Читать книгу The Lyndi Tree - JA Ginn Fourie - Страница 12

Bouffant hairdo, belies the era

In early January of 1968, I fly north to Europe on my first international job – Skodsborg, an Adventist Sanitarium in Denmark, is my destination. En-route a passport control official at the Copenhagen airport welcomes me with an impertinent smile,

“You are heartily welcome to Denmark.”

I am surprised and delighted by his play on words using my surname Hartley, which augurs well for the four months which I intend to be there. I find Danish very difficult to learn, although I attend classes. The smooth-rolling sounds of the language are challenging to hear and to master. Fortunately, my work does not depend on mastery of the language, for most of the clients are dignitaries from Europe and can speak English fluently. My Physiotherapy comes in very handy with the addition of pine baths and pressure showers, after which a warmed bath towel is wrapped around the client in preparation for an hour’s full body massage. We also apply contrast hot and cold packs, reminiscent of my mother’s remedy for colds, flu and arthritis, particularly of the neck.

A delightful elderly Swedish lady Rouva (Mrs) Åström enjoys challenging me as a white South African about the racism there. Her husband had been Ambassador to many countries, including Greece. She is accustomed to an upmarket lifestyle and invites me to stay with them when I travel through Finland later. I enjoy Herra and Rouva Åström’s lifestyle on the banks of a lake near Valkeakoski (renowned for its glue and paper mill). They introduce me to a real Finish sauna in the nude with excessive heat and steam; replete with benches exuding pine scent and silver birch switches. A towelling wrap-around is used while running to the five-degree lake; ripping off the covering and diving into the water, repeated four or five times. I ask them if people on the other side of the lake don’t watch with binoculars. She responds that it is an unwritten law that ‘Peeping Toms’ are not welcome and besides what if they do peep? We go to their flat in Helsinki for the weekend, and we frequent all the tourist places, including the home of Jean Sibelius, the composer of my favourite ‘Finlandia’.

The next four months I spend in Norway at a Private Physiotherapy Clinic in Hønefoss, north-west of Oslo. Kirsten, a Danish friend from Skodsborg, has preceded me by a month and has built up a good client base by the time I arrive. It is towards the end of winter, and at times the snow is a metre deep, and the streets must be snow-ploughed. It is my first experience of living in a snow-bound country, and it is tough; so I am glad to see the daffodils and tulips heralding Spring. Norwegian is more natural to hear and to pronounce the more guttural words; many words sound similar to Afrikaans, which is fortunate because the local people speak little English.

One weekend Kirsten and I set out for the west coast of Norway, a town called Stavanger. Kirsten has a little Fiat-mobile, which opens from the front, has three wheels and seats only two. A man in a Ford Cortina passes us and then slows down to allow us to pass him. This happens a few times before Kirsten pulls into a restaurant parking lot to have coffee. Soon after we settle at a table, the Cortina man arrives and asks if he may join us. His name is Erik, a student of dentistry in Germany and is home for the holidays. He is also driving to Stavanger to visit a girl-friend. An animated conversation ensues, and I tell about a colleague of mine from University days, Ros, whose father was an architect and took us to Rhodesia when we were still students in Cape Town. En route Mon Pere stops the Landrover abruptly – there is a chameleon in the road!

“Was it on red?” asks Erik with a cheeky grin. I am charmed by his sense of humour, and we become friends for the rest of the time that I am in Norway. We invite Kirsten to accompany us, which she resists strongly. I enjoy visiting Oslo through Erik’s eyes; he knows all the details about the touristy places of interest, but also the drug haunts and the sleezy parts of town, which we visit late at night without any fear.

We enjoy a weekend visit to their mountain cottage and the charm of the ornately carved cabin and Stabbur - the winter storehouse for food, means a romp into Norwegian classical art and carving, handed down for generations. Erik and his father have carved the Stabbur with love and dedication, and I stand in awe. I wonder why he hasn’t introduced me to his parents. Erik later tells me that he realises our relationship won’t be permanent enough to merit introductions. They may have been disapproving, and I suspect he may still have the girlfriend in Stavanger!

Conversations are explorations of our differences. Around the fire one evening Erik is strumming his guitar and asks,

“How do you think that South Africa can continue to be so racist in your dealing with the Africans under Apartheid?”

