Part 8 (1/2)

'Sit up front beside the driver,' John suggests. 'For our triumphal return.' And so she does. As they approach the Coetzees, a.s.sembled on the stoep exactly as she had foreseen, she takes care to put on a smile and even to wave in a parody of royalty. In response she is greeted with a light ripple of clapping. She descends, 'Dankie, Hendrik, eerlik dankie,' she says: Thank you sincerely. 'Mies,' says Hendrik. Later in the day she will go over to his house and leave some money: for Katryn, she will say, for clothing for her children, though she knows the money will go on liquor.

'En toe?' says Carol, in front of everyone. 'Se vir ons: waar was julle?' Where were you?

Just for a second there is silence, and in that second she realizes that the question, on the face of it simply a prompt for her to come up with some flippant, amusing retort, is a real one. The Coetzees really want to know where she and John have been; they want to be rea.s.sured that nothing truly scandalous has taken place. It takes her breath away, the cheek of it. That people who have known her and loved her all her life could think her capable of misconduct! 'Vra vir John,' she replies curtly ask John and stalks indoors.

When she rejoins them half an hour later the atmosphere is still uneasy.

'Where has John gone?' she asks.

John and Michiel, it turns out, set off just a moment ago in Michiel's pickup to recover the Datsun. They will tow it to Leeuw Gamka, to the mechanic who will fix it properly.

'We stayed up late last night,' says her aunt Beth. 'We waited and waited. Then we decided you and John must have gone to Beaufort and were spending the night there because the National Road is so dangerous at this time of the year. But you didn't phone, and that worried us. This morning Michiel phoned the hotel at Beaufort and they said they hadn't seen you. He phoned Fraserburg too. We never guessed you had gone to Merweville. What were you doing in Merweville?'

What indeed were they doing in Merweville? She turns to John's father. 'John says you and he are thinking of buying property in Merweville,' she says. 'Is that true, Uncle Jack?'

A shocked silence falls.

'Is it true, Uncle Jack?' she presses him. 'Is it true you are going to move to Merweville?'

'If you put the question like that,' Jack says the bantering Coetzee manner is gone, he is all caution 'no, no one is actually going to move to Merweville. John has the idea I don't know how realistic it is of buying one of those abandoned houses and fixing it up as a holiday home. That's as far as we have got in talking about it.'

A holiday home in Merweville! Who has ever heard of such a thing! Merweville of all places, with its snooping neighbours and its diaken diaken [deacon] knocking at the door, pestering one to attend church! How can Jack, in his day the liveliest and most irreverent of them all, be planning a move to Merweville? [deacon] knocking at the door, pestering one to attend church! How can Jack, in his day the liveliest and most irreverent of them all, be planning a move to Merweville?

'You should try Koegenaap first, Jack,' says his brother Alan. 'Or Pofadder. In Pofadder the big day of the year is when the dentist from Upington comes visiting to pull teeth. They call it the Groot Trek, Groot Trek, the Great Trek.' the Great Trek.'

As soon as their ease is threatened, the Coetzees rush in with jokes. A family drawn up in a tight little laager laager to keep the world and its woes at bay. But how long will the jokes go on doing their magic? One of these days the great foe himself will come knocking at the door, the Grim Reaper, whetting his scythe-blade, calling them out one by one. What power will their jokes have then? to keep the world and its woes at bay. But how long will the jokes go on doing their magic? One of these days the great foe himself will come knocking at the door, the Grim Reaper, whetting his scythe-blade, calling them out one by one. What power will their jokes have then?

'According to John, you are going to move to Merweville while he stays on in Cape Town,' she persists. 'Are you sure you will be able to cope by yourself, Uncle Jack, without a car?'

A serious question. The Coetzees don't like serious questions. 'Margie word 'n bietjie grim,' they will say among themselves: Margie is becoming a bit grim. grim,' they will say among themselves: Margie is becoming a bit grim. Is your son planning to shunt you off to the Karoo and abandon you Is your son planning to shunt you off to the Karoo and abandon you, she is asking, and if that is what is afoot, how come you don't raise your voice in protest? and if that is what is afoot, how come you don't raise your voice in protest?

'No, no,' replies Jack. 'It won't be like you say. Merweville will just be somewhere quiet to take a break. If it goes through. It's just an idea, you know, an idea of John's. It's nothing definite.'

