Chapter 1 (Preview. Pictures not included.)
The Hottentots-Holland Mountain range was enveloped in fog, which reached nearly halfway down the slopes. The fog’s tendrils spread out with chilly wet fingers, and with no wind blowing in from the sea, the Cape Flats would soon be covered in this pea-soup of moisture.
Summer — the dry season — is supposed to be here, yet those who know the Cape know that rain can fall at any time, on any day, depending on what happens in the South Atlantic. Four seasons in one day. Therefore, the saying: “The Cape is like a baby, if it’s not wet, it’s got winds!”
Cotton clouds floated lazily above on the little air currents that existed. Table Mountain, Constantia Mountain, and the Steenberg range towards Muizenberg were all obscured by fog to the west and north-west.
The stillness of the air predicted a foggy day until the Southeaster begins to blow at 11:00 a.m., pushing the fog away and allowing the sun to shine through. I believe it will be open behind the Hottentots-Holland Mountain. There will be no fog or cloud cover. The Overberg will be in full bloom, stunning the eyes with bright yellow canola blooms on the countless fields that border the Caledon region’s undulating hills.
As I cruised along the N2 highway, the gleaming multicoloured tin huts of “Blikies Dorp” (Tin-hut Town) receded in my rearview mirror. I considered the tragedy that would ensue if a Boeing 747-800 missed the runway at Cape Town International and collided with the hundreds of shacks built up to the N2 highway, not barely 650 metres away from the enormous white number 01 emblazoned on the runway.
Those shacks were built right beneath the runway approach lighting system, and I’m guessing the “poor formerly disadvantaged” sods are siphoning electricity from the lights’ power source; stealing from the taxpaying public.
They must have an abundant to limitless source of electricity. Every shanty has a DStv dish installed on the roof. A tangle of power lines connects each of the shacks. Decoders are required to decode the DStv stream.
They also require power to see the decoded signal on a television. And what better location to get it? The lighting system for the runway approach lights. Yeah. You don’t have to be Einstein to figure out the solution.
But that didn’t matter just now. My first goal, with the cities of Somerset West, Strand, and Macassar ahead of me, was to get beyond the 1486-foot crest of Sir Lowry’s Pass.
I was on my way to the country for some well-deserved rest. I’m thinking about going horseback riding and doing long excursions in the mountains and forests, and there’s no better spot to do it than in and around Greyton.
Greyton is a small village set in a valley about 145 kilometres from Cape Town’s city centre, with a population of 2780 people. Seventy-four percent are Afrikaans speakers, while twenty-two percent are English speakers.
Greyton, rich in history and with many of the old buildings still standing, became the R406 road’s final stop.
The R406 exits the N2 motorway immediately after the “Boontjieskraal” farm and before the right-hand curve up the hill into Caledon. The R406 road reaches Greyton and becomes the main road of the town. After thirty-two kilometres from the N2 turn-off and three kilometres of Greyton Main Road, it comes to an abrupt halt at the stream that joins the Gobosriver, under the Noupoort bastion at the foot of the Riviersonderend Mountain range.
At the end of the path, however, you don’t have to return following your tracks, as you can follow foot trails along the river right into Greyton. But this is where the tar road ends. Full stop.
Greyton is a contemporary community with telephones, cell phones, Wi-Fi, power, and a variety of other amenities. The old and the new cohabit peacefully. The ancient refurbished buildings that date back to the 1800s stand proudly next to the newly build homes, done in the same old Cape Dutch style. The ancient rural town vibe remains, preserved in a time capsule of a bygone period, calming the spirit.
Horses still walk down the streets on their own, and the old “leivoor” (Water trench irrigation system) still criss-crosses the town along its roads. The “leivoor” system can be found on all the main roads and side roads of the village. These were originally just earth ditches that in the 1800s brought irrigation water to people’s gardens and small holdings.
The water came from a big hand-dug reservoir at the top of the village. Who got what water when, was controlled by small sluice gates in the “sloots,” or “leivore.” These were at various times both a source of co-operation, and of conflict! They’re still in use today, except in times of drought.
Don’t try to Google the word “leivoor,” as Google translates it incorrectly to “Culvert.” In South Africa there’s no English word for a “leivoor.” It is referred to in both languages as; “leivoor.”
