Cathy stayed with her father in a shack on the edge of the township. He worked (when he wasn’t drunk) in the post office as a sorting clerk, helping to guide packets and larger pieces of post on their way to distant places. On the first Saturday of every month, he’d head for the race track in search of that ever-illusive win. He did make a bit of profit occasionally, but that didn’t make a difference; when he got home, he’d be drunk and broke.

Sersant Dreyer remembers the first time he visited Cathy. The three-roomed tin-and-cardboard shack was clean and tidy, in contrast to the others around them. She served coffee in tin mugs and apologised that there were no rusks to go with it.

He wanted to know. She was obviously an intelligent young woman; why? What happened to them? White people in townships aren’t all that rare…but…how did they end up here?

Cathy looked at the cement floor for a long time before answering. 

“It was the cancer, you see? Mamma got it in her ovaries.” Here she glanced up, not sure whether it’s okay to talk about such things in the presence of a man  - one she didn’t know so well, either. “Pappa never believed in insurance, see? He said medical aids and life insurers milked the public for money and they make huge profits. So he had a savings plan and put money in it every month. But when Mamma go sick, that didn’t help much – one operation followed the other. Then she had irradiation. Then chemotherapy. Pappa said she deserved the best, and he insisted on that. He started selling things, believing the doctors who always said she’d be okay, if she had this or that treatment.

“Well…she died. Pappa lost everything.” She sighs. “And he started drinking – so he lost his job, as well. I attended university at that stage – trying to become a lawyer. I had to leave that as well. Now I work as a cashier in Woolworth’s. It keeps us going…”

Even back then, Black Economic Empowerment prevented mature white males from gaining meaningful employment. The once-successful businessman had become a labourer at the post office…  Dreyer could just imagine what they had been going through.

Her eyes told more – so much more. They remembered sleepless nights, waiting for the hospital to phone. They were dark with the pain of the shame of helping her father back to bed after vomiting in the bucket that served as a toilet. When she talked about earlier times with her mother, they lit up at the beauty of those moments. And they changed forever after watching the coffin being lowered into the grave.

“So, that’s why we’re here. Whiteys living in a Darkies world. Sometimes I think it is funny. Remember that song? My, my my, how the mighty has fallen? Well, that’s us. If I can get Pappa to stop drinking, it might help…”

Sersant Dreyer (still only a constable) talked to his chief, who talked to a social worker, who organised for the old man to be admitted to a rehabilitation centre. Dreyer took him there and made sure he was all right. Cathy’s eyes shone: a new dawn was breaking – maybe, this time, the day will follow. 

With her father in the sanatorium, Dreyer felt it was too unsafe to leave Cathy in the shack all by herself. He convinced her to move in with him, and she agreed; on the condition they didn’t share the bedroom. By this time, the young Dreyer looked after himself rather well, and had become passably proficient in the kitchen. With him sleeping on the couch every night, he got up early enough to prepare proper meals for breakfast and dinner every day. Cathy got the vegetables and meat that had reached their sell-by dates from the shop at a huge discount, resulting in both of them eating well and gaining weight.

In Cathy’s case, the change was remarkable. The straight lines became curves. The lines on her face filled up. The ugly duckling changed into a swan. He said so, one night. Her eyes smiled at him, rewarding him for his care and dedication.

“I’ll never be able to thank you,” she said, “for all you’ve done. Pappa’s being discharged tomorrow, then I’ll be moving back and you can have your flat to yourself.”

This, of course, shook Dreyer to the core. Her moving back? To live in the shack? Surely she didn’t consider that? But…what about her father? The flat was too small for two people – three would be impossible. 

“You wouldn’t like to stay here, and let him have the shack?” He wanted her to hear he wouldn’t like to see her go.

“Oh no…he needs to be cared for.” Her eyes filled with compassion. “I’m afraid he’ll just slip back to his old ways. No, somebody must take care of him…”

“But…”

“No buts. I have to do what I have to do. So do you. If you thought this is a nice romantic way to woo me, you’re wrong.” Her eyes told him she’s lying, but she stood firm. “This is not about love, Dreyer, this is about life. Some things are just more important than others, and we have to make room for them. Once he’s settled, we can think again. But now…”

And so it happened that they fetched her father and Dreyer left the two of them waving in the doorway of their shack at the edge of the township. There was no way he could have predicted what would follow.

The days turned into weeks. He visited her frequently, but by now her father was at home all the time. The post office had given up on him and he was unemployed. The old man slipped back into drinking again. It was a mess. Dreyer scolded him and fought with Cathy. Her eyes filled with tears, shouting at him that he didn’t understand. He had no choice – and left.

At the door, he turned. “But I love you,” he said.

Her eyes softened for a brief second. “Love is a myth, Dreyer. A fable. You either need somebody in your life – or not. Simple as that. You don’t need me. Go now…”

Chastined and disappointed, he did exactly that.

It was way past midnight when the call came. Dreyer was on duty at the time, scanning the messages that came in from the patrol vehicles. When he saw the address, he knew…

Deep down, he knew.

That’s the moment he started doubting whether God ever cared about the little people in the world…

He’s just written his monthly report to headquarters: no crime, no outstanding cases, no arrests to be made. Of course, like all the other reports, it’ll end up in some file on an archive shelf; just another unread document in the endless stream of paper the administrators insist on keeping going. As long as the forms are filled in, the generals can report that they are doing their work.

He watches the heat waves shimmer on the horizon, distorting the road to Grootdrink into a hazy, curling track. Like the documents, it seems without purpose – an endless road to an uncertain destination.

How often has he not thought of going back… A thousand times? A million? Usually he can stop those thoughts in time, before the pain of remembering cruases a circular memory that courses endlessly through the archives off his mind – like in that song she always sang:

Like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning
On an ever spinning reel[i]

Cathy McGregor wasn’t what one  would describe as beautiful. Her figure was constructed with straight lines, her hair didn’t shine in the sun, and the lines on her face spoke of a difficult past. Most people would not even consider a second glance when she walked into a room; but then, they seldom had the opportunity to look into her almost-always downcast eyes.

