When Time Fails Read online

  When Time Fails

  Silverman Saga, Volume 2

  Marilyn Cohen de Villiers

  Published by Mapolaje Publishers, 2015.

  Copyright © 2015 Marilyn Cohen de Villiers

  First edition 2015

  Second edition 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

  When Time Fails is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance of the characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-620-65803-4

  Published by Mapolaje Publishers

  Edited by John Hudspith

  Cover design by Francois Engelbrecht

  Website: www.marilyncohendevilliers.com

  Email: [email protected]

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  When Time Fails

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2 | Five years later: 1982

  Chapter 3 | Ten months later: 1983

  Chapter 4 | 1983

  Chapter 5 | Five years later: 1989

  Chapter 6 | A year later: 1990

  Chapter 7 | Seven months later: 1991

  Chapter 8 | 1991

  Chapter 9 | 1991

  Chapter 10 | Two years later: 1993

  Chapter 11 | 1993

  Chapter 12 | 1993

  Chapter 13 | 1993

  Chapter 14 | Two years later: 1995

  Chapter 15 | 1995

  Chapter 16 | 1995

  Chapter 17 | 1995

  Chapter 18 | 1995

  Chapter 19 | 1995

  Chapter 20 | One year later: 1996

  Chapter 21 | One year later: 1997

  Chapter 22 | Two years later: 1998

  Chapter 23 | Two years later: 2000

  Chapter 24 | 2000

  Chapter 25 | 2000

  Chapter 26 | 2000

  Chapter 27 | 2000

  Chapter 28 | 2000

  Chapter 30 | 2000

  Chapter 31 | 2000

  Chapter 32 | Two years later. 2002

  Chapter 33 | 2002

  Chapter 34 | 2002

  Chapter 35 | 2002

  Chapter 36 | Three years later. 2005

  Chapter 37 | 2005

  Chapter 38 | Three years later. 2008

  Chapter 39 | Three years later. 2012

  Chapter 40 | A year later. 2013

  Chapter 41 | 2013

  Chapter 42 | Eighteen months later. 2014

  Chapter 43 | 2014

  Chapter 44 | 2014

  Chapter 45 | 2014

  Chapter 46 | 2014

  Chapter 47 | 2014

  Chapter 48 | 2014

  Chapter 49 | 2014

  Epilogue | Eight months later.

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  Also By Marilyn Cohen de Villiers

  About the Author

  For Poen

  1942 – 2015

  As tyme hem hurt, a tyme doth hem cure (Time heals all wounds) – Geoffrey Chaucer (1343 – 1400), Troilus & Criseyde

  Because this novel is set within a specific community in South Africa, there are times when I have utilised local words and phrases. A glossary is provided at the end of this book.

  Prologue

  2014

  Annamari fingered the brown envelope, turned it over and examined the return address printed on the back. Again. It hadn’t changed. The blurred rubber stamp, faded, patchy black slightly illegible in places, nevertheless clearly stated: “Department of Land Affairs”. She turned it over and reread the front: “Mr and Mrs T van Zyl, Posbus 325, Driespruitfontein”. That hadn’t changed either.

  An ominous rumble issued from the rapidly blackening clouds that rolled, threatening and pendulous, over the distant Maluti Mountains towards Steynspruit, the three naked poplars etched black against the pale sun. She shivered. She knew she should welcome the rain. It had been a long, dry winter and Steynspruit was thirsty.

  But not today.

  She gazed, unseeing, down the driveway to the bend which led to the turnoff from the Driespruitfontein road. Her left hand caressed the smooth, faded wood pillar supporting the corrugated iron roof of the deep stoep with its delicate broekie lace latticework put up by her pa’s oupa to soften the austere lines of the farmhouse. It was rusting now, breaking in places. They really should fix it. But what was the point?

