Читать книгу The Satanic Mechanic - Sally Andrew - Страница 13

CHAPTER SEVEN

I sat at my stoep table with the first diet meal of my life in front of me. Cucumber, lettuce, tomato and a boiled egg. No dressing. I wondered if I should eat the diet pills before or after the meal. The counsellor had recommended these pills, and I’d picked them up from the chemist on the way home. I decided to have them after my lunch, like pudding.

I looked through the diet sheet she’d given me and shook my head. I’d never use these recipes in my column; they gave punishment instead of comfort. Punishment to those who enjoy food and have a little padding.

I clicked my tongue and looked out onto my lawn. Two of my hens were scratching through the compost heap, their rust-brown feathers fluffing up as they pecked at tasty treats. The other three were lying in the shade of the lemon tree. It was a warm day but not too hot – the right weather for Welsh rarebit. I looked at the boiled egg on my plate; it would go so well with a piece of buttered toast and a creamy sauce made with cheddar.

I distracted myself while I ate, by answering one of the letters I’d brought home with me. The handwriting was beautiful but spidery, and the paper was thin, almost see-through.

Dearest Tannie Maria, it said

There is a man I fancy who is quite a bit younger than me. I think he may fancy me too. He definitely fancies my shortbread.

When it comes to love, does age matter? Or is it just a number?

The man has a sweet tooth and I need some more treats for him. Maybe something savoury too. I think variety may keep him visiting more often, don’t you think?

Here’s my mother’s excellent shortbread recipe for you. She was a fine baker.

Yours faithfully,

A lass almost in love

Hmm, I thought, nothing says ‘kom kuier weer’ – come visit again – like Hertzoggies, those little coconut jam tarts that General Hertzog used to love. I thanked the Scottish lass for her mother’s shortbread recipe and sent her my mother’s recipe for Hertzoggies.

I told her that age doesn’t matter (unless the boy is under sixteen, of course, and then you must make sure the only treats you give him are the ones above the table). And I gave her a recipe for cheese scones made with mature cheddar. As cheddar matures, the quality and flavour improves.

Your young man may realise that mature women are more delicious.

The diet pills made a poor pudding, but reading and writing those delicious recipes helped a bit. The phone rang. It was Henk. His voice was warm and sweet like hot chocolate, and it made a smile run through my whole body.

‘Are you doing all right?’ he asked.

‘I went to see someone today . . . She put me on diet.’

‘Ag, no, you need a counsellor, not a diet-lady. There are counsellors who come here to the police station. They help crime victims.’

‘I’m not a victim,’ I said. ‘And she is a counsellor. She thinks I use food to escape my feelings. And that I’m fat.’

‘Rubbish, you’re lovely.’

‘She says I should exercise too. You don’t think I need to go on diet?’

‘You’re the best cook, and your body is just right. Sorry, I must go now. I’ll come see you tonight?’

‘I don’t know what I’ll cook, with this diet and all—’

‘Forget the diet,’ he said. ‘See you later, bokkie.’

Bokkie. He called me bokkie. A little buck. My body was just right, he said. It was worth going through some trouble to get close to a man like that. I could at least try following the poppie’s advice . . . Maybe going for a walk would take my mind off food.

I put on my veldskoene – my comfortable leather veld shoes – and headed out of my garden gate. It opened into the veld, and I walked on a narrow animal-path between the small bushes and succulents. The sun was hot, and I wished I’d brought a hat. I followed the path towards my old friend, the gwarrie tree. I sat down in its shade, a little out of breath, on a low branch.

‘Hello, Gwarrie,’ I said. It was a very old tree, maybe even a thousand years old, with thick rough bark and dark wrinkled leaves.

I thought of what Slimkat had said: ‘The land doesn’t belong to us; we belong to the land.’

I could see by the little piles of shining bokdrolletjies on the ground that the tree was used to visitors. The little buck poos looked a lot like chocolate peanuts. I wondered if that is how the sport of bokdrolletjie-spitting began.

A flock of mousebirds landed in the upper branches. They had scruffy hairstyles and long tails. When they saw me, they chirruped and flew away. My worries seemed to fly away too.

A breeze picked up and brought with it a sweet, unusual smell. I looked around for what it might be and saw a patch of grey-green bushes with flowers of little yellow balls. I walked to them and bent down to sniff. The smell filled my nostrils and tickled the back of my throat on its way down to my lungs. It was something like lemons but was also sweet like honey. My thoughts scratched in the back of my mind trying to find just what it smelt like. Maybe it was a smell-memory, passed down from the faraway days when we all used to hunt and gather like Bushmen. I stopped trying to name it and started on the path back home.

The vygie bushes were filled with dried seed pods, but now and again there were small flowers on the ground that had jumped up after the little bit of rain: a pale purple orchid, a tiny bunch of Karoo violets.

Then, maybe because I had stopped trying, I remembered what that smell reminded me of. It was Japie se Gunsteling – that famous orange and lemon pudding – Japie’s Favourite – from my mother’s cookbook, Kook en Geniet. Cook and Enjoy. I would make some for Henk tonight. The walk home was much quicker, and I picked a lemon from the tree as I passed through my garden, into the house.