Story with no name

Krige van Rensburg

Over the past years I have realised that there are very few things alive at 4 o' clock in the morning. This is especially true in an abandoned graveyard. If you listened carefully, you could hear the soft, high-pitched drumming of insect choirs in the distant cornfields. Or, provided the wind was resting, a beat-up generator on the old Macarthur estate a few hectares away. That was it.

There was a collection of gravestones in this overgrown cemetery. Sometimes, when the time was right, they would speak to you. Like the little one, shrouded in weeds. Look at the name: Samantha Penelope Macarthur. 1951-1955. Unfortunately time had eroded the epitaph from the stone, so it was unreadable.

She speaks to us with the wisdom of a four-year-old. Having breathed only a limited amount of oxygen in her short life, it seems almost unfair that it was taken away twice.

Yet, there she lay - her innocence recorded on a stone on the crust of the earth as a living human being. She was now free … she had a name, she had a life.

I remember the town's concern when the news of her death reached unsuspecting ears. Even my dad, usually quite a talkative guy, kept quiet. Well, I suppose the whiskey helped a bit with the chatterbox bit. People always said he had a problem, but it didn't really bother me. He was always there for me, just as he was there for Samantha, once. We were at the public swimming pool when my dad saw her body floating on top of the water - the first time she was denied air into her lungs. He rushed over and performed CPR on her and, luckily, brought sweet-tasting air back into her lungs.

The second time, however, came as a bit of a surprise for all of us. Almost two years later, her mother, Mrs Macarthur, claimed she found Samantha dead in her bed. The town thought differently.

Even though Mr Macarthur was a well-respected and insanely rich citizen within the community, his wife was very rarely seen in public. Some people said, always a bit nervously, that he kept her under lock and key in the basement. After all, many a truth has been spoken in jest. When the coroner's report finally came back, the result spread like wildfire: death by strangulation.

The town was in an uproar. In a small community, a few pointed fingers had more political power than that of the governor. Yet, with Mr Macarthur being quite a resourceful fellow, the fingers swung quickly around to their maid, Tracey. Hence the weathered stone slab in the far corner of the cemetery.

She was convicted and sent to hang by the neck early in 1955. Even now, the cold stone portrayed her existence to onlookers in a cry for justice … for mercy. It told a sad tale, one that many people chose to ignore for the sake of their own conscience. After all, they had done the right thing.

Soon after Tracey was taken from life, the Macarthur estate was abandoned and placed on the market. After divorcing his wife, Mr Macarthur left her behind in search of new horizons.

With some money and a suitcase full of clothes, his wife couldn't afford to go anywhere else. Most of the townspeople still suspected her, eyed her up and down and generally just avoided her like a plague. She couldn't find a job, respect and sometimes … even food.

Somewhere in the distance a rooster's cry suddenly pierced the morning sky. The sun was somewhere just below the horizon, which meant another day was upon us. Damn, I was tired. So, so, tired.

Almost like Mrs Macarthur, when she came knocking on our door in the pouring rain one day.

My mother welcomed her in, unaffected by the prejudices of the townsfolk, and offered her some hot tea and biscuits. I was sitting in the adjacent room, with my ear pressed up against the wall. She said she didn't know where else to go, and since my father had saved Samantha once, it was the only light she knew.

She was crying, and between her tears were incoherent mumbles of despair. I could hear my mother comforting her, telling her everything was going to be okay. I wanted to see what she looked like, as I had only a mental picture of how the town painted her. I peeked around the corner.

It's funny how such a small act - like peering around a corner - can change your life forever. I didn't only see a beautiful, finely-carved face with the bluest eyes I had ever seen, resting in my mother's arms, or the long, black hair that was soaked by the rain and tears. I saw something else.

I ran back to my room and quickly locked the door behind me, my heart beating furiously inside my chest. For the first time in my life I was afraid.

When my dad came home that night, they offered Mrs Macarthur a place to stay, as well as an income for helping out with chores around the farm. Even from upstairs I could hear her deep sense of gratitude sinking into the woodwork.