The music from my SUV’s six speakers comforted me while I drove for approximately an hour and a half. At the moment, “Take Me Home, Country Roads” by John Denver is playing, but there’s also Meat Loaf, Def Leppard, and Kiss in the mix. Yes, I like all of them; Bach all the way to Kiss, Pink Floyd to Beethoven.
They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder ... Music, on the other hand, calms the spirit. Sometimes the quiet sound of a lonely acoustic guitar, softly sounding in late evening with the sun touching the blue mountains in the distance. The shredding of an electric guitar as drum rolls echo like cannon shots across battlefields at times. It all depends on your mood ... and the flavour of the red wine in your glass.
I guessed it, and as I crested the summit of Sir Lowry’s Pass, the fog cleared, revealing the village of Grabouw in brilliant sunlight.
A few kilometres on, as I descended down the Houwhoek Pass, the flora transformed from the lofty pine tree forest of “Krom River” and Grabouw, to undulating fields covered with grain crops, a few spare willow trees along the few rivers, and millions of sheep grazing along the hillsides. This was sheep and grain growing land. Some of the fields would be lush green in early spring, with a covering of bright yellow canola blossoms stretching as far as the eye could see.
The “Food Basket of the Cape,” deep in the Western Cape’s Overberg region, and part of the “Teewaterskloof” Municipality, Caledon, appeared shortly after the farm “Boontjieskraal,” but I had no intention of visiting Caledon. No, the exit for Greyton was on the left.
I took the exit and breathed a sigh of relief. My destination, “The Posthouse Hotel” on Greyton Main Street, was just 32 kilometres away. I used to know it as an old, dilapidated and uninhabited thatched-roof structure. The historic “De Post Huizen,” or Post Office, has since been refurbished and converted into a cosy hotel that can sleep 35 people when fully booked. Now, I suppose I was to be the lone visitor during this slow season.
But first, let’s become acquainted. My name is Arno Bernardt De Lange. My pals call me “Dusty” or “AB.” I’m thirty-five years old and have never married. One or three girlfriends came and went. Nothing substantial happened, and they drifted away to brighter pastures with white picket fences and a slew of children.
I stand six feet six inches tall in my socks, or 1,98 metres tall for those of you who use the metric system, and I dip my head to enter older doorways. My shoulder-length light brown hair was now tied in a loose ponytail with a leather cord.
There isn’t a gram of fat on my body, but I tip the scale at a hundred and ten kilograms; lanky, you would say. I sport light brown, almost amber, eyes, one on each side of my nose. My brown coloured moustache was not up to the standard of “handlebar,” but was trimmed to my liking, and to fit the tools of my trade.
As I approached Greyton, the song “I Was Made for Lovin’ You” by Kiss blared from the speakers. I turned down the volume on Kiss so as not to annoy the residents of this tranquil village.
Adhering to the enormous white circular board with red edge portraying a big black “40,” I slowed down to a reasonable thirty-five kilometres an hour, keeping an eye out for pedestrians, bicycles, and a variety of other cars on the streets “The Posthouse” was on the left, near the town centre.
Some onlookers noticed a blue BMW X6 SUV with Cape Town registration plates. Some waved cordially, while others just stood there, unsure whether this was a new “incomer” or a tourist. “Out-of-towners” who came to live in town were referred to as “incomers” Or in the Afrikaans language as; “Inkommers.” Some of them would be welcomed into the community after some time, most other will never be part of the community, even after forty of fifty years.
This town has only five stop signs, all of which are located around the five junctions that spider-web off the main road at one point. There are no traffic lights, and there’s no KFC. That indicates that this is a village. It is not a town or a city.
To qualify as a city, you must have at least two sets of traffic lights as well as a KFC. (McD’s is optional and does not count!)
I walked out into the hotel’s garden after settling into my room. The proprietor prepared me an early lunch.
As in many tiny villages around South Africa, the owner, Amanda Smith joined me for lunch. Maybe because I was the only client, or maybe out of curiosity for my being here alone.
“So, you here for the scenery and the mountain trails?” The forty-four-year-old redhead asked, forking some fried potatoes into her mouth. She had a fair complexion with dark-brown eyes that told me that her hair could be dyed that shade of red.