  She rubbed her foot along the crack in the uneven stone floor – a dull red from years of liberal application of Cobra polish and worn by generations of Steyns playing, and sitting, and walking, and gossiping and just standing, as she was now, looking out across the fields. She’d forgotten to be careful when she put her coffee mug down on the peeling wooden table but she couldn’t be bothered to get the lappie from the nail near the door to wipe up the spill. The old wicker cane armchairs, with their threadbare floral cushions, wobbled and rocked when you sat in them. She didn’t feel like sitting. Not today.

  She waited. Arno was coming home. He had something important to tell her, he’d said. Her stomach was hollow, churning. She always felt like this when her oldest son had something important to tell her – ever since that time he had called home, so excited about his new job at Silver Properties.

  ‘I got it, Ma,’ he’d said. ‘Alan Silverman himself interviewed me and he’s given me a job.’

  Somehow, she’d managed to congratulate him, and as the years passed, the vague feeling of dread had receded. But it never really went away. Every time Arno phoned, or came home, she waited for the axe to fall.

  When she heard Alan Silverman had died, she’d cried. With regret. And relief. She shouldn’t have. She should have felt bad, sad. Surely feeling relief at a man’s death, especially such a horrible death, was just another sin to add to all the sins she would one day have to account for? The envelope weighed heavily in her hand. She turned it over yet again, glanced at it and then returned her gaze to the approach road.

  The first raindrops plopped heavily onto the sandy path around the stoep, sending up little spurts of dust. Then they fell faster and harder, and the path succumbed into a red river of mud. She peered through the torrent. The poplar sentries had disappeared. So had the bend in the road. A spear of lightning ripped the clouds apart. She jumped, startled by the thunder she’d known was coming. And laughed softly at herself. Thunder always made her jump. And sometimes reminded her of that day.

  Water splashed through the leaking gutter over the front steps driving her back, away from her comforting pillar. So she sat, feet planted firmly on the red stone to still the wobbling of the wicker chair. She fingered the envelope again. And waited.

  She pushed her glasses back up her nose, and squinted at her wristwatch. A silver wedding anniversary present from Thys, it had come in a fancy red box, lined in velvet. So pretty and delicate. But now, more than a decade later, she really needed a more practical timepiece.

  It was getting late. Surely he wouldn’t be driving in the storm. The gravel roads, seldom graded nowadays, were treacherous in the wet. But he loved storms. While other children would cry in fear as rain pounded corrugated iron roofs, drowning out all other sound, Arno would press his little nose up against the window and watch the fury, turning around to smile at her, his blue eyes round and sparkling. Almost as if he knew, as if he shared her secret. Ridiculous. But if she knew anything about
her son, he probably hadn’t stopped in Driespruitfontein, waiting out the storm as any other sensible person would, before driving on to Steynspruit.

  She watched the storm intensify. It wouldn’t last much longer, but that didn’t ease her anxiety. After a good soak like this, ploughing would be able to start soon. Maybe. It all depended. She tapped the envelope on her denim-clad thigh, then got up and walked resolutely into the house. She propped the envelope on the white marble and stinkwood mantelpiece that framed the cast iron fireplace in the lounge. Thys should also be home soon. They’d open it together. Or maybe they’d wait. Whatever the Department of Land Affairs wanted this time, it could wait. She chose a log from the pile next to the fireplace and placed it in the grate. Then she chose another. And another. After the storm, a log fire would be nice and cosy, even in spring. She went back outside and watched the storm abate, moderating its fury into a fine, misty drizzle.

  A car roared up the driveway. She hitched up her jeans, pleased that the diet she’d found in the Huisgenoot magazine actually seemed to be working this time. She smoothed her white shirt over her hips, pushed her glasses back up her nose and tucked the stray grey tendril that had escaped from her ponytail behind her ear. His fancy 4x4 was splattered in dark mud. She was glad he’d decided to come in his Land Rover rather than that absurd Porsche thing he’d driven down in last time. He’d almost wiped out the sump on a pothole.

  She ignored her internal churning and smiled as he climbed out of the vehicle and waved cheerily. She waved back. Arno was home. He was safe. Everything was okay. For now. The passenger door opened slowly and a young woman with short dark hair got out. Arno put his arm around the girl’s shoulders and walked towards the stoep. Annamari smiled. Excited. Delighted. He had finally brought a girl home to meet her and Thys, which could only mean he was truly over Beauty. And that, at last, he was really serious about a girl. Probably even serious enough to marry her.

