It was the time Lily’s nephew came to stay for the holidays.
Now, just to give the story a bit of perspective, believe me when I tell you that Lily isn't merely the prettiest young lady in Little Wyverton, she is the most beautiful woman in the whole wide world. Her splendour has a way of filling a man's dreams with colours, scents and a general atmosphere of happiness that simply refuses to be described. Her smile, her nose, those eyebrows of hers... good heavens, I become positively emotional just thinking about her.
Now, by one of those curious balancing acts nature occasionally performs, Lily is exactly as beautiful as her nephew is spectacularly unfortunate in the looks department. The little chap, whose greatest ambition in life is to become a firefighter, possesses such flaming red hair, freckles and crooked teeth that even the village schoolmaster looks ready to burst into tears whenever he catches sight of the youngster.
So it came to pass that the nephew, one Toby Milnerton by name, arrived to spend a week with Lily and her mother. It wasn't long before the first signs of calamity appeared. The little blighter decided that it would be an excellent idea to throw firecrackers underneath the chicken coop. To describe the resulting commotion as noisy would be rather like describing the ocean as slightly damp. Feathers filled the air, chickens flew in every conceivable direction, and absolute mayhem took complete possession of the premises.
I have never had much affection for Staffordshire terriers myself. Especially not since Lily and her family's staffie, Isabella, once mistook my ankle for a garden hose, or whatever it was the wretched dame imagined it had discovered. But even Isabella lost all sense of dignity during the chicken-coop affair and promptly began chewing the tyres of the old Lagonda with admirable determination.
By the time the little menace had progressed to hurling tins of fish onto the corrugated iron roof of the shed, Lily dashed down the passage and grabbed the telephone.
"Georgie, the time to show yourself a true and proper gentleman has indeed arrived."
"Your dear mother lost her jewellery again, have she?"
"Not quite the scenario. But believe you me, you, George Bernard Adley, were born for a time such as this."
"Lily, my darling, what on earth is that noise? Renovating perhaps?"
"If we were renovating, I'd have invited you over for tea. This, however, is a matter of life and death."
"Go on. It sounds as though bombs are falling."
"That's Toby throwing bricks onto the roof of the shed."
"Bricks?"
"Yes. He's finished with the tins of fish."
"So what exactly do you expect me to do? Sort the little fellow out!"
"It's worse than that, Georgie. You don't understand. If my mother comes home and sees this chaos..." Her voice dropped dramatically. "Georgie, this is an emotional situation."
"That bad?"
"Even Isabella has started pulling the sheets off the washing line! I don't know what to do anymore. Please come... I'll bake you a sticky toffee pudding and all."
"And all?"
"Georgie!"
"All right, all right. I'm on my way."
So off I went towards the Long household, wondering how on earth one subdued a child who appeared to have been raised by whirlwinds.
When I arrived, the poor dog, never thought I'd live to apply those words to a Staffordshire terrier, was busily chewing a wheel off a wheelbarrow. Inside the house, the child had advanced to setting fire to the kitchen curtains. You know the sort: short, dainty little things that seem positively eager to burst into flames. Lily was darting from one side of the kitchen to the other, beating at the fire with anything within reach, while the youngster stood in the middle of it all spraying the garden hose around the kitchen as though the whole performance had been organised solely for his amusement.
"Didn't your late father own a belt?" I asked. "I think it's about time I gave the boy a proper hiding."
"'Owned' is the right word," she replied, yanking the burning curtain from the rail and throwing it into the sink. "Look behind you."
I turned and saw the belt lying on the kitchen floor, or rather, what remained of it. It consisted of nothing more than a few forlorn strips of leather.
"Isabella?" I asked.
"The very same."
I couldn't help smiling. The dog had quite literally saved the youngster from the hiding of a lifetime.
Just then I heard the familiar tinny tune of the neighbourhood ice-cream cart drifting down the street. Inspiration arrived with it. I grabbed the little fellow by the collar, hoisted him over my shoulder, and carried him straight out the front door.
Not five minutes later, the two of us were sitting peacefully on the kerb, each holding an ice cream.
"How on earth did you manage that?" Lily asked, taking my hand towards her mouth and calmly helping herself to a lick of my ice cream.
"I told him that if he behaved himself, he'd get to ride in Donovan's fire engine."
Lily frowned.
I merely winked.
With a generous helping of imagination, Donovan's red big old pickup truck served admirably that afternoon as Little Wyverton's very own fire engine.
Tea and Toast from the glorious world of George Bernard Adley.
You should understand, dear reader, that when Lily comes sailing into my print shop with the words "Georgie, we need to talk," you may stake your last shilling on the fact that this is not a matter of idle chit-chat. And don't imagine for one moment she'll tell you what this pressing matter actually is. No, first we are to proceed to Antonio's Roastery for coffee.
It's actually Eddie Thomas's establishment, and where the fellow acquired the name Antonio is a mystery known only to himself.
I made my case that I hadn't a farthing to my name, but Lily took me by the ear and hauled me, very nearly over the desk, straight out of the office. The coffee, mercifully, was to be on her.
Once installed, it was I alone doing the drinking of coffee. Lily, in recent years, has developed an alarming devotion to milkshakes.
"Georgie," she began, launching into her tale, "I am worried."
"Worried?"
"Worried," she confirmed, with a nod of the old bean.
And with that particular furrow upon the dear lady's brow, I could tell the worry in question ran deep.
"If this is about my wanting to name my cat Antonín Dvořák, then..."
"Georgie, I shall never understand you," she cut in. "Your business is genuinely in the soup, and you imagine I care two figs what you call your cat."
"And how, pray, do you know my business is in the soup?"
"Carol's been telephoning me. She says you're behind on the soap she delivered to you last week."
"But I never ordered the wretched stuff! She simply delivers as the fancy takes her."