Sersant did. He first saw those eyes pleading from behind the burly man’s back when the drunkard dragged her in that night…

“I paid her!” He shouted. “The full fee. Now she suddenly turns prude on me. Look, she scratched my face!” The huge, dirty hand unfolds to let a dirty finger point at the red line across his stubbled cheek. Sersant (he was only a constable then) didn’t know what to do. It was his first night behind te counter, and so far it had been a disaster. Nothing can prepare a young man (in reality, still a child) for the abused children , broken and bleeding men, and hysterical women that line up in police stations across South Africa every night.

The man was obviously drunk. Thenew constables had written a test on Public Intoxication the previous day, so Sersant called over some of his more sturdy colleagues and locked the man up for the night. She still stood in the waiting area when he returned from the cells. He wanted to tell her to go home, but she spoke first.
“Thank you.” He now saw her eyes – not like a moment ago – but this time it was as if she drew him into her mind with a hypnotic, lingering stare. Then her eyes left him to travel to the empty button hole in his tunic. “You lost a button,” she said.

He hadn’t noticed it before. The burly man had put up quite a fight.

“Give me the tunic,” she said.

And he did.

He often wondered about that. Here was a woman – probably with a most unsavoury background – and yet he took off the jacket and handed it to her. When she walked out of the police station, he had no doubt that she’d return. Her eyes held that promise. And she did, a few hours later.

“I had to go home first,” she said apologetically, “to get the right colour thread.”

By that time the stampede of complainants had dwindled and as he was putting on the tunic again, he heard himself thanking the woman and offering her a mug of coffee. Why did he do it? He still doesn’t know. And why did he offer to take her home when his shift was over? Equally, he still can’t answer.

He did, however, find out how far she lived from the police station and why it took so long to sew the button back on.

“It was my first night,” she said while he drove her home. “My father owes money, you see? The bookies and the horses…” Her voice trailed off. “It’s hard out here. If Pappa didn’t pay back the money, they’d break his arms or something. Then he can’t work, see?” She seemed desperate to make him understand. “So they gave him a choice. Either he paid them immediately, or they ‘borrowed’ me for a week. Pappa cried, saying he’d make a plan – but they didn’t believe him. He had lied to many times in the past, they said. Then they took me. When Papa tried to stop them, they hit him. Hard. Many times. And I said I’d go, they must stop hurting him.

“I thought I’d just close my eyes and pray while the men…you know? But that drunk, fat man…he… he…wanted to strange things. Bad things. Horrible…”

Sersant remembers how she told him all this. Almost mechanically, without emotion – until she came to the bit of the drunk man; then she couldn’t go on. Just sat there, stone-faced, staring at the shanties and shacks rushing by as he drove on.

He gave her the money, of course. One-hundred-and-fifty Rands. The price of freedom.

It was the look in her eyes, he realises now.  He tries to sum up what he saw in them. Fear, at first, definitely. Relief, later. And gratitude, admiration, vulnerability, anguish, hope, despair…the list goes on. What she didn’t – or couldn’t  -  say in words, her eyes did. They were the only bit of the real her that peeked from behind the armour of her self-defensive isolation.

When she got out, he asked if he could visit her sometimes.

That was the first time she smiled…

Open up our eyes
The future´s in disguise
In the hobo jungle
Roaming like two moons up in the sky
We’re gettin’ by just fine
Living in a daydream by design

“You’re confusing ‘goodbye‘ with ‘farewell‘, Servaas.” Gertruida smiles her rebuke. “The one leaves the potential for a future connection, the other denies it. It’s not the same thing.”

Servaas doesn’t answer immediately. He sips his beer, stares out of the window, and remembers the many goodbyes he had to say in his life. Some of them, indeed, turned out to be permanent – even though he hoped it wouldn’t. Servaasie was his life…

“Gertruida, everything in Life is temporary. The Tower of Piza will fall over one day. The Eifel won’t stand forever. Neither will the wind pumps on Vetfaan’s farm. Cars will rust away. People will die or go away. It’s the very nature of things.” He sighs as he points to his empty glass, nodding his appreciation as Boggel takes it away for a refill. “The problem with having to say goodbye, is that you don’t know, do you?”

Gertruida thinks back of Ferdinand’s hurried goodbye. She did, indeed, expect that he’d be back. But it didn’t work out that way, did it? Her attempt at appearing clever actually backfired. How often didn’t he tell her, in Spanish, Amada Mio? And then she’s answer correctly: Amodo Mio to incorporate the masculine form of the phrase. And then, in the heat of those beautiful and passionate moments, she believed it to be something that would comfort her into their future.

But then Amodo turned into Adio...and that was so final…

Precilla doesn’t say a word. Talking about goodbye made her remember Charles and the letter…

And so, a sad silence settles on Boggel’s Place, where some remember goodbyes that weren’t meant to be permanent, and didn’t turn out to be that way…and others that did.

“The point is,” Servaas tells his glass, “is that you never know. When you say goodbye, you have to say it like it’s the last time. And when you walk away, it must be with the knowledge that you didn’t leave unfinished business. Say what you have to. Do what you must. And leave behind only one thing – or maybe two: joy and beauty. That way; no matter what Life has in store; it’ll be okay.”

“I agree…” Precilla adds hesitantly with a sideways glance at Kleinpiet, “You never know what tomorrow might bring. Today’s happiness is so fragile.” She gives Kleinpiet an affectionate hug. “Treasure what you have – now. Tomorrow it might be gone.”

“Yes.” Servaas is emphatic. “Live now. Don’t wait for the inevitable. Sometimes goodbye is farewell. And it always catches one by surprise…”

Gertruida remembers the frivelous Amodo Mio Rita Hayworth did, and can’t stop the tears.

