should look again, Carl.”
He gets out and walks back along the road a few yards. “Anyone? Elkeen daar? ” A scuffling in the grass, some small rodent darting away. In the distance the faint barking of a dog.
“Nothing,” he says when he returns to the car. “It must have been an antelope.”
The dust hangs in the faint light of approaching dawn as the car drives off.
9
A S DAWN TOUCHES the kraal, Tembi leaves her hut and makes her way along the path from the kraal to the kitchen of the farmhouse, as her mother does every morning. She knows what needs to be done, for Grace has instructed her, and even though she will be alone in preparing the breakfast on this day, the tasks are not unfamiliar. Often she had come with her mother, and sat at the kitchen table with a mug of hot tea and a rusk for dipping while Grace went about her morning duties. But Tembi has never been into the other rooms of the house, not even when the Missus and the farmer were away. Grace has never allowed that. When Tembi asked why, her mother replied, “This is not our house,” in a tone of finality that cut off Tembi’s curiosity. Tembi has had to content herself with only a glimpse through the doorway into the dining room, and down the corridor to the other rooms where Missus Märit lives.
Today Tembi has been instructed to prepare the breakfast and to take it into the dining room. When breakfast is ready, she is to ring the little silver bell that sits on the sideboard. She is to wait in the kitchen until the Missus and Baas Ben are finished and then clear away and wash the dishes. After that, if Missus Märit does not require her to do anything else, she is to go to her regular work in the dairy.
In the kitchen Tembi lifts her mother’s apron from the hook and ties it around her waist. The edge of the apron dangles to her knees and she loops the strings twice around her waist. After she scrapes out the cold ashes from the big iron stove and loads it with fresh wood and a few pieces of coal, Tembi stands shivering next to the open stove door until the fire is blazing, then she fills the kettle with water and sets it on the stovetop.
What comes next? She runs over the sequence of instructions Grace has given her. Porridge, then eggs, then tea and toast. The porridge that she measures into the pot is not the coarse maize that she herself eats, but something much more finely ground, although the proportions of water and grain are the same. While she slices bread for toast she keeps an eye on the porridge, so that when it boils she can shift it off the direct heat and let it steam for a few minutes. The bread goes onto the grill rack in the upper part of the oven to toast.
After giving the porridge a quick stir to make sure there are no lumps, Tembi counts out the cutlery, two of everything: knives, forks, spoons, teaspoons, cups and saucers, plates, side plates, egg cups, napkins. All of it is loaded onto a tray and carried into the dining room. She takes a tablecloth from the sideboard and sets the table, one setting on each side. Then the salt and pepper shakers, sugar bowl—and make sure there is enough sugar—then milk from the fridge for the porridge, poured into a small jug, finally HP Sauce, butter, marmalade.
The toast! She runs back into the kitchen and pulls the grill rack from where a tendril of smoke is drifting. One of the slices is burned. So she cuts another from the loaf and slides it onto the grill. Another quick stir of the porridge before moving it to the side of the stove away from the heat. Now the water in the kettle is boiling and she must pour some into a pot and add two eggs to boil and watch the little clock carefully so that the eggs cook for just the right amount of time, not too soft and not too hard. While she stands at the stove watching the hands of the clock, Tembi chews the burned slice of toast and counts off in her mind all the steps she has taken, to be sure she has not forgotten anything.
The
He gets out and walks back along the road a few yards. “Anyone? Elkeen daar? ” A scuffling in the grass, some small rodent darting away. In the distance the faint barking of a dog.
“Nothing,” he says when he returns to the car. “It must have been an antelope.”
The dust hangs in the faint light of approaching dawn as the car drives off.
9
A S DAWN TOUCHES the kraal, Tembi leaves her hut and makes her way along the path from the kraal to the kitchen of the farmhouse, as her mother does every morning. She knows what needs to be done, for Grace has instructed her, and even though she will be alone in preparing the breakfast on this day, the tasks are not unfamiliar. Often she had come with her mother, and sat at the kitchen table with a mug of hot tea and a rusk for dipping while Grace went about her morning duties. But Tembi has never been into the other rooms of the house, not even when the Missus and the farmer were away. Grace has never allowed that. When Tembi asked why, her mother replied, “This is not our house,” in a tone of finality that cut off Tembi’s curiosity. Tembi has had to content herself with only a glimpse through the doorway into the dining room, and down the corridor to the other rooms where Missus Märit lives.
Today Tembi has been instructed to prepare the breakfast and to take it into the dining room. When breakfast is ready, she is to ring the little silver bell that sits on the sideboard. She is to wait in the kitchen until the Missus and Baas Ben are finished and then clear away and wash the dishes. After that, if Missus Märit does not require her to do anything else, she is to go to her regular work in the dairy.
In the kitchen Tembi lifts her mother’s apron from the hook and ties it around her waist. The edge of the apron dangles to her knees and she loops the strings twice around her waist. After she scrapes out the cold ashes from the big iron stove and loads it with fresh wood and a few pieces of coal, Tembi stands shivering next to the open stove door until the fire is blazing, then she fills the kettle with water and sets it on the stovetop.
What comes next? She runs over the sequence of instructions Grace has given her. Porridge, then eggs, then tea and toast. The porridge that she measures into the pot is not the coarse maize that she herself eats, but something much more finely ground, although the proportions of water and grain are the same. While she slices bread for toast she keeps an eye on the porridge, so that when it boils she can shift it off the direct heat and let it steam for a few minutes. The bread goes onto the grill rack in the upper part of the oven to toast.
After giving the porridge a quick stir to make sure there are no lumps, Tembi counts out the cutlery, two of everything: knives, forks, spoons, teaspoons, cups and saucers, plates, side plates, egg cups, napkins. All of it is loaded onto a tray and carried into the dining room. She takes a tablecloth from the sideboard and sets the table, one setting on each side. Then the salt and pepper shakers, sugar bowl—and make sure there is enough sugar—then milk from the fridge for the porridge, poured into a small jug, finally HP Sauce, butter, marmalade.
The toast! She runs back into the kitchen and pulls the grill rack from where a tendril of smoke is drifting. One of the slices is burned. So she cuts another from the loaf and slides it onto the grill. Another quick stir of the porridge before moving it to the side of the stove away from the heat. Now the water in the kettle is boiling and she must pour some into a pot and add two eggs to boil and watch the little clock carefully so that the eggs cook for just the right amount of time, not too soft and not too hard. While she stands at the stove watching the hands of the clock, Tembi chews the burned slice of toast and counts off in her mind all the steps she has taken, to be sure she has not forgotten anything.
The
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