I am reticent to have this conversation - it sounds like I am part of apartheid. I want to defend myself as an English-speaking South African, but as he holds my eyes with expectation … the unexpected comes out of my mouth,

“Well, I’ve seen notices here in Norway which say, ‘Right of Admission Reserved’ who are they intended for?”

He responds promptly and without hesitation,

“For the Laplanders, who come to sell their furs and to get supplies. They are crude and uneducated people who don’t fit into the culture and sophistication of our towns and villages”

My farm girl complex comes right up; like choking me, I feel very uncomfortable, do I fit into their culture?

“But you have very educated and articulate Africans in South Africa” he continues.

I am baffled,

“So where can the Laplanders overnight when they are here? Maybe the difference is that the apartheid masters have brought in legislation to emphasise the differences between White, African and Coloured people, but is there an essential difference in the discrimination which both of our countries are exercising?”

I know I am grasping at straws, but it seems worth a try!

Erik, putting his guitar aside retorts indignantly,

“There’s a huge difference because if a Laplander or any old drunk in this country insist on entering a building, with that sign posted outside, there is very little that the proprietor can do about it. Other than getting neighbours or friends to help throw him out. In South Africa, I understand, the law takes over, the police arrive and take the victims off to jail! Besides, what about detention without trial and the act prohibiting mixed marriages?”

“Yes, those are unfair laws, but what can I do about it? The Afrikaners, who are descendants of the Dutch and French settlers, are a strong and influential group of people in power, and as whites, we are encouraged to stand together against the threat of communism and the dangerous Black masses. Africans, through the African National Congress (ANC) and other underground organisations, are being used to support and bring about communism in South Africa. Their strategies and arms and ammunition are being used to commit acts of terror, and then a communist take-over is next in line. So there is danger from communism through African guerrillas.”

His frown deepens,

“Well, I don’t know how much longer you can stuff intelligent lawyers like Nelson Mandela into prison and think that the country will not suffer serious consequences. Surely it would be better to work together!”

I wonder if he is appealing to me to do something and I feel powerless. I haven’t shown much interest in politics, and I realise again that the bit of anti-apartheid marching that I had done as a student, had been as much for fun, as to bring about change. I feel the warmth of shame spreading up to my forehead, Oh damn! ‘Que Sera Sera’,

“Let’s talk about something else; we are not going to solve this one tonight.” Or perhaps ever.

Trollet som grunner po vor gammelt det er

We continue to correspond after I leave Norway. I still treasure a framed poster which he sent to me with a Troll sitting on a rock and the caption reads; Trollet som grunner po vor gammelt det er - Troll thinking how old it is, by Theodore Kittlesen. On a shelf below the picture is an 18 cm troll doll holding a stick and looking as ancient as the one in the picture. The distance becomes overwhelming, and we lose contact for over forty years.

We reconnect around 2011 - the time of the tragedy when at least 85 young people die by the hand of a right-wing fundamentalist gunman opening fire at an island youth camp in Norway. Erik is part of the dental forensic team who identify the slain; a horrific and mind-boggling experience for him. I empathise and think about his comments so long ago about racism; the cause behind this shameful attack.

I have promised Mum and Dad that I will be home for Christmas, and I am starting to feel like it’s time to go back. However, I have planned a further three months in Switzerland. On the western shore of Lake Geneva near Nyon is an Adventist Sanitarium called La Lignier; caters for the health needs of wealthy Europeans. The treatments we offer are very similar to those at Skodsborg.

Madame Vivarel is one of the beautiful clients that I meet there; she is in her seventies and comes from the South of France, she had owned three cinemas in the heyday of bioscopes. She married several times, and the most recent husband had been a card-carrying communist, which seems very daring to me. She encourages me to do whatever I want to do; the only barriers are in my mind,

“Nothing can stop you; you are a beautiful, intelligent young woman, the world is literally at your feet. Do whatever you would like to do.”

I want to learn to speak French more fluently, the six months of attending the Alliance Francais in Cape Town before I left prove hopelessly inadequate. Madame Vivarel gives me lessons every afternoon for the three weeks that she is at La Ligniere. One afternoon I mention that ‘La Traviata’ is currently being performed in Lausanne, but it finishes after the last train scheduled to stop in Gland, our nearest train station (between Lausanne and Geneva), so I will not be able to go to the opera.

