CHAPTER 11

Second Wednesday: Phone Calls and Late Night ‘Jols’.

CHAPTER 12

Second Thursday: Visiting Hours.

CHAPTER 13

Second Friday: Removals!

CHAPTER 14

Second Saturday: Warming the People!

CHAPTER 15

Last Sunday: Crossing Back.

To Mum, Rose, Donovan,

Helen and in memory of Tommy.

For your love, inspiration and friendship.

“We enter into a covenant that we shall build a society in which all South Africans, both black and white, will be able to walk tall, without fear in their hearts, assured of their inalienable right to human dignity – a rainbow nation at peace with itself and the world.”

Nelson Mandela, Inaugural Address, Pretoria 9 May, 1994.

CHAPTER 1

First Sunday: An Unwelcoming Welcoming Service.

So many people had turned up that they were using the hall rather than the church itself. Teresa Thomas counted only a few spare seats as Digby sorted and fluffed her cushions a few rows from the front.

“Well this is different. Very different!” she said.

Digby nodded and held her arm as she eased her frail body into the softened seat. Placing a hand on the chair in front of her she bent her head in prayer. Her concentration only lasted a few minutes, however, before she became aware of Digby’s voice, no doubt chatting to the lady on his right.

“The looks never really go away,” he was saying. “Audrey Hepburn? Hmm… no, I’d say a retired Elizabeth Taylor or Vivien Leigh; perhaps a combination of all three.”

She couldn’t resist opening her eyes.

“Who are you talking about?”

“You, of course.” He turned from the woman and gently ran his fingers through his short grey beard.

“Nonsense,” she said attempting to chuckle and frown at the same time.

They sat quietly for a while, their eyes taking in the ‘very different’ activity going on around them. The stage curtains were open and a large choir of over fifty black ladies were singing, clapping and moving to a lively, tuneful and slightly familiar melody. Some were shaking tambourines, and now and again a few taps and shakes of that instrument echoed back from the congregation itself, some of whom were also singing and swaying along with the tunes. Unusually, there was no melodic accompaniment. The old piano stood forlornly in the corner, its lid firmly shut and Minnie Terreblanche – the church organist and pianist – nowhere to be seen.

Camouflaged by the movement around her, Teresa began scanning the congregation for familiar faces. Only a few of the regular Stillwater Methodist white folk seemed to have turned up. If the truth be known, this didn’t surprise her. She hadn’t expected much of a showing from the host church although she didn’t think it would be this bad. All in all, she counted twelve including herself and Digby. They were easy enough to count too, having clustered together towards the front of the hall.

The vast majority of worshippers seemed to be members of Stillwater’s ‘sister’ churches from the nearby townships of Carolina and Florida. Sister, of course, was the word that retiring Minister Jones usually used when talking about the church’s township neighbours:

“Finally folks, don’t forget the clothes collection for our sister church in Carolina next Sunday,” or, “Please remember the orphanage fund run by our sisters in Florida.”

A nice and polite way to address the town’s neighbours; thoroughly fitting to Minister Jones’s character and typical of his generosity of spirit. (How Teresa was going to miss him.)

But most of Stillwater’s white worshippers were well aware that other than the few miles separating them and the odd bit of co-operation between them, there wasn’t much of a relationship between the churches at all. And Teresa was acutely aware that this morning’s service – described as a ‘welcoming service’ in the previous week’s bulletin – hadn’t been welcomed by many of the white Stillwater faithful, hence the low turnout.

The choir on-stage had reached the end of another enthusiastic hymn and in the relative silence that followed, Teresa gradually became aware of a conversation going on behind her:

“So where is old Jones today then?”

“I saw him going into that um… little room at the side of the church building?”

“The vestry?”

“Yeah there, with the bishop – probably for his farewell pat on the back.”

“Is that the famous bishop – the one from Jo’burg?”

“That’s the one. Come hither all ye illegals and feel welcome to squat in my aisles and pews.”

“Stop it James, that’s not nice, remember where you are. He’s only trying to help people!”

Teresa had, of course, already greeted the young couple behind her on her way into the hall. They hadn’t been members long, having recently exchanged vows at the Stillwater Methodist. Minister Jones, as usual, had politely asked them to attend a few services before the big day, and in this case things had worked out well, with the couple visiting regularly and eventually becoming full-blown members. In a church predominated by older folk, an injection of young blood was always welcome, and James and Debbie had been quite a coup for old Jones.

“That’s the bishop coming out now,” said James. “Bloody hell, look at all that purple. He’s got the full works on today.”

“James, language! I’m gonna donner you. People can hear.”

“They soon won’t. That choir’s gonna kick off again. Ah ha, here come the new boys now. Easy enough to guess which one we’re getting.”

“Now that’s where you’re wrong.”

“Well they’re not going to send the white guy to a township… Debbie, are they?”

“I overheard some of the W.A. women talking at the entrance. The white guy’s being sent to Carolina. We’re getting the one on the right. The smiling one with the big round face.”