"Isn't it a monthly arrangement?"
"Yes, I order it every month. But if I haven't ordered it, what on earth makes her think she can simply deliver it regardless?"
"She probably assumed you'd forgotten to order."
"My dear, that's her lookout, not mine."
"Seriously, Georgie, what is going on there?"
"Slight cash-flow difficulties. Nothing I shan't have well in hand presently."
"Yes, and haven't I heard that particular tune before. I know precisely how you go about getting things 'in hand.'"
"Well, what do you propose?" I asked, already aware that Lily would never have dragged me out here unless some scheme were already brewing beneath that fringe of hers.
"This very coffee shop," she said, with a smile so broad you'd have thought she'd just won the national baking contest.
"What about this very coffee shop?"
"We buy it!" She flung her hands skyward, positively radiant with excitement. "Or rather, we take it over."
"Have you gone entirely off your trolley? What do I know about coffee? And what on earth makes you think Eddie, lurking there behind his till, wants to give the place up?"
"He told me so," she said, looking thoroughly pleased with herself. "It's true. He's been taking evening courses to become a programmer. Something to do with computers. The man's making a career change."
It was at this precise juncture that I found myself in need of something considerably stronger than coffee. And it was at this very same juncture that a young man slunk in, clad in black denim and a Metallica T-shirt. With silver about his neck and dangling from each ear, and a tattoo of a hideous looking serpent coiled across his left hand, the fellow gave every impression of being under the influence of something that had rendered him remarkably tranquil.
"That's Jones," Lily whispered to me. "Our town's resident programmer. Though it's rather odd seeing him out in broad daylight. Like certain nocturnal species, he generally only emerges after dark."
"Perhaps he's come to give Eddie a programming lesson," I whispered back.
To cut a long story short, both Lily and I had entirely missed the mark.
To our considerable astonishment, it was Eddie giving Jones lessons, on the roasting of coffee, and all the attendant ceremony thereof.
"Now that," I observed, "is interesting."
"What is?"
"Here we have a coffee expert who dreams of bettering himself in life. So he labours away after hours, studying to become a programmer. And at the very same time, you have a programmer who dreams, day in and day out, of becoming a barista. It does rather seem the grass is forever greener on the other side of the fence."
Lily sighed. "All I see is that our plans have been thoroughly run over."
And it was at precisely that moment that my phone gave its small, insistent beep.
"Lily, old thing, I've a new order in. And not a small one either, mind you! I must dash."
Being the gentleman I am, I apologised profusely with a sparkle in my eye, and made my exit at speed. A man, after all, has work to be getting on with. And what with this new commission just landed in my lap, the grass on my own side of the fence had suddenly acquired a rather encouraging shade of green as well.
There are two things in this life which I hold in the highest possible esteem, and I am not ashamed to say so.
The first is a rasher or three of good English bacon, properly attended to in a cast-iron pan, with a spoonful of kimchi alongside, and here I must pause for the benefit of any reader who has not yet made the acquaintance of kimchi, which is nothing more sinister than fermented cabbage, though I grant you it sounds alarming, the whole business served atop a generous mound of creamy mashed potato. I would eat that particular combination at any hour of the day or night, in any county in England, regardless of weather, occasion, or the opinions of others.
The second is this: in the depths of winter, after one has been out pounding the country lanes for a solid hour, to lower oneself, with appropriate reverence, into a bath of near-scalding water. There are no words in the English language adequate to the occasion. I have looked.
It was, in fact, during precisely such a moment of supreme civilised contentment that I became aware of something deeply irregular happening on the other side of the bathroom door.
A sound. Not an easy sound to categorise. Something between the ruminations of a large horse, the impatience of a prize bull, and the general disposition of a rhinoceros that has not had a satisfying morning. There was also, now that I applied myself to the question, a smell. I could not immediately identify it, though I formed a provisional opinion that it was not lavender.
My first hope, the hope of an optimist, which I have always considered myself, was that it was my imagination, and that the thing would resolve itself in short order and leave me in peace. It did not. My second hope, slightly more desperate, was that it might be some variety of ghost come to try its luck in the premises, on the reasoning that spirits, being of a delicate and heavenly constitution, tend not to linger long when they find a chap in his bath. This hope also proved unfounded. Whatever was stationed on the far side of that door was not delicate and heavenly. It was, if anything, the precise opposite of delicate and heavenly. It snuffled. It wheezed. It shifted its considerable weight with a sound like furniture being rearranged on the deck of a ship. And it showed absolutely no sign of going away.
I faced facts.
Half-submerged, warm, and profoundly unwilling to move, I nonetheless grasped that the situation demanded action. Any man who has climbed out of a hot bath in January knows that it ranks among life's grimmer experiences. But there it was. I towelled off with the speed of a man escaping a creditor and opened the door.
My heart, I believe, stopped for a measurable period.
Standing before me was a pig.
Now, had it been an ordinary pig, the sort of modest, apologetic pig one might encounter trotting across a farmyard and think nothing much of, I should have administered a gentle nudge with the foot and considered the matter settled. But this was not that pig. This pig had clearly been on a rather liberal diet for some considerable time. Pizza, I thought. Possibly beer. She was pink, she was vast, she occupied the entire door frame from one side to the other with the unself-conscious authority of a person who has never once in her life questioned her right to be exactly where she was. I am not exaggerating for literary effect. She was a very large animal indeed. The last detail I registered before slamming the door with all the force I could muster was a red collar decorated with small embroidered flowers. I did not wait to admire the floristry.
I leaned against the door. She leaned against the door. She leaned harder. I braced my feet against the base of the bath and deployed my full eleven stone, which the pig appeared to find no more troubling than a light breeze.