“Nonsense,” she remonstrates. “If you want to go badly enough you will find a way home. Here is the money for the train, taxi and the opera.”

I set off on my friend Madeleine’s Velo-Solex, a 50cc motorised bike, to the Gland station. Catch the train to Lausanne and then a taxi to the opera house. Imagine dressing for the opera and riding a motorcycle with a winter coat, boots and helmet. The opera is spectacular and of course all in Italian and the programme in French, so I do my best to understand the storyline. Poor Violetta is betrayed by her boyfriend Alfredo’s father. Alfredo only discovers the betrayal when it is too late. She dies of tuberculosis after singing a most poignant duet with Alfredo – ‘Great God …. To die so young’.

Now I must retrace my steps and its close to midnight. When I get to the Lausanne station, it is bare. As I suspect, the only train going to Geneva is an express which doesn’t stop at Gland. I don’t have the money for a taxi, so I sit down on a bench with a loud sigh; there is no one in sight! I am considering the feasibility of spending the night on the bench on the platform in my opera outfit, when a conductor appears,

‘Que fait une jolie jeune femme seule sur le quai, où allez-vous?’/ “What is a pretty young lady doing alone on the platform … where are you going?”

I try to explain that I want to stop at Gland, he seems to understand and asks me,

‘d'où Venez-Vous?’ / “Where in the world are you from?”

‘Afrique du Sud’/ “South Africa,” I respond.

Then he says, pointing in the direction of a train,

'Veuillez attendre pendant que je parle au conducteur.’ / “Please wait whilst I speak to the driver.”

He is smiling broadly when he returns,

‘Le conducteur veut bien ralentir autant que possible pour que vous puissiez sauter du train à Gland. Il ne peut pas sonner la sirène (le sifflet?) après neuf heures du soir, donc il fera le fort son SSHH du train pour que vous sachiez que l'on est arrivé à Gland.’ / “The driver is willing to slow down as much as he can so that you can jump off at Gland. He cannot sound the siren after nine at night, so he will make the trains’ loud SH…. ing sound, so you will know when you get to Gland.”

I could have hugged him, but instead, thank him profusely for his graciousness. I remember stories about running in the same direction as the moving vehicle so as not to fall - well now is my chance to try it out. True to his word, as we near a lighted station there is the loud sh...ing sound; the doors start to open. I hold my breath as I jump and run with the train. Wowa! I made it and blow the driver a kiss. I know that he sees because he waves and blows a kiss back.

By the time I get back to La Ligniere everything is securely locked up at the Ladies Residence, even the loud spluttering of the Velo-Solex doesn’t arouse a lighted window. What now? A stone thrown at the upstairs window might break it. I walk around to see if there is a light on anywhere, but no such luck. Eventually I tie a hanky around a stone and pluck up enough courage to throw it at Madeleine’s window, upstairs. I need a second throw to get her sleepy attention. She opens the door for me and welcomes me home, no doubt grateful that her Velo-Solex is safe and to hear of the evening's adventures. We giggle a lot and then go to sleep.

Madame Vivarel congratulates me on doing what I wanted to do and experiencing the fun of finding out how the detail will all fit into place.

I learned a great lesson, much more than the French lessons, from her that night.

I purchase a waterproof, automatic, 24-carat gold Omega wristwatch with my earnings in celebration of both being in Switzerland and enjoying the time at La Ligniere. However, since the therapy room is very moist and we don’t wear jewellery to work, I keep it in its box until the morning I am due to travel to Toulon, to spend a couple of days with Madame Vivarel on the French Riviera. To my horror the bally thing won’t work. I wind it and shake it but no sign of life! I leave from Nyon early enough to go to the Omega dealer in Geneva where the shop is not yet open. In sheer frustration, I stand snivelling, while pretending to be enchanted by the menswear in the window of the shop next door. Eventually, the little jeweller opens the shop, and I tell him my tale of woe. Fortunately he understands English very well and soon calms my fears and frustration. He will adjust it and send it to Zurich, so that I can pick it up there when I go skiing at Davos in ten days. He does precisely that, and I pick it up as soon as I get to Zurich.