“Oh for f–”

Teresa cringed, expecting the worst, but James’s words were thankfully drowned out as the choir launched into another lively song of praise.

There followed an expectant hush as the bishop made his way to a makeshift lectern. With a big smile, he dramatically threw his arms wide and announced in a powerful voice:

“We welcome you all to the Lord’s house for this very special service. We thank you for coming to bless the three men who stand before you as they take up their duties serving their new churches and most importantly, our almighty God. This is a time of celebration, so let us begin with that famous South African hymn which has now become our national anthem: “Nkosi Silelel’ iAfrika”, or for our English speaking folk here today: God bless Africa. Perhaps you’ll find the words appropriate. ‘Lord bless Africa, raise high its glory, hear thou our prayers, Lord bless us, her children.’ ”

Teresa heard a loud sigh behind her.

“Why not chuck in ‘Die Stem’ for good measure.”

“James, it’s not a rugby match. Now shut up!”

“But this is a political song, not a hymn.”

“No it was a hymn, then it became a political song, and now it’s a hymn again.”

Teresa began to smile before she suddenly realised that she didn’t actually know the words of this hymn – national anthem or not. Not in Zulu, Xhosa, Sotho, Afrikaans or even English. She doubted that many of the white folk around knew it either. She felt her breath shorten – this was going to be embarrassing. She prided herself on her singing voice having recently retired from many years’ service in the church choir, and the thought of doing nothing, or trying to mime to the tune, absolutely horrified her.

“I think I know it,” whispered Digby, reading the expression on her face. “Just try and follow me.”

Then, as if in answer to her prayers, a beautifully bound hymn-book was placed on Teresa’s lap. A helping hand flicked through a few pages, before the hymn – laid out in two columns, Xhosa on the left with the English translation on the right – appeared under her eyes.

“Please use this book, Mama, and feel welcome to keep it for the rest of the service.”

The large black lady was seated directly in front of Teresa. Smartly turned out in a red and white uniform and a badge marked ‘Florida Central’, she offered an engaging smile before turning back to pick up on the opening lines of the hymn.

Teresa tapped her gently on the shoulder.

“But do you have a book for yourself?”

“Please don’t worry about me, Mama. I think I’ll know all the hymns we do today.”

“Thank you, you’re very kind.” Teresa glanced at Digby, who offered no more than a slight nod and a thoughtful stroke of his beard.

Teresa, like most of the white Stillwater Church members in the hall, already knew that this service would be different to the usual Sunday fare. But even armed with this knowledge, she was still taken a little unawares when the opening hymn turned out to be a mere prelude to over half an hour’s worth of hymns and choruses. It was obvious that this bishop loved to sing. And with the help of a microphone, his voice soared above those of the choir, congregation and even the spirited tambourine shakers. Teresa was soon reaching for the volume switch on her hearing aid and wondering if Minnie Terreblanche’s piano efforts would have made much difference to these proceedings. Well, she reasoned, it may have been a bit loud for her taste, but it was pretty obvious that the majority of worshippers in the hall were having a joyful, moving and uplifting time.

The majority, but not everyone. She studied the white faces around her. A black minister for them? A white minister for Carolina Township? Teresa remembered the opening line of a Frank Sinatra song she’d heard playing on the radio that morning: ‘There may be trouble ahead… ’

The hymns finally ended, and with an audible sigh of relief, she fell wearily onto her cushioned chair. The bishop remained on his feet. He waited until everyone was seated before he cleared his throat and announced:

“It’s in the singing that I find such big differences in the attitude of the black and white people of our church. I sometimes feel that you black folk need to listen, understand and think a little harder about the words of these beautiful songs of praise. Don’t just shout them out, but think about what they mean. And we white folk? Well, we need to loosen up a little, sing out a little louder, listen to our bodies, move a bit more, and maybe even smile to the joys of God’s wondrous words.”

To emphasise the point, the bishop flashed the congregation a broad smile, clicked his fingers in time to an imaginary tune and did a little shuffle around the lectern. The sound of laughter echoed through the hall, none louder than Digby’s strange low chuckle accompanied by a few random tugs of his beard. The bishop beamed and gave a theatrical wink, visible to all but the back rows. But Theresa had already spotted a growing frown on the face of the Women’s Auxiliary President, Elsa Meyer, who was sitting just a few seats away. And it was difficult not to hear James and Debbie’s animated conversation going on behind her:

“I’m not having this guy lecturing me on my attitude, Debs. What does he expect me to do, jump up and start doing a toyi-toyi with these okes? Can you see this old lady and this little bearded oke with the big round earrings stamping their feet and protest chanting in church?”

“No man, James, he’s just making a joke.”

“This is no joke. We don’t sing that way, we don’t dance that way and we don’t want to worship this way. It feels like we’ve been completely taken over. Why don’t we just go?”

“James, leave it, please!”

Teresa’s initial smile at the thought of Digby and her doing a ‘toyi toyi ’dance soon turned to a scowl at the rude and outspoken young man’s old and little references. She glanced at Digby, whose only movement was a frown and a gentle tug on one of the aforementioned earrings. This young upstart would do well to watch his mouth. Looks could be deceptive. In spite of Digby’s short(ish) stature and his affection for wearing decorative ear adornments, she’d quite often heard him described by some of the local men as ‘a tough little bugger’.