“You can say so. This is in fact a trip down memory lane for me. My grandfather, on mother’s side, used to stay around here,” I answered her curiosity.
“Oh, I might have known him...”
“It could be, but he died around August 1972.”
“No, then I won’t. We only came here in 2001, some twenty-nine years later,” She chuckled.
“Are you from Cape Town?” I asked.
“No, the UK, in fact. I came out here with my hubby and started this place.”
I did not want to let on, but I caught the slight accent. “Scottish, by any chance?”
“Aberdeen. We came here for the fine weather, but it was to no avail. Bruce now resides on the hill up the road here on the side. His lungs were too far gone...”
“I’m sorry...”
“Don’t be. It is okay. We expected it and he made his peace. He went quietly in his sleep; left me many fond memories, and this hotel.”
“I used to know this place as an old ruin. I must say you fixed it up well.”
“Thank you. So, what kind of work do you do, Mister Dee Lang?”
“I’m a bus driver.”
“You do drive a spiffy car for a bus driver...”
“Oh, I drive big busses. Those that have wings and tail feathers and can go to the UK on one tank of fuel.”
“You’re funny! Do all pilots have such a sense of humour?”
“I can’t vouch for the rest of the clan, but some of us can be entertaining.”
“Where about did your grandfather live?”
“He farmed a patch of land out on the Riviersonderend road. I came to know him after he gave up farming and moved into town. He had a patch of about eight acres just as you come into town, but that was bought out by the government of the time due to the Group Areas Act; making provision for the non-white township. Later, he moved to a place near the botanical gardens.”
“So, he’s been a Greytonian for his whole life. One of the original settlers?”
“Sort of,” I replied, finishing my lunch. “He was born here in the district in 1895. A little younger than this fine hotel of yours that was build in 1860.”
“You know your history, Mister Dee Lang. Say, how far out on the road did he farm?”
“In the old language, about seven miles out. Near Morningside Meadows. After he gave up farming he sold his land to the owners of Morningside Meadows.”
“Now that is interesting!”
“Why? Do you know Morningside Meadows?”
“I know of it. I’ve never been out there. There’s a sad story about the farm. The Louws, died two or three months ago in a car crash, leaving their only child, a girl of twenty or twenty-one. No other living relatives, only the daughter.”
“That’s bad!”
“Yeah, and the child has nowhere to go. The bank foreclosed on the farm, and it is up on auction in a week from now.”
“Damn! Sorry, I did not mean to curse,” I apologised. “Where is the girl now?”
“Apparently at varsity in Stellenbosch up to the end of this year. Then I don’t know what will happen. Seems like her funds for further study would not be available, but that is the gossip around these parts,” She chuckled, and I instantly knew that she was part of the news-flash broadcast centre here around town. The “have-you-heard-clan.”
“I think I will take a drive out there tomorrow. Maybe I could get to see my grandfather’s old homestead, before that becomes unavailable to visit...”
“Well, do so, Mister Dee Lang. Take some pictures. One must hold on to one’s memories...”
“Yes, you are right, Missus Smith. You are so right,” I sighed. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I will take a stroll up the main street,” I said getting up.
“Please do so, Mister Dee Lang. You might see some of the old, and much of the new.”
“I did notice it coming into town. Then I might see you later, Missus Smith.”
“Oh, you can call me Mandy, everyone does. On the keys I gave you, there’s a key to the car gate, and the side entrance to your room.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it. And by the way, you can call me Dusty. It’s my nickname.”
“Thanks, Dusty. The keys are part of the service. Sometime guests stay out till the crack of dawn, and I prefer my beauty sleep rather than getting up to open gates and doors all the time.”
“I will remember not to make a noise when I come in late. Not that I anticipate that I will be coming in late anyway.” Chuckle.
“Enjoy your stay, Dusty,” Mandy said and beckoned a waiter to come and clear the table.
I explored around the side streets of Greyton. There was once a café on Oak Street: “The Run-In Café,” as I recall. But now it seems to be converted into a modern two-story house. Much has changed since I’ve been here the last time.
