Choices at the Crossroad

“It’s your turn to do the washing-up”.

Helen had been looking out of the door of the old caravan, lost in her thoughts. At the sound of Sophie’s voice, she turned to look at her younger sister. Sophie was sitting dejectedly on one of the bunk beds. She hadn’t yet made her bed, or tidied away her clothes.

Her fine fair hair hung in lank strands about her pale, drawn face. Despite her own fears, Helen felt a surge of sympathy for her sister. She moved from the doorway and sat down next to Sophie, putting her arm around Sophie’s thin shoulders.

“I know, Soph, and I will do it. I was just thinking… about things.”

Sophie said nothing. She rested her fair head against Helen’s dark hair for a moment and then got to her feet. She smiled tiredly at Helen. The dirty crockery and cutlery from their meager breakfast still lay on the small table between the bunk beds.

“O.K. I’ll clear the table, then.”

Sophie stood up reluctantly and Helen got to her feet with a sigh and edged her way into the caravan’s tiny kitchen. The kettle had boiled on the little two-plate gas stove and she used some of the hot water to put into the plastic bowl used for washing up. She added cold water from the big plastic water bottle plus a little dishwashing detergent to the bowl, all given to the girls by kind Mrs. Sinclair.

The caravan and all its contents had been loaned to them by the Sinclair family. Neighbouring farmers and old family friends in the farming district had rallied round, as they usually did in times of crisis, with gifts of food, clothes for the girls and blankets and sheets. Everybody knew that it was inevitable that they, too, would eventually be evicted from their homes, leaving with nothing but the clothes on their backs… unless there was a miracle, which seemed unlikely. So – being tough and hardy folk, they invariably decided to stay put in case it didn’t happen.

“What are your plans today?” asked Helen when she’d finished the washing up. Sophie didn’t look up from her bed making. They both slept in borrowed sleeping bags with borrowed pillows.

“I want to visit Pa’s grave.” She finished her bed and started on her sister’s bed.

Helen’s heart sank. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea…”

Sophie gave the pillow a hard thump and stood up. She glared at her sister. “I don’t actually care what you think. I’m going.”

“It’s not safe!”

“ I told you – I don’t care! “ Sophie’s voice shook. “I have to go, Helen. You don’t have to come with me.”

Helen nodded slowly. “Then I’ll come with you.” Sophie said nothing. She didn’t care whether Helen accompanied her or not.

Mr. Browning was reluctant to let them go back to the farm and insisted on accompanying them, with two of his farm workers. When they arrived at the farm gate, it hung open and there was nobody in sight. Slowly they drove up the dusty road to the farmhouse. There was nobody there. The silence that hung over everything was almost tangible. Mr. Sinclair drove past the building and followed the road past the silent farm workshops to the family graveyard. They got out of the truck. The farm workers, unwilling to go any further opted to stay by the truck, glancing about them uneasily. Both were armed with shotguns. Mr. Sinclair carried his rifle.

There were now seven graves in the area enclosed by a heavy chain link fence to keep out inquisitive livestock. Pa’s parents and grandparents lay there, under the shade of an old wild fig tree. Pa’s wife and the girls’ mother lay beside her husband. Ma had died five years previously, mourned by her grief-stricken family. Sophie’s twin brother, James, was buried near his parents. He was eight years old when he drowned in the reservoir where the children used to swim and play on hot summer days.

Pa’s grave was new and raw-looking, out of place amongst the older graves. Sophie laid a small bunch of flowers from the Brown’s garden on the red, newly turned soil. Mr. Sinclair tactfully moved away, turning his back to the girls – watchful and alert. Sophie knelt by her father’s grave, arranging her flowers and clearing away the wilting flowers left from the funeral three days ago. Helen stood silently beside her. Her mind turned back to the past few weeks.

The “farm invaders” had arrived three weeks ago, seemingly out of nowhere. They had broken through the locked gates and security fence and milled around on the front lawn of the farmhouse, shouting and laughing raucously. The sisters’ older brother Tim was with them, standing on the veranda with Helen. They watched the crowd trampling the plants and flowers in the carefully tended flowerbeds. Helen’s mother had loved gardening and the family had dutifully tried to keep the garden looking good in her memory.

“Go inside,” said Tim, giving Helen a little push. “Go and see to Pa.”

“What about you? Helen was terrified but trying not to show it. Tim was calm and matter of fact.

“They’ve come for me. See- some uniformed police have arrived. I’ll be arrested for refusing to get off the farm. They can’t take Pa, so I’m the next best thing.” He smiled at Helen. “Please go. Someone has to look after Pa.”

She went.

Pa was trying to sit up in bed, his drawn face strained and worried. “What’s happen? Where’s Tim?”

