Читать книгу Recipes for Love and Murder - Sally Andrew - Страница 9

CHAPTER FOUR

Just one week after I sat on the stoep with Harriet, the letters started coming in. I remember Hattie holding them up like a card trick, as she stood in the doorway of the office of the Klein Karoo Gazette. She must have heard me arriving in my bakkie and was waiting for me as I walked down the pathway.

‘Yoo-hoo, Tannie Maria! Your first letters!’ she called.

She was wearing a butter-yellow dress and her hair was golden in the sunlight. It was hot, so I walked slowly down the path of flat stones, between the pots of aloes and succulents. The small office is tucked away behind the Ladismith Art Gallery & Nursery in Eland Street.

‘The vetplantjies are flowering,’ I said.

The little fat plants had pink flowers that gleamed silver where they caught the light.

‘They arrived yesterday. There are three of them,’ she said, handing me the letters.

The Gazette office has fresh white walls, Oregon floorboards and a high ceiling. On the outer wall is one of those big round air vents with beautiful patterns that they call ‘Ladismith Eyes’. The office used to be a bedroom in what was one of the original old Ladismith houses. There’s only room for three wooden desks, a sink and a little fridge, but this is enough for Jessie, Hattie and me. There are other freelance journalists from small towns all over the Klein Karoo, but they send their work to Hattie by email.

On the ceiling a big fan was going round and round, but I don’t know if it helped make the room any cooler.

‘Jislaaik,’ I said. ‘You could make rusks without an oven on a day like this.’

I put a tin of freshly baked beskuit on my desk. Jessie looked up from her computer and grinned at me and the rusk tin.

‘Tannie M,’ she said.

Jessie Mostert was the young Gazette journalist. She was a coloured girl who got a bursary to study at Grahamstown and then came back to work in her home town. Her mother was a nursing sister at the Ladismith hospital.

Jessie wore pale jeans, a belt with lots of pouches on it and a black vest. She had thick dark hair tied in a ponytail, and tattoos of geckos on her brown upper arms. Next to the computer on her desk were her scooter helmet and denim jacket. Jessie loved her little red scooter.

Hattie put the letters on my desk, next to the beskuit and the kettle. I worked only part-time and was happy to share my desk with the full-time tea stuff. I put on the kettle, and got some cups from the small sink.

Hattie sat down at her desk and paged through her notes.

‘Jess,’ she said. ‘I need you to cover the NGK church fête on Saturday.’

‘Ag, no, Hattie. Another fête. I’m an investigative journalist, you know.’

‘Ah, yes, the girl with the gecko tattoo.’

‘That’s not funny,’ Jessie said, smiling.

I looked at the three letters sitting on my desk, like unopened presents. I left them there while I made coffee for us all.

‘I want you to take some photos of the new work done by the patchwork group – they will have their own stall at the fête,’ said Hattie.

‘Oh, not the lappiesgroep again. I did a whole feature on them and the Afrikaanse Taal- en Kultuurvereniging last month.’

‘Don’t worry, Jessie darling, I’m sure something interesting will come up,’ said Hattie, scribbling on a pad. I didn’t think she’d seen Jessie rolling her eyes, but then she said: ‘Or else you can always find work on a more exciting paper. In Cape Town maybe.’

‘Ag, no, Hattie, you know I love it here. I just need . . . ’

‘Jessie, I’m truly delighted you decided to stay here. But you are a very bright girl, and sometimes I think this town and paper are too small for you.’

‘I love this town,’ said Jessie. ‘My family and friends are here. I just think there are big stories, even in a small town.’

I put a cup of coffee on each of their desks, and offered the tin of rusks. Hattie never has one before lunch, but Jessie’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the golden crunchy beskuit and she forgot about her argument.

‘Take two,’ I said.

When she reached into the tin it looked like the gecko tattoos were climbing up her arm. I smiled at her. I like a girl with a good appetite.

‘Lekker,’ she said, and her hip burst into song.

Girl on fire! it sang.

‘Sorry,’ she said, opening one of her pouches. ‘That’s my phone.’

The song got louder as she walked towards the doorway and answered it.

‘Hello . . . Reghardt?’

She went out into the garden and her voice became quiet and I couldn’t hear her or her fire song any more. I sat down at my desk, and dipped my beskuit into my coffee. It had sunflower seeds in it, which gave it that roasted nutty flavour. I looked again at the envelopes.

The top letter was pink and addressed to Tannie Maria. The ‘i’s were dotted with little round circles. I took a sip of my coffee, then I opened the letter. By the time I’d finished reading, I was so shocked I stopped eating.

This is what it said:

Dear Tannie Maria,

It feels like my life is over and I am not even thirteen. If I don’t kill myself, my mother will. But she doesn’t know yet. I have had sex three times, but I only swallowed once. Am I pregnant? I haven’t had my period for ages.

He is fifteen. His skin is black and smooth and his smile is white, and he said he loved me. We used to meet under the kareeboom and then go to the shed and play Ice Cream. He said I taste like the sweet mangoes that grow on the streets where he comes from. He tastes like chocolate and nuts and ice cream. These are things I used to love to eat. I tried to stop the visits to the shed, but then I saw him there in the shade of the tree, and got hungry for him.

I fanned myself with her pink envelope and carried on reading.

When I told him I might be pregnant, he said we mustn’t meet again. I go past the tree after school but he’s never there.

I have been so worried that I can’t eat. My mother says I am wasting away. I know I’m going to hell, which is why I haven’t killed myself.

Can you help me?

Desperate

I put down the letter and shook my head. Magtig! What a tragedy . . .

A young girl who can’t eat.

We had to get her interested in food again. I needed a recipe with chocolate and nuts. And ice cream. With something healthy in it.

I would of course tell her that you can’t get pregnant from oral sex. And in case she really was not able to talk to her mother, I would give her the number for the family planning clinic in Ladismith. But if I could just come up with an irresistible recipe for her, it might save everyone a lot of trouble.

Bananas, I thought. They are very healthy, and would help her get strong again. How about frozen bananas, dipped in melted dark chocolate and rolled in nuts. I wrote out a recipe for her with dark chocolate and toasted hazelnuts. That should help her get over him. And in case the boyfriend read the paper, I put in a recipe for mango sorbet too. Mangoes were in season, and the good ones tasted like honey and sunshine.