'IT'S A SCHEME to get rid of his father,' says her sister Carol. 'He wants to dump him in the middle of the Karoo and wash his hands of him. Then it will be up to Michiel to take care of him. Because Michiel will be closest.' to get rid of his father,' says her sister Carol. 'He wants to dump him in the middle of the Karoo and wash his hands of him. Then it will be up to Michiel to take care of him. Because Michiel will be closest.'

'Poor old John!' she replies. 'You always believe the worst of him. What if he is telling the truth? He promises he will visit his father in Merweville every weekend, and spend the school holidays there as well. Why not give him the benefit of the doubt?'

'Because I don't believe a word he says. The whole plan sounds fishy to me. He has never got on with his father.'

'He looks after his father in Cape Town.'

'He lives with his father, but only because he has no money. He is thirty-something years old with no prospects. He ran away from South Africa to escape the army. Then he was thrown out of America because he broke the law. Now he can't find a proper job because he is too stuck-up. The two of them live on the pathetic salary his father gets from the sc.r.a.pyard where he works.'

'But that's not true!' she protests. Carol is younger than she. Once Carol used to be the follower and she, Margot, the leader. Now it is Carol who strides ahead, she who tails anxiously behind. How did it happen? 'John teaches in a high school,' she says. 'He earns his own money.'

'That's not what I hear. What I hear is that he coaches dropouts for their matric exams and is paid by the hour. It's part-time work, the sort of thing students do to earn pocket money. Ask him straight out. Ask him what school he teaches at. Ask him what he earns.'

'A big salary isn't all that counts.'

'It isn't just a matter of salary. It's a matter of telling the truth. Let him tell you the truth about why he wants to buy this house in Merweville. Let him tell you who is going to pay for it, he or his father. Let him tell you his plans for the future.' And then, when she looks blank: 'Hasn't he told you? Hasn't he told you his plans?'

'He doesn't have plans. He is a Coetzee, Coetzees don't have plans, they don't have ambitions, they only have idle longings. He has an idle longing to live in the Karoo.'

'His ambition is to be a poet, a full-time poet. This Merweville scheme has nothing to do with his father's welfare. He wants a place in the Karoo where he can come when it suits him, where he can sit with his chin on his hands and contemplate the sunset and write poems.'

John and his poems again! She can't help it, she snorts with laughter. John sitting on the stoep of that dreary little house making up poems! With a beret on his head, no doubt, and a gla.s.s of wine at his elbow. And the little Coloured children cl.u.s.tered around him, pestering him with questions. Wat maak oom? Nee, oom maak gedigte. Op sy ou ramkiekie maak oom gedigte. Die wereld is ons woning nie Wat maak oom? Nee, oom maak gedigte. Op sy ou ramkiekie maak oom gedigte. Die wereld is ons woning nie . . . What is sir doing? Sir is making poems. On his old banjo sir is making poems. This world is not our dwelling-place . . . . . . What is sir doing? Sir is making poems. On his old banjo sir is making poems. This world is not our dwelling-place . . .

'I'll ask him,' she says, still laughing. 'I'll ask him to show me his poems.'

SHE CATCHES JOHN the next morning as he is setting off on one of his walks. 'Let me come with you,' she says. 'Give me a minute to put on proper shoes.' the next morning as he is setting off on one of his walks. 'Let me come with you,' she says. 'Give me a minute to put on proper shoes.'

They follow the path that runs eastward from the farmstead along the bank of the overgrown river bed toward the dam whose wall burst in the floods of 1943 and has never been repaired. In the shallow waters of the dam a trio of white geese float peacefully. It is still cool, there is no haze, they can see as far as the Nieuweveld Mountains.

'G.o.d,' she says, 'dis darem mooi. Dit raak jou siel aan, ne, die ou wereld.' Isn't it beautiful. It touches one's soul, this landscape.

They are in a minority, a tiny minority, the two of them, of souls that are stirred by these great, desolate expanses. If anything has held them together over the years, it is that. This landscape, this kontrei kontrei it has taken over her heart. When she dies and is buried, she will dissolve into this earth so naturally it will be as if she never had a human life. it has taken over her heart. When she dies and is buried, she will dissolve into this earth so naturally it will be as if she never had a human life.

'Carol says you are still writing poems,' she says. 'Is that true? Will you show me?'