The old post office on Botha Street was still there, but serving another function now. It was now the offices of the Teewaterskloof municipality. Next to it was a new open-air restaurant, serving the most delicious cakes and real coffee. I stopped there for a while.
The place was crowded, as can be expected from such a fine place. Nevertheless, I found a spot under the big oak tree next to a battered old ox-wagon. Someone did try to patch it up, but it will be more of a decoration now, and will never roll on the streets again.
The service was great and soon I had a chunk of cheesecake and good tasting pure freshly brewed Arabic coffee. I say a chunk of cheesecake, because I found that in this old rural village everything is done to satisfy the customer. If this was a slice of the cheesecake, I did not want to see the cake it came from. It must have had the circumference of an extra-large pizza!
A blond girl of about nineteen, looking lost and with a plate of something and a mug of coffee, stood looking over the crowd, apparently looking for a place to sit. As there was a space open by my table, I motioned her over.
“You can share my table, I don’t mind,” I invited as she came over.
“Thank you, Sir. I just got into town, and I’m famished,” she said and placed her plate and mug on the table. Then she swept her long blond hair over her shoulders with both hands, sat down, then reached for the ketchup bottle on the table.
I looked at the girl: not too shabby, slender with blue eyes and a 1000-watt smile. There was a slight indication of breasts under the t-shirt she had on, but nothing that would grace the pages of any male magazine.
“Well, I got here just this morning too,” I said, looking down at my cheesecake.
“From where are you?” She asked and got stuck into her plate of “garage pie and gravy.” Obviously, drenched with ketchup. She looked like a student, so money was tight, therefore I suppose she got the “garage pie and gravy” but drenching it with ketchup. Boy!
“Cape Town,” I replied and started to demolish the cheesecake.
“Oh! I’m from Stellenbosch. Andrea is my name. Andrea Louw,” She said, and I vaguely thought the surname sounded familiar.
“Dusty,” I replied.
“Yes, I’m dusty from the long trek from Stellenbosch, and desperately need a shower!” She smiled and forked a piece of pie into her mouth. No make-up, just a natural-looking, pretty young teen girl.
“No, I meant my name. I’m called, Dusty...”
“Oh, sorry! I...” She stumbled, a piece of pie in her mouth, her hand in front of her mouth.
“It’s quite alright,” I chuckled.
“No, I’m rude. My mom would have had my hide for being rude,” She professed, and a cloud passed in front of those sparkling ice-blue eyes.
“Well, your mom’s not here and I forgive you.”
“Yes ... My mom’s not here ... and will never be again...” She mumbled softly, moistness forming in her eyes. Then she straightened up, wiped her eyes with a paper napkin, and looked at me.
It suddenly dawned on me who this girl was. Morningside Meadows’ owner and the daughter of the late Louw couple. Damn! I couldn’t think of anything to say. What do you say to a young girl who has recently lost both of her parents and is about to lose her inheritance?
She had finished her pie and was looking at my cheesecake.
“You want some cheesecake?” I asked.
“Yeah ... No ... I’ll pass...”
“Come on, let me get you a slice.”
“I ... can’t...”
“Why? Are you diabetic?”
“NO!” She exclaimed and then softer, “I would be rude...”
I called the waitress. She arrived fast and looked at me: “Yes, Sir? Can I get you something else?”
“Yeah. How about a slice of that magnificent cheesecake for the lady, and a refill of both our coffee mugs, please?”
“Coming right up!” And she collected our mugs and Andrea’s empty plate, then went off. This always fascinated me. Here in South Africa, when you order a refill, they will serve it in a clean cup or mug.
“I ... I ... can’t pay for it. I still need to get a room for the night.”
“Who said you must pay for it? You’re my guest, so enjoy it. And if you want a room, the Posthouse is empty. I stay there and am the only guest.”
“The Posthouse is expensive!” she blurted.
“Andrea, can I ask you a personal question?”
“Yeah...”
“Are you the Andrea Louw from Morningside Meadows?” I asked.
She looked at me for a long time before she answered. “Yes, I am Andrea Louw from Morningside Meadows ... The bankrupt Louws of Morningside Meadows...”
“What happened, Andrea?”
“I don’t ... want to talk about it...”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay. If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s okay. Anyway, it is rude of me to pry.”
