anything for us, Mr Grobler? The postman grinned at her and took a buff-coloured envelope from his leather purse.
A telegram, he told her importantly. A telegram from overseas, but it's not for you, little one, it's for your aunt., I'll sign for it! Sarah scribbled in his receipt book, propped her bicycle on the gate of the manse and flew up the front steps.
Aunt Trudi! she screamed. A telegram! Where are you? She smelt cooking odours, and knew where to look.
It's a telegram! Sarah rushed into the kitchen. Aunt Trudi was standing over the long yellow-wood table with the rolling-pin in her hands, flour to her elbows and wisps of silverblond hair tickling her nose so that she blew at them as she straightened. She was glowing moistly from the heat of the kitchen range, and great pots of peach and fig jam bubbled over the flames.
Goodness me! What a to-do! You must learn to act like a lady, Sarie, you are not a child- A telegram! Look, a real telegram! It's the first we've ever had. Even Aunt Trudi was impressed. She reached for it and then paused.
My hands are covered with flour. Open it, Sarie. Sarah tore open the envelope. Shall I read it out? she demanded.
Yes. Yes, read it, who is it from? It's from Uncle Tromp, he signs it 'Your dutiful husband Tromp Bierman'. Silly old man! He has paid for four unnecessary words, Aunt Trudi grumbled. Read what he says. He says, 'I have to inform you that Manfred was Sarah's voice tailed off into silence and her bright expectant expression crumbled as she stared at the sheet in her hands.
Go on, child, Aunt Trudi urged her. Read it out. Sarah began again, her voice small and whispery. ''I have to inform you that Manfred was today married to a German girl named Heidi Kramer. He plans to study at the University of Berlin and will not be returning home with me. I am sure you wish him happiness as I do. Your dutiful husband Tromp Bierman.' Sarah lifted her eyes from the form and they stared at each other.
I cannot believe, Aunt Trudi breathed. Not our Manfred. He wouldn't, he couldn't desert us., Then she noticed Sarah's face. The child had gone grey as the ashes in the fireplace.
Oh, my little Sarie. Aunt Trudi's Plump features collapsed with compassion and shared agony and she reached for the girl, but Sarah let the telegram flutter from her fingers to the kitchen floor and whirled and raced from the kitchen.
She snatched up her bicycle from the gate and stepped up into the saddle. She stood up on the pedals so as to drive harder, and her legs pumped to the beat of her heart. Her hat flew off her head and dangled down her back, suspended on the elastic around her neck. Her eyes were wide and dry, her face still grey with shock, as she raced out of the village, turning up past the old Lanzerac estate, heading instinctively for the mountains.
When the track became too steep and rough she dropped the bicycle and went on upwards on foot, through the pine forest until she reached the first crest. There she stumbled off the track and threw herself full length on the damp bed of pine needles, on the exact spot where she had given her love and her body and her soul to Manfred.
Once she had recovered her breath after the hard run up the Mountainside, she lay quietly, neither sobbing nor weeping, merely pressing her face into the curve of her own arm.
As the afternoon wore on, so the wind veered into the north west and the clouds gathered on the high peaks above where Sarah lay. At dusk it began to rain, and the darkness came on prematurely. The air turned icy, and the wind whimpered in the pines, shaking down droplets onto her prostrate body until her gymslip was soaked through. She never lifted her head, but lay and shivered like a lost puppy and her heart cried out in the darkness.
Manfred, Manfred, where did you go to? Why did I have to lose you? A little before morning broke, one of the search parties from the village, which had scoured the mountainsides all night, stumbled upon her and they carried her down the Mountainside.
It's pneumonia, Mevrou Bierman, the doctor told Aunt Trudi when she called him to the manse for the second time that next night. You are going to have to fight for her life she doesn't seem to want to fight herself. Aunt Trudi would not allow them to take Sarah to the new town hospital. She nursed the girl herself, tending her day and night in the small back bedroom, sponging the sweat and heat from her body while the fever mounted, sitting beside the bed and holding her hot hand through the crisis, not leaving her even when it had broken and Sarah lay pale and wasted with the flesh melted off her face so that her features were bony and gaunt and her lacklustre eyes too large for the bruised cavities into which they had sunk.
On the sixth day, when Sarah was able to sit up and drink a little soup without Aunt Trudi's assistance, the doctor made his final call and behind the closed bedroom door gave Sarah a detailed examination. Afterwards he found Aunt Trudi in the kitchen and spoke to her quietly and seriously.
Once he had left the manse Aunt Trudi went back to the bedroom and sat beside the bed, in the same chair on which she had conducted her long vigil.
Sarah., She took the girl's thin hand. it was light and frail and cold. When did you last have your courses? she asked.
Sarah stared at her without replying for long seconds, and then for the first time she began to weep. Slow, almost viscous tears welled up from the depths of those haunted bruised eyes and her thin shoulders shook silently.
Oh, my little girl. Aunt Trudi reached for her and held her to the bulky pillow of her bosom. My poor little girl who did this to you? Sarah wept silently and Aunt Trudi stroked her hair. You must tell me, Suddenly the gentling hand froze on Sarah's head in midstroke, as understanding crashed in upon her.
Manie, it was Manie! It was not a question, but the confirmation was immediate as a painful sob came exploding up Out Of Sarah's tortured chest.
Oh Sarie, oh my poor little Sarie. Involuntarily Aunt Trudi turned her head towards a small framed photograph which stood on the table beside the sick girl's bed. It was a studio photograph of Manfred De La Rey in boxer's shorts and vest, crouched in the classic purilists pose with the silver championship belt around his waist.
The inscription read, To little Sarie. From your big brother, Manie. What a terrible thing! Aunt Trudi breathed. What will we do now? The following afternoon while Aunt Trudi was in the kitchen, larding a leg of venison which was a gift from one of the parishioners, Sarah came in on bare feet.
You should not be out of bed, Sarie, Aunt Trudi told her sternly, then was silent as Sarah did not even glance in