'I am sorry to disappoint Carol,' he replies stiffly, 'but I haven't written a poem since I was a teenager.'

She bites her tongue. She forgot: you do not ask a man to show you his poems, not in South Africa, not without rea.s.suring him beforehand that it will be all right, he is not going to be mocked. What a country, where poetry is not a manly activity but the province of children and oujongnooiens oujongnooiens [spinsters] [spinsters] oujongnooiens oujongnooiens of both s.e.xes! How Totius or Louis Leipoldt managed she cannot guess. No wonder Carol chooses John's poem-writing to attack, Carol with her nose for other people's weaknesses. of both s.e.xes! How Totius or Louis Leipoldt managed she cannot guess. No wonder Carol chooses John's poem-writing to attack, Carol with her nose for other people's weaknesses.

'If you gave up so long ago, why does Carol think you still write?'

'I have no idea. Perhaps she saw me marking student essays and jumped to the wrong conclusion.'

She does not believe him, but she is not going to press him further. If he wants to evade her, let him. If poetry is a part of his life he is too shy or too ashamed to talk about, then so be it.

She does not think of John as a moffie moffie, but it continues to puzzle her that he has no woman. A man alone, particularly one of the Coetzee men, seems to her like a boat without oar or rudder or sail. And now two of them, two Coetzee men, living as a couple! While Jack still had the redoubtable Vera behind him he steered a more or less straight course; but now that she is gone he seems quite lost. As for Jack and Vera's son, he could certainly do with some level-headed guidance. But what woman with any sense would want to devote herself to the hapless John?

Carol is convinced John is a bad bet; and the rest of the Coetzee family, despite their good hearts, would probably agree. What sets her, Margot, apart, what keeps her confidence in John precariously afloat, is, oddly enough, the way in which he and his father behave toward each other: if not with affection, that would be saying too much, then at least with respect.

The pair used to be the worst of enemies. The bad blood between Jack and his elder son was the subject of much head-shaking. When that son disappeared overseas, the parents put on the best front they could. He had gone to pursue a career in science, his mother proclaimed. For years she maintained the story that John was working as a scientist in England, even as it became clear that she had no idea for whom he worked or what work he did. You know how John is You know how John is, his father would say: always very independent always very independent. Independent Independent: what did that mean? Not without reason, the Coetzees took it to mean he had disowned his country, his family, his very parents.

Then Jack and Vera started putting out a new story: John was not in England after all but in America, pursuing ever higher qualifications. Time pa.s.sed; in the absence of hard news, interest in John and his doings waned. He and his younger brother became just two among thousands of young white men who had run away to escape military service, leaving an embarra.s.sed family behind. He had almost vanished from their collective memory when the scandal of his expulsion from the United States burst upon them.

That terrible war, said his father: it was all the fault of a war in which American boys were sacrificing their lives for the sake of Asians who seemed to feel no grat.i.tude at all. No wonder ordinary Americans were revolting. No wonder they took to the streets. John had been caught up w.i.l.l.y-nilly in a street protest, the story proceeded; what followed had just been a bad misunderstanding.

Was it his son's disgrace, and the untruths he had to tell as a consequence, that had turned Jack into a shaky, prematurely aged man? How can she even ask?

'You must be glad to see the Karoo again,' she says to John. 'Aren't you relieved you decided not to stay in America?'

'I don't know,' he replies. 'Of course, in the midst of this' he does not gesture, but she knows what he means: this sky, this s.p.a.ce, the vast silence enclosing them 'I feel blessed, one of a lucky few. But practically speaking, what future do I have in this country, where I have never fitted in? Perhaps a clean break would have been better after all. Cut yourself free of what you love and hope that the wound heals.'

A frank answer. Thank heaven for that.

'I had a chat with your father yesterday, John, while you and Michiel were away. Seriously, I don't think he fully grasps what you are planning. I am talking about Merweville. Your father is not young any more, and he is not well. You can't dump him in a strange town and expect him to fend for himself. And you can't expect the rest of the family to step in and take care of him once things go wrong. That's all. That's what I wanted to say.'

He does not respond. In his hand is a length of old fencing-wire that he has picked up. Swinging the wire petulantly left and right, flicking off the heads of the waving gra.s.s, he descends the slope of the eroded dam wall.