She lifted the serviette from her lap and pressed it to her mouth. ‘He sold the farm. When there was no more hope. He never talked to us about it; he just came home one day and said the farm has been… it was the first time … today, when I saw the buck. It was the first time since then, since Jacobus died.’
I didn’t say anything. My expressions of sympathy had never been reliable. I just sat there, aware that I wasn’t especially privileged. I was merely the only available ear.
Emma picked up the serviette ring again. ‘I … Last night I was thinking maybe I’m making a big mistake, maybe I so badly want to have something of Jacobus somewhere that I can’t judge this impartially. How can I be sure it isn’t my own emotion and longing? I miss them, Lemmer. I miss them as people and I miss them as ideas. My brother and mother and father. Everybody needs a family. And I wonder, did I come here searching for that? Did the man on TV really look like Jacobus? I can’t be sure. But I can’t just … that phone call … if you asked me now what the man said, what I definitely heard? That’s what you need a father for, to ask him, “Dad, is this the right thing?”’
My plate was empty. I put down the knife and fork in relief. Now I didn’t have to feel guilt that the food was good and I was enjoying it while she struggled with her emotions. But I couldn’t answer her question. So I said, ‘Your father …’ Just a little encouragement.
She enclosed the ring with her hand, lost in thought. Finally, she looked up at me and said, ‘He was the son of a stoker.’
A waiter took my plate away and she pushed her salad towards him and said, ‘I’m sorry, the salad is great. It’s just my appetite.’
‘Not a problem, madam. Would you like to see the dessert menu?’
‘You should have some, Lemmer.’
‘No thanks, I’ve had plenty.’
‘Coffee? Liqueur?’
We declined. I hoped Emma was ready to leave. She put the serviette ring down where her plate had been and rested her elbows on the table. ‘It seems as if everyone has forgotten how poor so many Afrikaners were. My grandmother made a vegetable garden in the backyard and my grandfather kept a chicken coop between the railway lines. It wasn’t allowed, but there was no other space on the property. Those little railway houses in Bloemfontein …’
So she related the family history, the rags-to-riches saga of Johannes Petrus le Roux. I suspected it was the telling of a familiar story, one she had heard many times over as a wide-eyed child. It was a way for her to touch the cornerstone of her lost family, to redefine herself and this investigation in the immediate present.
Her father had been the second-oldest of five children, a large family that placed heavy demands on the salary of a stoker. At fifteen there had been no option, he had to go to work. For the first year he laboured as a general dogsbody at the giant SA Railways sheds in Bloemfontein’s East End, within walking distance of hi parents’ modest home between the sidings. At the end of each week he would hand over the envelope with his meagre earnings to his mother. Every evening he would rinse out his single work shirt and hang it in front of the coal stove to dry. At sixteen he began his apprenticeship as a fitter and turner, the area of his interest.
And thus, in time, the little miracle began. Johan le Roux and his tutors gradually realised he had an instinct for gears, a head for the many ratios and variations they had with each other and the machines that drove them. By the time he qualified as a fitter his skill was widely recognised and his solutions in a dozen different engines were saving the railways thousands.
One summer morning in 1956, two Afrikaner businessmen from Bothaville walked into the big workshop. Over the racket of hammering and filing and cutting, they shouted that they were looking for the Le Roux boy’tjie who was so good with gears. They built farm implements for the maize farmers of the Northern Free State and they needed his talents in order to compete with the expensive machinery that was being imported from America and the UK.
His stoker father was against it. The state was a reliable employer, an insurance policy against depression and war and poverty. The private sector was run by the English and Jews and foreigners, all out to cheat the boere, in his opinion; a risky existence. ‘Pa, I can design my own stuff. I can draw up the plans myself and cut the forms and put the machines together piece by piece. I can’t do that in the Railways,’ was his argument. At the end of the month he left by train for the little town on the Vals river, where the gods prepared to smile on him.
He was everything his new employers had hoped he would be – hard working, dedicated and ingenious. His ideas were innovative, his products successful; his reputation became known in wider circles. It was barely a year later that he met Sara.
This moment is a crucial one in the Le Roux story, as it is in many family histories I have heard over the years. When Emma presented it, there was the old amazement at destiny, the fate that determined a chance crossing of paths for her future parents and so decided her genetic blueprint.
The small industrial area of Bothaville is to the north of the town, on the other side of the railway line. To reach his boarding house in the town centre, Johan le Roux had to use the pedestrian bridge at the station and walk down the platform. Sweaty and begrimed, carrying his tin lunch box, he followed his usual path one late afternoon. In passing, he glanced inquisitively through the windows of the brightly lit, jam-packed station tearoom. And spotted the pretty young woman sitting there. He was stopped in his tracks. It was a magical scene: the petite girl in the gay hat and snow-white blouse, with red lips, holding a cup of tea in her delicate hands.
For a long time he stood on the twilit platform watching out for her, torn by the knowledge that she was meant for him, but that his oil-stained overall was not going to make a good impression. Nor could he risk going home to change; by the time he returned she might have left with the train.
Eventually, he opened the door and made his way through the tables to where she sat. ‘I’m Johan le Roux,’ he said. ‘I look a lot better when I’ve had a bath.’
She looked up and to her eternal credit she saw the man behind the workman, the gentle smile, intelligent eyes and the zeal for life. ‘I’m Sara de Wet,’ she said, holding out her hand without hesitation, ‘and my train has been delayed.’
He offered to buy her another cup of tea. For an immeasurable instant she hesitated, she would tell her children, like someone teetering at the top of a precipice. She knew with absolute certainty that her ‘yes’ or ‘no’ was a fork in the road through her life. ‘Yes, please, I would like that,’ she answered. In the hour before the drawn-out whistle of her train called her away, they had exchanged life stories and taken the first steps on the road to love. She was the elder of two daughters of the only lawyer in Brandfort, on her way to Johannesburg to work as a typist for a mining company. She had a secretarial certificate from a Bloemfontein college – and a nervous excitement about the great adventure awaiting her in the city. He wrote his address on the back of the tearoom account (now a yellowing, barely legible fragment of history that Emma preserved in an old family Bible) and said she could write to him if she liked.
She had. At first they corresponded for a month or three and then the long-distance romance took shape. Once a month he would go up for a weekend, every week he received a long letter and sent one off. Every now and then, just to hear her voice, he would ring her over the crackling country telephone lines of Bothaville.
Until a year later, when the men from Sasol appeared at his workshop door. It was 1958. Their plant had already been operating for three years, but some of the gears on the coal lines would just not work smoothly. They had come looking for a contractor to maintain and improve them, and rumour had it that Johan le Roux was the master of gears.
The contract he negotiated was large enough for him to open his own business in Vanderbijl Park, but not so generous that he could ask for her hand. He had to wait until 1962, when his debts were paid off. But in those four years they saw each other at least every weekend, and could talk on the phone every day.
In 1963 they were married in Brandfort and together they ran Le Roux Engineering Works – he in the workshop, she on administration and accounts. Three years later Jacobus Dawid le Roux was born and Sara became a full-time mother and housewife. By 1968 they were ready for another child, but Johan le Roux’s growing reputation brought yet another revolution to their life. This time it was a long black sedan at the workshop door – and three white men in black suits and hats who had come to see him. They were from the newly formed Arms Development and Production Corporation, the predecessor of what later became Armscor in 1977. He had to sign an oath of silence before they told him about the artillery pieces and armoured vehicles that had to be designed and built. Since they had already established by careful enquiries that he was a good Afrikaner, they had come to offer him the gearing contract.