A part of her, however, could sympathise with this upstart. Yes, his impertinent way of criticising a church he’d only just joined, grated a bit. But, after all, this was Stillwater –not Johannesburg. People here didn’t like ‘change’ thrown in their faces. They also didn’t like outsiders telling them what to do. And there was a general feeling amongst some Methodists – echoed in a few of the Highveld newspapers – that this particular bishop rather liked dabbling in ‘political appointments’, almost revelled in a certain level of controversy and fame, and tried a bit too hard to mix the different communities together.

In all fairness though, Teresa could also see that the bishop’s words were a bit of a double-edged sword. After all, wasn’t he also implying that many of the black people in the congregation were missing the true meanings of their beloved hymns? But turning her head this way and that, she couldn’t pick out any of the Carolina or Florida worshippers who looked the slightest bit offended. In fact, most were smiling, some were still laughing at the bishop’s little dance around the lectern, and all looked quite contented and at home.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The service turned out to be a long one. A very long one. Teresa remembered a recent clash of words between Minister Jones and a long-serving church member when a few of his services ran overtime:

“Could you keep in mind, Harry that we often have a bowls match starting at eleven, and it’s very difficult making the club if you keep running over.”

Old Jones hadn’t been impressed and had responded by dropping a few choice words into the following week’s sermon:

“We must remember that God is there for us whenever we need him, everywhere and all of the time. So we in turn, cannot always allocate when and how long we take to worship him back. And yes, I do realise that a bowls match was once enough to keep Sir Francis Drake from attending to the approaching Spanish Armada. But God’s word is more important – important enough to keep the Stillwater Bowls Club waiting a few minutes.”

Today’s special service, however, was far exceeding the missing a bowls match boundaries. In fact, after three hours of singing, dancing, a long sermon from the bishop, a special prayer for some rain to ease the seemingly never-ending drought and a ‘few words’ from each of the new ministers, Teresa was starting to contemplate the idea of missing lunch. Now she regarded herself as a patient and accommodating lady. But missing a meal? That was stretching it a bit.

Sadly, other than the sheer length of the occasion, both Teresa and Digby would also remember the day for a few other unsavoury events. They started quite subtly, about an hour into the service, when a white couple sitting near the aisle managed to sneak out quite unobtrusively although noisily enough for Teresa to notice. Then a few hymns later, she sensed movement directly behind her, and with quite a bit of inconvenience to other worshippers, James and Debbie finally left. Two more exits followed quite quickly, both white couples who were Stillwater regulars. Teresa kept her gaze on the bishop as they left, noticing his downturned eyes and how his one arm seemed to lean heavily on the lectern with his chin cupped in his hand.

But the most obvious, memorable and unsavoury exit was yet to come.

In dramatic style, Women’s Auxiliary President Elsa Meyer picked her moment, waiting until the hall was completely silent. At that point, the service had about half an hour to run and the bishop had paused, about to launch into a special prayer for the country. Standing noisily to her feet, Elsa rejected the convenient side-isle route and made sure that nearly a full row of people were disturbed, before ending up in the central isle. She turned her head to face the bishop. A look passed between them. Just a moment, probably less than two seconds. But as Elsa Meyer turned and walked defiantly towards the main door, Teresa saw something in her eyes that she hadn’t seen in a place of worship for many a year. Hatred.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

And so, the strange and surreal situation came about that the predominately white Methodist Church of Stillwater had their biggest turnout ever for any single service, and yet, just four actual members of the church – all white people – remained in the packed hall: Minister Jones, Teresa, Digby and old Bob, who had long since fallen asleep in the corner.

Old Bob, of course, always fell asleep during services. Members of Stillwater Central loved to point out to newcomers, the pronounced marks on the walls, pillars and corners of the main church building where Bob had snoozed through many a sermon. Minister Jones had, in fact, once set himself a challenge that he could deliver a sermon of such magnificence, intrigue and importance, that it would keep old Bob awake to the final amen. To this end, he’d failed miserably, and Bob was invariably in dream heaven long before old Jones had even started. The funny thing though – and an irony not lost on the minister – was that Bob never failed to compliment him on a brilliant, well delivered and soul-awakening service on his way out of church. After a while, old Jones began consoling himself with the thought that even if he wasn’t reaching Bob directly, perhaps he was getting his message across in a kind of subliminal way.

So, it was well after one in the afternoon when this particular service – one that old Bob would later rate as, “the best ever” – finally came to an end. Even then, the bishop had the idea to invite the entire congregation to come forward and shake hands with the new appointments. As everyone moved to the front of the hall, an opportunity presented itself to Teresa. She could sneak out of the rear exit unnoticed and possibly still make Conti’s Cafe for a late take-away lunch. But that, of course, would mean missing the chance to meet her new minister. After a thoughtful couple of seconds, she tapped Digby on the arm.

