When Time Fails (Silverman Saga Book 2) (23 page)

Thys liberally shook salt over his fried eggs, bacon and tomato, and Annamari bit her tongue. He always got irritable and snappy if she reminded him that the doctor had told him to cut down on salt. He said it made him feel old to have to worry about his blood pressure. And he wasn’t old, for heaven’s sake. He was only fifty-five. So was she. That sounded so old. Where had time gone? This year was already nearly over. The freezing winter mornings had given way to a pleasant crispness, and she and Thys could once again have breakfast on th
e
stoe
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and breathe in the clean, pure Steynspruit air. The first rains hadn’t come yet, but they would, and then ploughing would begin and before they knew it, it would be Christmas and the start of another year. She blinked. Every time she thought about the start of the ploughing season she wanted to cry because it reminded her that Petrus wouldn’t be there to oversee it all.

But the start of the new season also held the promise that perhaps the land claim would finally be settled. However, she wasn’t holding her breath. The legal process was still limping at funeral pace but Mr Venter said it was reaching its conclusion. Every appeal, every twist and turn that could been taken, had been taken. This was it. The last – the very, very last – hurdle. Whatever decision came down from the Constitutional Court would be cast in stone. Petrus wouldn’t be around to learn the result of that either – and perhaps that was a good thing. Maybe.

‘Have you heard from Arno yet?’ Thys asked, startling her out of her reverie. ‘Isn’t he getting back soon from – where did he go this time?’

She shrugged. It was difficult to keep track of all her sons’ gallivanting around the world. It seemed like it was just yesterday that De Wet had returned to New Zealand from the England tour but he was already off to India for another tournament; Steyn – now that he had his commercial pilot’s licence – was somewhere in Botswana – or was it Kenya this month? He loved his job, flying rich tourists in and out of remote game lodges while he built up flying hours, he said, so that he could qualify for his Airline Transport Pilot Licence and then apply to one of the larger airlines somewhere in the world – not South African Airways obviously – for a job.

And then there was Arno – he was her biggest worry. He seemed so unsettled and unhappy, especially now that Silver Properties had been taken over by a foreign consortium.

‘The Silverman children didn’t want to keep the company, and who can blame them?’ Arno had explained. ‘I’ll be okay. I’ve already been offered a position in the new organisation; but I’m not sure whether I’ll take it.’

‘Why wouldn’t you? What will you do? You are far too young to retire,’ Thys had joked, but he had looked at Annamari and frowned, clearly as concerned as she felt.

‘I’m going to take a couple of months to decide. I’ve barely had a decent holiday in years – not since I started working for Silver Properties. I need time to think. To figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life. I think I’m going to travel for a bit, see something of the world.’

‘But you’ve travelled all over the place. You’ve been everywhere,’ Annamari said.

‘Ja, but basically all I’ve seen are airports, hotels and meeting rooms. I want to see how other people live. Do the touristy things I’ve never had a chance to do. Just go and, I don’t know, just be. Look around. Consider my options. Have a belated gap year sort of thing. A very belated gap year!’

They all laughed but Annamari’s stomach clenched. All those years, while he had worked for Alan Silverman, she had worried she would lose her son. Now that Alan Silverman was dead, she was terrified that she could lose him anyway. She wished he had a wife, children – something that would give him stability, something to live for. He was so alone. It hadn’t been particularly hard for him in the first few months after Alan’s death. In fact, Arno had seemed surprisingly happy. He was terribly busy working with the Silverman children to keep the company going and to plan for its future. But now even that was gone. No wonder he was miserable. She hoped this trip would help him find himself. It was terribly worrying that she didn’t know where he was. Oh, she knew he was somewhere in Europe but she didn’t know where. He was just going to follow his nose, he’d said before leaving South Africa. Since then, he had phoned a few times, but he had been very vague about his itinerary. It was very frustrating and disquieting.

She hadn’t even been able to reach him to tell him that Petrus had died. Simply passed away quietly in his sleep. So he hadn’t come to the funeral.

The funeral. For the first time in her life, Annamari had felt odd, uncomfortable, almost an intruder among her own people. When Beauty arrived, looking every inch the successful, smart, young Judge in an elegant suit and high heels, her long black hair coiled into a neat knot at the nape of her neck, and her blue eyes even bluer behind square, black-framed glasses, Annamari’s heart had swelled with pride. She had hurried over to her, put her arms around her.

‘Beauty, I’m so sorry about your uncle,’ she whispered.