The bathroom floor, I should mention, is tiled. Tiles, when wet, are not one's allies. My feet went one way, I went another, and by a combination of scrambling and determination I managed to seize my mobile telephone from the little table by the towel rail and place my first call to Reginald.
With my friend not picking up, I rang Lily.
"Georgie," she said, with that particular tone she reserves for moments when she suspects I have done something inadvisable, "why on earth are you panting like that?"
"Lily, my dear," I said, keeping my voice as steady as circumstances permitted, "I need you to come round immediately with a carrot. Possibly a cabbage. Something of that general nature."
"Are you hungry?"
"Not for me!"
There was a pause.
"George Bernard Adley," she said, in a different tone entirely. It was slower, more deliberate, the tone of a woman composing her thoughts before delivering a verdict. "I never thought I should see the day. You've gone and acquired a girlfriend who's a vegetarian, and you have the absolute brass neck to telephone me and ask me to bring round the provisions. You've sunk to a new low, Georgie. A new and remarkable low."
"Lily, I have not acquired a girlfriend. I am being held hostage in my own bathroom by a pig. Would you kindly stop talking nonsense and bring some greenery?"
A brief silence.
"Is she pink?"
"Resoundingly."
"And rather large?"
"The word 'large' does not do justice to the situation. Try 'monumental.' Try 'geological.'"
"Red collar? Little flowers on it?"
"The very same. You are clearly familiar with the creature."
"Oh, that's all right then. She only wants to say hello."
"Lily. I am crouched on a wet bathroom floor in a towel, holding a door shut with my back. This is not the context in which I wish to make new acquaintances."
"She's Mrs Paddison's pet. She's been going up and down the lane all morning asking if anyone's seen her Cathryn. Apparently she's quite beside herself."
"I am beside myself. Inform Mrs Paddison that unless she retrieves her considerable darling within minutes, I shall begin to view it as a good old bacon-loaded breakfast."
I cannot entirely account for what followed, but Mrs Paddison, a small, determined woman in a waxed jacket, arrived within a quarter of an hour and managed, by means and persuasions I cannot fully explain, to coax Cathryn the Magnificent back out of the flat and into the lane without meaningful structural damage to either party.
Cathryn the Magnificent, it transpired, was something of a refined and well-travelled sow, the sort who had absorbed, over the years, a quiet but unshakeable sense of her own importance.
What I chose not to share with Lily was this: in the brief glimpse I caught of Mrs Paddison as she led her charge away down the lane, it struck me rather forcefully that the two of them had, over the years, arrived at a remarkably similar relationship with the dinner table.
A man, acquainted with me and religious in every sense, read a portion of the first novel I wrote and asked me how I can write such books and at the same time call myself a Christian. The man was quite upset and moved, because, in his mind, I was committing perhaps one of the greatest sins, one can endeavour to commit. He, in no shortage of elaborate words, accused me of various atrocities and I could see that the words I wrote, clearly did not sit well with him.
That is putting it mildly.
Now if you’ll allow me, a bit of background here will add some flavour to the incident mentioned.
A little over five years ago, I lost my employment and with no alternative income, I had to find a way to financially sustain myself and my household. My pastor, a man whom I trust in these matters, told me to write a book. To his credit for the great man that he is, he did not promise me that riches would come from writing books, or even from the act of making novel writing a career. Neither did he tell me what book to write. It could have been fiction or nonfiction. It could have been a book about Christianity, a hobby, work-related, or any interest that took my fancy. He did not venture into specifics.
He just told me to write a book.
Me, having an ardent love for stories, fiction, and a good movie, did not think twice about embarking on the Nanowrimo challenge, and indeed, that November I wrote fifty thousand words of the manuscript.
I had, some eight years prior to that already thought of writing a book, (being a journalist that sort of notion comes quite naturally) but it was an entirely different concept.
The book I penned that November, I was told by a trusted Beta-reader, fell into the Small-Town Psychological Thriller genre.
And indeed, if one reads it, it can easily fall into that genre, though at a later stage I have come to think of it being more in the range of Psychological Horror. The argument for a thriller is strong because, in the novel, I do not hover too much on the details of the atrocious acts that had been committed. In most cases, I only show the after-effects, and the reader comes to the conclusion of what happened.
Crimes within the novel include sexual abuse, child molestation, alcoholism, emotional abuse, murder and conspiracy to murder, arson, abuse of power, and much more. The violence in the book is not to my mind explicit, but some text insinuates what happened, or what is happening.
Now I’ll admit this much. It is not a light read. It is not a feel-good story. It is not the type of story you would read to your children at bedtime. It is heavy, it is dark and it is straight to the point.
But. And here is a big but.
Neither is it the type of horror with the intent to shock. You don’t have a monster going about on a killing spree and all you read about is throats being slit with blood and gore all over the place. The feeling and the tone, I should want to think I aimed for, was more that of sadness, than fear, without treating the subject of fear too lightly. Sadness, that people can fall so low, and allow such evil to happen. But then also hope. Because in the end, good triumphs over evil. The atrocities get stopped.
I don’t want to give away too much here, but I want to be clear on this: In no way, does this novel glorify evil in any way. It is meant to be a portrayal of the weakness and the evil within people’s hearts and minds and ultimately their actions.
Still, this person who scolded me with so much intent that I didn’t write a word of fiction for a great while after the incident, was adamant that as Christian, I had overstepped some boundary. He was, unfortunately emotionally too moved to have a clear rational conversation about it and tell me exactly where that boundary was. I am very open to discussion about these matters and quite comfortable with the subject.
As for me? I have a clear conscience. The fact that I struggle to sleep at night has more to do with the fact that I write and edit five books simultaneously. Keeping the storylines nice and snug does take its fair share of mental strain.
Now all of that leads me to the burning question.
Should Christians read and write in the horror genre?
Or parallel with that, should Christians write thrillers, fantasy novels, or science fiction?