“If you’ve got a few extra minutes, would you mind going up to the front? I know you probably want to get back for lunch.”

Digby smiled, and Teresa suspected that she had been rumbled. Her friend and neighbour was probably well aware that she was the one more concerned with a late meal.

“That’s fine, Teresa. You go forward and I’ll go and give old Bob a nudge.”

It turned out to be quite a wait and Teresa was soon regretting the fact that she had not had the good sense to remain seated until the queue shortened. The orderly line of people first met the bishop, who seemed in no hurry to get away, taking time to laugh, joke and exchange friendly handshakes. With a few of the men, he even abandoned the traditional European handshake, opting for the African ‘switcheroo’, followed by a few playful slaps on the back. The switcheroo – a three stage handshake which was catching on fast in all South African communities – started as a normal shake. Then it changed to a vertical grip as the thumb was lowered and the fingers were pointed skyward. To finish off, the participants allowed their hands to sink back to the normal grip, before disengaging with a friendly squeeze.

Standing alongside the bishop were Minister Jones, two ministers who Teresa presumed were the outgoing ministers from township churches and the three new appointments. The men were all smiling and chatting courteously with the passing people. Eventually she reached the front of the queue and came face to face with the district leader.

“Nice to meet you, Bishop, I’m Teresa Thomas. I’d like to thank you on behalf of Stillwater Central for coming all the way from Jo’burg today. We know how busy you must be.”

“It’s an absolute pleasure, Mrs Thomas, and I’m so glad that you and your husband stayed right to the end.”

Teresa’s face coloured.

“Oh no, Bishop, Digby’s just a friend, neighbour and my transport today. Oh dear -he helps me with car lifts and repairs around the house–”

“Go on Teresa, admit you’ve got a toy-boy, hur hur hur!” interrupted Digby who had joined the queue behind her.

A glare from Teresa was all he needed. He opened his mouth briefly then seemed to think the better of it, resorting instead to a few nervous flicks of his earrings. An awkward smile passed between the two men before Teresa gave the bishop an uncomfortable look and shuffled down the line towards the three new ministers.

“Hello, it’s really nice to meet you. Which church have you been called to?”

A handsome young white man with bright blue eyes and a shy smile returned her handshake. Standing just behind him was an attractive girl who looked to be in her early twenties. The man spoke with a soft, yet confident voice.

“I’m off to Carolina – it’s my first appointment.”

“Hmmm…” said Digby

“Will you be living in the township then?” asked Teresa. “Do they have a manse there for you?”

“I believe there is some accommodation. It may not be a house as such, although I haven’t seen it yet. Hopefully there’ll be room for the two of us and our new baby.”

There was a momentary pause before Teresa continued.

“Congratulations to both of you. Well, I hope everything goes well in Carolina. We’ll be praying for you, Minister.”

A few words were then exchanged with a smart-looking black minister who seemed to be in his mid-sixties. Originally from the Port Elizabeth area, he was now moving somewhere not that far from Stillwater. Teresa, however, had never heard of this particular township and didn’t have a clue as to where it was situated.

Moving on, she checked behind her to make sure that Digby was still in tow and realised that, other than old Bob, they were the last people in the queue. Bob, for his part, seemed to be in the process of congratulating a bemused-looking Reverend Jones on another excellent sermon. So, as she turned to the last minister, it occurred to her that she now had an ideal opportunity to spend a few minutes with her church’s new leader.

He shook her hand with a strong but courteous grip and a smile immediately leapt onto his round jovial face.

“Mrs Thomas, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Teresa was slightly taken aback.

“Oh, Reverend, I didn’t realise you knew my name already!”

“I saw your picture in last week’s church bulletin and I have also made it my duty to memorise all the names of the Women’s Auxiliary committee. As you probably know, any minister worth his salt must realise where the church’s power-base actually lies.”

The smile widened even further and his large frame shook slightly as he broke into a light-hearted chuckle. Digby soon joined in with his own low-range cackle, and it was a good few seconds before Teresa dared to continue this conversation.

“Well you know my name, but I’m afraid that Digby and I don’t know yours.”

“Ah,” he began, a trick of the overhead neon lights causing his dark eyes to sparkle momentarily. “I’m afraid it’s that long and complicated that even my Zulu congregation down in Durban couldn’t remember it. Be warned, you may need a pen and paper to write it down, and even then I think you’ll struggle to pronounce it.”

“Try me,” countered Teresa who’d read a few books on memory training in her time and quite fancied herself on pronunciation.

“It’s Joseph Jackson–” and then followed a six syllable surname, characterised by some strange vowel sounds with a kind of click noise sandwiched in the middle. She knew straight away that she wouldn’t have a hope in hell’s chance of pronouncing it, never mind remembering it.

“Yes it can be a problem,” said the minister, breaking into a chuckle. “But the good news is that everyone simply calls me by my nickname.”

Teresa’s hand shot to her mouth; she could think of quite a few!

“It’s Joe Jack. Stands to reason, shorten Joseph and Jackson and what do you get?”