“I don’t know you. You could be one of the vultures ready to pounce and rip apart the already broken up carcass...”
“I’m not a vulture. And my only interest in Morningside Meadows is to visit an old ruin of a homestead, about two kilometres up the side road towards the north. The old Nooitgedagte farm.”
“That farm was purchased by my late grandfather, many years ago.”
“About fifty years ago. I was not even born, when my grandfather sold the farm to move to town,” I softly said.”
“Why the interest in it?” Andrea asked, now recovered from her previous sadness.
“My aunt took me there one time. Well, she asked me to take her there, to see the place where she and my mom grew up ... before my aunt died.”
“Sorry...”
“Don’t be sorry. It is life. I just wanted to see the place while I was in town.”
“Dusty...? It seems like fate has brought us together. Let me go find a place to stay and then meet you later ... then ... we can talk.”
“It sure seems a fine idea to me. How long are you planning to stay?”
“Until my money runs out. That might be tomorrow at midnight!” She laughed, and I sort of liked the girls’ attitude.
“Why don’t you go stay at Morningside?”
“Because it is sealed off. No one can enter there...”
“That is funny. It’s still your home, and you can go there. I mean some of your things are still there.”
“Yeah ... Like my soft toys, my books, my CDs, my horses, my childhood memories...”
“And they just sealed it off. Who are they?”
“The auctioneers! Everything was written up to be sold.”
“Damn!”
“Don’t swear.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry ... be careful...” And she smiled at me.
“Andrea, let me fix you up with a room. It’s the least I can do.”
“I can’t pay you back.”
“I did not ask for paying anything back. You are what? A student? Let me get this for you.”
“Then what do you get out of this?”
“A chance to see my grandpappie’s old place...”
“I can’t.”
“Yes you can!”
“Jeez! I don’t even know you an hour and already we are fighting!”
“Then concede defeat, and let me help you get settled in.”
“We girls don’t concede defeat without a fight!”
“You just lost this battle,” I chuckled, “but maybe not the war...”
“Okay ... You win ... this round...” She sighed, “Lead the way...”
“Good! Now let me go pay our meal.”
“Here. Here is fifty bucks. My pie and coffee wasn’t that much.”
“My treat. Keep your money.”
“No, at least let me pay for my original meal,” She insisted.
“Okay,” I sighed. “I’ll give it to the waitress as a tip.”
“Damn! You give her fifty bucks for a tip!”
“Yeah, the poor thing must live too.”
“The poor thing! The poor thing! She’s the bloody owner of this place!”
“I did not know that. And anyway ... Stop swearing!”
Giggle.
We walked out, and she stopped by an eight-year-old 325i BMW. The car had seen better days and there were scratches and a dent or two on the body work.
“Where’s your car?” Andrea asked.
“At the hotel. I walked the streets to see the local colour.”
“Oh, then get in, we can drive there. It’s just up the road,” Andrea invited. “Unless you don’t trust my driving...”
“You drove from Stellenbosch to here...”
“But I knocked down three cows and ran over five chickens...” Giggle. A slight smile played on her lips, and a teasing light shone in her eyes.
“Well, lucky I have life insurance,” I shot back. “It’s not your driving I am worried about, but the reliability of the Beamer...”
“You can walk! It’s not far...”
“Okay ... see you at the hotel.”
“Get in, Doofus!” she dictated, and pressed a key-fob. With a “tweet-tweet,” the car unlocked. I shook my head and chuckled.
“At least the central locking works!” I commented.
Three minutes later we arrived at the hotel. Mandy had no problem, and the new guest was given a room after a swipe of my gold card.
Then Mandy walked up to the counter. “Did you enjoy your walkabout, Dusty?” she asked.
“Yeah, and look what I found. A customer for you!”
“I appreciate the business. But don’t think I’m going to pay you a finder’s fee!” she replied, smiling. Then she turned to Andrea: “Mind my nosiness. Are you the Miss Louw from Morningside?’
“Guilty as charged,” Andrea sighed.
“Well, darling, welcome to the Posthouse, and I hope you enjoy your stay with us,” and that was accompanied by a large smile.
“I am sure I will enjoy it...” Andrea answered, a little nervous and withdrawn. Mandy called a pageboy to help Andrea with taking her one suitcase to her room.