Even when Boggel tells her that it’ll be okay, she doesn’t respond. Goodbye and farewell are just too close to each other  not to cause a feeling of intense loss and sadness. They are, she realises, two of the most intense words in the English language.

It is sad. And rich.

And inevitable…

Read about Servaas and his little adventure with a shapely nurse; or go on safari, while we wait to hear what  - in heaven’s name – they’re up to next.

“Gates,” Vetfaan says, sipping his beer at the counter. The others look up, expecting him to say something about them – but he just shakes his head and signals for another beer.

“Are you talking about Bill, or the things you have to open and shut every day?” Kleinpiet mumbles in his beer.

“You don’t open them any more, Kleinpiet. Ever since we’ve been married, you expect me to hop out of the car to do that. Before…well before the wedding you used to do it. I think our romantic phase stopped with ‘I do’.” Precilla smiles as she says this, but anybody with a little experience of woman-talk, will tell you to be careful of the small barbs in this type of remark. Kleinpiet, sadly, doesn’t read the words behind the words.

“Har! Ja, when you said I do, you said you’d do a lot of things. Opening and shutting gates is one such thing. It’s the same with washing and dusting – I do covers a lot of stuff.” The smug smile on his lips causes Precilla to get up and stomp out of Boggel’s Place. “What’d I  say…?” The smile disappears.

“Look, Kleinpiet, you should be more careful with what you say. Most women don’t like washing. In the cities they’ve got machines to do that, but to scrub away at your husbands undies can’t be a heap of fun.” Servaas knows. Siena always made remarks about that.

“I’ll wash my own stuff from now on.” Kleinpiet is clearly irritated and in a rare bad mood.”I don’t need to be pampered by nobody. In the past I rinsed out my stuff while I was showering – I’ll simply do it again.”

“So…who got your goat, Kleinpiet?” Fanny, always the peacemaker, wants to know.

“Ag, you know. Drought. Winter. Mandela is sick… How the hell should I know? Can’t a man be in a bad mood occasionally?“ He takes a deep breath. “Well, I am. I think Precilla doesn’t understand me anymore.”

Gertruida suppresses a giggle. “Okay, Kleinpiet, out with it. You did something terrible. Tell us?”

The problem (if that’s the right word) with Rolbos is it’s size. The community is so small, they don’t have to gossip like the people in Prieska or Kenhardt – where word of mouth can distort a story far beyond the original version. Here, a story needs to be repeated only once or twice before everybody knows about it. It is best then, under these circumstances, to tell the original version yourself, so that you make sure the others have sympathy with whatever calamity has crossed your path.

“No man, it’s like this. When she got dressed this morning, I told her I love her. I mean, that’s not a bad thing to say to your wife? Then she clammed up.”

“There must be more, Kleinpiet; you’re leaving out something.”

“Gertruida, has anybody ever told you that you’re terribly inquisitive?” Kleinpiet swirls his finger through the froth on his beer. “But yes, I told her: now that she’s a bit bigger, there’s more of her to love. I meant it as a compliment.”

“You…what?” Gertruida gasps her astonishment. “How dare you be so insensitive?”

“See, there you go as well? You don’t understand me. I was trying to be nice, that’s all.”

Sersant Dreyer walks in for his midday sustenance, a huge smile on his face.

“Hey, Kleinpiet! I hear you need an orthopod to take your foot out of your mouth again!” He sits down with a flourish. “Man, that’s why I prefer to live alone. I can tell myself anything, and I won’t get upset.” This, of course, isn’t of great help in improving Kleinpiet’s mood. Sersant obviously met up with Precilla outside, that’s why he knows about this. “But I must say, calling your wife ‘fat’, isn’t the cleverest thing to do. Even I know that.”

“I never used the word ‘fat’. I said something nice.”

“Out with it, Kleinpiet, what exactly did you say.” By now everybody has gathered around the grumpy husband, their curiosity pushed to the limits.

“I said… I said…flaps and flabs might hurt my eyes, but the furry little animal still rules the house.”

It takes several minutes for the laughter to die down.

“See? It’s funny. I thought so. You think so. It’s only Precilla who decided to take it up the wrong way.”

Fanny wipes the tears from her cheeks while trying to compose her face. She eyes Kleinpiet with a humorous degree of sympathy. “You, Kleinpiet, have opened a gate you shouldn’t have. It’s up to you to fix it now. I don’t care what you do: but go out there and make things right. Don’t come back if she’s still angry. And never use the words flap or flab in your life – ever again.”

“I told you: gates.” Vetfaan stares out of the window. “I have a lot of them on the farm. Keep the sheep inside and the jackals out – otherwise they’d simply roam about and the fences won’t mean anything. I need to replace a few.”

Rolbas is strange in this way. Vetfaan and Kleinpiet are talking about two completely different concepts, yet it bothers nobody.

And yet…

Our lives are ruled by laws and regulations. They fence us in, to produce what we call ‘civilised society’.  Some of these rules are written down – but most aren’t. (Like not saying anything about your spouse’s weight, for instance). As much as Vetfaan has to keep his gates in top condition, so much are we obliged to keep a check on what is acceptable in our little fenced-off worlds.

When Kleinpiet returns – rather shamefaced and sheepishly – fifteen minutes later, he holds the door open so that Precilla can enter first. For this he gets a muted applause from the other customers.

“So, what did you say?” Gertruida’s theatrical whisper carries her question to everybody.

Kleinpiet mumbles something and has to repeat it. “I said I’d take care of the gates from now on.”

Gertruida pats his shoulder, “That is, of course, the only way to save the day, Kleinpiet. Well done…”

“Yes,” Boggel echoes her thoughts, “and save the country. Somebody has to fix a few gates in government…urgently.”

Which just goes to show that a single word, a bit of marital strife, farming and a government’s malfunction can all be settled in Boggel’s Place in a single morning. The sad thing is: it only happens here. 