Later that night I tried to speak to my father, but he would have nothing of it. His whiskey-soaked breath confirmed his stubbornness, so I had no choice but to withdraw.

As the months went by, a strange sort of friendship formed between Mrs Macarthur and my father. I thought nothing of it until I heard my mother crying in the loneliness of her room one night, her sobs condensed in her pillow. I realised I wasn't the only one sensing a shift.

Then it happened. "Margaret Jamieson. In Loving memory of my beautiful wife. 1927-1957". The town's doctor claimed it was "something he had never seen before". At first my mother was diagnosed with a severe case of the flu, but little did we know, all the medicine in the world couldn't save her. She had such a beautiful name.

A little green and brown bird, oblivious to my existence, landed on her headstone and fluttered its wings in the morning air. I have wanted to … touch the stone on many occasions, but I just can't seem to do it - even though I stopped crying many years ago.

The world seems to be waking up now. In a short while Mr Henry Adams will drive his tractor down an old dusty road to tend to his crops. His wife, probably at home, will bake her supposedly famous apple pie for the family, and do the washing. All in all, life had begun again. Like it did for me, months after my mother had passed away.

It was hard back at the house. My father wandered around most of the time, mumbling to himself. He drank twice as much whiskey as he previously had, and dark rings became the norm under his yellow and brown eyes. Trying to speak to him didn't help me either. His way of conversation seemed to consist of nods and other simple head-moving gestures. It was indeed a terrible loss for us all.

Except for Mrs Macarthur.

Nobody noticed how she held my father's hand at the funeral. Or how she comforted him day in and day out. Reminding him that life goes on, that he must be strong.

It wasn't long before she moved from the outhouse into ours. I'll never know whether my dad needed to fill a deep crevice inside his heart, or whether he really loved her. Either way, it didn't matter to me. I was reaching an age where I could move out of the house, away from all the pain and confusion. I was old enough to start a new life, afresh, following my own dreams and ideals. I had a name to show to the world.

Unfortunately it wasn't that simple. My dad wanted nothing of it. By his words, he would rather have died than let me move out when he needed me most. Considering his state and also that we never really talked about what we felt inside for one another, I suspected Mrs Macarthur had a hand in it.

But I had reached a point, and there was no looking back. Even as I stood listening to my dad's reasons, or rather, rules, I knew deep down in my heart that his words held no more power over me.

One day I packed a bag with most of my belongings, which weren't many, and stuffed it under my bed. I carried on with my daily chores, went to dinner, spoke only when spoken to - as I always did - and retreated to my room.

In essence, I was a free man. Once the mind makes a definite decision, you don't necessarily have to wait for life to catch up. Time merely confirms it. Nonetheless, I was still a bit hesitant after I snuck out of my window that night. A little sad, perhaps, that it had to end that way. That I couldn't be there for my father, let alone get through to him. But he wouldn't have listened; there was nothing I could do. Yet, about half a mile down the road with the endless starry sky above me, and the cornfields on my side, it didn't matter anymore … Nothing mattered.

I was down on the ground, looking up at a woman with the most beautiful, bluest eyes I had ever seen. In her hands was a shovel, mottled with blood and hair from the back of my head. And there, on the smooth contours of her face, was something I had only ever seen once before. A smile. The very same, sinister smile she had when my mother held her in her arms on a rainy day …

The sun's rays have finally managed to reach the abandoned graveyard. Bringing life to the hedges and weeds in the cemetery. Only that and nothing more. I am waiting, like I do every day, so tired, yet unable to sleep. Close to a graveyard that keeps stories forever, looking out over an insignificant patch of ground where my story lies. My story … with no name.



LitNet: 29 October 2004

Krige van Rensburg wrote an interesting quote once: “My life was fine until I started thinking.” Since then, his days consisted of endless searching and digging for meaning. He hasn’t found it yet. But what he has found, is a career as a copywriter in advertising, a beautiful girlfriend, a half finished novel, his lost car keys and an interesting way to tell a story in his own words.

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