The Omega is still ticking away merrily 50 years later. Although when I take it for a service at an Omega jeweller in Cape Town, and he hears that I play tennis and climb mountains with it on my wrist, he is horrified. He suggests that I only wear it for special occasions, which I try to do, but now it stays in the drawer most of the time...

In Toulon Madame Vivarel and I walk everywhere or take a bus, few people have cars of their own, and public transport is excellent. Soon enough I fly out of Nice to Davos for ten days skiing and then to Bulawayo, arriving two days before Christmas 1968, as promised. Mum and Dad are at the airport to meet me. After a long hug each, and collecting my luggage, we find the car to head back to Inunwa Ranch. Dad updates me on the latest developments,

“The bush war has escalated, but ZIPRA, have recently been heavily defeated by the Rhodesian Security Forces, and Ian Smith, the Prime Minister, is sure that everything is under control. We feel reassured because he says that a White government will remain for at least his lifetime.”

I feel the familiar tightening in my gut release as we pass all the familiar landmarks; Mopani trees, the signboard on the right to Turk Mine 10 Miles. A hornbill flits intently from the red earth to a branch and back down for a tasty morsel a flying insect. Back home, so far from any help should there be a farm attack, the tightness is back. Mum and Dad seem restful and confident that God is protecting us. We spend Christmas with family and friends visiting us, and I soon feel at home. Satisfied that all is indeed well, my imagination is more active when I am far away; at home everything seems so reasonable.

Edward happens to be home and is happy to see me. He can’t believe that I have gone ‘so far and seen so many things’ as I proudly show him my pictures and outline in the atlas the route of my travels. Edward says he has only been to the Victoria Falls and Bulawayo, so he doesn’t know where all these places are across the sea which he has never seen.

I wonder at his contentment at being in one place, Rhodesia, with no aspiration to see and experience the world.

I plan to start work at the Tygerberg Service Centre in Parow, Western Cape early in 1969, then one morning Dad announces at breakfast,

“Let's take a break to visit John.”

John wasn’t home for Christmas and Dad looks up searching for my reaction, he must see the question in my eyes and continues,

“He is trading for Frasers in Basutoland. Raleqheka is a remote trading store, situated in the Thabo Putsoa Mountain range; the only access is by dirt road or helicopter.”

He looks at me,

“After our visit, you could board the train in Bloemfontein to go south to Cape Town, and we can meander back north to Rhodesia.”

Mum and I look at each other, her eyes shine with excitement, as she says,

“What a good idea, let's leave tomorrow.”

We start planning and packing suitcases, while Dad phones John to see if it suits him and to get directions. Dad says he only plans to be away for five days or so and the farmworkers will be able to care for the ranching activities for that time, there is no danger of fire with the bushveld lush and green. However, we shouldn’t tell anyone how long we will be away so that they are kept on their toes. Mmmmm a silent “why not trust them?”

We set off in the Mercedes packed full of my cases to set up house for the first time. I notice Dad pack a shovel with the usual things: an overall, bottles of water, soap and a towel, in case of a puncture, and although I say nothing I wonder what he has in mind with a shovel.

The roads in Lesotho are all gravel once we pass the capital, Maseru. The summer rains have washed deep trenches in some places; other places are deeply corrugated - so travel is slow, particularly in the mountains where erosion has eaten away at the roads like a giant brontosaurus on a primordial moonscape. Dad comments that it is the result of overgrazing, cattle and goats are the measure of wealth in this country. A couple of times we have to stash rocks in the gaping holes to proceed, the shovel comes in very handy as a lever and to fill in with dirt. We don’t pass another vehicle in the three hours that it takes us to get to Raleqheka from Maseru, a distance of thirty-odd miles.

We arrive just before sunset, John meets us with a firm kiss and a tight squeeze and introduces us to Barbara who had joined him there a couple of months earlier. I hadn’t known that John had a girlfriend, and I am a bit shocked to meet her, as Dad had not said anything about her. I am not sure whether he knew or not, we don’t talk about it. Mum can’t conceal her shock, but she says nothing while we are together, her usual response to a tense situation.