Mary, the old housekeeper tried to soothe him and persuade him to lie back on his pillows. Pa was dying and had insisted on leaving hospital once he had heard the specialist’s diagnosis. He told his family he wanted to die in his own bed. Helen had resigned from her job in Harare to return home and nurse him, with the devoted help of Mary.

“They’ve come. You said they would. The police have arrested Tim.” She looked through the lace curtained window. “They’re taking him off in his own truck. Most of the invaders are leaving.”

Pa moved his head restlessly on the pillows. “Did you get the dogs and the horses away?”

Helen nodded. The animals had been removed by David, Pa’s brother, some days ago. He would care for them on his smallholding outside Harare. His property was deemed too small to be of interest for “resettlement”. Neither was his house opulent or big enough to interest the “Chefs “, the band of retired army generals intent on ensuring Zimbabwean president Robert Mugabe remained in power. The rest of the livestock had been removed to other farms, none of which had been invaded - yet. Pa was determined not to let his stock fall into the wrong hands to be slaughtered or, as in the case of dairy herds, butchered or neglected and starved to death. But his loyal and dedicated workers – what would become of them. He had paid them what he could to tide them over for a few months. But after that – what would happen to them and their families?

The arrival of the policemen temporarily calmed the crowd of thugs. Amid jeers and catcalls Tim was handcuffed, and roughly bundled into his own truck. He would be driven to the local police station and charged for failing to vacate his farm for the Army General who wanted it.

“I knew they would come. I hoped they wouldn’t, but I guess it was inevitable.” He looked at his elder daughter. “Always remember, Helen, these people want everything we have without working for it or paying for it.” Exhausted, he closed his eyes. “I’m glad your mother didn’t see this.” He drifted off into a restless sleep.

The next morning, three policemen descended upon Helen. One was the member-in-charge of the police station in the little town. He was a big man, sweating and obviously uncomfortable with his task. Helen had met him before, in happier times and recalled him as a cheerful and efficient police officer.

“Miss Helen – I have to tell you that you are going to be arrested for refusing to comply with the order to vacate this farm,” he began, avoiding Helen’s gaze. The two younger men with him were wearing dirty and ill-fitting uniforms. Helen decided that they were not policemen, but probably the drug-crazed and violent Youth Militia known wryly as “the Green Bombers”, after the large, colourful African flies that feasted on dead meat and rotten carrion. They stared at Helen with open hostility.

“Inspector Nyoka, I can’t leave my father. He is dying. You know that.” The inspector shifted uncomfortably, avoiding Helen’s eyes.

“Sorry, madam, you have to come with me.” Helen glared at the three men.

“I can’t. I won’t. There is nobody to care for my father. You have arrested my brother. I will leave the farm when my father has gone.”

In the silence the inspector raised his eyes and looked at her for the first time. Helen saw sympathy in his eyes.

“I understand. I will speak to my superiors.” One of his companions started to argue but the inspector spoke sharply to him and all three walked away, the inspector’s two companions glaring at Helen over their shoulders.

Pa died two days later, slipping into a coma from which he never regained consciousness. The day before he died, a distraught Sophie had arrived from South Africa. Pa had told Tim and Helen not to let her come back, saying that her “histrionics” would be exhausting and he would rather she had happier memories of her father, in better days. Helen had thought him heartless at the time but soon realized he had been correct.

Sophie wept, castigated herself and bewailed the fact that she had not come home sooner. Sophie was an artist, a well-known painter with the classic and highly-strung artistic temperament. Sophie moved amongst the rich and famous, wore designer clothes and accessories, had a series of rich lovers and regarded the world as her playground. Far removed, thought Helen, from the insecure girl who graduated from university and taught art at a co-educational school in the city until her paintings caught the attention of the jet-setting arty types. However, the last few times they’d been together Helen had thought Sophie was not happy. Her laugh was too shrill and her eyes held a hunted expression. She had been at her happiest teaching art, thought Helen.

Nobody came near the farm apart from a few brave friends, anxious to help. Tim was released from jail, probably temporarily, he told Helen bitterly. He was silent about his treatment during his incarceration, but Helen noticed bruises and cuts on his face and head. A friend living in town had managed to bribe the prison guards to allow food to be taken to Tim while he was detained in the filthy prison cell. Thankfully Sophie was silent after her initial outburst.

Pa’s funeral was hurried. The farmers present were edgy and nervous; they expected their farms would be next to be seized. The President had announced that he “would not rest until the last white farmer had been driven off our lands”. This was taken as carte blanche by many people to indulge orgies of violence which laid waste to a once prosperous country.

