Jean-Marie van Schalkwyk

Port Elizabeth, South Africa

1887

Perched beside a cigarette burn on a dusky pink settee, she clenched her teeth to stop them chattering. She pulled the hem of her thinning dress as far over her knobbly knees as it would go. Her bare feet, white with cold, dangled above a small suitcase lying on the splintered floorboards. Tucked inside were a pair of black leather shoes, a blue dress, and a brown coat. They were not new, but they were new to her. It was all new, and she wanted none of it.

She glanced around the dank, dark room, at the paint peeling from the pressed tin ceiling and the brickwork peering through crumbling plaster. The wind moaned as it threw the rain, greasy and grey, against the windowpane. Staring down the hill, at the docks and the stormy sea, she wished she was home with mama. But mama was gone. They had taken her away. Wrapped in a blanket.

As the wind paused briefly to catch its breath, she heard children shouting in the dormitories on the second floor. She turned to the doorway and the empty hallway beyond. Sniffling softly, she pressed her thumb into her mouth. He would be here soon. She must not cry. She must not cry.

#

Shaking the rain from his slouch hat, he wiped his face and stepped onto the stoep. He stared at the weather worn door and swore under his breath. The frigid air stung his eyes as the wind raced along the muddy streets. He pressed them closed and ran his hand over his face. For twenty years, he had prayed for this moment. In his mind, it had never looked like this.

He straightened and knocked on the door. At the sound of footsteps, he clutched the brim of his hat in both hands.

‘Can I help you?’ said a tall woman in a dark blue woolen dress. Pulled back into a perfect knot, her hair was streaked with grey, and tiny purple capillaries crept along her pinched nose and sallow cheeks. Neither her lips nor her eyes held any hint of a smile.

‘Francois Nel,’ he said gruffly. ‘I am here for the girl.’

‘We have plenty of those, meneer,’ the woman said, crossing her arms and cocking her head.

‘Someone sent a telegram,’ he said, reaching into his breast pocket for a sliver of paper. Its tidings etched into his memory. Seared into his heart. Katryn’s girl, he wanted to say, but her name caught on the lump in his throat. He held the telegram out for the woman to read instead.

‘Ah, come in,’ she said, stepping back. Even after the door clicked shut behind him, the cold, musty air licked his skin. At the far end of the entrance hall, the pale green carpet of the once grand staircase had worn through and the dirty balustrade was gap-toothed and wobbly.

‘Did you send this?’ he said, slipping the telegram back into his pocket.

‘Yes. Mrs Somerset,’ she nodded curtly.

‘What happened?’ His voice was hoarse.

‘She worked on the docks and in the taverns.’ Somerset’s stare was icy. ‘But I believe it was the drink that got her. Her madame found them when she was collecting rent.’

Francois swallowed hard.

‘How long… before they found them?

‘A few days,’ Mrs Somerset shrugged. ‘No one knows for sure. She was stone cold by then. The child was curled up next to her.’

Francois nodded, guilt and regret looping around his throat like a noose. ‘Her name? The telegraph did not say,’ he said.

‘Isabel,’ Mrs Somerset said. ‘Come.’

Francois’ heart hammered against his ribs as he followed Somerset into a small parlour. It smelled of stale smoke, the hearth full of soot and ash. The pink velvet curtains were faded and speckled with tiny holes. A thick layer of dust clung to every surface. It was clear the parlour was seldom used. He supposed orphans rarely had visitors.

‘Isabel, your grandfather is here.’

Perched on a settee was a little girl. Francois’s breath caught in his throat. She was just a baby. Pale and thin, she stared at the floor. Her long blonde hair tucked behind her ears.

Mrs Somerset took the small suitcase from the floor, and nudging her towards him, handed Francois the case.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered, unable to tear his eyes from the child. Big hazel eyes peaked at him through long, dark lashes, her bottom lip quivering.

‘How much do I owe you, Mrs Somerset?’ he asked, reaching into his pocket for his coin purse.

‘Five shillings,’ she said with an outstretched palm. Francois frowned. The child could hardly eat more than a sparrow, and desperately needed a wash and warm clothes. Without argument, he almost emptied his purse into the matron’s hand before tucking it back in his pocket.

‘Thank you,’ he bristled.

‘Of course,’ she nodded before turning and heading for the front door.