I soon realise how great it is to have the feminine touch and delicious meals, despite the remoteness in the high Basutuland kingdom. I understand John’s need to have companionship and assistance with his quotidian life of buying and selling, far from his accustomed leisures - the joy of playing polo and tennis.

I had felt unsure at the time of asking Barbs how on earth she coped with such remoteness; only an occasional foray on those awful roads; once a month to Maseru to shop. She recently tells me that she loved it and got to know John really well.

As planned, I chug south by train and am met at Cape Town station by Steve and Elsie Smit. The ‘Tygerberg Service Centre for the Aged’ is their brainchild and Steve bubbles with enthusiasm, while Elsie is continually trying to match his passion with action to bring about their dream. I arrive in time for the opening of the Centre. Elsie and I are tasked with taxi-ing the elderly to the Centre from all over the northern suburbs; Bellville, Parow, Durbanville. We use their two elderly chariots (cars) to do so. One is an automatic transmission, with which I have no experience, but it is offered to me as the easier of the two to drive, especially in unfamiliar territory, where I will need to consult the map at intervals.

Oh for the mobile phone and GPS that makes life so much easier nowadays.

The Mayor is present to give his support and Steve makes the inaugural speech. It is lengthy as Steve is known to make the best of a legitimate time to ‘speech’ and the gist of it goes something like this,

“The Tygerberg Service Centre for the Aged is here for your convenience and pleasure. As the years tick by and our children are working, we spend many long hours alone at home. This Centre is here for you. There will be lunch provided daily at a minimal fee, activities such as knitting and sewing, some carpentry, and exercises. Outings will be arranged weekly. We will have a Chiropodist come fortnightly to cut toenails and remove corns. We have our Physiotherapist (moi) for those who are challenged with pain or discomfort or needing rehabilitation from strokes and amputations. Ginn has just come back from Europe and Scandanavia, with all the latest ideas on managing ‘geriatric’ conditions (this word is in vogue and seems to minimalise being elderly or aged). Please feel free to speak to any of us about questions you may have and invite your friends and neighbours to join this state-of-the-art centre.”

Within six months of living in a flat near The Service Centre in Parow, lonely is how I feel; no friendly trees or open spaces to wander and meet other like-minded souls. I bargain with God by putting my intention to love someone who needs loving out there. I find a flat in a small block called Lilford in the leafy southern suburb of Rondebosch and set up a comfortable home for the first time.

It is excellent fun, and Mum sends me the money for my first car, I fancy a Ford Escort and buy one for R1,000, new out of the box in mid-1969.

It almost seems impossible now that we could buy a car for so little; the equivalent of Aus$100 and yet at the time it was much money. I felt very grateful to Mum who never questioned how I spent the money. Afterwards, when I married, I passed the car on to David who was at Helderberg College when I left the Cape.

Dougie, the son of family friends Douglas and Grace Harcombe, moves into the flat next door with his flatmate Johann Fourie. When I’d been about ten, my cousin Claudette joined me by train in Bethlehem, to go to an Adventist seaside youth camp at Anerley, on the south coast of South Africa. We had an exciting ten days together meeting other young people. There’d been four Fourie brothers there, and I had rather fancied one of the twins, Vivienne, who was big and rough with a raucous laugh. He didn’t notice me at all. Then at Helderberg College I had got to know who Johann was, Vivienne’s older brother, but we had nothing in common at the time.

Now we are thrown together as next-door neighbours, and soon I begin to notice Johann. He is fastidious with his belongings and has a wry, cynical sense of humour. One morning we meet in the parking lot where he is cleaning out the boot of his car,

“Hi, how are you?” I venture.

“Sick in bed with a nurse!” he responds, and I think how strange!

But we both chortle and go on our way. The next time we meet, we talk about the comment and seem to find more and more to talk about, until we are going out as a couple. As we sit chatting one day, he mentions that his blood group is O negative, I prick up my ears because I am AB negative and know the complications of pregnancy and childbirth if I marry someone with a rhesus positive blood type.

Maybe this is a sign for me about the right partner?

John and Barbara married in July that year in Pietermaritzburg. The whole family converge; Ian and Irma from Malawi, Mum and Dad with James and David from Rhodesia, and I fly from Cape Town. It is a great wedding feast. Hazel, Enid and Geraldine, Barbara’s beautiful sisters, are bridesmaids, and Ian, with Barbara’s brothers the best men. In fun I say to Mum and Dad,

Before John and Barbara’s wedding

Standing: James, Ian, Irma, John, Ginn, and David

Seated: Bill and Viccie

“Don’t pack your wedding clothes too deep. We will have another wedding soon!”