“We can’t call you the Reverend Joe Jack – um, can we? Why not Reverend Joseph or Reverend Jackson then?”

“Or we could call you Joe Jackson, like the singer,” added Digby breaking into the chorus of a song Teresa had never heard before.

“Well you can call me what you like,” laughed the minister. “And I’m sure I’ve been called a few things in my time. But I’m used to Joe Jack and that’s how they knew me down in Durban.”

This conversation had taken an unusual turn, and Teresa was soon thinking that she wasn’t really finding out much about the man. Or maybe – on second thoughts – she was. Even in the little that had been said, she had an overriding feeling about him. Some people warn against first impressions, but she, for the most part, had always put a lot of faith in them. And yes, there was definitely something impressive and larger than life about him. Kindness, sincerity and honesty sparkled in his dark brown eyes, and humour – with perhaps a touch of mischief – seemed to be hiding just below the surface of his engaging smile. But there was something else. It was visible every now and again, sandwiched somewhere between the easy-going manner and the twinkle in the eyes. Was it apprehension?

Now suddenly, those eyes were looking not just with apprehension but with some alarm towards the back of the hall. Teresa followed his gaze to see a thin black lady beckoning impatiently to him and calling in her native language.

“Zulu, I think,” whispered Digby.

There was a change in Reverend Joe Jack. He spoke quicker, his eyes anxious and focused away from Teresa and Digby.

“Please excuse me; my wife – the boss – is calling.”

Then he tapped them both lightly on the shoulders, mouthed an apology to old Bob who was now talking to the bishop, and turned and headed for the rear doors.

Teresa watched him go, noticing that the hall was nearly empty with just a few stragglers making their way out of the main front door.

“You’re probably a bit tired to be cooking now, Teresa” said Digby. “Fancy a drive down to the golf club. I believe they do lunch right up ’till two thirty.”

She could have hugged him. This was the Digby she knew and loved. One minute he was dropping you right in it with ‘toy boy’ comments to a bishop, and the next, he was saving the day making sure that Sunday lunch wasn’t skipped. She quickened her pace towards the rear door which led to the car park, calculating that she would be no less than an hour behind schedule with her first mouthful. Not too bad a delay under the circumstances.

It had taken awhile, with a fair helping of patience and subtlety, but Teresa had eventually managed to convince Digby of the importance of regular eating times. This lady was not for turning breakfast into brunch or lunch into a mid-afternoon snack. In fact, you could set your watch by her eating habits and the wisest of visitors usually had the good sense to work around her daily schedule. Pop in for a quick chat at 12:30 when she was cooking lunch, or (even worse) at 1 PM when she was eating it, and you’d invariably receive short, sharp and hurried contributions to the conversation. Turn up, however, just a quarter of an hour after the last mouthful and you’d get an altogether different person: gracious, full of smiles and brimming over with small talk.

Another lesson that she’d tried to teach her friend and neighbour, was to do with this very idea of popping in. Here, they were total opposites. Family, friends and even friends of friends were constantly in and out of Digby’s house – and if it wasn’t people, it was animals. At the last count, he owned four cats, three dogs and a rabbit. Teresa, however, who had lived alone since the passing of Mr Thomas, found casual visits tiring at best and simply annoying at worst. She generally frowned on visitors turning up without prior arrangement – these people didn’t realise how busy she was. Often, they made the mistake of thinking that a retired person was bored in some way or other. In fact, Teresa planned most days with an almost military precision and someone popping in during a hair-washing session, important cricket match on TV or cake-baking morning, might find her a little offhand, to say the least.

And so, for Teresa and Digby, an interesting, different and controversial morning service was nearly over. They were, however, in for one more unexpected and rather disturbing incident on their way out. Turning the corner into the small foyer at the back of the hall, they nearly collided with Reverend Joe Jack and his wife. He was holding her tightly, his hand cupping the back of her head which was buried in his shoulder. She was crying; her sobs echoing loudly in the otherwise silence of the empty room. Joe Jack looked up, startled by their presence and quickly whispered something in her ear.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, his expression somewhere between panic and concern. “It’s been a long and very emotional day for us. Please excuse me; I’d better take Themba home.”

With that, he took hold of his wife’s hand and guided her into the bright sunlight.

“Hmmm, I wonder what’s upset her then,” said Digby, flicking once again at one of his earrings.

Teresa paused a second before replying.

“I wouldn’t mind betting that it’s not a ‘something’ but a ‘someone’.”

Digby nodded thoughtfully before gently taking her by the arm and steering her towards the car.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

CHAPTER 2

First Monday: Just George, an Incident at the Post Office and those Dogs next Door.

It was an infuriating start to Teresa’s week. First of all, Just George, the gardener and all-purpose handyman, had failed to show up. That meant that the garden path would, no doubt, remain a mess for at least another week. So far, only half the tiles were laid and the front lawn was a clutter of dug-up earth, grass, broken tiles and concrete. The most annoying thing, however, was that she’d recently given George a cell phone and pleaded with him to call if ever there was a problem. Yet so far – not a word!