Pa’s workers were totally devastated. Many of them had been beaten and tortured by the land grabbers for working for the white farmer. They knew they would be evicted and most of them had nowhere to go, the farm having been theirs and their families’ home for many years. The clinic and primary school built by Pa for his workers would be looted and vandalised. The workers and their children would be driven off the farm on pain of death if they returned. The new owner would put his own people on the farm to work it - if he didn’t turn it into a week-end retreat and ignore the farming aspect altogether as most of the “Chefs” did. It seemed to Helen and Tim that merely seizing land from the detested white people was all that mattered.

Shortly after the funeral the army general and his aides arrived at the farm and ordered everyone to leave. They were allowed to take one suitcase each. Helen thought she might vomit watching the obese and be-medalled general strutting around his newly acquired home. His aides followed the siblings from room to room, alert in case they tried to “steal” anything more than they were allowed to take.

Inspector Nyoka had helped Tim get his truck back. With aching hearts, they drove away from the home where they had lived, loved and played as a happy and close-knit family. The Sinclairs were waiting for them and invited them to the farmhouse for supper.

After dinner Tim left for the city, saying vaguely that he had “things to sort out”. He promised to be back as soon as he could.

Helen realized that Sophie was speaking to her and came back to the present with a start. “Helen – I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s nobody here. “

Helen nodded, partly immersed in her thoughts. “No, everyone’s gone. There’s just us.”

Mr. Sinclair joined them. “Yes, Sophie. It’s odd. There’s no sign of anybody living here at all. I thought ‘His Nibs’ would have moved someone in to keep an eye on the place.”

He glanced around uneasily. “I think we should get moving.” They left, to the evident relief of the two farm workers.

Tim was away for several days. As soon as he got back, he went to the caravan where his sisters were staying. Sophie was drying her blonde hair, and Helen was poring over some papers at small camping table outside the caravan in the shade of the trees. He greeted them affectionately, pleased at their evident pleasure to see him again.

Helen sat down on one of the folding chairs beside the table. Sophie, hair forgotten, sat down in the other one, next to Helen.

“I have something to tell you,” said Tim.

His sisters listened attentively as he told them he had contacted the New Zealand Embassy in the city and had made plans to emigrate there, as a family.

“It looks like we won’t have a problem. They’re looking for farmers and you two have talents that are needed there. Sophie, you are an artist with a degree in Fine Arts and you did some teaching before you went off on your own. Helen, as a physiotherapist, your skills are very much in demand.”

His face softened as he looked at their shocked faces. “Don’t you realise that we have nothing left here, apart from you, Helen. You still have your partnership in the city. But I think we need to go. It’s pretty apparent that whites are no longer welcome here, despite all the talk of rainbow nations and unity and so on. We’ll always be here on sufferance. I want a new start, in a different country with no hang-ups about the past.” He stopped and looked at the two expectantly.

Sophie nodded emphatically, heedless of the now dry fine fair hair flying about her head. “I just want to leave Africa. I don’t feel safe here any more. A new start is just what I need. I want to teach disadvantaged children. I know now that teaching is my talent.”

Sophie and Tim looked at Helen, who smiled at them.

“I’ve been thinking, too. I don’t want to leave.” She held up a hand to forestall their protests.

“I feel there is something I can do here. I’m resigning from my practice and setting up on my own. I’ve been thinking about it for some time and have saved enough to start.”

She looked down at her papers. “It’s all here, if you want to see it. I am going to help ordinary, disadvantaged people who can’t afford fancy hospitals or expensive treatment. I know a couple of other physios who will be interested.”

Helen looked at their concerned faces and shrugged helplessly. How could she explain how useless she felt and how she needed to get out and work with people who needed her?

Tim slowly nodded. “I understand. Just remember that you have us, we’ll always be here if you need us.”

Sophie got up and kissed Helen’s cheek - unusual for self-centred Sophie who was always afraid of smudging her lipstick.

“Yes. Distance is nothing. Family is everything. I’ve learned that”, she said soberly. “Helen, please come with us?”

Helen shook her head firmly. “No. Nursing Pa made me realise that I like what I do. I want to go on doing it. I just want to see it make a difference to people who otherwise would just go on suffering with no recourse to any help. My mind’s made up.”

Tim rose and put an arm of each of his sister’s shoulders. “Yes,” he said soberly. “You have talent and a gift, Soph. You must share it. Helen, you also have a talent – possibly a healing touch. Go for it. As for me – well I was going to take over the farm from Pa but that isn’t going to happen. So I must make my own way. Not a bad thing, I guess.”

He paused. “I wasn’t going to tell you, but no one has moved on to the farm.”

The girls stared at him in stunned silence.

“Why not?” asked Helen.

“Because of the graves in our family cemetery. The general’s wife has decided that the farm is haunted by the spirits of the family who are buried there. She says it will bring nothing but misfortune to anyone who moves on to the farm. They will never give it back to us but they are afraid to live on it.”

3,000 words

written to picture prompt for Round Twelve of "Project Write World" .