Or maybe we are running so fast on our little treadmills that we don’t notice the many broken gates out there any more. Maybe we should all slow down for a while, and listen to the grass grow…

(This song is a must-listen)

The Kalahari doesn’t look the same every day. The wind constantly sculpts away at the landscape, shifting dunes, chipping away at rocks and covering areas that have been exposed for years. The unwary traveller will get lost here, especially if he tried to retrace his steps. Sometimes hours – and occasionally only minutes –are all that are needed to create a completely different scene to the one crossed so recently.

Vetfaan is talking about how he tried to locate the spot where they camped with !Ka not so long ago, and how the dunes simply managed to hide it from him.

“You’d think I know the place…but when I tried to line up the dunes in the way we saw it back then, I got…nothing. It’s as if the place never existed.”

“Ja, I’ve had the same experience,” Servaas nods, “and not so far from here, either. You know those rocks at the other side of Bokkop? Well, there was a place where Siena and I used to sit and talk about life. The other day I went looking for it. I think I got the same rocks, but the picture was wrong. I felt so disappointed.”

Kleinpiet scoffs. “Har! Last week I got lost looking for the KFC in Upington – and I’m sure all the buildings are still exactly where they were all the time.” He lifts his glass to inspect the froth on his beer. “Maybe they moved the KFC? Or they ran out of chickens. Who knows?”

Gertruida doesn’t participate in the idle chatter. Sometimes the men can go on for hours about which wood is best for braaiing, or how often they skip their vehicle’s services. (Vetfaan’s pickup, for instance, still runs with the original oil in the sump – he merely tops it up from time to time.) As far as she is concerned, such talk is a complete waste of time. Now, if they were to discuss the origins of words, they’d all learn something new. Talking about the changing features of the Kalahari is rather senseless.

Boggel’s contribution makes her sit up, however. “You know, guys, the desert out there is much like Life. Just when you think you know your way around, things change. And sometimes, while aiming to do something really good, you get the worst opposition to sidetrack you completely. Again, thinking about what Servaas said: when you try to remember the sweetest moments of your life, you often only realise how much everything changed.”

“Gosh, Boggel, that’s the only bit of  sense you men have spoken all afternoon. I didn’t know you had it in you.” She lifts her glass in a mock salute before going on. “It’s mostly about remembering correctly; so many steps this way, so many that way. But we only tend to remember the destinations, don’t we? And we mostly forget the journey that took us there.

“Remember when you were small, and your parents took you on a wonderful holiday to some exotic place – like Kanon Eiland or Pella, for instance? You remember the tent, the camp fire, the games, don’t you? But can you remember the route your father took to get you there?”

“It’s like they say, Gertruida: Life is about the journey, not the grave.” Even Precilla gets carried away with the conversation. “Look at me and Kleinpiet. We wouldn’t have been so happy now if we didn’t live through such hard times before. Sure, our destination is sweet and wonderful, but only so much more so because of our past histories.”

“So, you’re saying I must be glad I couldn’t find !Ka’s tree?” Vetfaan shakes his head. Women can be so superficial! How can you be glad to get lost in the Kalahari? Really!

“Yes, Vetfaan. Nothing worth cherishing is easy. The things you appreciate most, are the things that came about with a bit of blood, sweat and tears. Especially tears.” She stares at the ceiling while trying to remember. “I read a poem about tears by Lord Byron the other day, but I can only recall the beginning:

When Friendship or Love 
Our sympathies move; 
When Truth, in a glance, should appear, 
The lips may beguile, 
With a dimple or smile, 
But the test of affection’s a Tear:

Too oft is a smile 
But the hypocrite’s wile, 
To mask detestation, or fear; 
Give me the soft sigh, 
Whilst the soultelling eye 
Is dimm’d, for a time, with a Tear…

“We all get lost sometimes. We all cry silent tears from time to time. And we will keep on journeying through the ever-changing landscape of Life, trying to get to a place of peace and joy…”

“Oh, Gertruida! Come on man!” Vetfaan interrupts Gertruida rather rudely; much to the amusement of Boggel, who has been wondering how long the big man will endure her sermon. “I was only saying the desert isn’t a place for strangers.”

She doesn’t seem to mind. She flashes him a brilliant smile. “On this road, Vetfaan, we are all strangers…”

Outside, the soft wind moves the huge dunes – one kernel of sand at a time. Slowly. Silently.

Tomorrow, the Kalahari won’t look the same.

Just like life. 

And like Vetfaan, Servaas and Kleinpiet, we’ll tend to get lost out there sometimes; whilst the soultelling eye Is dimm’d, for a time, with a Tear…

“Look,” she says, pointing at the horizon, “the moon is rising.”

“Yes,” he answers, “it won’t be so dark now.”

“I enoy talking to you, Boggel. It takes my darkness away, just like the moon does now.  I’m comfortable to say the words I never dared to voice before.”

“Words,” Boggel says as he inspects the almost empty bottle of wine, “are the most powerful things on earth, maybe even in the universe. They can lift you up; or bury you so deep, you won’t see the sky. Words can burn, build, break, encourage, destroy, create or tear down.” He pauses a second while filling the glasses. “And sometimes words are like wine. Too little, and they leave the thirst for more. Too much, and it makes you nauseous and leaves you with a hangover the next day. The trick is the balance.”

“That’s why silences are so profound,” Mary adds, “the complete absence of words can sometimes be terribly destructive. Unsaid things can kill a relationship.”

The two of them sit on the veranda in front of Boggel’s Place, watching the night sky changing at the first hint of dawn. They can see a light on in Gertruida’s house, but the rest of the town is still sleeping in the chill of the early morning. Boggel doesn’t seem to mind the cold, but Mary is snugly wrapped in the thick blanket Boggel fetched for her. 