  The girl barely reached his shoulder, she was such a tiny little thing. And such a pretty girl too, a little pale perhaps, but with a neat little figure in tight black pants, black boots and a red jacket. They smiled up at her from the foot of the steps. Annamari adjusted her glasses again. Her smile froze. A cold hand clutched her heart. She couldn’t breathe. Her lips moved as she silently begged the Lord to please, please let her be mistaken. But she knew, deep down she knew that the Lord had finally turned His back. That the time had come and He would finally wreak His wrath.

  Chapter 1

  Thirty-six years earlier: 1977

  This wasn’t the way Annamari ever thought it would be. She should be happy. She was happy. She was marrying Thys. She wanted to marry him. She’d always wanted to marry him. For as long as she could remember. They were made for each other. She’d be crazy not to be happy.

  They had been ‘unofficially engaged’ for years, she and Thys. Since they’d walked together through the gates of Driespruitfontein Laerskool for the last time, and he’d proposed. At twelve years old, she’d been almost as tall as him, and he’d looked into her eyes and told her that he was going to marry her. One day. Today.

  Ma was looking a little frazzled. No wonder after arranging her only daughter’s wedding in just two weeks, in Bloemfontein, in Thys’ ouma’s church, away from prying eyes and curious stares. As if everyone in Driespruitfontein was so bloody stupid they wouldn’t realise.

  ‘You ready?’ Pa said.

  She took his proffered right arm, tight in an unfamiliar new tan jacket with a matching waistcoat. Pa’s dark blue suit, the one he’d worn to church and funerals and weddings – other people’s weddings for as long as she could remember – was probably still hanging in his cupboard at Steynspruit.

  Ma brushed at the new panel they’d had to sew in to her puffy skirt to hide the stain where Oom Jan had spilled his red wine on Sunette last year. It was kind of Sunette to let her borrow her wedding gown, even if it made her look like a marshmallow. It would have been impossible to have a pretty dress like this made in time. Or to buy one. Not in Driespruitfontein or Bethlehem. Not even in Bloemfontein. The new panel was a slightly different shade of white but you had to look closely to notice. She didn’t really care. She shouldn’t really be wearing white anyway but Ma said that was stupid and of course she should. She was marrying Thys and she and Thys were always going to get married. Just not so soon, Ma’s eyes said, but her lips curled into a cheerful smile.

  ‘Be happy,’ Ma murmured in her ear, a prayer followed by a kiss before turning to Pa, straightening his blue tie. Then Ma tugged down her floral chiffon skirt and tottered through the door, unsteady in her new high heels. ‘If I don’t wear heels to my only daughter’s wedding,’ she’d said, ‘when will I ever get the chance?’

  The organ was playing the tune it always played for brides at their weddings. It sounded so familiar, and so strange. Annamari stepped through the door at the back of the church and paused as dozens of curious eyes riveted themselves to her waistline. She lifted her chin, repaired her smile and squeezed her bouquet, a frothy confection of pink carnations, white roses and – deep irony that no one else seemed to notice – baby breath. Out the corner of her eye, if she glanced up, she could see Pa’s Adam’s apple wobble.

  ‘C’mon, Pa. Let’s do it,’ she said, and together, they made their way slowly down the aisle, the organ music soaring around them. There was Christo, all stiff and self-important in his role as best man, dwarfed by Thys. Poor Thys, so tall and straight and solid; his pink scalp shining through his freshly cropped white-blond hair; proud in his pale blue Driespruitfontein Hoërskool full-colours blazer. He turned his head and smiled at her, his velvet eyes crinkled at the corners, radiating love and trust. She caught her breath, stumbled. She couldn’t do this. Pa tightened his grip.