Herewith, I will attempt to put forth a view, and I would urge anyone who has the same question, to not believe anything I say outright but test it using knowledge of the scriptures and insight from the Holy Spirit.
No doubt about identity
Firstly, I would like to state that I am a Christian, filled with the Holy Spirit and worshipping the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, Creator of the universe, in and through Jesus Christ of Nazareth. I believe the Word of God as truth and I have enough faith in God, that when I do something, not in line with His will, I know He will lead me and guide me on the right path. And it is my belief, that any Christian, regardless of profession, should have at least that bit of faith, to know that we can trust in His guidance, the guidance of a loving Father.
If I have a shop that sells goods and I’m grumpy all day, then it does not mean my shop is “Unchristian.” It means I should continue with my shop in the secular world, serving both Christians and people of every faith, and the more I read the scriptures, the more I will become holy in my work, swearing less at my employees and working with more joy and peace.
It’s an oversimplified and crude example, but I think I made my point.
Trust in God, seek Him, and He will, through time, trials, patience, and endurance, guide you to become better and wiser in your pursuit to serve His children. And when someone comes and throws accusations and tries to tell you otherwise, do not heed that person. It could very well be an attack to prevent you from fulfilling your calling.
Boundaries
Secondly, that brings me to boundaries. Which I firmly believe there are. As a Christian, I am not likely to write in genres classified as Romantic Erotica or the like. Just because a lot of those genres glorify acts that do not reflect the truths of the Kingdom of God. It gives the reader pleasure in the form of lust, something that is addictive and something that destroys the soul.
Likewise am I not into the popular horror genre of modern Hollywood, which mixes a lot of truth with the most horrible garbage but is portrayed as truth. The aim I feel with the majority of these is not to tell a good story, but to use cheap tactics for the sole purpose of scaring people.
There are a variety of genres and sub-genres that I would not be comfortable with, either reading or writing. But likewise, I would not condemn anyone for the reading or writing of these. We each know what we prefer to allow into our lives, and depending on a multitude of factors, this can vary from person to person, culture to culture and society to society.
Again, seeking God and His wisdom will shape you into making the right decisions as to what to allow in your life and what not.
Literature as a whole
Thirdly, we look at literature as a whole. The form and art of storytelling. Why do we love stories? Why do we like telling stories and adore hearing stories?
It is because we are wired that way. We were created to find meaning in stories. It is how we live and it is how we perceive the world. It is how we understand our own lives. We do not think of our lives and our existence in an abstract way. We are constantly trying to find meaning, in things and events, and we find meaning through stories. Hollywood and its counterparts constantly remind us of the battle between good and evil in all its various forms.
We live through stories, and we cannot escape them.
Even the most basic math problem has a sequence of values and a language, the basic ingredients of the story itself.
So what then is the purpose of storytellers?
At the beginning of time, people told stories as both a method for survival and for the improvement and advancement of civilization. A story in a tribe about a man being killed by a lion probably saved more than one child’s life. So also which fruit and herbs to eat and which to avoid. Or how to react in the face of calamity, hardship, floods or draught.
Six thousand years later, not much has changed. People read newspapers because they would like to better understand what society they find themselves in. We watch movies because it speaks directly to the desires we all have in our hearts. To make sense of the world we live in, how we fit into this world, and how to navigate the space around us without getting hurt too much.
Yet in all that, there are truths and there are falsehoods.
And that leads me to my next point.
The Scriptures we know as the Bible.
Apart from the books of Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Lamentations, a few of Paul’s letters and so, the Bible in its entirety is made up of narratives. And in case you have not thoroughly gone through the narratives in the Bible, it covers almost every thinkable and conceivable wrongdoing on earth.
From murder to theft, rape to cannibalism, practices of the occult, devil worship, the burning and killing of one’s own children, torture of the most vicious kind, genocide, prostitution, dismembering bodies, mass killing of babies. The list is long and the list is extensive. I can go on a pretty while and when it comes to some of the worst atrocities in humankind, the Bible is not holding back. Make no mistake. It gets brutal.
What’s more, if you closely examine only the first book of the Bible, Genesis, you’ll see that most of the major issues in life we struggle with today, are right there in black and white. Hatred, revenge, greed, murder, theft, innocent people getting what they do not deserve, that list is long too. And the Scriptures do not exclude these issues, ‘lest we offend someone.’ No. It’s hard. It’s the truth and it gets to be the fundamental script according to how we conduct our lives.
And it’s all done through story. Through some of the most remarkable narratives you’ll ever read in your life.
Sure, as an example, if we as Christians come together with the task of writing the story of Samson perhaps, we would all agree that in our version of the man, he would not have spent some of his time with prostitutes. We would argue that that is not the way a man of God would have behaved. It is quite ‘unchristian,’ or quite ‘unrighteous,’ we would say. We would also argue that he would not have killed out of revenge. He would have forgiven his enemies. That is much more ‘Biblical,’ is it not? We would even argue that should he have done any such thing, God’s mighty power would have left him.
Well, not so. We all know the story. And we all know that things did not really happen according to our so-called perfect understanding of what God’s Kingdom should or should not be. In the end, it wasn’t the prostitutes that got the better of him. It was, sadly, his own iniquity. Tragic beyond words for him, but of great value in insight for us.
Yet the story is there in its full glory. No playing Holy here. No religious games to play. No theological debate. It’s there and it’s the truth.
And so are countless other stories, right throughout the scriptures.
One argument is that I’m taking all these stories out of context. That I’m using scripture to try and prove my own conviction in regard to the book I wrote.
With that, I have one answer and one answer only.
I think that any person putting that argument forth is taking my book out of context. So there’s that.
What’s the difference, though?
Does it mean we can write whatever we want? Does it mean we can write in detail about the most horrific or lustful stuff and it’s OK just because it’s mentioned in the Scriptures?
