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Authors: Rosalind Brett
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cushion by hand.”
Elva put on her withdrawn look, said after a minute or so, “There’s a Mrs. Newman at one of the farms—Aapie’s Drift. I know she has two machines—an old and a new. She might lend you the old one.”
“Will you ask her for me? ”
“I couldn’t. She’s one of these soft, motherly young women—I can’t stand the type. Go over and see her yourself.”
“I’ve no way of carrying the machine.”
“She’ll send it—they have two cars.”
“How do I find the farm?”
“You turn right along the Peterson land on the road, and keep going till you reach the bridge over a big sluit — that’s actually th e Drift. Turn right again and Aapie’s Drift Farm is on the left. It’s signposted. The whole distance is not more than six miles. You can use the roan.”
Ann hesitated. “Won’t it seem awfully odd?—I haven’t even met the woman. If you’d go with me ... ”
“Not a chance,” said Elva firmly. “Mrs. Newman won’t mind your asking a favour. That’s the type they are — always lending each other things and helping out with servants when one of them gets sick.”
“They sound nice.”
“They would—to you.” Elva caught herself up. “That’s not meant as an insult. I guess I’m just not womanly enough to mix, that’s all. You go over; she’ll be glad to see you.”
Ann didn’t decide at once, but after she had sewn a few seams of the cushion-covers she realized how difficult it would be to tailor the chair renovations by hand. The material was too thick and frayed too easily for hand - sewing. So after lunch she put on her dark slacks and a white shirt, saddled the roan and trotted away.
It was a brilliant afternoon. A strong breeze kept wisps of white cloud drifting across a deep blue sky, and it bent the grass and rustled the gum trees but made no impression at all on the mimosa thorn bush. The veld was remarkable, Ann thought. No fences anywhere, just mile upon mile of pastureland backed by the rocky brown hills that grew clumps of flowers and red-hot-poker aloes where were now in bud. Sheep dotted the landscape like a wide scattering of stones, and an occasional sheep-boy lay in the sun or sat on a rock, always facing the wind.
One of the shepherds Ann saw was old and bearded; he smoked a long-stemmed pipe which had a metal cap attached to it by a chain, and he doffed his worn felt hat politely as she passed on the grass verge. At the Drift, some children were playing beyond the bridge; their smooth brown faces smiled up at her and most of them waved, though one venturesome lass held out cupped hands.
“Sweeties?” she said.
Ann took from her pocket the handful of sugar lumps she carried for the horse and tossed them over the bridge amid laughter and scrambling. Smiling to herself, she turned right and crossed to the other verge. She felt free, and happier than at any time since she had arrived at Groenkop. She saw tall mealie stalks drying off to make cattle fodder, a thriving expanse of giant lucerne, a few acres of fruit trees and then again the veld. The vast growing lands seemed endless. But she found the sign pointing to Aapie’s Drift Farm, and turned along a lane between clipped acacia. A hundred yards from the road stood the house, square and rather modern , with a gravelled yard in front of it. Under an umbrella tree there was a bar with hooks for the tethering of horses, and Ann dismounted and made use of one of the hooks before dusting down her slacks and going up into the porch of the house. She pressed an ordinary electric bell and waited.
The door was opened by a native maid; from the way she intimated that the missus should enter the house it was obvious that she had not long left the kraal. But she was trying hard.
“I tell the missus,” she said, and departed.
The room was comfortably furnished in a solid, everlasting fashion. At one side of the large window stood a baby grand piano and at the other was a bookcase. The brick
Elva put on her withdrawn look, said after a minute or so, “There’s a Mrs. Newman at one of the farms—Aapie’s Drift. I know she has two machines—an old and a new. She might lend you the old one.”
“Will you ask her for me? ”
“I couldn’t. She’s one of these soft, motherly young women—I can’t stand the type. Go over and see her yourself.”
“I’ve no way of carrying the machine.”
“She’ll send it—they have two cars.”
“How do I find the farm?”
“You turn right along the Peterson land on the road, and keep going till you reach the bridge over a big sluit — that’s actually th e Drift. Turn right again and Aapie’s Drift Farm is on the left. It’s signposted. The whole distance is not more than six miles. You can use the roan.”
Ann hesitated. “Won’t it seem awfully odd?—I haven’t even met the woman. If you’d go with me ... ”
“Not a chance,” said Elva firmly. “Mrs. Newman won’t mind your asking a favour. That’s the type they are — always lending each other things and helping out with servants when one of them gets sick.”
“They sound nice.”
“They would—to you.” Elva caught herself up. “That’s not meant as an insult. I guess I’m just not womanly enough to mix, that’s all. You go over; she’ll be glad to see you.”
Ann didn’t decide at once, but after she had sewn a few seams of the cushion-covers she realized how difficult it would be to tailor the chair renovations by hand. The material was too thick and frayed too easily for hand - sewing. So after lunch she put on her dark slacks and a white shirt, saddled the roan and trotted away.
It was a brilliant afternoon. A strong breeze kept wisps of white cloud drifting across a deep blue sky, and it bent the grass and rustled the gum trees but made no impression at all on the mimosa thorn bush. The veld was remarkable, Ann thought. No fences anywhere, just mile upon mile of pastureland backed by the rocky brown hills that grew clumps of flowers and red-hot-poker aloes where were now in bud. Sheep dotted the landscape like a wide scattering of stones, and an occasional sheep-boy lay in the sun or sat on a rock, always facing the wind.
One of the shepherds Ann saw was old and bearded; he smoked a long-stemmed pipe which had a metal cap attached to it by a chain, and he doffed his worn felt hat politely as she passed on the grass verge. At the Drift, some children were playing beyond the bridge; their smooth brown faces smiled up at her and most of them waved, though one venturesome lass held out cupped hands.
“Sweeties?” she said.
Ann took from her pocket the handful of sugar lumps she carried for the horse and tossed them over the bridge amid laughter and scrambling. Smiling to herself, she turned right and crossed to the other verge. She felt free, and happier than at any time since she had arrived at Groenkop. She saw tall mealie stalks drying off to make cattle fodder, a thriving expanse of giant lucerne, a few acres of fruit trees and then again the veld. The vast growing lands seemed endless. But she found the sign pointing to Aapie’s Drift Farm, and turned along a lane between clipped acacia. A hundred yards from the road stood the house, square and rather modern , with a gravelled yard in front of it. Under an umbrella tree there was a bar with hooks for the tethering of horses, and Ann dismounted and made use of one of the hooks before dusting down her slacks and going up into the porch of the house. She pressed an ordinary electric bell and waited.
The door was opened by a native maid; from the way she intimated that the missus should enter the house it was obvious that she had not long left the kraal. But she was trying hard.
“I tell the missus,” she said, and departed.
The room was comfortably furnished in a solid, everlasting fashion. At one side of the large window stood a baby grand piano and at the other was a bookcase. The brick
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