Alex Smith

Sally in Cape Town emailed earlier this week to say she is working on a new novel. It’s about a girl who goes on holiday to her grandparents’ farm in De Rust, expecting the ordinary, but encountering a boy who turns out to be quite extraordinary. For Carnival note of affection #10, Sally has selected a lovely passage describing a farm in the Klein Karoo from this novel-in-progress. Author of critically acclaimed, page-turner The Goblet Club, Sally won the MER Youth Prize for best youth novel and the You/Huisgenoot I am a Writer Competition. You can see more about the writer who some say could be South Africa’s answer to JK Rowling at her new website and, of course at her Book SA blog.

HOLIDAY IN DE RUST

The world outside the car window was a continuous criss-cross pattern of farmlands that rolled over the fields and hills like a patchwork quilt. The odd black and white cow stared back at me as we drove slowly past. My brother snored obliviously. The drive seemed longer than any of the previous years.

Finally we reached the rusted gates that marked the entrance to my grandparent’s farm. We drove up the winding dust road that slinked lazily towards the Victorian farmhouse, a remnant of the old 19th Century Karoo. And just like that the all-too-familiar sound of the suikerbossies hum surrounded around us, an indication that we had left the city far behind. I had seen this exact scene many times through the years, the wild fig and thorn trees, dry for this time of year, the sweet smell of fynbos and lavender creeping in through the car window, all framed by the stark Swartberg in the distance. Nothing had changed, not since I was a little girl.

As we passed the abandoned stone rangers lodge where I used to play as a child I saw something that definitely had changed, it was no longer abandoned. Two young men were sitting in the shade of the front porch, one was stockily built, with short curly hair that fell around his tanned face, the other was more lithe with long, brown hair and piercing blue eyes that followed the car as it rounded the bend.

The house came into focus like an old photograph that had been blown up to life-size and propped upright with the hills and mountains as a backdrop. It was a handsome Karoo-style house with a wide front porch that was covered by a low green tiled roof. No matter how old I happened to be at the time of my visits the house never failed to make me feel like I was home. Seeing it now through the dusty car windows all I wanted to do was pull off my shoes and run across its wooden floors bare foot, taking in the smells and textures once again.

Once my grandpa had parked beneath the ancient awning that was inhabited by every breed of spider this side of the Karoo, I leapt from the car and staggered on my weak limbs. We had been driving for a very long time. My senses were immediately assailed by the smells of the bushveld, stronger now that I was outside the vehicle. I wanted to dance in circles on the dry grass and breathe it in but my brother was staring at me with his right eyebrow raised almost halfway in to his fringe.

“You are such a freak.” Was what he had to say before he took off down the worn driveway on his skateboard.

I followed my grandparents inside the house and made for the familiar cool confines of my bedroom, the same one I had occupied for years. I wouldn’t have it any other way. It contained a single bed, but as far as I had been able to ascertain after careful exploration of the rest of the house, so did the rest of the rooms. The bed’s lack of width was made up by my utter love of it. My Gran, the traditionalist, had hand-sewn the most beautiful lace coverlet for it, and this was complemented by pure down pillows and white linen. It was like laying to rest in Sleeping Beauty’s bed. My favourite piece of furniture in the room was the antique wooden clothes cupboard. I think it belonged to my grandpa’s parents but it could have been even older than that. The wood smelled sweet and wet, and mingled with the spicy wood smells of the rest of the house. I could have spent my whole holiday in that room, just writing in my journal but my thoughts kept returning to the boy at the rangers lodge and the excitement I felt made sitting alone writing the last thing I wanted to do.