As they left, Mandy turned to me.
“Where did you get her, and why are you paying for her room for two whole weeks?”
“Let’s just say I ran into her at a restaurant and spoke about cows and calves. She is a little starved for cash now.”
“Shame. The poor child.”
“She’s got spirit. She’ll survive. We’ll just have to give her a chance.”
Mandy looked at me. “Let’s see how this pans out. Just remember; if you feed a stray, it moves in,” and she turned and walked off.
I sighed. What did I just do? Did she see Andrea as competition?
The afternoon dragged on, and it was just about four o’clock when I saw Andrea again. I was outside in the garden, sitting at the table where Mandy and I had consumed lunch, reading an article in a magazine I brought along. Something to do with vortex ring state on helicopters.
Andrea walked up to the table, still in her short cotton summer dress, displaying her slender legs. With a shake of her head she flipped her long blond hair over her shoulder, where it hung like a flaxen waterfall to her waist.
“Enjoying the sun?” She asked, and she drew out a chair and sat down across from me.
“Yeah. It is such a lovely day. When I left Cape Town this morning it was foggy and wet,” and I closed my magazine, dropped it on the table.
“Same when I left Stellenbosch, but after Sir Lowry’s Pass it was clear.”
“The Great Barrier Reef! This one is just a mountain, not under the sea, but acts to keep the wetness in Cape Town, and clear and dry skies this side.”
“But look around you. Ain’t the mountains here majestic?”
“Behind you is “Uitkyk,” (Look-out peak) with the ox-wagon and sixteen oxen on its crest.”
“Yeah, when I was a little girl I always wanted to go see the ox-wagon and the sixteen oxen, until I discovered it was just a rock formation!”
“And that burst your bubble?”
“Not really ... I still want to go up there...”, and a 1000-mile look played in her eyes.
“Well, sometime in the future if you’re still around, I’ll take you there.”
“And why would I not be around?”
“Ships in the night. People come and go. Life takes you on strange paths...”
“Yeah...” She sighed. “What are you reading?” And she picked up the magazine.
“Oh, just something interesting...”
“SAFlyer? You like aeroplanes?” She asked and started to page through the magazine, sitting back against the backrest of the chair and crossing those slender legs, one over the other at the ankles.
“Yeah, aircraft are fun.”
“You fly?”
“Sometimes...”
“Ag, don’t be a Doofus! Tell me...” The little inquisitive girl surfaced, with shining ice-blue eyes and pouting lips.
“Okay, I fly Boeing 787 aircraft for an international carrier, and keep a little bird in a cage out at Stellenbosch airfield.”
“Dusty! You’re a pilot!”
“I’m just an ordinary man with an ordinary job, and I wash my car on Saturdays. On Sundays, I attend the services of the Heavenly King...”
She looked at me a long time, forgetting to page the magazine. Then she placed the magazine back on the table, looking down at her feet, complete as if she was thinking of something far away.
“It’s nearly five o’clock. Let’s go eat...” I said.
“I wonder what’s for supper?” she replied, looking up.
“Fish, I believe.”
“Yummy! As long as it ain’t catfish!” she replied, then got up. “I hate catfish.”
“Yeah, me too. If not prepared right, it tastes like mud. So, let’s endeavour to explore the hidden gems of the Posthouses’ cuisine...”
“Lets.” Giggle.
Oh, how I love the giggle of a young girl!
We proceeded to the hotel barroom after the supper. Even though it was the beginning of summer, the nights were still a little cool, especially as the sun set behind the mountains. Long shadows crept up, casting dark spots around the garden. Although the hotel had pin lighting spread around the pathways and flower beds, the night was fast approaching.
“What can I get you, Andrea?”
“Just a ‘Brutal Fruit, ’ watermelon flavour, please.” She responded. I ordered a scotch for me, and her “Brutal Fruit.”
Now please understand that the everyday slang for this lady’s drink is known as a “Slut-juice.” It’s just the way it evolved in social circles. It’s a frizzy drink with about 5% alcohol content, and comes in different flavours. Watermelon, passion fruit, and several other flavours.
“You’re sure you are old enough to drink?” I chuckled as I handed her, her Brutal Fruit.