After Boggel shoo-ed the townsfolk out of the bar (For the first time, ever. He said he wanted to close at 11pm.), he and Mary started sharing memories of their childhood and the time in the orphanage. To their complete surprise, the hours simply sped past while they dug up the forgotten joys and sorrows of a time they both tried so hard to forget previously. 

“I locked these thoughts away so securely,” Boggel said at one stage, “because I reckoned they’re best forgotten.”

“So did I,” she replied, “but now I realise you can never unremember your past. It’ll be part of you forever, It’s what you are.” She mulled over this for a while before continuing. “It’s like history: we can choose to ignore some things, but that doesn’t make them go away. What happened, happened. Some good and some bad; and that’s what completes the picture. By denying parts of your history, you remain incomplete – it’s like living a lie then.”

“You’re right. Choosing to bury those memories transformed me into a type of coward. I wasn’t brave enough to face them, work through them, and accept that even the bad times were given to me for a reason. I realise that now.”

And so the night flew by as the two of them discovered the healing power of acceptance. Bit by bit, they covered the times they spent together…and the times they were separated by distance and circumstances. The more they talked, the easier it became. Mary, especially, found that she could say things she never could before. She told Boggel everything she never even dared admit during confessions; about the band, the drugs, the… (and here she hesitated before soldiering on) hedonistic lifestyle. 

Boggel listened. Didn’t interrupt. 

And he didn’t, like she feared and expected, express his horror and rejection.

Instead, he moved his chair nearer to hers – saying nothing – to lay a comforting hand on her arm. The simple gesture brought tears to her eyes.

Now, with the hues of orange and pink in the eastern sky, Boggel gets up to make some coffee. He’s rather pleased to hear her footsteps following him.

“The town will wonder about the two of us,” Mary giggles softly, “they went to such a lot of trouble, trying to create a Mary Poppins scene in Voortrekker Weg. How sweet of them.”

“You can bet your life Servaas will be scowling all day. The two of us, together, all night. He’ll be telling Oudoom about the sin in Rolbos before Mevrou can wash her face this morning!” Boggel reaches over to pull her near. “I don’t think he’ll ever understand.”

“Mmmm.” She leans close, enjoying the warmth they share. “We’ve done a lot of healing tonight, Boggel. More than I ever thought possible.”

The coffee starts percolating on the Primus. Boggel tells her that it’s almost as if the intervening years disappeared – it feels just like the old days. She laughs at this, nodding quietly. 

Yes, she thinks, talking about the past only helps if you have an understanding ear that hears what you are trying to say.

“You understand me, Boggel. You even accept me. That, I think, makes you my best friend.”

People like Servaas will never understand what happened between them during the night. Maybe Boggel and Mary neither – not at this time, at least. But…it is in the sharing of those hidden and hard-to-forget memories that a strange and precious connection developed between them. Gertruida will tell you: most relationships rely on some sort of attraction to keep them going. She says this admiration can take many forms: it could be wisdom, intelligence, creativity…and sexual, of course. But seldom, oh so seldom, (she says) do people take the time to look, really look, into each others hearts.

Gertruida will write in her diary – after Mary leaves – about this.

Dear Diary

I’m so glad for Boggel and Mary. They did something so beautiful, it makes me cry. 

Mary took a chance in coming to Rolbos. In fact, I think she was extremely brave. Be that as it may, she found what she was looking for all her life. Or maybe she had it back then, and lost it for a while. Yes, I think that’s it. She found what she had lost. What a precious idea!

I talked with her before she left for Cape Town again. The change in her is absolutely remarkable: her eyes shone, her smile was genuine and she laughed so spontaneously, I had to join her. I’m so happy for her.

She says she and Boggel have a good thing going. He’s her best, best friend, she said. Now, Dear Diary, that is arguably the most wonderful thing that can happen to anybody. It’s even bigger – and better – than love.

Oh, Diary, we all need somebody like that in our lives. People make such a fuss about words. Take Love, for instance. People tell each other they love each other all the time. The word has become almost meaningless, because we love coffee, or beer, or our pets as well. But the true meaning of the word, the real responsibility of the term, is much deeper than just affection or adoration.

I’ll have to think of a word that describes the relationship between Boggel and Mary. Love simply isn’t enough. I looked up where we got the word Love from, and I’ll copy it here:

Old English lufu ”love, affection, friendliness,” from Proto-Germanic *lubo (cf. Old High German liubi ”joy”)

Now, Dear Diary, I like the idea that Love originates from the word Joy. It reminds me so much about John 15:11 where Jesus said: ‘I have told you this so that My joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete.’

And that is what these two  people found in each other: they rediscovered Joy. Love can be mundane, even boring at times – but Joy is boisterous, happy, celebrating, overwhelming all of the time.

I think they are very clever, the two of them. Servaas wants them to get married, but Mary says no. For them the connection between them is enough. They can talk, and hear what each other is saying. So, Mary says, she’ll come and visit as often as she can. They’ll develop their relationship with care and patience. She says, she’s too afraid to lose the friendship to rush into anything right now.

I suppose I was a bit rude when I asked her what about sex, but you know me, Diary! I want to know things. So I asked her. We girls can do that sometimes. And then, Diary, I realised how deep their relationship really is. She looked at me in a surprised way, smiled sympathetically and said: “Why on earth would I want to ruin a perfect relationship with sex – at this time, especially? No, maybe later, but not now.”

I don’t think I’ve ever heard such wisdom. People equate sex with love – and sometimes it works out that way. But sex, Dear Diary, is no guarantee for Love. Not at all. The only one who’d be disappointed at hearing this, would be Servaas. How he loves a scandal! Shame, he’ll just have to hope somebody else starts sinning in our town, so he can be happy.

So I think Boggel and Mary are playing t exactly right. You must hear Boggel humming to himself these days! One love song after the other. I’m so happy for them.

It is true that Boggel seems a bit moonstruck these days. He doesn’t mind being teased a little. He says he found his moon – and she shines through his darkness.