Sooner than I believe possible! In December 1969, Johann and I decide to drive to Rhodesia to meet the parents! Anne and Abie Fourie, Johann’s parents, live in Durban and are planning to spend Christmas with old friends in the northern reaches of Rhodesia, near Marendelas. Mum and Dad have moved to a small farm called Greenfields, ten miles outside Bulawayo, growing lucerne. John and Barbara are staying in a flat in Bulawayo and are in the process of buying a trading store near Gwaai Railway Siding, on the outskirts of Wankie Game Reserve and adjacent to a giant Tribal Trust Land.

I single Dad out after Johann has spoken to him about our intention to marry. He asks me one single question,

“Do you really want to marry an Afrikaner?”

I am stunned.

“But Dad, his mother is as English as we are.”

“Well, I want you to be sure of what you are doing! Our values are different,” he says.

Granny’s voice comes back to me,

“If you want a home where the shadows are never lifted, marry one with whom you are unequally yoked together...”

I brush it aside because we are both Adventists, surely that is being equally yoked together. I forget all about my mistrust of Afrikaners and that Johann is also Afrikaans. This drama will play itself out until we become conscious of the ‘skeletons in the closet’ and lovingly deal with them.

Ian and Irma are home from Malawi, where they are now teaching at Malamulo Mission Hospital and College near Blantyre. David is home from studying at Helderberg College, and James is to follow him there the next year. Anne and Abie are comfortably able to make the four-hour journey by train. When we realise that as far as family are concerned, it is only Johann’s twin brothers in Durban and eldest brother Harry in Australia who are not readily available; we decide on a quick marriage to avoid getting everyone together again in the April 1970, as per our original plan. Oh, my pragmatic self! Barbara offers her lovely wedding gown, made by her talented mother out of an Indian Sari; she also provides the use of one of her friend’s bridal veil and headdress.

We go for legal council on drawing up an ante-nuptial contract, only to discover that with all the festive holidays it is not possible before the wedding date, now set for 2 January 1970.

On our return to Cape Town, we find out what a grave mistake that is and must pay for the Contract - after the fact, with all of the money we have received as wedding presents. Ho-hum.

There is a flurry of activity at Greenfields; the reception will be in our garden. London, who has replaced Edward as the chief cook and houseboy, cooks and cleans with vigour. When Mum goes into the kitchen to check on him, London tells her to go back to her guests, he has everything under control! Mum returns with a strange expression and recounts London’s words, to which we all burst out laughing. Anne helps with icing the unused fruitcakes which Mum had put in the Freezer for Christmas and making colourful trifles for dessert. I help as much as possible, particularly helping Irma with the finishing touches to the flower-girls’ dresses. Shelley and Charmaine, Ian and Irma’s little girls are our only attendants; they are nervous about what to do in their long white replicas of the bridal gown. We make little poesies for them to carry from the many blue and white agapanthus in the garden. All seems set for the wedding day. There are many family members and our friends from Bulawayo; invited by phone. There is no time for written invitations and fuss, thank goodness.

I walk down the aisle of the burnt umber face-brick church on the arm of my Dad, feeling very glamorous, but also apprehensive about the future until I get to the chancel when I suddenly think; ‘marry in haste, repent at leisure’ over and over it sounds like a stuck record in my head and gets annoying. The preparation has been exciting, but what will the reality be?

Douglas Harcombe, the father of Johann’s flatmate, is the minister. He says the usual things. I don’t remember any of it. Then it’s time to leave the church - it’s hot, so hot that my soles are burning in my gold pumps. I look at the bouquet of frangipani in my hand and muse about their sweet smell and golden match for my shoes. I had been quite happy to elope until Ian asks,

”How could you do that to your parents, who only have one daughter?”

Oh dear! I guess I must suffer the conventions of society for the sake of those I love. Now it is quite fun, let’s get to the farm as soon as possible … I forgot to have breakfast, and the cold meats and salads will taste so right now. No, not yet, the photograph album is proof of it. Snap!