‘MaAnni,’ Beauty said, shrugging herself out of Annamari’s comforting embrace. ‘I see Arno isn’t here. Did you tell him not to come? Even to my uncle’s funeral?’

‘No, of course not. We don’t know where...’ But before she could explain, Beauty turned away and was soon deep in conversation with Busi and several other young kibbutz members. “The next generation of Kibbutz Steynspruiters”, Thys always called them.

Beauty didn’t invite them to the special memorial service she arranged for Petrus in the kibbutz community hall the next day. Well, strictly speaking, they hadn’t really needed an invitation... it was just that no one told her and Thys about it. So while the kibbutz members all got together to celebrate Petrus’ life, she and Thys had watched a repeat o
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Masterche
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BBC Entertainmen
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.

***

Annamari’s cell phone buzzed on the table next to her. She snatched it up.

‘Arno, hello. Where are you?’

‘At home, Ma. Got back last night. Late.’

‘Are you okay? Did you have a good trip? Where were you? Are you home for good?’

Arno laughed. ‘So many questions. Listen Ma...’ he hesitated and Annamari felt the familiar dread rise in her chest. ‘Um... Ma. You and Pa aren’t planning on going anywhere for the next few days are you?’

‘When do we ever go anywhere? Why?’

‘I have something important to tell you. I’m going to drive down to Steynspruit tomorrow if that’s okay. Should get there around three-ish, four.’

‘Of course. But why can’t you tell us now? You sound so serious. Are you sure you’re alright?’

‘I’m fine. Really. But I’d rather tell you – in person. Don’t worry. You’ll be happy. I think.’

Annamari wept, muffling her sobs in the pillow. She could hear Thys and Arno murmuring quietly outside the door. She wanted them to think she was asleep. She couldn’t face them. She couldn’t face anyone. Dr Fourie had given her an injection which was supposed to make her sleep but she was still wide awake, adrenaline and panic counteracting whatever had been in the syringe. She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe deeply and rhythmically as the door squeaked open. She heard Thys whisper: ‘She’s asleep.’ She heard Thys cross the room and close the curtains. She heard him make his way back to door, heard it squeak closed. She allowed herself to weep again.

Her thoughts chased themselves around and around in her mind. It was the shock, the absolute horror as recognition had dawned that had caused her to faint. She had never, ever fainted in her life. She gingerly fingered the lump on her head, on the side, towards the back. She must have hit something as she fell. She didn’t remember. She vaguely remembered Arno lifting her, carrying her into the house, into her bedroom. And then Dr Fourie had arrived and he’d looked in her eyes and taken her blood pressure and given her an injection. He’d told her she might have a slight concussion and to take it easy for a couple of days. She heard him telling Arno she would be fine. He was wrong. She would never, ever be “fine” again. She had a bit of a headache but it was nothing, nothing compared to the pain sitting somewhere in her stomach, her chest.

‘What on earth could have made her faint like that?’ Arno had asked.

‘Perhaps she stood up too quickly and her blood pressure dropped?’ Dr Fourie said.

‘I don’t think so. She was standing at the top of the stairs waiting for us; and then she went white, and sort of groaned and fell.’

Dr Fourie said he couldn’t be sure but if she got any worse, he’d run some more tests tomorrow in his rooms and if necessary, send her through to a specialist in Bethlehem.

‘I wouldn’t worry. These things happen. I don’t think it’s anything too serious, but tell your father to phone me if he’s concerned about anything.’

Not too serious? It was a catastrophe. Tears seeped passed her closed lids. She willed them to stop. She had to think. She had to do something before it was too late. What if she was too late? What if they were already engaged? Or worse – married? Had there been a ring on the girl’s finger? She hadn’t noticed. And even if they weren’t engaged or married... they couldn’t stay together. They just couldn’t. She had to stop them.

Anger, deep and visceral, rose in her throat. What on earth was wrong with the boy? Why did he always fall for the wrong girls? Why did he always do this to her? ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Annamari,’ she muttered to herself. It wasn’t Arno’s fault. It couldn’t be his fault. It was just a cruel, spiteful, twist of fate. She shivered. Thys always used to say there was no such thing as fate. He always used to say that everything was God’s will. Was this God’s way of punishing her? Surely not. Surely even an angry, wrathful God would not use Arno – who had done absolutely nothing bad in his entire life – to punish her? She wrapped her arms around her ice cold body and stared at the large damp spot on the ceiling.