Then Teresa received a call from the Women’s Auxiliary President Elsa Meyer. In essence it was just a reminder, urging her not to miss Tuesday’s regular committee meeting. But Teresa was instantly aware of a strained tone to the president’s voice and it was unusual for this woman not to at least start the conversation with a bit of small talk or a touch of gossip.

“It’s important that everyone turns up – there is much to discuss.”

This sounded ominous, the kind of thing Teresa dreaded. She’d recently – and quite reluctantly – signed up for another year on the committee hoping with all her heart for a time of progress, goodwill and change for the better. It was the practical little things she enjoyed the most: baking cakes to raise funds for the orphanage; collecting old clothes for charity and coming up with ways to help the poorer church members pay their rents. She tried her best not to get involved with church politics, gossip, rumour and any disagreements between members. But these things were sometimes hard to avoid, and the next day’s meeting would no-doubt involve its fair share of complaining about the new minister and, of course, the bishop.

The phone call had then gone from bad to worse as Elsa continued:

“I’ll tell you something now, Teresa, as a friend: this minister isn’t going to work out. We’re going to lose a lot of members. And it’s not just him, it’s his wife too. She’s going to be trouble. They both need to realise one thing: this is a little town of mainly white people and Stillwater Central is a predominantly white congregation which has a right to worship in its own way.”

Something about the ‘as a friend’ bothered Teresa, but she pushed it to one side sensing an answer to the previous day’s incident in the hall foyer.

“Did something happen yesterday, Elsa – with the minister’s wife, I mean?” The reply was openly hostile.

“You could say that. I had to leave early; that service seemed to be going on forever. Quite ridiculous and you know how busy things get for me on Sundays.”

Teresa frowned at this. Elsa was usually one of the last to leave church on a normal Sunday morning, staying to the bitter end to enjoy a good chat and gossip.

“But that woman,” continued Elsa, “seemed to have a lot to say about me leaving. Yes, I heard her mumbling. I was incensed, I tell you Teresa – livid! So I changed my plans and waited for her at the hall entrance.”

“You waited for her?” Teresa asked incredulously, quickly calculating that Elsa would have had to linger for over half an hour until the end of the service. Could she have popped home for a cup of tea and then returned in time for a confrontation? Teresa wouldn’t put it past her – or was she being too cynical and disingenuous?

“I waited for her all right, and caught her while those ministers were greeting everyone. And I told her a few home truths. I won’t have people commenting about me in my own church – especially when they’ve never set foot in it before. And I won’t take it from people of her… background.”

Why don’t you just come out and say it, thought Teresa. It seemed the way of the new South Africa. People now avoided referring to the colour of the skin and this seemed to be fostering a kind of uncertainty which was leading to all sorts of vague and slightly ridiculous terms. ‘Privileged’, ‘underprivileged’, ‘from different backgrounds’ and ‘disenfranchised’ seemed to be the latest catch words, although in fairness, these did have the advantage of including the fast-growing poor whites contingent. Of course, Teresa had also heard less polite expressions used from time to time – but in her opinion, these reflected more on the people saying them, than the people they were said about.

“What exactly did the minister’s wife say when you walked–um, left the service?” continued Teresa. “Was she rude to you?”

“Well it was in Zulu or Xhosa or whatever it is they speak and it was mumbled to the woman next to her – that other minister’s wife. But I could tell that she was having a go at me.”

Teresa was feeling increasingly uncomfortable and even annoyed with this conversation. Quite frankly, she wanted to get this woman off the phone.

“Well, I’ll be there tomorrow, Mrs Meyer, and we can discuss it further then. Is that okay?”

This formal cut-to-the chase tone seemed to do the trick, and after a few awkward parting shots, Teresa managed to end the call. She let out a deep sigh. Now she could get on with the ritual of lunch and begin the countdown to her Monday jaunt to the post office.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Lunch finished, a quick wash and tidy, and the countdown began. This was a Monday afternoon ritual that had started soon after Mr Thomas’s passing. In essence, the plan was simple: Digby was to pick Teresa up at 2 PM, run her to the post office and then on to the bank or the municipal building if need be. Digby’s decision in the last few years to scale down on his mining work and enter into a phase of life which he liked to refer to as ‘a controlled semi-retirement’ had proved beneficial to Teresa. It certainly helped having a kind-hearted and available friend just two houses down the street. But, like his transport and the occasional inappropriate comments, Digby’s punctuality left a bit to be desired.

The best laid plans of mice and men, thought Teresa as she carried the phone over to the window and tugged at the blind’s chord. The old Westminster clock had just chimed a quarter past two. She didn’t wait long. As always, it began with a whimper. But that whimper soon grew to an almighty series of howls and staccato barks. The dogs next door had heard the approaching footsteps and they were ready for the threat that would soon jog past their gate. And sure enough, after a few seconds that threat appeared in the shape of Digby as he rounded the corner near the Baptist church and headed down the road towards his house.