  Thys’ fist closed over her nerveless fingers. Pa kissed her cheek and faded away. Together, she and Thys turned to face the dominee. Not Thys’ father, thankfully. He’d refused to conduct the service, Thys had said. Thys wasn’t even sure his father would come to the wedding. But he had. Annamari could feel Dominee van Zyl’s eyes boring into her back. She lifted her chin once again and straightened her shoulders.

  And then it was over. The organ soared once more as she marched back up the aisle with her new husband and through the church doors to face them all. Thys held her hand gently.

  ‘Ag Annamari, you look pragtig, so pretty.’ That was Santie gracious in defeat. She’d had her eye on Thys too. All the girls at school had. Who wouldn’t? The dominee’s son, the first team’s star player destined to be a Springbok, good-looking, kind, gentle, always polite. She smiled up at him. Her best friend. Her brand new husband. Her lover. He’d get better with more practice. He’d only done it that once. And it would be better, much better next time because he loved her and she loved him and he was her husband and she was his wife and it would be right, not a sin and so wrong, wrong, wrong. And she’d never compare, she wouldn’t.

  Mariska, Esme, Marietjie, Janike, Karli, Lize... how had they got here? The hypocrites. She could feel their suppressed snickers and she smiled brightly back at them. It wasn’t as if they had never done it. She was sure they had. Down at the dam or under the stage in the school hall in winter or when it was raining.

  You could taste their relief that they weren’t her. Especially stupid Mina, who everyone said had slept with every boy in the school. Except Thys. Thys said he’d only ever done it once, with her, and she told him she’d only done it once with him too. Which wasn’t really a lie. Yet here was Mina, looking smug and holier-than-thou.

  And Thys’ friends – Wynand and Albert and Jaco and Eben and Schalk and Eben Two and Hugo – there they were, teasing him, pretending they were so proud of him when they were all just bloody thankful it wasn’t them. Even Mr Joubert had come today, despite the fact that he’d expelled her from school and taken away Thys’ prefect badge. Mr Joubert shook her hand and wished her all the best. The fat old fraud.

  She scanned the faces b
eaming up at them as they posed for photographs in the church gardens, but she couldn’t see him. She’d thought he might come because of Thys. But she knew that he knew he wouldn’t be welcome at the church. Or at the reception afterwards. Still, she’d hoped he would show up, so she could show him she had Thys and Thys loved her and they’d be married happily ever after.

  Even so, she’d never forget the scorn in his blue, blue eyes and the disgust in his voice when he spat those hateful words at her: ‘I’m not going to marry you.’

  She was proud of how she’d held it together. ‘Are you crazy?’ she’d said. ‘I wouldn’t marry a Jewboy! Anyway I’m going to marry Thys. It’s all arranged.’

  It was too. It was working out exactly as she’d planned after she realised why her breasts were feeling a little more uncomfortable than usual. And that she was late. Sheer terror had paralysed her. She knew what happened to girls like her. They were sent away and when they came back, everyone pretended not to know. But they did. It may as well have been tattooed on their foreheads: whore, sinner, slut. And it would be even worse for her, because she had done the unthinkable. She had slept with a Jewboy.

  So she’d asked Thys to take her to see Lied in my Hart at the Odion that Friday. They sat in the back row of the bioscope, necking and sipping the beers she’d smuggled in her kitbag, wrapped in her crocheted blanket to stop the bottles clinking and for afterwards. She let him feel her breast, and then moved slightly so he could slip his hand into her shirt and touch her nipple. She suppressed her smile at his involuntary gasp. After the flick, Gé Korsten’s soaring tenor still pulsing through their veins, they drifted, arms entwined, down to the dam where they sat on her blanket and kissed and watched the moon rise in the starry sky. Another beer, and then Thys seduced her.

  Afterwards, mortified and apologetic, he held her as tears of relief streamed down her face. He said he’d always intended to wait until they were married. He said he still respected her. He said that one day, when they’d both finished high school and varsity, and he’d done his National Service, and he had a job so he could take care of her properly, he’d be so proud to make her Mrs Thys van Zyl. Until then, he reassured her, they wouldn’t sin again, and he kissed away her fresh tears of remorse that flowed and flowed.