And that, he says, that is quite enough.

And for the older Rolbossers:

Mary Mitchell reaches for the handle just when Boggel opens the door. For a moment they stand frozen – just like everybody trying to look normal in Voortrekker Weg. The town is completely silent,; except for the thump-thump-thump of Vrede’s tail on the wooden floor, behind the counter. 

Boggel croaks out a Hello Mary, aims to hug her, thinks again, stands back and extends his hand.

“You’ve changed,” she says, pulling at her dress.

“Ja. My hair…” He runs a nervous hand over the bald spot at the back of his head. “And I got wrinkles.” He’s embarrassed – he had hoped for a more romantic greeting.

“It’s not that. You’re…you’re different.”

“I’m sorry.” What else can he say?

“No, not like that.” She reaches out and they shake hands like strangers. “It’s your eyes…they’re so sad.”

“Come on in,” Boggel glances at the way the townsfolk try to look normal out there on the street, and smiles despite his discomfort, “you’re being spied on by the entire population.”

The distance between the door and the little table Boggel has arranged next to the counter, is only a few yards. It feels like ages before they sit down.

“Thank you.” Boggel manages relatively normally. He can see she’s changed, too. The pig-tailed schoolgirl has matured into near-middle-age. The lines next to her lips tell a story of hardship end determination. And there are a few grey strands, aren’t there? He can’t be sure. “For coming here, I mean.” 

“That’s okay, Boggel. Gertruida can be extremely persistent.”

“I know.” He sighs; this is so uncomfortable. “Would you like something to drink?”

Both of them remain silent while he filters the coffee. “Amarula?,” he asks over his shoulder.

“Boggel,” the uncertainty in her voice is unmistakable, “I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing right now. I mean, we were forced into this meeting. If you really wanted to see me again, you could have phoned yourself. So I don’t know…”

He sets the mugs on the table and holds up a silencing finger.

“Yes, I know that.” He pauses, searching for the right words. “You now, Mary, some people drift in and out of your life, and that’s how it is. Some stick – for various reasons. Now you – you – have been part of my life since forever, it seems. And somehow, it’ll remain like that for as long as I live.”

She takes a tentative sip and nods her appreciation.

“Then why, Boggel, didn’t you contact me?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Many reasons, I suppose. You have your life, I have mine. And after the band and the convent, I wasn’t sure whether contacting you was a good idea. I…I sort of thought it’d be better to leave you to be your own woman. And you did well, I hear, with the record company and such.”

For a minute or so, they sip the coffee, each lost in own thoughts.

Yes, she thinks, she can understand that. She’s taken a few tumbles in life and she’s definitely not the same woman she used to be. If only she hadn’t run off with the band that time! It messed up her life completely, what with the drugs and the unbridled lifestyle she enjoyed for the while it lasted. Or at least, she thought she enjoyed it. Now it’s a black mark on her personality, a time she wishes she could erase. Her shame and her guilt forced her into the convent, where Mother Superior made sure she realised what a worthless, sinful woman she was. Oh, she tried escaping all that when she left the convent and buried herself in her business. She’s been running, running, all her life.

On his side of the table, Boggel entertains a similar line of thought. The time in the orphanage was tough, and it left scars. And then, then he was the one who murdered her father! He shudders at the thought. 

“Life’s been cruel, Mary. To both of us. We had the wrong start, that’s all. I suppose we’ll never outlive those memories, will we? We’re two broken people. At least we have that in common.” He smiles wryly at his attempt to get the conversation going; it’s patently obvious they’re getting nowhere fast.

She stares at her empty mug for a while. This is so…awkward! She takes a deep breath…

“Boggel, I-I’d like us to start over. I’ll go out, knock on the door, and you open it. Let’s see if that doesn’t make a difference.”

She waits for what seems to be eternity before Boggel nods slowly. “Yes, let’s do that.”

And that’s what they do. Boggel meets her at the door with a hug and a peck on the cheek. He tells her she’s looking beautiful. She blushes, remarking something about the wonders of cosmetics…and she’s glad to see him again. They sit down once more. This time, she takes the initiative.

“Boggel, my life has been a mess. I’m lonely and depressed. I make coffee for one person at a time. Will you be my friend?”

And he laughs, saying much the same is happening in his own life. Yes, let’s be friends, he says, he’d like nothing better.

When at last the townsfolk trickle in at dusk, they find the two in deep conversation. Boggel is talking about letting go of the past, while she’s going on about embracing the future.

Gertruida lets out a long, drawn-out sigh.

“I knew it,” she says.

For once, nobody believes her.

“Because I’m feeling alive
and I’m feeling whole
I feel like I’m loosing
control

I’ve been trying to resist
this silly thing
Im heading straigt for a fall
to somewhere beautiful”

Luna Paige is going to perform in  the Netherlands soon. Go. You won’t be sorry.

Of course the whole town rocks up for the occasion. Boggel’s plea for privacy just doesn’t fit in with the townsfolk’s idea of fun; it’s been some time since such a romantic thing happened in Rolbos (Fanny being heavily pregnant, and Precilla now completely involved with the school on the farm). Life in the little town has become ever so slightly boring and everybody welcomes the break in the routine.

Sammie is secretly taking bets. At this point in time, the odds are 3 to 1 that the conversation will last less than two minutes. Gertruida, who knows everything, refuses to place a bet. She says love shouldn’t  be a gambling matter. She maintains nobody can be forced into love, even if your bet can make it possible to buy a round for the house.

When the phone rings at half-past eight, a deathly silence reigns as Boggel picks up the instrument. Sammie clicks the button on the stopwatch, confident that he’s going to make a nice profit.

Hello, Boggel?

Er, yes. That you Mary?

Gertruida said I should phone.

You didn’t want to?

Not at first. Then she said you were lonely. It’s the least I can do.

That’s not true! She told me to take the call, because you are the one who’s lonely. She said it’s my Christian duty. She was very convincing.