‘Come,’ Francois said softly, and Isabel followed him without a word. The door closed behind them, and they stood together, staring into the street. The rain had eased and vendors reemerged from the buildings and alleys with rickety wooden carts. Horses strained against their harnesses, pulling wagons piled high with goods, as they sloshed through the mud. The crack of a whip sliced through the air, thick with the smell of tanneries, slaughterhouses and dung heaps. Sitting tall between two polished brass lanterns, the driver of a black high top carriage cracking his whip a second time, sent people scurrying out of the way.

Francois rubbed his temples, a dull ache lurking behind his eyes.

‘What do you have in here?’ he said, glancing at the case in his hand. Isabel shrugged, then pressed her thumb into her mouth as her eyes filled with tears.

Francois sank to his haunches and flicked the case open. With her eyes glued to the cobblestones between his veldskoen, she stopped sucking her thumb long enough for him to help her into the coat.

‘Goed so,’ he said. Much better.

‘Now your shoes.’ They looked like a pair of doll shoes in his big, calloused hands.

Isabel dragged her eyes from the stoep and let them settle on his face. The air seeped from his lungs as he stared into her eyes, the rope of remorse tightening about his neck. Swimming in their green-brown depths were sadness and fear.

Unable to hold her stare, he touched his shoulder. ‘Hold on, so you don’t fall over,’ he said. She watched him a moment longer, her thumb still in her mouth, before raising her hand to rest on his shoulder, as lightly as if a little bird had landed there. He swallowed hard, fighting the urge to hold her to him. Once both shoes were on, he closed the case and offered her his hand. She slipped her cold, small hand into his, and they walked down the steps and onto the street. They walked in silence. He did not know what to say. Or where to begin.

Isabel glanced over her shoulder, towards the sea, and from the corner of his eye, he saw her swat a tear from her cheek.

‘Where are we going?’ she said, her little voice shaking, before returning her thumb to her mouth.

‘To the station.’

‘Is that where you live?’

‘No, we have to catch a train,’ he said with a small smile. ‘I live near a village called Middelburg. It’s a long way from here,’ he added when she frowned.

‘Do you live on the docks, too?’ she said.

‘No, it’s nothing like here.’

‘Oh,’ she whispered.

‘Have you heard of the Karoo?’

She shook her head.

‘It means land of thirst.’

#

For three days, the train pulled up steep mountain passes and down into valleys. Climbing steadily higher, the lush greens of the coast gave way to yellows and browns and olive greens. Isabel regarded the changing countryside as closely as she did her grandfather. He spoke little, but when he did, his deep voice was kind. Watching him now as he dozed, his head resting against the seat and his grey-white beard glowing pink with the sunrise, she realised he was not cross after all, but that the leathery skin around his eyes was puckered into a permanent squint from a lifetime in the sun.

A short while later, they pulled into Cradock Station. Francois carried Isabel to a livery stable, and she watched wide-eyed as he saddled his big bay gelding.

‘Have you ridden before?’ he asked over his shoulder as he checked the girth, his blankets, water bag, rifle and saddlebag.

She shook her head vigorously.

‘Come on,’ he said, crouching in front of her. He smiled as he picked her up and placed her gently on the saddle.

‘Hold this,’ he said, proffering a clump of the horse’s mane. She nodded and took hold of the coarse black hair with trembling hands. Francois climbed into the saddle and Isabel whimpered as the gelding turned and started for the door. Francois took the reins in both hands, so that she was safe between his arms.

‘You alright?’

She nodded her reply without taking her eyes off the horizon. The wind was bitterly cold as they left the stables and Isabel shivered as it lashed her face. Francois opened his coat and pulled her closer. He smelled of soap and tobacco.

Sheltered and warm, Isabel calmed as she got used to the horse’s steady lope. Once out of town, she saw nothing but open veld with rocky, flat-topped hills scattered in the distance. Herds of zebra, kudu, springbok, buffalo and eland grazed the plains. It was always crowded and noisy on the docks. Now the stillness hummed in her ears. But for the sound of the horse’s hooves on the hard ground, she heard only the birds. The autumn sun warmed her face, and the sky stretched clear and bright overhead.

‘How old you are, Isabel?’ Francois said, his brow creasing into a frown above his bushy grey eyebrows.

‘Four,’ she said. ‘How old are you, oom?’ she asked shyly as she stole a glance at his face.

He chuckled. A hearty rumble in his chest.

‘A long way from four,’ he said. ‘You know, you can call me oupa, if you want.’

