He walks to the farm gate where his mother presses the hooter. He climbs in next to Raatjie on the back seat. Danie sits in front.
The windows of the Datsun are wide open. Isak hangs out, sticking his wet tongue into the wind. In the Datsun it always feels as though they are rushing somewhere. From the back he can see the top of her face in the rear-view mirror, the lines between her eyebrows and the black roots of her blonde hair.
Wigs are too hot to wear in summer.
Every time they hit a dip in the road, their mother accelerates and the three of them hop and fall sideways. Isak can see her smiling eyes in the mirror and her postbox mouth, pretending she is doing nothing.
At the showgrounds she slams on the brakes so that they all fall forward. She even laughs as Raatjie covers her glass eye protectively, then she leads the way on her high heels to the flower hall, Raatjie carrying the tinned orchids and the plastic gloves.
The hall is not a hall any more. There is moss and pools of water with little waterfalls that come from hidden hoses. His mother stiffens. The ropes of muscle in her neck give her away as she turns abruptly for the door. “Let’s go home.”
They all look at her. Raatjie sighs and makes for the Datsun. Someone calls and they all turn as one. Isak has never seen this woman before. As bright as a brass button, his oupa would say of her.
“Saartjie, I’m so glad that you’ve come, Johan promised you would help me.” She waves vaguely at the exhibition. “Rather a set of golf clubs than this VLV tea party for me.”
“You seem to be quite skilled in the art of exhibiting.” His mother pushes her way past. “I haven’t begun myself, so please excuse me.”
The younger woman reaches out, brushing his mother’s hair with her fingertips. “Quite professional, Saartjie darling, who is your hairdresser? I hardly recognised you, only when you turned to walk did I see it was you.”
“You know better than me what a bottle of peroxide can do.”
“Such a pity about your parents-in-law,” the woman continues smoothly, “Johan is devastated.”
“Who can fight fate?” His mother sucks her mouth in so that her lips disappear.
Without another word to the woman they find their way through the hall of farmers’ wives, surrounded by buckets of protea, suikerkan and tolbos. Even large wabome have been removed and trucked in for the exhibition. They find her open space, flanked by ostentatious displays. Isak’s heart sinks for his mother. The lone orchids suddenly appear pathetic in their singularity.
With trembling hands she pulls on the gloves.
“Our flowers are too few.” A disgruntled Raatjie surveys the scene and the abundance of flora. Buckets and buckets of arum lilies hedge them in on either side.
“The veld doesn’t look like that,” his mother cuts back at Raatjie. “Make yourself handy.” She clutches the lit cigarette with plastic fingers and her hair is not as blonde as the other woman’s.
Cigarette in one hand and a tin in the other, his mother and Raatjie as her reluctant assistant begin. The space becomes alive the way Isak knows the veld at home. Drab bush and dun-coloured sand are fetched from out of the Datsun’s boot. Some of the women walk over to look and they snigger politely but she is oblivious to the crowd, balancing on her heels in the sand. With her gloved finger she pokes holes for the orchids.
A man laughs in the hall. Isak turns to see. It is his father.
“Wife?”
The other woman holds his arm lightly.
His mother ignores him, lifting the orchid from the tin, wrapping a piece of wet newspaper around its stem. She slips it into the hole in the sand before answering. “I’ve finished.” She pats the sand around the orchid hidden inside the renosterbos.
“Is that all?” His father speaks more to those watching than to her. “That poor bulb is so hidden away that no one can see it.”
“Those who know anything of the veld will know where to look.” She gets up, pulling off her gloves. “Sakkie, it’s time for the horses, take Danie with you.”
Isak has had enough of flowers.
“Your wife is so creative, Johan, I couldn’t, even if I tried.” The other woman swirls her hair and Isak notices that along her neck the hair behind her ears is dark brown.
“Beauty is enough.” His father wears his crocodile leather shoes. There are faint spots on the leather.
She throws her head back.
Isak can see the fillings in her mouth. “Come.” He pulls crossly at Danie.
They saunter into the grounds where the stalls are being erected and he wonders why his father never said hello to them.
“Mamma is pretty,” Danie says thoughtfully.
Isak thinks of Magdaleen with her perfect half-moon fingernails.
They squeeze themselves under the pavilion.
“Class for carts drawn by two mares.” The voice booms over their heads.
Around the athletics track, black horses tripple with high hooves, pulling carts on spider wheels. They shine like new shoes.
“Why can’t Pensie come too?”
“Don’t know.” Isak digs a piece of bubblegum out of his pocket. He breaks it in two and passes Danie the smaller piece, chewing loudly. “The show is for boere, not volk,” he explains. Instinctively, his hand checks if the hairpin is in the other pocket.
The horses are heavy in body with thick necks. Their tails are plaited with ribbons and there are silver buckles on their bridals. The farmers wear dark suits and hats like the State President and they snap long whips over the horses’ heads.
“The winner is …” A farmer reigns in the snorting, stamping horses. He shouts out their names but the hornet whip has worked them into a frenzy, their hooves throwing up a dust cloud over the judges and the cart.
The judges step forward unsure of their choice, when an old man runs onto the track, wearing an overall and a feather in his hatband like Outa Floors. The boys can hear his soft words and clicking song subduing the horses. Their necks drop in submission to his strokes.
Red-faced, the farmer climbs down, sweating profusely. The judges step forward again, pinning rosettes on the bridal and the farmer’s chest. Photos are taken for the farming weekly and the old man moves out of the focus of the lens.
Danie pops a large bubble that sticks to his nose. “Pensie is my friend.”
Isak pulls at the bubblegum, winding it around his finger. “Pensie is volk. Volk work at shows, they don’t go to shows.” He jumps up as the old man leads the horses away and the farmer and the judges retire to the beer tent. “Let’s have a look.”
At the stables the old man is removing the bridals.
“How old are the horses, Outa?” Isak asks.
The old man tips his hat and his eyes are blue. “Fifteen years, Kleinbaas, Outa brought them up.”
The horses stand quite still as he brushes their sweating flanks.
“Is it Outa’s own horses?” Danie asks in awe of the large bodies.
“Stupid fart,” Isak curses under his breath.
The old man looks kindly at Danie and his eyes are as clear as sky. “Baas Frans vanner Merwe’s, Kleinbaas. Outa is just the caretaker.”
“Where does Outa sleep?” Danie looks around.
The old man points to a blanket in the corner of the stable. The horses nudge his pocket. He takes out broken pieces of carrot and they nibble gently with