who had delivered me and attended Master Phil, but he was kinder to me this time and put his hand on my shoulder. Master put his hand on my shoulder as well. The doctor leant over my mother’s tiny body and brushed his fingers over her face, closing her eyes. He pulled a white sheet that Madam had given him over her face. Mama had gone. I pray there is a place in heaven where Mama will see Master Phil and walk alongside him like I once did.
Madam took me in her arms and hugged me against her. Her cheeks were wet. She smelled of flowers, not the strong flowers I was used to in our Cradock garden, but gentler ones, maybe like those she’d known from across the sea, those that grew in songs I’d played on the piano as a child. Lilac, primrose …
* * *
It was just as well that Madam didn’t come to Mama’s funeral, because KwaZakhele was not a place for a lady like her and in any case Master said no.
‘I won’t allow it, Cathleen,’ I heard him say as I listened in the corridor through the crack of the door. ‘It’s not safe. And remember, my dear, these people have their own beliefs at a time like this.’
‘But Ada knows none of that,’ broke in Madam in a low voice. ‘Why, she’s taken on our values, our beliefs.’ She stopped and then went on, ‘Have we been wrong to encourage that?’
I peered past the door hinge. Was this another one of those times when I couldn’t understand what Madam was saying? Another time like the one when she said the school was deaf? Master Phil had later explained to me that this was a way of saying that something would never be allowed. At the time, I didn’t tell him that it was my schooling alongside him and Miss Rose at the town school that would never be allowed.
I watched as Madam moved to sit on the chair at Master’s side. She didn’t often go and sit beside him; she usually chose the chair opposite. The tortoiseshell comb in her hair caught the lamplight. She still wore grey for Master Phil, and perhaps also, now, for Mama. I can’t show how I mourn by means of indoor clothing; all I have is Mama’s funeral coat.
‘I’m afraid for her, Edward,’ Madam went on, twisting her hands like she’d done over Master Phil. ‘How will she manage?’
‘There’ll be other relatives,’ Master Edward said, and picked up his newspaper. ‘There always are. Especially as we’re paying for it.’
Mama did not want to be carried over the river here in Cradock, she wanted to be buried with her ancestors. So I put her black funeral coat on, took my identity Pass and pinned it to the inside pocket, and went by train and then by donkey cart with her coffin to KwaZakhele. Madam pressed pink roses from the garden into my hand for Mama’s grave.
The light was not yet up when I caught the train from Cradock with Mama’s coffin beside me in the carriage at the back. Mist hung over the tracks and mixed with the steam from the engine so that we moved along inside a cloud until the sun came up and burned it away. It was my first time on a train. I stared out of the window and wished that Mama could rise up out of her coffin and see the veld unfolding before us in yellow waves. Halfway through the journey I had to change to another train. Two old men going the same way saw me struggling with Mama’s coffin and helped me to lift it out of the first train and into the next one.
No one came with me – Auntie couldn’t afford the train fare but promised to pray at the outdoor church on the koppie – and I found no relatives in KwaZakhele who had heard of her even though the Master was paying. I had never been to KwaZakhele before. It was far bigger than the place where Auntie lived, or the township at the end of Bree Street. Many thousands of people live there, in rows of tiny houses or in shacks packed close to each other with no spare ground in between. Even though KwaZakhele gets more rain than Cradock, there were no trees. Instead, smoke from cooking fires hung over the
Madam took me in her arms and hugged me against her. Her cheeks were wet. She smelled of flowers, not the strong flowers I was used to in our Cradock garden, but gentler ones, maybe like those she’d known from across the sea, those that grew in songs I’d played on the piano as a child. Lilac, primrose …
* * *
It was just as well that Madam didn’t come to Mama’s funeral, because KwaZakhele was not a place for a lady like her and in any case Master said no.
‘I won’t allow it, Cathleen,’ I heard him say as I listened in the corridor through the crack of the door. ‘It’s not safe. And remember, my dear, these people have their own beliefs at a time like this.’
‘But Ada knows none of that,’ broke in Madam in a low voice. ‘Why, she’s taken on our values, our beliefs.’ She stopped and then went on, ‘Have we been wrong to encourage that?’
I peered past the door hinge. Was this another one of those times when I couldn’t understand what Madam was saying? Another time like the one when she said the school was deaf? Master Phil had later explained to me that this was a way of saying that something would never be allowed. At the time, I didn’t tell him that it was my schooling alongside him and Miss Rose at the town school that would never be allowed.
I watched as Madam moved to sit on the chair at Master’s side. She didn’t often go and sit beside him; she usually chose the chair opposite. The tortoiseshell comb in her hair caught the lamplight. She still wore grey for Master Phil, and perhaps also, now, for Mama. I can’t show how I mourn by means of indoor clothing; all I have is Mama’s funeral coat.
‘I’m afraid for her, Edward,’ Madam went on, twisting her hands like she’d done over Master Phil. ‘How will she manage?’
‘There’ll be other relatives,’ Master Edward said, and picked up his newspaper. ‘There always are. Especially as we’re paying for it.’
Mama did not want to be carried over the river here in Cradock, she wanted to be buried with her ancestors. So I put her black funeral coat on, took my identity Pass and pinned it to the inside pocket, and went by train and then by donkey cart with her coffin to KwaZakhele. Madam pressed pink roses from the garden into my hand for Mama’s grave.
The light was not yet up when I caught the train from Cradock with Mama’s coffin beside me in the carriage at the back. Mist hung over the tracks and mixed with the steam from the engine so that we moved along inside a cloud until the sun came up and burned it away. It was my first time on a train. I stared out of the window and wished that Mama could rise up out of her coffin and see the veld unfolding before us in yellow waves. Halfway through the journey I had to change to another train. Two old men going the same way saw me struggling with Mama’s coffin and helped me to lift it out of the first train and into the next one.
No one came with me – Auntie couldn’t afford the train fare but promised to pray at the outdoor church on the koppie – and I found no relatives in KwaZakhele who had heard of her even though the Master was paying. I had never been to KwaZakhele before. It was far bigger than the place where Auntie lived, or the township at the end of Bree Street. Many thousands of people live there, in rows of tiny houses or in shacks packed close to each other with no spare ground in between. Even though KwaZakhele gets more rain than Cradock, there were no trees. Instead, smoke from cooking fires hung over the
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