‘Yes, oupa,’ she said after a while, smiling shyly up at him. He sniffed and turned away, quickly wiping his nose. He steered the horse towards the Fish River and the dense reeds, willows, and sedges lining its banks.

‘Stay here while I fetch water,’ Francois said, dismounting and taking the water bag before tying the reins loosely to a bush. Isabel nodded as he knelt between the reeds at the water’s edge. Grass nests dangled above like plump ripe fruit, swaying gently in the breeze. Bright yellow birds darting to and from their upside down homes.

‘What’s that?’ Isabel said, pointing at the dense scrub.

‘Where?’ Francois said, straightening.

‘In the bushes,’ Isabel pointed.

Francois scanned the brush but saw only patches of sunlight and shadow trading places in the breeze. As he started up the bank, the brush trembled and cracked as a giant shadow broke through and charged the horse.

‘Hold on!’ Francois yelled, running for the horse.

Isabel screamed as the gelding raised his head and tugged against the reins. The black beast rushed them with its horned head high and snorting, throwing a cloud of dust into the air.

‘Hold on!’ he yelled again as he grabbed hold of the pommel and jumped into the saddle. As the horse broke free and bolted, Francois clutched Isabel to him, the broken reins swinging through the air. He turned back to see the buffalo hold her charge, but as the horse pulled away, the cow turned and trotted back to her hiding place, and her newborn calf.

Francois reached for the reins, flailing in the wind. He caught them on the second try and reined the gelding in.

Clinging to his arm, Isabel trembled. She was sucking her thumb, tears welling in her eyes.

‘She’s gone,’ Francois said, catching his breath and glancing back to be sure. ‘It’s alright,’ he said, as the tears spilled down her cheeks and he hugged her to his chest. She pushed away and wiped her face fiercely. Setting her gaze on the horizon, she pressed her thumb into her mouth.

Francois sat for a moment, unsure of what to do. Then he spurred the gelding into a trot, and they rode in silence until the sun hung low in the sky, bathing the veld in a deep orange glow. They stopped next to a clear mountain stream.

‘Drink some water,’ Francois said, as he dismounted and took her down. The ground felt funny beneath her feet, and her bottom ached. She kneeled and reached into the water as small fish darted away. Isabel gulped the sweet cool water gratefully, then sat back on her heels and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Francois hobbled the horse, then collected wood from a willow tree. Isabel sprang up and helped.

‘Here, oupa,’ she said shyly, clutching her haul to her chest.

‘Can you build a fire?’ he said, pointing to the patch of earth he had cleared.

She nodded and knelt beside him, placing the smallest sticks down first, while Francois bundled some dry grass. She watched as he struck a match and held it to the grass before placing beneath the pile of sticks. As the smoke coiled into the chilly evening air, Francois added more wood.

They ate biltong and coffee and rusks with the fire warming their faces. As the sun rested on the horizon, a flock of guinea fowl landed near the stream in a flurry of white-speckled grey plumage. Squawking as they ran to the water’s edge, they drank before rising to roost in the nearby willow tree as the sun slipped away, taking the last of the heat and light with it.

Isabel yawned, then sucked her thumb. Her grandfather didn’t seem to mind, unlike Mrs Somerset.

‘Your mama used to do that,’ Francois said, smiling down at her. ‘When she was a baby.’

‘She did?’

Francois nodded, turning his gaze to the flames.

‘She was about your age when I last saw her,’ he said after a long while.

‘What happened?’

‘Your grandmother hated it here.’ He looked beyond the fire, at the veld shrouded in darkness. ‘I did not know how to fix that. This is all I’ve ever known,’ he shrugged. ‘Then one day, they were gone.’

Francois was quiet again, and Isabel watched his frown deepen.

‘I looked for a long time, but I never found them.’ He pressed his palm to his mouth and cleared his throat before running his hand down his beard. Isabel watched the flames dance in his eyes as he stared at the fire. For a long time, they were still. Listening to the crackling of the fire and the sounds of the veld.

‘We better get some sleep,’ he said, getting up. Unrolling the blankets, he spread them on the ground beside the fire.

‘This one is yours,’ he pointed to the one nearest the fire, before lying down on the other.

Isabel lay flat on her back, staring at the night sky filled with stars. Francois smiled as she snuggled a little deeper beneath her blanket and closed her eyes.

‘Sleep well, little sparrow,’ Francois whispered.