Not by a long shot.
The Bible clearly states, “Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil; that put darkness for light, and light for darkness…” Isaiah 5:20
The difference is, the stories we read in the Bible have meaning. There is a purpose to them. They bring a message across. They testify of certain values people ought to have and certain dangers people ought to avoid.
And, they were written with a certain Spirit. A Spirit that gives life. A Holy Spirit who makes no mistakes when it comes to delivering a message to us as human beings.
This is then how we can measure the value of our work. The same as we value a tree.
By its fruit.
Does the book, or story portray the Kingdom of God with a spirit of love, in accordance with the truth? Does it reveal the constant battle between good and evil amidst broken people and broken lives? Or perhaps the longing for people to be together, and after a journey, is actually happening? Or does it perhaps portray the tragedy of the human condition?
All of this has meaning, and cannot just be discarded as the work of the devil.
If we would attempt to write the perfect Christian book, then no character in the book would ever sin. There would be no conflict, and ultimately, no story.
That, to my mind, is as far away from the Kingdom of God as one can get, and would be useful for nothing but a mere existence without purpose.
The fight between good and evil is as real as the very oxygen we breathe. And we make sense of that fight through stories. And to make sense of it, we cannot tread light foot around the challenges we face in this day and age. Are some people going to be offended by what we write? Of course. Look at how many people Jesus Christ offended, and he is the ultimate light and truth.
If we write with the aim not to offend, we will end up writing not at all.
I will say it again.
The Horror genre is perhaps the best genre to portray the fight between good and evil.
So keep writing. Keep reading. And keep fighting for what is right, just, and righteous.
Dit was nou die keer toe Gertjie besluit het om ‘n nuwe rigting in te slaan. Om dit nou mooi te stel, Gertjie, skaars drie-en-twintig jaar op moeder aarde, het maar in hierdie klein dorpie van ons groot geword. En almal hierdie kant van die kerktoring weet dat in hierdie kontrei is daar twee soorte jong mense. Aan die een kant het jy die wat groot drome en kattebakke vol ambisie het, en dit wil gaan maak daar in die stede van Johannesburg en Pretoria, ook bekend as Sodom en Gomorra. Dis nou daardie jongelinge wat vir grade en diplomas gaan studeer en daarna help trek aan die kakebeenwa meer bekend as kapitalisme. Dit is ook gewoonlik die tipe wat meer geneig is om aan te beweeg na die Amerikaanse droom of andersins na die kant van kangeroes en koala beertjies.
Maar dan kry jy nou weer ‘n spesie van ‘n ander gewaad. En in hierdie kategorie, moet ek nou erken, val die meeste van ons plattelanders, jonk en oud. Ons hou van biltong, beskuit en koeksisters. Ons hou van Afrikaans, nie noodwendig oor ons dink dit ‘n verskriklike mooi taal is nie, maar net oordat ons Engels, Spaans en Italiaans veel te wense laat. En ons hou van die natuur en die ooptes. Spasie, is wat ons tipe soek.
Nou Gertjie het wat ek sou noem, ‘n vorm van ‘n identiteitskrisis gehad. Sy was baie lief vir Vetkoek en droë wors. Maar terselfdertyd wou sy in Frankryk gaan bly want die mense is meer gesofistikeerd daar en nie so plat soos ons ander klomp in die dorp nie. Sy het ‘n klomp Franse romans gelees, van hulle so bietjie stout, maar die het vir haar laat glo in ‘n wêreld waar sy baie gelukkig sou wees. Die vervulde lewe en al daai goed, as mens dit so kan noem.
Maar hoe meer sy probeer om weg te kom, hoe meer hou die lewe haar vas hier. As dit nie werk is nie, dan is dit haar ma. As dit nie geld is nie dan is dit ‘n bedrogspel van sekere twyfelagtige karakters. Sy is hierdie kant toe en daardie kant toe maar die planne wil net nie uitwerk nie. Net as sy dink sy het genoeg gespaar, dan breek die kar of ontwikkel sy ‘n maagaandoening wat haar ‘n plaas se prys kos aan bloedtoetse. Maar die wêreld van Croissants sien nie vir Gertruida Vermaak nie.
Sy dag toe, sy het in haar lewe ‘n bietjie helderheid van denke nodig. Sy het haarself oortuig dat die primêre rede hoekom sy nie oorsee kan gaan nie, is omdat sy dit nie in haar hart, siel en verstand het om hierdie droom ‘n werklikheid te maak nie. En daar lees sy toe op een of ander webwerf die voordele van vas. Sy wou nou nie so ver gaan om ‘n watervas te doen nie, maar besluit toe net daar en dan dat ‘n groente-en-water vas vir haar sal werk. ‘n Hele week van die storie. Geen koffie of tee nie, geen koeldrank of suiker nie. Nie eens ‘n bietjie rys of pasta nie. Dit was net groente van oggend tot aand.
Om te sê sy het ‘n bietjie gewig verloor is so effens lig gestel. Sy was glad nie te mollig om mee te begin nie. Die kind het wragtag soos ‘n riet gelyk.
Maar met die het sy haar nuwe lewe gekry.
Dit is van toe af een maal per dag eet en weg met die stysel en suiker.
En jong! Laat ek jou nou ‘n ding wys maak. Sy het darem vir jou die selfdissipline wat selfs ‘n generaal in die weermag na ‘n groentjie sal laat lyk. Jy kon haar nie met ‘n sjokolade of ‘n roomys vang of verly nie. Gelukkig het sy later jare weer tot haar sinne gekom, maar na daardie dae sal ons vir ewig en ‘n dag verwys as die sewe maer jare.
Met die hele storie vind sy toe ‘n paartjie by name Sussie en Filies.
