t sat at the edge of a forest, a squat,
ordinary house made beautiful by
love. Behind the house, just be-
yond the chicken coop and the
vege table garden, a thick carpet of
pine needles nudged the fence, an
introduction of sorts to the forest itself.
Step into the forest, and sound softens and elongates,
like toffee, until you get to an area of white sand and ab-
solute silence. I thought it was the centre of the world.
Maybe it was. On hot summer days we would burrow
into the sand, enjoying the coolness against our skins.
The house wasn’t built in any particular style. It was
just bricks and mortar, a roof, windows, doors. It start-
ed out as a one-roomed structure. Through the years,
as the family grew, they added to it: a bedroom here,
a bathroom there. It was just a house, with creaky floor-
boards that always gleamed, small rooms with dark
furniture, and a wrap-around stoep. It was a house that
knew joyous laughter and bitter tears, early-morning
gatherings at the kitchen table around a pot of coffee,
and late-night discussions on the stoep. It was a house
that knew the meaning of family.
We had only one neighbour. They were far enough
away that, if we wanted to, we could pretend we were
the only people on earth. We often wanted to.
On the one side, Ouma had her vegetable garden
- carrots, green beans, onions, spinach and tomatoes
- bordered by fruit trees. Our little orchard had fig,
peach, plum, pear, apple and lemon trees. In front
of the house was the flower garden, with carnations,
sunflowers, sweet peas, jasmine and Ouma’s beloved
English tea roses, a riot of colour and fragrance.
Ouma’s kitchen smelled of yeast and freshly baked
bread and the pine cones used to light the fire in the
stove. Outside, the hens would cluck and scratch before
disappearing to lay their eggs. In nooks, in crannies,
covered by pine needles, behind rocks, under bushes,
everywhere except in the coop, I would find those eggs.
The attic was a treasure trove of feather boas, hats,
dresses, shoes and costume jewellery; my cousins
and I spent hours up there playing dress-up, make-
believing we were somewhere else.
Sundays were always the same: church, then all the
siblings would meet at Ouma’s house for koesisters and
THE HOUSE AT THE
EDGE OF THE FOREST
“It’s just a house” became her family’s mantra, says Bettina Wyngaard. Except it wasn’t.
I
PORTRAITANTONIA STEYNcoffee. The whole family would sit together for a potluck lunch. In
summer, my dad and uncles would sometimes carry the big kitch-
en table out onto the stoep, and we’d eat there. After four o’clock tea
everyone would go back to their own houses.
Sunday evenings, Ouma would often seem sad, quietly sitting
in her chair knitting.
Every December, the walls would be cleaned and a fresh coat
of paint applied. Always white. Only white. The roof would be
repaired, and the staccato sound of hammer on zinc became the
sound track of summer mornings. On those hot days we would
disappear into the forest as if fleeing for our lives. No one ever came
looking for us there, even though they must have known where we
were. Possibly, the adults were relieved to have us out from under
their feet.
It was just a house, at the end of
a short street, at the edge of a forest.
It was just a house, with dark, heavy
furniture, big bay windows, an over-
crowded attic, a chicken coop out
the kitchen door, a forest as its back
yard, a wrap-around stoep, and two
small gardens. It was just a house.
It was just a house, until a govern-
ment official with a casual mark of
pen on paper decreed that my Ouma
was living in the wrong part of town.
They moved her to a small house in
a row of small houses. She wasn’t allowed to take her chickens. No
amount of compost could make the soil fertile enough for planting.
No flowers, no vege tables, no fruit trees.
Ouma never said a word, but her Sunday-evening face came out
during the week.
It was just a house. This became our mantra. It’s just a house.
Except it wasn’t. Love, laughter, joy, companionship and the
presence of family made it a home.
And it was taken from us.Bettina Wyngaard lives in Grabouw, “a small
town where people still know each other’s
names”. She has a law degree, but spends
a fair amount of time writing crime fiction.
Her most recent novel, Jagter (Penguin
Random House), is the third instalment in the
Nicci de Wee crime series. She also writes
a weekly opinion piece for the online platform
LitNet, mostly about politics and feminism.
Find her on social media @bettinawyngaard.EVERY
DECEMBER, THE
WALLS WOULD
BE CLEANED AND
A FRESH COAT OF
PAINT APPLIED.
ALWAYS WHITE.
ONLY WHITE.visi.co.za JUNE/JULY 2019 38
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