***

Annamari swallowed two Panados and dragged herself off the bed. She opened the curtains. The sun had not yet peeped over the Malutis, but the sky was beginning to lighten. The silhouettes of the remaining three poplars mocked her. The others had all succumbed to a variety of mishaps over the years – high winds and fire, usually. Last year, two had been struck by lightning and had come crashing down, blocking the entrance to Steynspruit.

She sat down on Thys’ side of the bed and buried her face in her hands. She had no more tears. Thys had probably slept in the spare room, so he wouldn’t disturb her. He had crept into their room regularly throughout the night to check on her and she had feigned sleep. But she hadn’t slept at all. Not a wink. Her eyes felt as if they had been sandpapered. There was a dull ache behind her eyes, but nothing that the Panados wouldn’t take care of. She got up and walked to the window again. She looked out. And shuddered.

Arno was walking along the path towards the school. His arm was around the girl’s shoulders; his head was tilted towards her and she was laughing up at him. Annamari watched, mesmerised as they stopped and faced each other. Arno bent his head to her as she raised her face to his. They kissed. A long kiss. Annamari knew she shouldn’t be watching them like this, spying on them really, but she couldn’t look away. The kiss ended, and Annamari let out the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. They walked on, out of sight but Annamari knew where they were going. Behind the school was a path that led up to the ridge. There was a large, flat rock up there that she and Thys often used to sit on, sipping hot chocolate and listening to the silence of the veld as they watched the sun rise. But they hadn’t been up there for years. And after this morning, they probably would never go again. In fact, after this morning, Thys would probably never come in to their bedroom again either.

She desperately needed a mug of strong coffee. To fortify her before she had to face her husband. Wrapping herself into her old red winter dressing gown, she tiptoed down the passage to the kitchen, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor.

Thys looked up at her as she came through the door. He was at the table with a mug of coffee in front of him. Wearing a rumpled T-shirt and a pair of tattered black exercise shorts. He looked terrible. Grey and drawn. Old. He looked, she thought, as awful as she felt.

‘Morning, Annamari,’ he said. ‘Are you feeling better? Would you like some coffee?’

Annamari nodded and seated herself on the stool farthest from where Thys was sitting. Thys took the pot of coffee off the stove and poured some into a mug – black and strong.

‘Would you like a rusk?’

She shook her head and cupped her hands around the mug. She lifted it to her mouth, her eyes fixed on her husband. He looked back at her and then looked down at his coffee, so intently that Annamari wondered if he was seeing something in the black liquid.

The silence stretched between them, taut, brittle, fragile. Sweat started to trickle down her back. Her forehead was wet. She had been stupid to put on her winter dressing gown; cuddly and comforting it might be, but it was way too warm for a spring morning.

She got up and opened the back door, then the windows. Still Thys said nothing.

‘Did you sleep okay?’ Annamari blurted as she resumed her seat across the table from him.

‘Not really.’

‘Oh.’

Silence shrouded the kitchen. She loosened the belt of her dressing gown, allowing it to fall open. It was cooler, but she was still sweating. Thys continued to stare at his coffee.

‘Thys,’ she started.

He looked at her. He didn’t move.

‘Thys... I need... I have to ... there’s something...’ She stopped. She didn’t know where to begin. All night she had tried to find the right words, the best way to tell him, gently. But there was no best way. And there was nothing gentle about telling a man that the son he had loved and nurtured for thirty-six years wasn’t his son. There was no way to say it. But she had to. She had no choice. After thirty-six years of lying and prevaricating and pretending, she had come to the end of the line. And the end of her marriage. And her life. Because Thys would hate her, and who could blame him? And Arno would probably never speak to her again. She was going to lose her husband and her son. Probably all her sons once De Wet and Steyn also heard what she had done... And it would serve her right.

She put down her mug. She gulped in a huge lungful of air. She gripped the edge of the old table. She tried again.

‘Thys... I have to tell you something. Something I should have told you years and years ago. I wish I didn’t have to do this. I wish it could be different. You are going to hate me, and I don’t blame you. But you have to believe me when I tell you that I love you. I have always loved you. What I did was... stupid. I don’t have any excuse except that I was young and ... and reckless ... and really, really stupid.’

She couldn’t go on. She clasped her hands and stared at him, desperately. He didn’t move. He didn’t say anything. The silence was painful. She cleared her throat.

‘I don’t expect you to forgive me. I wouldn’t forgive me if I was you. I hate myself for the pain I’ve caused, for what this is going to do to you... and to Arno...’ She faltered. She couldn’t go on. She couldn’t find the words. She couldn’t tell him. Tears she had been trying so hard to control streamed down her cheeks.

‘Annamari,’ Thys said. ‘Annamari, I know.’