Gebore Filemon Fouche maar vet weet waar in die skool die naam Fielies vandaan gekom het en dit het gebly. Fielies was so in sy mid-dertigs toe hy vir sussie ontmoet het wie op daardie stadium en tot vandag nog heelwat jonger as hy is. Sussie het skaars klaar gemaak met skool, toe trou hulle. Wat sy in Fielies gesien het sal net sy weet, want die man was lank en skraal, en het net velskoene aan daardie stokkies bene van hom gedra. Met ‘n staalraambril en ‘n kantpaadjie is hy nie die man wat vir ‘n James Bond oudisie sou opdaag nie. En geld het hy ook nie baie gehad nie. Hy het so ou Corolla’tjie gery, die voorruit vol krake en kolle met remme wat skree by die trap van elke stopstraat, maar daar was een ding wat in Fielies se guns getel het. Hy is so geboelie op skool dat hy die dikvel van ‘n olifant ontwikkel het en nie ‘n duit of ‘n duim omgee wat mense sê of dink nie. Hy doen sy besigheid en basta met die samelewing. So was hy effens aan die stil kant, en het hy ‘n sterk vorm van selfvertoue uitgestraal wat nogal skaars is in hierdie kontrei. Dit was seker dit wat Sussie na die man toe aangetrek het, want iets anders kon dit wragtag nie wees nie. Die man het aldag en heeldag na skaap gestink, man.
‘Hoe het Gertjie dan nou met die paartjie deurmekaar geraak?’ sal die leser dan op hierdie punt van die verhaal vra. Wel, jy sien, Fielies was ook ‘n geweldige suinige man. Of spaarsamig. Mens kan nie altyd seker wees watter kant toe die pendulum lê nie, maar hy drink Rooibos en Frisco en sal nie ‘n vyf sent in ‘n koffie winkel spandeer nie. Uiteet is daar nie van sprake nie en die asyn werk net so goed soos Sta-soft. By dit alles plant hy sy eie kool en groente daar op die plot, maak hy self sy broeke reg, en is hy heel tevrede met ‘n radio, eerder as ‘n televisie. Sussie het al hierdie dinge na die troue maar so stelselmatig besef en vrede gemaak daarmee. Wat kon sy nou maak? Die man wil nie hoor nie, en as sy die dag blomme koop dan gaan hy deur die dak. “Daar’s mos kosmos die hele veld vol, man! Wie kan in hierdie swaar tye bekostig om nou nog te gaan staan en ‘n klomp verlepte blomme koop?”
Of dit nou suinig of spaarsamig was, die spaargeldjies en skaap kopery het op die ou einde dividende betaal. En nie bietjie nie. Ou Fielies draai toe uit die boer van stewige kaliber te wees. Hy huur nog grond, brei uit, boer vooruit en bring elke lam, ooi en ram ander kant uit. Daar was ‘n tyd wat ons plaaslike koerantjie, Nuus van die Wêreld, vir Fielies elke tweede naweek op die voorblad gehad het. Om te se dat hy by die veilings spesiale aandag gekry het, is om dit sag te stel. Dit was nou nie altemit nie. Fielies het goed gedoen en die wêreld van ons klein dorpie het dit geweet.
Tot Fielies se krediet, het die geld nooit na sy kop toe gegaan nie. Hy het al die tyd steeds in sy nederige huisie daar op die plotte gebly, steeds sy kool en wortels geplant en Sauerkraut gemaak, en bietjie vir bietjie daardie miljoene in ‘n rekening iewers loop gooi. Spekulasie was dat die welvaart alles in Panama was. Ander weer het gesê die Kaaimanseilande. Maar niemand het regtig geweet nie. Hulle sê nie eens Sussie het geweet nie.
Hoe my Gertjie toe nou by die storie in pas, was dat sy mos nou na die groente gevreet van haar, kop in een mis is met almal wat so geweldig gesond en organies en spaarsamig lewe. Kyk, as sy en ou Fielies eers aan die gesels raak, kon niemand hulle keer nie. Dis net gesondheid hierdie kant toe, en geld spaar en spesiale aanbodte daardie kant toe, soveel so dat arme ou Sussie naderhand net haar oë gerol het.
Dit was nie dat Fielies en Gertjie ooit iets in die sin van romantiek aangehad het nie, maar vat dit nou vir die waarheid, daardie twee kon ‘n hond uit ‘n bos uit gesels het. Die opgewondenheid as hulle eers aan die gang is oor hierdie resep of daardie oefening, was iets om oor huis toe te skryf. Wanneer Fielies dan in die aand alleen met Sussie is, met net die radio vir geselskap, dan het hulle nie veel om vir mekaar te sê nie. Sussie het al meer begin wonder oor hoe wonderlik die lewe nie sou gewees het met ‘n groot plat-skerm televisie en bietjie roomys met sjokoladesous. Sy het nou begin moeg raak vir al die kool.
Toe sy later met hom skei, toe laat glip sy dit dat sy haarself nie sien as ‘n oppervlakkige persoon nie maar dat al die gasse en winde wat so opbou in ou Fielies se maag een van die redes is waarom sy nie meer met hom kan saamleef nie.
Dit is dan nou juis die tyd waar die x-files begin het.
Toe Fielies en Sussie getroud is, het hulle maar armsalig en eenvoudig gelewe. En daar was nie pyne nie. In ons ou dorpie gaan daar nie veel aan nie en die gejaag na geld los ons mense maar vir die groot kokkedore daar in die stad. Vyf jaar later egter, het ou Fielies vir hom ‘n mooi nessie vol eiers gebou, en hoe meer hy die nessie warm hou, hoe meer sien Sussie plasings op Facebook van Italiaanse villas en vakansies op plekke baie ver van die Republiek van Natalia se grense af.
