walking the giddy tightrope between rebellion and conformity.
On Sundays she attended her father’s services and more and more she knew that she was becoming that very person he warned against. The more he spoke of eternal hellfire for those who went against God’s Law, the more she knew that either he was wrong, or eternal hellfire was her own destiny, and, if it were the latter, the less she cared. Dorothea knew that her father’s God must be an oversized version of himself, frowning down on her with a whip in hand to keep her on the straight and narrow. Ma Quint’s God was by far kinder, gentler – a caring Mother rather than a stern disciplinarian, with Ma Quint Her executive and instrument.
But then came the day when her father, God in miniature, really did stand there with whip in hand, or rather, belt. It was a Sunday afternoon and her parents were supposed to be out; didn’t they always go up to Guid Fortuin to harangue the natives on a Sunday?
Not this one Sunday. It was the rainy season, and her father had braved the elements to drive up to the village – rain or shine, God’s work must be done. She, too, had braved the elements. A little rain would not keep her from Freddy, so she had donned a black raincoat, pulled up the hood, and squeezed through the palings as usual. The central gutter in the alley had long overflowed its banks under the ceaseless downpour, and there was only about a foot of muddy, squishy grass between the fence and the water for Dorothea to manoeuvre, barefoot, shoes in hand. Opposite the Quint fence Freddy had laid down two planks for her to cross the gutter.
She loved the rain! She loved the thunderous downpour on the corrugated iron roof at night, roaring as if an ocean up in heaven had tilted and emptied itself on earth. She loved the sodden sky and cool wetness on her face as she raised it up, opening her mouth and closing her eyes to feel the stinging patter of rainwater on her tongue, on her eyelids and trickling in beneath her hood, through her hair roots, down her neck, under the tight white collar that was her Sunday Best.
Now returning home two hours later, in good time as she thought, it was raining even harder. Through the palings she clambered, not even glancing towards the Bottom House where the car was parked; up the back steps into the kitchen, into the drawing room, peeling off the dripping raincoat as she walked, resolving to dry off the puddles of water she left with a mop. And right into Pa, standing there in the doorway, leather belt drawn tight between his two hands at chest level. Face like thunder. Voice like God’s.
‘And where have you been, Miss van Dam?’
Later she was to find out that Guid Fortuin Village was so flooded the people could not leave their homes, not even for church; the church itself stood in almost two feet of water. Reluctantly, Pastor van Dam had returned home early, to an empty house and a missing daughter.
Dorothea did not answer. She stood in front of him, jaw clenched tight in defiance, not even blinking. Never once had she looked at him in this way.
‘WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?’
No answer. The livid Pastor grabbed her arm with one hand and with the other slashed at her with the leather belt, thrashing her across her back and her legs, again and again and again, hollering and roaring and calling down the wrath of God, of which he was the living instrument. The wild beast inside Dorothea leaped and snarled and pounced against the bars of its cage but Dorothea would not let it out. She would not scream at the pain, would not cry, and in the end it was Pa who gave up, locking her in her room for the rest of the evening.
There were other punishments over the coming week, too many for her to count, some too silly for her to care, such as no more sugar in her tea and no more jam on her bread. The petty punishments only fed the wild beast.
Pastor van Dam would not let her out of his sight, convinced she was whoring herself, which,
On Sundays she attended her father’s services and more and more she knew that she was becoming that very person he warned against. The more he spoke of eternal hellfire for those who went against God’s Law, the more she knew that either he was wrong, or eternal hellfire was her own destiny, and, if it were the latter, the less she cared. Dorothea knew that her father’s God must be an oversized version of himself, frowning down on her with a whip in hand to keep her on the straight and narrow. Ma Quint’s God was by far kinder, gentler – a caring Mother rather than a stern disciplinarian, with Ma Quint Her executive and instrument.
But then came the day when her father, God in miniature, really did stand there with whip in hand, or rather, belt. It was a Sunday afternoon and her parents were supposed to be out; didn’t they always go up to Guid Fortuin to harangue the natives on a Sunday?
Not this one Sunday. It was the rainy season, and her father had braved the elements to drive up to the village – rain or shine, God’s work must be done. She, too, had braved the elements. A little rain would not keep her from Freddy, so she had donned a black raincoat, pulled up the hood, and squeezed through the palings as usual. The central gutter in the alley had long overflowed its banks under the ceaseless downpour, and there was only about a foot of muddy, squishy grass between the fence and the water for Dorothea to manoeuvre, barefoot, shoes in hand. Opposite the Quint fence Freddy had laid down two planks for her to cross the gutter.
She loved the rain! She loved the thunderous downpour on the corrugated iron roof at night, roaring as if an ocean up in heaven had tilted and emptied itself on earth. She loved the sodden sky and cool wetness on her face as she raised it up, opening her mouth and closing her eyes to feel the stinging patter of rainwater on her tongue, on her eyelids and trickling in beneath her hood, through her hair roots, down her neck, under the tight white collar that was her Sunday Best.
Now returning home two hours later, in good time as she thought, it was raining even harder. Through the palings she clambered, not even glancing towards the Bottom House where the car was parked; up the back steps into the kitchen, into the drawing room, peeling off the dripping raincoat as she walked, resolving to dry off the puddles of water she left with a mop. And right into Pa, standing there in the doorway, leather belt drawn tight between his two hands at chest level. Face like thunder. Voice like God’s.
‘And where have you been, Miss van Dam?’
Later she was to find out that Guid Fortuin Village was so flooded the people could not leave their homes, not even for church; the church itself stood in almost two feet of water. Reluctantly, Pastor van Dam had returned home early, to an empty house and a missing daughter.
Dorothea did not answer. She stood in front of him, jaw clenched tight in defiance, not even blinking. Never once had she looked at him in this way.
‘WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?’
No answer. The livid Pastor grabbed her arm with one hand and with the other slashed at her with the leather belt, thrashing her across her back and her legs, again and again and again, hollering and roaring and calling down the wrath of God, of which he was the living instrument. The wild beast inside Dorothea leaped and snarled and pounced against the bars of its cage but Dorothea would not let it out. She would not scream at the pain, would not cry, and in the end it was Pa who gave up, locking her in her room for the rest of the evening.
There were other punishments over the coming week, too many for her to count, some too silly for her to care, such as no more sugar in her tea and no more jam on her bread. The petty punishments only fed the wild beast.
Pastor van Dam would not let her out of his sight, convinced she was whoring herself, which,
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