Those were her words to me, exactly. Made me feel guilty for being stubborn, she did.

….

So, how are you, Mary?

I’m fine. You?

Fine.

….

What’s the weather like in Cape Town?

….Oh please…!

I’m just trying to think of something to say, Mary.

And the weather is the best you can come up with?

Well, we talk about the drought all the time, up here.

Good for you. If you have to know: we’ve had lots of rain down here.

So everything’s wet?

Don’t you get fresh with me, Boggel! Too many years have passed and I hate lecherous men!

….

Is it still raining, Mary?

No.

….

I don’t know what to say.

Then you have nothing to say to me?

Mary, this is difficult. Sammie is watching his stopwatch and the rest of Rolbos is hanging on to every word I say.

So you’re ashamed to talk to me?

No, not that. It’s just that…this is so forced. Can’t we meet somewhere? Private, I mean.

What do you want to tell me, then?

I..I don’t know, really. Maybe that I missed you a lot? That I’d like to spend time with you?

….

Okay.

Okay what, Mary?

We can meet. But let me tell you, Boggel, if you think you’re in this for a good time…

No, it’s not that.

Then what is it?

You remember what I said way back then? That you have this great woman hiding inside you? The one you’re scared of? Frightened that she might surprise you? Well, I think I want to see that woman again.

(For this bit, Boggel gets a muted but polite applause from the crowd.)

Who’s there with you, Boggel?

The whole damn town, Mary. I told you.

Really?

Yep.

…

I’ve got to go to Upington next week. Business. Maybe…?

That’ll be great.

Boggel…is that Italian hussy still around?

No. She went back to Italy. Haven’t heard anything from her since she’s left. Oh, and Kleinpiet and Precilla got married. And Vetfaan, well, he got hitched to an English woman…she’s pregnant. With twins, nogal.

Slowly, in bits and pieces and in small increments, the conversation starts flowing.  She tells him about the record company, and Boggel gives a summary of recent events in town. Sammie gives up after two minutes and starts paying out the bets. Vetfaan moves in behind the counter to take up serving duties, while Gertruida gets several high-fives from the rest.

So I’ll see you when you come to Upington, then?

Oh yes, Boggel, I look forward to that.

Great. Stay in touch.

I shall.

Goodbye then.

Goodbye.

“Twenty five minutes, Boggel! Well done.” Fanny waddles around the counter to hug the bent little barman. “We’re proud of you.”

 ***

The week drags by on sluggish feet. Boggel watches the seconds tick by in painfully slow monotone while he serves his customers with less than his usual enthusiasm.

“He’s depressed,” Precilla whispers, “too much hay on his fork, I think.”

“Then he has a small-forking problem,” Vetfaan sniggers.

Still, they go out of their way to make the week easier for Boggel. Sammie found a new shirt and jeans to fit Boggel, and the whole town – even Mevrou – cleaned up Boggel’s Place to look brand new.

“What happens if she doesn’t like me any more?” Boggel asks during a lull in the clean-up phase.

“Boggel…may I remind you that she agreed to meet you here, in your place, where you feel safe. Your original plan was to meet her in Upington, remember? That should tell you something.” Gertruida pats the hump of his back. “Stop worrying, Boggel. If everything goes pear-shaped, at least you’ve got your bar spring-cleaned for a change.”

***

Mary takes the turn-off at Grootdrink to get on the road to Rolbos. She, too, is worried and anxious. Is she not being a fool…again?

Despite that, she has to smile as she remembers a few lines of Keats; Boggel used to recite them with a suggestive twinkle in his eyes. They were still in the orphanage at the time, and used to sit on the steps by the back door at the end of the day, watching the sun disappear below the horizon. Once,  innocently, awkwardly, he  took her hand – with the uncertainty of all young men, through all the ages.

”There’s a blush for won’t, and a blush for shan’t, 
And a blush for having done it: 
There’s a blush for thought and a blush for naught, 
And a blush for just begun it.”

A blush for just begun it…

It began on the steps by the back door of an orphanage.  Will it end in Rolbos? Will the blush be love…or embarrassed anger?

***

Kleinpiet spots the line of dust on the road from Grootdrink.

“She’s coming! She’s on her way!” Precilla smiles at the excited tone of his voice. They all love Boggel so much… “Places, everyone! The action is about to start!”

They worked out the strategy to the finest detail. Sammie will be in his shop, of course. The ladies of the town will amble around in Voortrekker Weg with umbrellas – just like a scene from Mary Poppins. Vetfaan and Kleinpiet has to look busy under the bonnet of Vetfaan’s pickup; while Servaas and Oudoom will be on the bench in front of the church, discussing Exodus..or Leviticus..or something. They want to make everything look so normal, so relaxed. Mary Mitchell must drive into a normal little town with normal people doing normal things.

This way, Gertruida says, they’ll give Boggel a normal chance…

But we all know, don’t we? There is no ‘normal’ in love; never was, never will be. Boggel, with his physical problems and a troubled past; Mary with so many heartaches locked up in her history… Both of them afraid, scared, hesitant, unsure. Normal? Not really… But then again – who is?

Maybe Gertruida – for once – overplayed her hand. Maybe she overlooked a simple, single fact: the joy of yesterday can’t always last into tomorrow. There is no bridge between the past and the future, strong enough to to ferry all our hopes and dreams to the ideal haven we yearn so for.

And maybe she’s expecting everything to work out just fine, because it’ll help her deal with her own loneliness?

When Mary Mitchell alights from her vehicle in front of Boggel’s Place, several hearts in Rolbos beat a little faster. Boggel pulls nervously at his shirt as he walks to the door.

And Mary Mitchell; she of the broken dreams; takes a deep breath. The next few minutes will determine her future.

Gertruida lets Mary ramble on a bit. She understands Mary’s need to voice her frustrations, knowing that pent-up words only do harm in the end. Silence is never the final grave for anger. Only when those feelings are put to words and let free, will healing start.