Nou is daar altyd ‘n jong arrogante prokureurtjie wat nie kan werk kry nie maar die gawe het om groot somme geld soos kaas uit te snuif. As die kaas ryk, goed en genoeg is, dan is die term pro-bono vanselfsprekend. Dis toe juis so vent, ‘n ene Swanepoel, wat oor Sussie se pad kom, en haar ‘n goeie gat in die kop in praat. Ou Fielies moet nou ordentlik vir haar begin sorg of sy gaan met hom skei en dit gaan nie ‘n baie mooi affêre wees nie.
Fielies aan die ander kant is nou een van daardie manne, soos die meeste manne in die dorp, wat nie veel weet van vrouens en emosies en al daardie klas van dinge nie, en so hoor hy die dinge wat Sussie alles praat, maar hy verstaan dit nie lekker nie. Hy kan net sien sy is ongelukkig, en dag hy nooi haar maar vir ‘n piekniek daar onder teen die rotse by die spruit, maar sy wil niks weet nie. Hy sit later so mismoedig daar op die rimepiesbank op sy stoep en sing sy klaagliedere aan niemand anders as Gertjie nie. Hy en Sussie was dan so gelukkig en het nie ‘n probleem van ‘n dag oud gehad nie. Hy weet nou regtig nie wat verander het nie. En hoe meer die man probeer om agter die kap van die byl te kom, hoe meer kuier Sussie in die kafee met die Swannie prokureurtjie en al sy baie papierwerk.
Nou ken ek ook maar vir Gertjie. En ek hou van Gertjie. En sy kan baie skerp wees die dag wanneer daar ‘n katestrofe aan die kom is. Maar oor die algemeen het sy nie regtig veel van wat mens sou noem, die dieper insigte tot die siel van ‘n man nie. Oor haar nuwe lewe sonder stysel of suiker, haar nuutgevonde kimchi en suurkool resepte, en al die talle oefeninge wat sy soos ‘n Franse soldaat doen, kan sy ure lank oor gesels. Oor die probleme met Sussie egter, het die wysheid effens aan die kort end getrek.
En ou Fielies is maar ook net homself. As hy ‘n haas uit sy hoed uit kon trek dan het hy, maar die Sussie het by daai tyd toe nou goed haar besluite geneem. Hulle, dis nou sy en Swannie met sy deftige pak klere gaan vir Fielies kaal uittrek. Sy het nog nie eens die geld nie maar komandeer haar nuwe raadgewer om sommer haar testament te wysig na aanleiding van die verwikkelinge. Swannie glimlag breed en se hy doen dit sodra hy die ding in die hande het. Sagkuns laat sy dit toe val dat sy nog nie so iets soos ‘n testament besit nie en dat hy dit maar vir haar so gou moontlik moet optrek.
Of Swannie geweet het wat hy doen of nie, sal ek nou nie kan se nie. Maar wat Gertjie my toe na die tyd vertel is dat een laat middag net voor die son oor die rante verdwyn, toe land daar ‘n pak leers op sy kombuistafel. ‘n Opsomming, of te wel, deel van ‘n opsomming van sy besigheid en finansiele lewe tot dusver. En die somme was, om dit ordentlik te hou, substansieel. En dit was nie net somme nie. Geen mens kon uitmaak wat daar aan gaan nie. Dit was regs-briewe voor en wat hulle noem regs-opinies agter, en hofsake van nog voor Jan van Riebeeck se tyd met ‘n hele biblioteek vol ander dokumente.
Fielies is dadelik op die foon want hy wil by sy ouditeer weet waar Sussie aan al die goed kom. Is dit nie konfidensieel nie? Sy Ouditeur wou hom laat weet het wat aangaan maar kon hom nie in die hande kry nie. Fielies was blykbaar nie aldag by die huis om die foon te antwoord nie en met ‘n selfoon is hy minder as handig.
Maar daar sit hy toe nou. Met daardie pakke leers langs die Mokka potjie op die kombuistafel. Hy sien toe net donker tye voor le en drink sy koffie net swart.
En so sit Fielies en Gertjie, dag in en dag uit om daardie tafel en probeer om die ding baas te raak. Maar eintlik het nie een van die twee ‘n idee nie. Enige rasionele persoon sou mos nou al lankal ‘n prokureur gekry het om die saak te behartig, maar ou Fielies reken sy vrou gaan alles vat, en dan sit hy met ‘n klomp gebakte pere in die vorm van skuld aan die prokureur. En dit wil hy nie he nie. Self sal hy die pot roer, en hoop vir die beste.
Ek het begin wonder waar Gertjie so met al haar dae bly, en sy’t my in geen onduidelike terme laat weet dat sy besig is met die X-files. Meer korek, hulle is besig met die X-files. Gertjie se ma kan my nie voor haar aangesig verdra nie, maar selfs die ou tannie het my gebel om te hoor of ek dalk weet met watse spul haar dogter besig is. Toe ek die X-files noem, het ek my verbeel ek hoor ‘n gehuig soos ‘n haena wat ‘n paniekaanval kry. Ek dink nie Mevrou Vermaak het dit te goed gevat nie.
Ek het geweet beide Gertjie en Fielies gaan weldrae tot hulle sinne kom, en dat dit net ‘n kwessie van tyd was. Maar hoeveel tyd? Sussie en Swannie laat nie op hulle wag nie, en gooi die sperdatums asof die einde van die wêreld enige oomblik gaan aanbreek. Swannie se offisiele dokumentasie bly ent aan kom, en op en om die kombuistafel van die Fouche huishouding is dit X-files, X-files en nog X-files. Fielies, soos hy gewoonlik doen wanneer hy oorweldig is met akademiese oefeninge, krap sy hare net deurmekaar en verlang alewig na die ou dae toe alles eenvoudiger was.
