A COUNTRY GUEST HOUSE HOLIDAY
We must all have memories of childhood holidays, stored away somewhere. Perhaps
these recollections will stir a reminiscence or two.
The grizzled boer farmer blanched slightly at his first sight of the girls. He had driven
his rattling old bakkie from the plaas into the dorpie early that morning, laden with
four sacks of pumpkins to exchange for the diesel he needed for the tractor. He had
long exceeded his credit at the local Ko-Op and was now forced to negotiate with the
tradesmen hoping that he could manage to survive for the next couple of months until
the mielie and groundnut harvest started.
Driving up to the stasie in a cloud of dust, he slammed on the brakes and walked
rapidly towards the building. Pulled up short by the sight of the two timid girls waiting
shyly outside the office, he wondered what he and Bokkie had got themselves into.
If it had not been for the terrible shortage of cash he would never have agreed to take
these two schoolgirls for the July school holidays – but they needed the money so
badly, and they were only the second guests who had booked to stay at the farm.
Whatever were the girl’s parents thinking of, sending these two youngsters on their
own, to a place nobody knew. It was certainly taking a moer of a chance – but then,
who was he to criticise, and overriding it all, was his desperate need to generate
some cash.
Throwing the suitcases into the bakkie and shouting to Jan to ‘klim op’ they started
off in a splatter of pebbles and a cloud of dust. Arriving at the farm after twenty miles
of dusty, corrugated roads the welcome was cool and distant. Bokkie did not speak
much English, and the three tow-headed, kaal-footed sons stood and regarded these
two ‘city slickers’ with wide-open eyes, and thinly veiled hostility. Rubbing their dusty
feet up and down the backs of their mud-streaked legs, the boys decided that the
girls offered no obvious possibilities for teasing or as maats, and certainly would not
be conversant with the skills of Rugby and Jukskei, the country game of tossing
horse-shoes over upright spikes.
“Nah! Kom laat ons weg” they unanimously decided, and scampered off back to the
lands, where they had that morning constructed an elaborate system of canals which
was to be the site of their newest engineering miracle if they could evade Pa’s ever-
watchful eye.
The girls were tired after the long, slow train journey from Johannesburg; during the
off-season, there was a only skeleton train service and the journey had taken hours.
Until the harvest was in full swing in a few weeks passenger trains ran only once a
week, but when the harvest was ready, the long goods trains would run round the
clock taking the crop to the huge storage silos outside the nearest small town.
The days drifted by, frosty cold at night, huge stars overhead, dusty and windy by
day. Quiet evenings were spent by the black coal stove while Bokkie knitted and the
boys squabbled quietly in a corner. Large farm meals of home raised meat and eggs,
plenty of mielies, home-made bread and butter and delicious strawberry jam, and
quarts of rich fresh milk were put on the table at six o’clock every evening. Food like
this put plenty of muscle on young bodies, and ensured sound sleep at night.
After a few days the girls realised that they were not alone on the farm with the
family. Away from the main house was a long dormitory which housed ten Italian
prisoners-of-war. These men had gladly accepted unpaid labour on the farm in
exchange for living behind barbed wire under armed guard. They gave an air of
tenacity and ribald humour to many of the farm tasks and exuded an aura of macho
strength which was almost palpable.
Coming from farming backgrounds in Italy they were happy to be back in familiar
surroundings with the smells and sounds of animals, and no matter how arduous the
task, they were always willing to help. They were popular in the district, and a couple
of them had ‘skelms’ on neighbouring farms, thinking that when the war was over,
they would remain in South Africa and marry the women with whom they had formed
liaisons.
On Sundays they caught the half-wild farm horses and cantered bare-legged across
the wintry, frost-silvered veld to see their girls, returning as the setting sun gilded the
savannah in shades of rose and gold, legs rubbed raw by the chafing of the saddles,
their eyes shining with sexual excesses and lips swollen with stolen kisses.
Entering the cool, dark dormitory brightened by strings of red and yellow pimentos
and chillies hanging from the rafters, dust motes drifting in a stray beam of sunlight,
the girls whispered together.
“When do you think they’re going to be back from the lands?”
“Not for ages, Bokkie hasn’t rung the bell for midday break, so we’ve got time to look
around.”
Walking from bed to bed, the girls fingered the shaving tackle, picked up and
examined treasured photos, and sniffed the men’s clothing. Immersed in the thrill of
their search and knowing full-well that it was something their parents would condemn
with horror – two single girls in a men’s dormitory, what would they be up to next –
they were just about to kick off their shoes and wriggle around on the nearest, softest
bed when they were startled to hear an angry voice behind them.
“What the bliksem are you jongmeisies doing here?” the farmer roared, grabbing a
shoulder each and pushing them out of the door. “Don’t you know what you are
doing? You are not to enter the men’s dormitory at any time. As it is, I am thinking of
phoning both your parents and telling them what you have done, and getting them to
come and fetch you home. I’m not going to be responsible for caring for two loose
women on my property. If you damn fools don’t know how to behave, it is up to your
parents to care for you, not me.”
Frog-marched back to the house; he pushed them roughly into the kitchen and
handed them over to Bokkie. Ignored by the family, and bored with the lack of
attention and amusements, the girls decided that perhaps the farmer’s idea was not
such a bad one after all, and hitching a lift to town from a neighbour the next day,
they phoned home. Soon it was arranged that they would go back on Friday,
although there would be no refund of the money already paid for the days not used.
Arriving back in Park Station after an interminable return journey, two angry fathers
were waiting for their daughters. “This is the last time you two young ladies go away
together. If you can’t be trusted to behave, then you’ll just have to learn what it’s like
to stay where we can keep an eye on you.”
Sadly the two friends locked little fingers and silently wished things had turned out
differently. But it did not matter, they both knew that by December the two fathers
would have forgotten their anger, and they already had plans to slip away to Durban
for Christmas.