“And how old do you think I am?” she challenged, looking at me through a lock of hair that fell over her face.
“About eighteen, or nineteen...” I lied, since Mandy had already told me her age.
“Try twenty, but thank you for the compliment.”
“Sorry! You looked younger.”
“Are you flirting with me?”
“Nooo...”
“Yes you are!”
“No I’m not.”
“How old, no let me rephrase, how young are you, Dusty?”
“I’m thirty-five,” I said, and took a swig of my scotch.
“That makes you fifteen years older than me..., Uncle Dusty!” And Andrea burst out laughing. Then she stopped laughing and placed a hand on my arm. “Sorry ... I did not mean it in that way...”
“No. You did not,” I agreed, maybe too quickly.
“I said I’m sorry. Are we good?”
“We’re good.”
“Thank you, Dusty,” and then she got that 1000-nautical-mile stare in her eyes again.
“You wanted to know what happened ... Well, let me tell you what happened. As I know it.” She said after a while.
“You don’t need to tell me,” I responded.
“Yes, maybe I do.” She said and looked straight at me. “There’s not much to tell. Daddy took a loan at the bank. He wanted to plant canola instead of wheat. The market for canola was much higher than wheat, and everyone around started to go into canola.”
“Go on...”
“Well, it turned out that the year was not that good. We made a loss on the harvest and had to pay back the loan.”
“How much was the loan for?”
“Four-hundred thousand Rand.”
“That’s not much. Was it at the Land Bank?”
“No. Daddy took it from an investor in Cape Town: Quad Five Investments. They came and told him to repay the loan within six months. He tried but the wheat harvest and grape harvest was also into a slump. The year was dry and not good for the farmers.”
“But surely the investor should have known this and took out insurance on the deal.”
“If they did, I don’t know. I just know that they put the squeeze on Daddy and he was desperate to pay them back and get them off his back.”
“Did he try to refinance it with another loan?”
“He was about to do it when ... when the ... accident happened...”
She broke down into tears, and her drink sat forgotten on the table. Little rivulets of condensation ran down the bottle and pooled on the table at the foot of the bottle.
“So, they then foreclosed on the loan and attached the farm?” I asked. I did not know how she would respond if I moved to comfort her. She seemed to be a independent sort of person, and might just take it wrong if I hugged her.
“Yes...”
“Bastards!”
“Dusty, I think there’s something else going on. I can’t place my finger on it, but something is not right...”
“We’ll get to the bottom of this, Andrea.”
“It’s too late. Next week Wednesday, they auction off my life...”
“It’s never too late! Let me just find out some stuff. Maybe, just maybe, there’s some light at the end of the tunnel.”
“You think? What can you do?”
“Don’t let me give you false hope, but give me a day or two.”
“Thanks, Dusty. I appreciate all help I can get.”
“Let me get you another drink. That one is warm, and the bubbles are out.”
“No, it’s okay. I think I’ll just go to my room. It’s been a long day.” she sighed.
“Will you be okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll be okay.”
“Then let me walk you to your room.”
“And just say good night ... at the door?”
“And just say good night, at the door...”
“Okay...” Giggle.
With the giggle I knew she would be okay. Until morning, she would be okay.
Back in my room I looked at my watch. It was 20:15. Early still, and I took out my cell phone. There was a call to be made. A friend who might have some answers, or at least could get me the answers I wanted. He had, “connections.”
I dialled a number. A few rings.
“I thought you were on vacation?”
“Yes, I am on vacation. But I need you to put down that Glenfiddich. You can leave the red head on your lap, but tell me what you know about a company called Quad Five Investments.” There was silence on the line for a while, except for a girlie giggle in the background, then a sigh and a low whistle.
“Quad Five Investments you say? How did you get mixed up with them?”
“Ashwin Andrew Windsor, can you enlighten me please...”
Chuckle. “Do you have time? This can take all night!”
Andrea was not present in the morning. Mandy said she got out early and went to Caledon. She said she’d be returning after lunch and asked that I to meet her at the café we’d been to the day before. So I went for another walk through the streets, finding some hidden gems in an antique store, a coffee grinder that was around 75 years old that cost 250 Rand, but it was well worth it.