Ek kon sien die ding haal vir Gertjie uit, (of dit nou al die regs-papiere was of Fielies se mismoedigheid, is ek nie honderd persent seker nie,) en ek dag toe laat ek my hand in die storie probeer.
“Sussie,” sê ek toe ek met ‘n melktert en koeksuster vir haar in haar suster se woonstel gaan kuier. “Was jy al ooit in Frankryk?”
“Nee,” sê sy. Sy was nog nie in Frankryk nie.
“Kan jy Frans praat?”
“Nee.” Sy kan nie Frans praat nie.
“Lekker melktert hierdie, nê?”
Kyk, ek het dit skaars gesê toe bars sy in trane uit. Ek het haar uintlik jammer gekry want sy het pas haar mond vol melktert gestop toe sy daardie teelepel in die bordjie laat val, vir die mat op die blokkies vloer voor haar staar en die trane oor haar wange rol. Sy kon nie sluk nie, maar sy wou met die deftige man voor haar ook nie die goed terug in die bord spoeg nie.
Dit blyk toe dat die hele affêre haar ook, om dit lig te stel, lekker moeg gemaak het. Om realisties te wees, sy het skoon uitgemergel gelyk soos wat sy daar sit. Jy, ek is ook maar ‘n man, en die ding het my ook tot ‘n goeie mate onkant getrap. Ek kyk toe maar na die parkiete in die hok en sien dat hulle die oggend son baie meer as Gertjie geniet.
“Ek het nie gedink,” begin sy toe sy eers bedaar het, en die tert in die keelgat af is, “dat dit so verskriklike moeilikheid gaan af gee nie. Ek het maar net iemand gesoek wat na my sal luister. Niemand luister ooit na my nie. Nie Fielies nie. Nie… nie… niemand nie!”
“Dit wil my voorkom Swannie het geluister.”
“Ja,” haar mond trek skeef, haar gesig vol van die hartseer. “En toe gaan hy aan oor ek verdien ‘n beter lewe en Fielies verdien nie iemand soos ek nie en ek verdien beter en dat ek met hom moet skei en al so aan. Maar dis nou oorlog. En ek wou nooit hierdie oorlog gehad het nie. Ek is nie ‘n oorlog mens nie. Ek is ‘n blomme mens. Maar nou weet ek nie wat om te doen meer nie.”
Ek sê niks. Skud net my kop terwyl ek sien hoe die mukus by haar neusie uit en oor haar lippe loop. Snot en trane sit sy daar in haar selfbejammering. Maar sit, sit ek. Ek is nou nie ‘n ou wat jong meisies al dag staan en paai nie, maar as ‘n man soos Fielies in die slag ly, bly daar nie veel oor as om vas te skop in die loopgraaf nie. Natuurlik is my hoof prioriteit hier Gertjie se welstand, maar ek sal dit nou nie in die publiek erken nie. ‘Laat my goeie dade maar vir hulleself spreek,’ is wat ek altyd sê.
Nietemin, na Sussie haar hart uitgepraat en gehuil het, en ek hoor dat sy drie dae laas geslaap het, toe is sy meer oop vir voorstelle. Of eerder, sy gryp my voorstelle aan asof dit manna uit die Hemel is. Haar oe blink van blydskap, (en trane seker, ek weet nooit mooi nie,) en net daar en dan is dit asof die wereld van haar skouers af val.
“Maar!” gil sy met angs in haar oe. “Swannie sal betaling wil hê, nie so nie? Hy gaan se ek het sy tyd gemors!”
“Was dit pro bono?”
“Ja.”
“Het jy ‘n kontrak met hom geteken oor vergoeding?”
“Nee. Dit was alles… ons het net gepraat.”
“En hy het jou oortuig om te skei van Fielies?”
“Ongelukkig ja… Maar hy het goed bedoel…”
“Goed bedoel my mooi boude. Daai ou gaan nie ‘n sent uit jou of Fielies uit kry nie.”
“Maar as hy my dagvaar?”
“Dink jy die magistraat hier in die dorp gaan na daardie lae lak luister na jy en Fielies weer saam terug is en hy die hele storie gehoor het?”
“Seker nie.”
“Verseker nie! Ons liewe magistraat hier in die dorp sal daardie perd op sy agter-end hier uit die dorp uit skop.”
“Jy’s darem slim met die goeters, Janneman.”
“Kan ek vir Fielies bel?”
“Bel hom en se vir hom hy moet die water op sit. Ek, Sussie Fouche is oppad.”
Toe ek hom bel toe is dit Gertjie wat antwoord. Sy val weg met die feit dat sy moeg is en nie nou tyd het vir my om te kom staan en grappies maak nie.
“Wel my ou ding, hiervoor het jy tyd.”
“Wat’s dit?”
“Sussie kom huis toe. Maar daar is voorwaardes.”
“Voorwaardes?”
“Voorwaardes ja. Fielies koop vir haar die grootste plat-skerm TV wat hy kan kry. Daai wat so kurwe het en al. Ken jy hulle?”
“Ja ja, wat nog? Jy’t gese voorwaardes. In die meervoud.”
“Fielies vat vir Gertjie Frankryk toe vir ‘n maand.”
“En?”
“Dis dit.”
Daar was so oomblik van stilte aan die ander kant.
“Dink jy hy sal gaan daarvoor?” vra ek.
“Janneman, ek weet nie hoe jy dit reg gekry het nie, maar ou Fielies sal haar maan toe vat as hy moet. Maar wat nou van al hierdie x-files?”
“Nee wat, vat daai x-files maan toe as jy wil.”
“Sorg jy net dat jy saam met Sussie hierna toe kom. Dan bespreek ons ons eie trippie Spanje toe.”In daardie opsig was ek dan ook net soos Fielies. Vir Gertjie, eer my waarheid, sal ek enige iets doen.