As we leave the church with Charmaine holding Johann’s free hand. Snap! Now we smile adoringly at each other on the steps. Snap! Confetti showers down on us. Snap! Before the vaulted arch at the front of the church, Snap! At the open door of John’s blood-red Volvo, Johann looking ever so handsome and me looking wistful and a little bit French! John has chauffeured me to the church with white ribbons tied to the front, making a stunning statement. He will drive us back to the farm, dear brother.

“Dear God! what are you doing Mrs Fourie.”

Panic sweeps over me for a moment. The adventure has all happened too fast; I’m not sure that it’s the right thing to do!

Now we are at Greenfields, and the show must go on. Mum and Dad are showing the guests where to sit, and London is bringing the food to the long buffet table, in the shade of the graceful trees. Dad makes a moving speech about his lovely, well-travelled and accomplished only daughter and welcomes the fifth son into the family. Johann responds with much laughter and joking, and everyone tucks into the delicious meal.

The photographer, whom Mum engaged, is busy taking pictures all over the place. Now Mum brings Cheelah, the only surviving cheetah of three cubs that she reared. He is purring loudly and ambles over to my frightened-looking husband. We pose with Cheelah, and the next week a newspaper article with the picture appears in The Sunday News: Spotted – A Rare Wedding Guest it says and proceeds to tell all about the cheetah, and in passing who the bride and groom are and where they married!

On our trip back to Cape Town, we have car troubles and overnight in Petersburg, Uncle Alan, Mum’s brother, is home at 45a Rabie Street, but Aunt Sally is away. He welcomes us with open arms and much joking and laughing, as is his custom. He tends to my husband’s needs about the best motor-mechanic to contact in his home town and nonchalantly gets clean sheets out of the linen cupboard to help me make the bed.

My husband is disappointed with the breakdown and grumpy, a side of his personality I haven’t seen before. Now there is no going back – c’est la vie! I hear an expression Mum often uses as though she is right there, watching as we make the bed,

“You’ve made your bed, now lie in it!”

The road is long and tiresome with seemingly minor decisions about where to stop for a meal or a pit stop becoming major discontents because our combined money bags are low to empty. Oh, dear this is what it is all about! The stark reality of our situation can’t be denied but try as I may, I can’t find a way of talking to my new husband without an angry response. I am puzzled and deeply disturbed by what we have taken on.

When we arrive home, my husband moves into my flat, and Dougie moves into a smaller flat alone. We have lots of fun getting settled, and in the evenings, either taking a picnic to Rhodes memorial or chasing each other around the flat in a fit of free-spirited joy while making supper. My husband helps me with housekeeping and washing up the dishes. I remember writing to Mum and Dad that marriage is fun, but we need to have a garden to potter in at weekends. There is very little to do in a rinky-dink flat on the third floor!

I enjoy having my friends and family come around to visit, and although my husband is very charming, it seems to be stressful for him.

We live in Lilford for a year, which holds memories of mixed pleasure and strife. At Easter weekend, I start to feel nauseous most of the day and worry that I have contracted some dreadful disease! Not so - I am pregnant and frightened out of my wits! Despite, or perhaps because of the many exercise classes I have facilitated for expectant Mums in preparation for labour and childbirth.

I am glad to have the independence of my car to go to work and church. I continue to work at the Parow Geriatric Centre. The dear ladies became very excited to see my expanding waistline, and when the time comes for a baby shower, I receive three dozen pairs of booties, two dozen knitted outfits and more than any family expecting quintuplets could have needed. We are both nervous about parenting – the responsibility seems overwhelming, so we decide to have much fun before our sleep is disrupted by night. And we have severe routine changes by day. Weekends find us touring the coast and enjoying the fresh air. Our two bedroomed-flat seems very small to me; I am used to large farm living, but we will make the best of it. The last couple of months of pregnancy are trying with the stairs and groceries to lug up and laundry to lug down, but we work together with more ease and grace. Perhaps life together will work out well.

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Far from my comfortable and privileged life in Cape Town, an eight-year-old Letlapa is growing up in Manaleng, a little village near Pietersburg (now Polokwane) in Northern Transvaal. Amusingly he is learning that marriage is difficult.

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