‘Are you doing all right?’ he asked.
‘I went to see someone today . . . She put me on diet.’
‘Ag, no, you need a counsellor, not a diet-lady. There are counsellors who come here to the police station. They help crime victims.’
‘I’m not a victim,’ I said. ‘And she is a counsellor. She thinks I use food to escape my feelings. And that I’m fat.’
‘Rubbish, you’re lovely.’
‘She says I should exercise too. You don’t think I need to go on diet?’
‘You’re the best cook, and your body is just right. Sorry, I must go now. I’ll come see you tonight?’
‘I don’t know what I’ll cook, with this diet and all—’
‘Forget the diet,’ he said. ‘See you later, bokkie.’
Bokkie. He called me bokkie. A little buck. My body was just right, he said. It was worth going through some trouble to get close to a man like that. I could at least try following the poppie’s advice . . . Maybe going for a walk would take my mind off food.
I put on my veldskoene – my comfortable leather veld shoes – and headed out of my garden gate. It opened into the veld, and I walked on a narrow animal-path between the small bushes and succulents. The sun was hot, and I wished I’d brought a hat. I followed the path towards my old friend, the gwarrie tree. I sat down in its shade, a little out of breath, on a low branch.
‘Hello, Gwarrie,’ I said. It was a very old tree, maybe even a thousand years old, with thick rough bark and dark wrinkled leaves.
I thought of what Slimkat had said: ‘The land doesn’t belong to us; we belong to the land.’
I could see by the little piles of shining bokdrolletjies on the ground that the tree was used to visitors. The little buck poos looked a lot like chocolate peanuts. I wondered if that is how the sport of bokdrolletjie-spitting began.
A flock of mousebirds landed in the upper branches. They had scruffy hairstyles and long tails. When they saw me, they chirruped and flew away. My worries seemed to fly away too.
A breeze picked up and brought with it a sweet, unusual smell. I looked around for what it might be and saw a patch of grey-green bushes with flowers of little yellow balls. I walked to them and bent down to sniff. The smell filled my nostrils and tickled the back of my throat on its way down to my lungs. It was something like lemons but was also sweet like honey. My thoughts scratched in the back of my mind trying to find just what it smelt like. Maybe it was a smell-memory, passed down from the faraway days when we all used to hunt and gather like Bushmen. I stopped trying to name it and started on the path back home.
The vygie bushes were filled with dried seed pods, but now and again there were small flowers on the ground that had jumped up after the little bit of rain: a pale purple orchid, a tiny bunch of Karoo violets.
Then, maybe because I had stopped trying, I remembered what that smell reminded me of. It was Japie se Gunsteling – that famous orange and lemon pudding – Japie’s Favourite – from my mother’s cookbook, Kook en Geniet. Cook and Enjoy. I would make some for Henk tonight. The walk home was much quicker, and I picked a lemon from the tree as I passed through my garden, into the house.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When I’d finished cooking, I showered and put on my nice underwear. I dabbed a little perfume behind my ears and between my breasts.
The phone rang, and I went to answer it, wearing only my panties and bra. It was Henk. I blushed, even though I knew he couldn’t see me.
‘I’ve made a pudding for you,’ I said. ‘I’ve changed Japie se Gunsteling to Henk’s Favourite. I didn’t have enough orange juice, so I used my homemade Van der Hum instead.’ Henk just loved my naartjie liqueur.
‘I’m sorry, Maria. I can’t make it tonight.’
I sat down on the chair beside the phone table.
‘I have to leave town for a few days,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Has something happened?’
He was quiet a moment, and then he said, ‘We agreed you wouldn’t get involved with my work. You know how I feel about dragging you into anything dangerous . . .’
We’d had this discussion a few times before. After the death of his first wife, he couldn’t face the idea of losing me. He’d been very upset when I was nearly killed by that murderer.
I asked, ‘Has someone been killed?’
He didn’t reply. It was getting dark now, and the first toads started calling in their deep cracked voices.
‘Did it happen in Oudtshoorn?’ I asked. I could smell the orange pudding caramelising.
‘Maria, this is what I wanted to avoid. I’m sorry, I must go now.’
In my underwear and oven gloves, I took out the hot pudding. It was perfect, all golden-brown on top.
‘I am so sorry,’ I said to Henk’s Favourite.
I phoned Jessie and told her about my call from Henk. ‘I’m worried about Slimkat,’ I said.
‘I’ve been a bit worried too,’ she said. ‘I called him just now but got no reply.’
‘Has Reghardt said anything to you?’ I asked. Reghardt worked with Henk and was Jessie’s boyfriend.
‘Just that he’s busy tonight,’ she said. ‘I’m going to Oudtshoorn first thing tomorrow. For the festival. I’ll find out what’s happening and let you know.’
I ate my diet dinner and listened to a frog calling for its mate.
The pudding cooled, and I put it in the freezer.
The frogs and crickets sang me to sleep. But then my nightmares woke me. I heard myself shouting, ‘No! No!’
It’s lucky my neighbours are far away, or they might have come running to see if someone was being killed.
When the sweating stopped, I was left with the shame shaking through my body. My body remembered things that my mind tried to forget. I went to the bathroom and wiped my face with a wet cloth. And then I went to the kitchen, because the kitchen was my best friend.
Although my hands were still shaking, they got the pudding from the freezer into the oven. My fingers and head felt far from each other, but I managed not to break anything. As I waited for the pudding to get hot, I watched Venus rising. The planet seemed so very far away.
When Henk’s Favourite was ready, I sat on the stoep and ate that warm orange pudding until my mouth and hands and belly came closer together; even Venus felt closer. Finally I was whole again, and the shaking stopped.
CHAPTER NINE
I drove in early to the Gazette that morning. The Karoo hills looked soft and quiet in the dawn light, as if they were still sleeping. The sunrise painted the sky a baby pink and blue. As I drove, it looked like the hills were rolling over in their veld beds. They had a better night’s rest than me, I’m sure.
The troubles from my past sat heavy on me, and on top of them were fresh worries about Slimkat. I wished I could chuck my problems out the car window. I felt the cool morning breeze on my face. I sighed. And the wind blew the sigh back into my mouth.
I let myself into the office and looked at the tin of buttermilk rusks that lived on my desk. Was there any point in having coffee without beskuit? Although the orange pudding had interfered a bit, I was still trying with that diet. For breakfast, I’d eaten a fruit salad.
Hattie had printed