Teresa shook her head and allowed herself a resigned smile. The damn dogs would probably go on for a good twenty minutes now – long after this perceived danger had passed. But perhaps, in this instance, she couldn’t really blame them. If she were a dog, she too would be disturbed by this passing apparition. This Monday’s outfit included a fluorescent pair of green jogging trousers, bright-blue trainers, a pink headband and a dazzling yellow T-shirt which seemed to be soaking up most of the sweat dripping off his bedraggled beard.

He looked absolutely shattered, and not for the first time, Teresa wondered about her neighbour’s fascination with this extreme form of exercise. What was wrong with a brisk walk, for heaven’s sake? You had time to enjoy the scenery, didn’t feel guilty about stopping and chatting if you met a friendly face along the way (which was quite often in Stillwater), and most importantly, you didn’t get to be seen in such ridiculous clothes. Lord knows, she’d watched some over-the-top examples jog past her house in recent weeks although most of these had a way to go to match Digby’s style and colour scheme. In the past she’d mistakenly believed that these ‘fashion statements’ were restricted to the jogging community. The previous day’s lunch at the golf course, however, had soon changed that view.

Even though Teresa knew what was coming, she still watched with some concern as Digby neared his gate and ground slowly to a halt. Doubling over with exhaustion, he yelled a few obscenities at the dogs before fumbling into his jogging pants for his cell phone. Soon, the phone in Teresa’s own hand was ringing. There followed a few seconds of panting and gasping, and of course, she now had the dogs in stereo. Her patience was finally rewarded with:

“Teresa, it’s me. I’m sorry but I’m running a bit late.”

It was funny the first time, but after replaying this scene every Monday afternoon for the last few years, the best she could do was gently sigh and allow herself the briefest of smiles.

The forty-five minutes following this call were frustratingly predictable, comprising of regular calls from Digby, in essence, updating his progress. First was the usual:

“It won’t take long but I must just jump in the shower.”

“I’m sorry Teresa, but now I’ve gone and lost the car keys!”

“Sorry, but the phone hasn’t stopped.”

And finally there was a new one for the day:

“I’m moving very slowly, my right leg seems to have completely seized up.”

Then, just as the Westminster struck three, there was a tap on the door. Exactly one hour late – the same every week. In fact, thought Teresa with a wry smile, you could set your watch by Digby’s lateness. Maybe she should simply reprogram her mind to expect him at three instead of two. But she knew, almost by instinct, and by the principles of sod’s law, that the week she did that, he’d be on time.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Most people who visit Stillwater’s post office have a habit of first looking through the large glass windows at the queue situation before venturing into the building itself. And with good reason. On certain days, there’d simply be no point standing in a line for hours just to post an overseas letter, buy stamps or collect a parcel. Better to get on with something more constructive and try another day.

The big one to avoid was ‘Pension Thursday’. All Stillwater residents already knew this, and any out-of-town visitors would soon see for themselves as they drove into the car park. Simply put: it was a no-go area. They might as well have erected a sign saying, ‘On pension day, stay away!’ (Unless, of course, you were expecting a government pension.)

The queue (if you could call it that) usually stretched way out of the post office building, winded and coiled past the veranda area, spilled onto the big grass lawn in front of the municipal building and eventually ended up in the car park itself. Many ‘queue-ees’ brought deck-chairs, whilst others spread blankets out on the grass. Some had lunch boxes and picnic baskets, and recently, one enterprising local had even lit a few fires and made a tidy profit serving barbecued steak rolls and hot-dogs to the hungry folk who were going nowhere fast.

Some people think that the British are the world champions when it comes to the art of queuing. But Teresa had her doubts, firmly believing that if these people could witness what went on at Stillwater Post Office on pension day Thursday or at the Department of Home Affairs on any given day, they would soon change their minds.

In the past few weeks, however, something other than the queues had become Teresa’s main concern. With some trepidation, she entered the main door; her gaze falling immediately on the two men working behind the counter. Damn! He was on duty.

She joined the back of the line and began hoping that luck would guide her to the assistant she didn’t recognise. After all, the odds dictated a fifty-fifty chance. But with Just George’s failure to show, Elsa Meyer’s ominous phone call and Digby’s annoying delays, she already suspected that this wasn’t her day. And that was soon confirmed when she reached the front of the queue to hear the sharp, aggressive and familiar call:

“Next!”

A cheerfully bright red badge pinned on his shirt announced in large black letters: ‘Your assistant today is Mokgosi’. But that was where all cheerfulness ended and slowly and reluctantly Teresa raised her head to find herself staring into the hard, unwelcoming face. The eyes were red and bloodshot. The mouth was set in an almost permanent sneer. When he spoke, his lips barely moved:

“Yes?”

Straight away Teresa realised that it was happening again. He had completely thrown her out of her stride. Normally, the most organised of people, she would be readily prepared with money, letters and parcels, a big smile and a polite greeting by the time she reached the counter. But here she was, once again standing in front of this rude man. And here she was, once again having completely forgotten to have her purse and change ready.