It was nearly midday, and the hands of the clock on the massive church tower marked 11:40. I noticed an open field past the church and realised I had left the centre of town again.
Returning to the centre of the town, I noticed the brass polished placard outside the office of an attorney at law. “Miller and Miller, Inc.” These creatures may even be seen in rural settlements. I’m sure there’s much “attorneying” to be done around here, more civil transactions than representing clients in criminal proceedings. The community appeared to be free of criminal activities.
Everything appeared to be laid back and carefree. Free of criminal activities, I said. But what is that cool Afrikaans saying: “Still Water, Deep Ground, and underneath, around and around, the devil dances... ”
I strolled into the attorney’s office on the spur of the moment, more out of curiosity than anything else. I was met by a chubby middle-aged woman who looked like she brushed her hair that morning by sticking her fingers in the power outlet.
“Good morning, Sir. Can I help you?” She greeted, and I noticed that she also did her make-up by applying it with a cement trowel.
“Yes, my dear ... I was just wondering if you guys know anything about the auction next week of the farm known as Morningside Meadows?”
“Oh, yes! We do. We are the representatives of the investor.” She cooed. “Mister Miller senior is the conveyor.”
“I see ... And is there a possibility that I could speak to Mister Miller senior?”
“I am sorry Sir, he just left to Caledon ... I could make an appointment for tomorrow at ten, if that is in order...” She said and scratched around on her desk for a pen.
“Don’t bother. I just wanted to know the reserve price on the property. But I suppose I could find that out in due time.”
“You have to speak with mister Miller about that, Sir. I can have him call you, and maybe come to an agreement about an outright purchase before the auction ... You look like someone that could afford the place.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I was just curious. Besides, I think the property would be out of my reach anyway.”
“Well, Sir, I could have Mister Miller call you. I think the old place might not go for a song, as the bank would just like to break even on the outstanding debt, and a little interest on it, but some other costs need to be covered.”
Now this was interesting, as I knew the outstanding loan was not more than four hundred thousand plus some interest. But I said nothing. This painted statue in front of me implied that the reserve price would be much more. What is Quad Five Investments up to, and how is this small-town lawyer involved?
“As I said, even that would be out of my reach. So, let’s just leave it at that,” I said with my most sunny smile. “Have a nice day, Miss.”
“Missus. Missus Sally Miller,” She returned with a smile as well, and I was afraid that the plaster on her face would crack. “It’s not only the property, but the farm animals, the farming equipment, the furniture in the house, and some personal items as well. Everything must go!”
Suddenly I had a feeling that this woman was trying to bait me. If the Quad Five just wanted the outstanding funds and the interest, how big can the debt be?
Surely this farm is worth a couple of millions; worth more than just a loan to grow crops. What is Quad Five up to? Especially after my chat with Ash, I smelled a rat. A big fat rat!
“Thank you, Missus Sally Miller. Please don’t let me keep you. Good day,” I said and turned to leave.
“I did not catch your name, Sir?” The painted statue persisted.
“I did not say it. But don’t worry. I’ll be leaving now,” and with that I went out the door into the shade of the big colonial style patio of the Village Centre.
I recalled that the Village Centre was once the “Grand Greyton Hotel.” But that was years ago. Now only the bar survived, and the rest was made up of little offices and official looking establishments.
On my way to meet Andrea, I resumed my tour about town. I looked back at the spectacular Riviersonderend mountain to the north of the settlement, and noticed a black cloud gathering on the peak’s top. It will quickly spread and envelop the entire town. The rain might fall.
While I watched the cloud, I felt a rising uneasiness in the pit of my stomach. Don’t ask me to define it; it was just there. I could not place my finger on it, but it was there. A ghost in the shadows. “Still Water, Deep Ground, and underneath, the devil dances... ”
The words of Neil Diamond crept into my mind...
“Morningside, old man died...
And no one cried.
He surely died alone, when he died.
He left a table made of nails and pride.
And with his hands he carved these words inside,
For my children...”
Will Andrea get her table made of nails and pride...?
Then the church bell chimed 12:00; twelve loud brass sounds that echoed through the valley, fading off over the green hills and small holdings, like the disappearing dreams of yesterday...
END CHAPTER 0001
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