“I know how you feel, Mary,” she says when the torrent of words dries up, “I loved a man once, too. He left me to protect me, and died when eventually he tried to find me again.” She allows the words to sink in before continuing. “Mary, life is too short to waste the few opportunities that come your way. Don’t waste this one.

“I made some enquiries about you. You’re a very successful businesswoman these days. You’ve achieved such a lot – and still you’re single. Living in Clifton might sound like the ideal life to many, but that doesn’t mean you’re happy. Who rubs your back when you’re sad, Mary? Who smiles at you in the mornings? Do you like making one cup of coffee at a time, and then listen to the silence as it fills the room around you? When you dress in the mornings, do you do it simply to put on some clothes?

“No, Mary, that’s no life. That’s simply existing to survive. You need more than that to be happy.”

Gertruida hears the breathing in the mouthpiece as Mary tries to come up with a suitable answer.

“That might be true, Gertruida. I’ll admit that. But I’m not going to drive all the way to Rolbos with my hat in my hand to tell Boggel I want to brew coffee for two in the mornings. No way. If he wants to see me…well, you’ve got my address.

“Now, please, Gertruida, let this be. I’ve been hurt enough times already.”

With that – and a soft click – the conversation ends.

“What did she say?” Boggel leans over the counter eagerly. “Is she coming?”

“She’ll will, eventually, Boggel. But not now. She’s a very busy woman, you know? Lots of appointments and deadlines. The recording industry is  a hectic one, Boggel. So give her time, she’ll come back to us, you’ll see.” Gertruida, who knows everything, believes every word.

***

Gertruida will tell you (should you ask) that the English word ‘yearn’ has a long history. Like so many words in the language, it is an adaptation of earlier forms of expression. In Middle English the word used to be yernen, from Old English giernan. Maybe the old Greeks gave their word even more meaning: chairein means to rejoice.

Today people use ‘yearn’ to express longing; without thinkng about the ‘rejoice’ bit. Yet, when the feeling is dissected, it is clear that ‘yearning’ involves both longing and rejoicing. It is, according to Gertruida, impossible to long (or yearn, to be more specific) for something that doesn’t warrent rejoicing. She says yearning is a celebration of the good and wonderful things in the past.

It is widely accepted that Gertruida is never wrong. She knows too much to make a mistake,

So, when Mary puts down the telephone, she’s in deep thought when she walks to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. One cup, not two. When she sits down on the couch, it strikes her for the first time it really is meant for two.

Damn that Gertruida woman! Why did she have to phone and make her think about Boggel again? For many years she’s been able to keep his memory hidden under layers of work and other responsibilities. Oh, he popped up in her mind once in a while, but she managed those thoughts by simply getting busier and busier.

But now…now that Gertruida yanked open the door to the memories that now refuse to be ignored any longer.

I’m still young enough... why, Gertruida, why? She gets up, undresses and stands in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom. It’s been ages since she last had a good look at herself. She stares – almost in awe – at the reflection.

Yes, she is still in good shape. Her twice a week visit to the gym sees to that. In fact, she must admit, she carries no excess fat (well, maybe a little around the hips) and her legs are as long and shapely as ever. Cooper’s droop? No, not really. Maybe the tiniest sagging, but still – when she turns to take a side view, her profile remains proud and even a bit inviting (even if she has to say it herself). Flat tummy. Firm bum…

Surely she can’t be that unacceptable? Why then, is she still making only one cup of coffee every time she puts the kettle on?

There have been men. Quite a number of them had been interested, in fact. She accepted the occasional invitation to dinner, only to be disappointed every time. Men, she found out, weren’t interested in friendship. Mostly, they seemed to expect to be rewarded for a scrumptious meal and an expensive bottle of wine with… She shakes her head. No! Not after the abuse by her father in her youth!

It’s the eyes, she tells herself as her gaze travels up to her face. People spend thousands of Rands on clothes and cosmetics to look attractive – but the secret is in the eyes…always. Her would-be suitors would start off the evening with smiling eyes – and as the evening progressed, something cold and unforgiving always crept into their gaze; if she didn’t want to play the game, they’re wasting their time.

And now, as she stares at her own eyes, she realises they have lost the warmth of youth. The eyes in the mirror are cold, old, tired…even sad.

This, she realises, is why she prefers making one cup of coffee at a time. It is so much less complicated. The words ‘pain free’ seem to fit into that scenario,

Damn that Gertruida!

Boggel…the bent boy with the soft eyes and the sad smile. He, at least, never had that man-look when he stared at her. He always told her he could see inside her; that he could see the hurt and pain. That, and that he could see the vast potential she refused to acknowledge. Boggel, she realises, didn’t care what she looked like on the outside; he was fascinated with the person she kept hidden inside.

She never fully understood what he meant by that. Or maybe she didn’t want to…

The reflection in the mirror pulls a face.

You’ve been a fool Mary Mitchell, the reflection tells her. Didn’t Gertruida say that the Italian and Boggel never hit it off – and that she’s gone back to Italy? And that Boggel is yearning…?

She sighs, puts on a gown, and goes back to the kitchen. One cup of coffee, that’s what she’ll make. One cup. She’ll drink it slowly.

And then she’ll phone that damned woman, Gertruida. Give her a piece of her mind, she will!   After that, they can talk about Boggel. Yes, that’s how she’ll do it. She needs to put her anger aside – maybe it’s time to be a little bit adventurous…

And yes, maybe she should stop blaming the past for everything. Did the past not bring her here, to the present? She, now successful in her own right…didn’t all the bad things contribute to the good life she is enjoying?

She stops in mid stride. Boggel always said there are no bad things. He said suffering is the cement that holds us together – keeps us focussed – in the good times. He said you can never be happy if you didn’t know how to be sad…

One cup of coffee.

Then she’ll phone.