Then, things went from bad to worse. Her purse was missing. Under Mokgosi’s vindictive stare she searched desperately through every compartment of her oversized handbag. But it was no good – she must have left it at home in her other bag. She began rummaging for the loose change normally in plentiful supply at the bottom of the handbag but soon realised that those rainy day one and two rand coins were probably in the other bag as well. All she could find were twelve fifty-cent pieces, some twenties, tens, loads of copper and even a British pound coin – no doubt left over from her last oversees visit.

Mokgosi stared, his sneer slowly evolving into an amused grimace. Tapping his fingers on the counter, he sighed loudly, mumbled something in Xhosa to the other teller and threw his bloodshot eyes to the heavens for the benefit of the only other waiting customer: a well-dressed young black man. To his credit, this man broke into a toothy smile and said:

“Please don’t worry about me, Ouma. I’m not in any hurry.”

Teresa could feel her face colouring, and already, she was finding it difficult to breathe. Trying to take control of the situation, she reached into her bag and dropped some loose change onto the counter; assembling the coins into piles according to their values. She made a quick calculation. Here, her many years in the accounts department of a large Durban firm paid off. Over fifteen rand – yes, she had enough! The polite young man behind her was now being served by the other assistant; there was no-one else waiting, and so, for the moment, it felt as though a certain amount of pressure had been lifted.

“I would like to send this letter to the United Kingdom,” she announced, trying to keep her voice clear and calm.

“You do realise that we don’t weigh them anymore, don’t you? It works on size now,” was the blunt reply, the words almost spat out.

Mokgosi placed an arm on the counter and purposefully moved his head into his cupped hand. His eyes were now level with Teresa’s and just a few inches away. She felt an overwhelming sense of humiliation. Unable to hold his stare, she blinked nervously and turned her head to one side. For some strange reason a sudden vision of Elsa Meyer storming out of the previous day’s service flashed through her mind. Control, she thought, I must keep control. She bowed her head for a second and took a deep breath. Then slowly, she raised it and forced herself to look straight back at the red and bloodshot eyes.

“Yes I know that you don’t weigh them anymore. It’s been like that for a while now and that’s why I didn’t put this letter on the scale. And I’m sure that the postage for a small-sized letter is fourteen rand and seventy seven cents – unless your charges have changed since last Monday.”

Mokgosi snatched at the letter and with a barely disguised look of disappointment passed it through the small letter slot. Then, without a word, he threw it into a waiting pile and held out his hand for the money. Teresa counted out the exact change and as quickly as she could, turned to leave. The polite young man had just reached the exit and she was only a few steps behind, when it hit her.

She turned sharply, instantly remembering the reasons for suspecting and disliking this assistant in the first place. It had bothered her before and here it was bothering her again. The problem wasn’t what he did – it was what he didn’t do. Like open a till to deposit the money. And as if to confirm her suspicions, she saw a quick hand movement away from his trouser pocket and a fleeting look of apprehension as she marched back towards the counter.

“I nearly forgot,” she said. “I need a receipt.”

“What?”

“You heard me, I want a receipt.”

“There isn’t one, the till roll isn’t working properly today.”

Now Teresa Thomas, as a God-fearing woman, had a low opinion of liars. But she was also well aware that, in life, we all tell the odd little lies sometimes. Some people even called them white lies, although that wasn’t a term encouraged in the new South Africa. For example, Mrs Booyzens (who had a bit of a thing about formal headwear) had worn a hat to church a few weeks ago, which in Teresa’s opinion, resembled a large bowl of fruit topped off with a peeled banana poking out at the top. And, of course, as luck would have it, the woman had made straight for her to ask:

“What do you think of this hat I picked up for only ten rand at Naidoo’s Pawn shop?”

Many answers had immediately sprung to mind. Teresa managed to avoid all of them, picking her words slowly and carefully:

“Mrs Booyzens, I was just looking at that hat. It’s so different, so interesting, and I must say, I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

Full marks for tact and diplomacy. But, you couldn’t get away from the fact that the little lie had been told – even if by avoidance and an element of deception.

And so, as she held Mokgosi’s eyes and said, “You gave a receipt to the man you served before me. I saw that and so did the young man behind me, who I happen to know,” she realised that she had just told three lies in one sentence. She hadn’t seen any of the transaction between Mokgosi and the man ahead of her, didn’t know the young man behind her and had no clue as to what he may have or may not have seen. Wondering if she’d have the moral courage to repeat any of these untruths if challenged, she waited nervously for the assistant’s response.

But only silence followed. And now the red eyes no longer held her gaze. Control, she thought, almost with a sense of wonder. I’m gaining control.

“I would like to see the postmaster please.”

His eyes flickered towards a side office.

“He’s not here.”

“But I see that his door is open. Should we go and look?”

A pause.

“The postmaster sometimes takes Monday afternoon off. That’s the assistant postmaster in there.”

Grudging and mumbled. She knew now that she was leading this conversation.

“Well then, I’m going to have a word with him.”

It was a risk. She had chatted with the postmaster before – an amicable and helpful man with a ready smile. But, until now, she hadn’t even realised that there was, in fact, an assistant