thirty, and during those fifteen years she had worked hard and in a careful way, so that the farm Maroelasdal was all paid and there were plenty of sheep and cattle, and every year they sowed many sacks of mealies. But Francina just went on exactly the same as she had done when her father was still alive. Only, now the best years of a woman’s life were behind her, and during all that time she had had nothing but work. We all felt sorry for her, the womenfolk as well, but there was nothing we could do.
Francina came to church every Sunday, and that was about the only time that we saw her. Yet both before and after church she was always alone, and she seldom spoke to anybody. In her black mourning dress she began to look almost pretty again, but of what use was that at her age?
People who had trekked into the Marico District in the last four years and only knew her by sight said she must also be a little strange in the head, like her father was. They said it looked as though it was in the family. But we who saw her grow up knew better. We understood that it was her life that had made her lonely like that. On account of having to look after her father she had missed much.
One day an insurance agent came through the Bushveld. He called at all the houses, Francina’s also. It did not seem as if he was doing much business in the district, and yet every time he came back. And people noticed that it was always to Francina’s house that the insurance agent went first. They talked about it. The old people shook their heads in the way that old people do when, although they don’t know for sure about a thing, yet all the same they would like to believe it is so.
But if Francina knew what was being said about her she never mentioned it to anybody, and she didn’t try to act differently. Nevertheless, there came a Sunday when she missed going to church. At once everybody felt that what was being whispered about her was true. Especially when she did not come to church the next Sunday or the Sunday after. Of course, stories that are told in this way about women are always true. But there was one thing that they said that was a lie. They said that what the insurance agent wanted was Francina’s farm and cattle. And they foretold that exactly the same thing would happen to Francina as had happened to Grieta Steyn: that in the end she would lose both her property and the man.
As I have told you, this last part of their stories did not come out in the way they had prophesied. If the insurance agent really had tried to get from her the farm and the cattle, nobody could say for sure. But what we did know was that he had gone back without them. He left quite suddenly, too, and he did not return anymore.
And Francina never again came to church. Yes, it’s funny that women should get like that. For I did not imagine that anything could ever come across Francina’s life that would make her go away from her religion. But, of course, you can’t tell.
Sometimes when I ride past Maroelasdal in the evening, on my way home, I wonder about these things. When I pass that point near the aardvark mound, where the trees have been chopped down, and I see Francina in front of the house, I seem to remember her again as she was when she was fifteen. And if the sun is near to setting, and I see her playing with her child, I sometimes wish, somehow, that it was not a bastard.
The Ramoutsa Road
You’ll see that grave by the side of the road as you go to Ramoutsa, Oom Schalk Lourens said.
It is under that clump of withaaks just before you get to the Protectorate border. The kaffirs are afraid to pass that place at night.
I knew Hendrik Oberholzer well. He was a good man. Unlike most of the farmers who lived here in those days, Hendrik Oberholzer was never caught smuggling cattle across the line. Perhaps it was because he was religious and would not break the law. Or else he chose only dark nights for the work. I don’t know. I was rather good at bringing cattle over myself, and yet I was twice fined for it at Zeerust.
Hendrik Oberholzer lived on the farm Paradyskloof. When he first trekked in here he was already married and his son Paulus was about fourteen. Paulus was a lively youngster and full of spirits when there was drought in the land and there was no ploughing to be done. But when it rained, and they had to sow mealies, Paulus would be sulky for days. Once I went to Paradyskloof to borrow a sack of cement from Hendrik for a sheep-dip I was building. Paulus was on the lands, walking behind the plough. I went up and spoke to him, and told him about the cement for the sheep-dip. But he didn’t stop the oxen or even turn his head to look at me. “To hell with you and your cement,” he shouted.
Then he added, when he got about fifteen yards away, “And the sheep-dip.”
For some time after that Hendrik Oberholzer and I were not on speaking terms. Hendrik said that he was not going to allow other men to thrash his son. But I had only flicked Paulus’s bare leg with the sjambok. And that was after he had kicked me on the shin with his veldskoen, because I had caught him by the wrist and told him that he wasn’t to abuse a man old enough to be his father. Anyway, I didn’t get the cement.
Then, a few days before the minister came up to hold the Nagmaal, Hendrik called at my house and said we must shake hands and forgive one another. As he was the ouderling, the predikant stayed with him for three days, and if he was at enmity with anybody, Hendrik would not be allowed to share in the Nagmaal. I was pleased to have the quarrel settled. Hendrik Oberholzer was an upright man whom we all respected for his Christian ways, and he also regularly passed on to me the Pretoria newspapers after he had finished reading them himself.
Afterwards, as time went by, I could see that Hendrik was much worried on account of his son. Paulus was the only son of Hendrik and Lettie. I know that often Hendrik had sorrowed because the Lord had given him no more than one child, and yet this one had strange ways. Because of that, both Hendrik and his wife Lettie became saddened.
Paulus had had a good education. His father didn’t take him out of school until he was in Standard Four. And for another thing he had been to Sunday school since he was seven. Also his uncle, who was a builder, had taught Paulus to lay flat stones for stoeps. So, taken all round, Paulus had more than enough learning for a farmer. But he was not content with that. He said he wanted to learn. Hendrik Oberholzer reasoned with him and, very fairly and justly, pointed out to him what had happened to Piet Slabberts. Piet Slabberts had gone to high school, and when he came back he didn’t believe in God. So nobody was surprised when, two months later, Piet Slabberts fell off an ox-wagon and was killed by the wheels going over his head.
But Paulus only laughed.
“That is not so wonderful,” he said. “If an ox-wagon goes over your head you always die, unless you’ve got a head like a Bushman’s. If Piet Slabberts didn’t die, only then would I say it was wonderful.”
Yes, it was sinful of Paulus to talk like that when we could all see that in that happening was the hand of God. At the funeral the ouderling who conducted the service also spoke about it, and Piet Slabberts’s mother cried very much to think that the Lord had taken away her son because He was not satisfied with him.
Anyway, Paulus did less work on the farm. Even when the dam dried up, and for weeks they had to pump water for the cattle all day out of the borehole, Paulus just looked on and only helped when his father and the kaffirs could not do any more. And yet he was twenty and a strong, well-built young man. But there was something in him that was bad.
At first Hendrik Oberholzer had tried to make excuses for his son, saying that he was young and had still to learn wisdom, but later on he spoke no more about Paulus. Hendrik’s wife Lettie also said nothing. But there was always sadness in her eyes. For Paulus was her only child and he was not like other sons. He would often take a piece of paper and a pencil with him and go away in the bush and write verses all day. Of course Hendrik tore up those bits of paper whenever he found them in the house. But that made no difference.
