Then the women arrived and everyone talked at once, ushering them up on the stoep. Elsie hadn’t changed much, except that her lips seemed thinner, but Diena was a surprise, with her hair cut short to ear level, and several months pregnant. Drieka had thickened around the waist, and she had blue circles under her eyes. Vinkie, who had shot up like a sunflower, was smiling shyly at him. Her shyness lasted only a few seconds, then she rushed into his arms.
‘Roff!’
‘How are you, Tinktinkie?’
‘I’ve missed you, so much,’ she hugged him. ‘Oh, Roff,’ and she started to cry.
They held each other for a few moments, then he released her and introduced his wife to everyone.
The kitchen was as he’d left it: the heavy table, the benches, the cupboard against the wall holding dishes and condiments, plates of beskuit, the guns and powder horn on the wall in their usual place, the fire in the hearth burning winter and summer, glistening black and silver with kettles and pots, emitting wonderful aromas. But it wasn’t the smell of mutton roasting or bread baking outside that registered first, it was the stench of living flesh rotting. It brought him instantly to the putrid death smell at Oupa Herman’s funeral.
‘The kommando didn’t let us know they found you. We could have prepared,’ Drieka said.
‘They didn’t find me. The news got to me in the Cederberg through the doctor who came to deliver Beatrix.’
‘We’re glad you’re back,’ Pietie Retief said again. ‘It’s a sad thing to come home like this. Brace yourself, son, before you go in.’
Roeloff nodded. Now that he was in the kitchen with his wife and children, he didn’t know where he should put down his things. Diena noticed his discomfort.
‘You can have your old room, Roff. Lourens and I are happy to give it up now that you’re here.’
‘I don’t want to disrupt things. We can stay in the voorkamer.’
‘Your father’s in there. And don’t worry, Lourens and I want to get back, you can have your room. Come, Neeltje, you look tired. Let me show you where things are.’
Neeltje left with Diena and Vinkie, who seemed taken with Harman and the baby. Roeloff looked round at the others, then braced himself and went into the voorkamer.
There was an awkward silence when he left. Cups were stirred, benches shifted, but no one spoke. The prodigal son had returned. Along with his wagon and horses and wife and children, he’d come upon them like the wind, fast and unexpected, and no one wanted to be first to give his opinion.
‘His wife’s the image of Vinkie,’ Joubert said. ‘Have you noticed? He picked well. I haven’t heard of her family.’
‘Who do you think the boy looks like?’ Drieka asked. ‘His eyes. There’s something strange about them. Like I’ve seen them before.’
‘There’s nothing strange,’ Retief said. ‘He looks like Roeloff.’
‘Well, Neeltje’s not his mother, that I’ll say.’
Everyone looked at Drieka. That was dangerous talk.
Elsie waved her Bible in front of her face.
‘Don’t go stirring things up, Drieka. Oom Retief’s right. He looks like his father. Leave it there.’
The others looked at Elsie and nodded wisely.
‘He says he’s not sure if he’s coming back,’ Jan Joubert said.
Drieka stirred her coffee. ‘He’ll stay. He won’t let go of this land.’
Pietie Retief coughed politely. ‘It’s his, isn’t it?—shouldn’t he hold on to it?’
Joubert and Drieka looked at each other. There were too many ears around. He would speak to Oom Retief alone later. He didn’t want any wrong impressions to be formed, knowing the old man’s habit of repeating things.
In the voorkamer Roeloff stood anxiously at the door. The curtain was drawn to give coolness, and the foul air was marked with the sickly sweet smell of white flowers. The bed had been placed near the window, and he drew in his breath when he saw the wasted figure of his father. The strong face was hollowed and grey, the thick hair the only indication that Willem Kloot wasn’t very old.
He studied the face in repose, gaunt with approaching death. He’d seen it before, the sharpening of the features when a man lay inches from his fate. No prayer could bring his father back from that. He was on the lip of whatever it was that waited for him on the other side.
His father opened his eyes. There was a long silence, then recognition.
‘Roeloff …’
Roeloff fought to control his emotions. ‘I’m here, Pa.’ He lifted the skeletal hand in his. It was cold to the touch.
‘You … came …’ the words struggled out.
‘Don’t talk, Pa. You’re straining yourself.’
Willem’s face was pinched, his eyes dark sockets in his head.
‘I’m sorry …’
‘Don’t be sorry. It’s I who am sorry. I’m sorry for all the things I did that upset you.’
Willem’s eyes filled with tears.
‘I was … wrong.’
Roeloff cried freely. He felt the pressure of the hand as his father tried to communicate with the last of his strength.
