Lost to You

By Kevin Farran

A love in fire… A land in flames… A passion for acceptance…

Cass and Chris, two brave loves, stand beside their own truths to battle the voracious force  of racism plaguing their world.

Is contemporary South Africa a plate of riches spinning out of control, on the brink of toppling and crashing into bedlam?
When the tipping point approaches, it only takes a splinter of emotional madness to incite the hysteria to unimaginable depths.

The Vergowen farm has been in the same Boer family hands for 140 years and is highly respected. It is a farm based on fairness and mutual respect. The eldest son Chris falls in love with his childhood playmate, Cass, the daughter of the farm foreman. Cass has been like a younger sister to Chris ever since her mother was killed in a farm accident, an accident which left her partially crippled. They have grown up and now grown into love. Blocking their hopes for the future are issues dividing race and the farm's existence in the volatile political climate of South Africa. Tensions arise from both sides and the young couple must fight against the horrors of base opportunistic criminals and white supremacists, to forge their own new world as young lovers.

A love story that holds the hand of humanity to triumph over racially drawn lines of political greed in a land once seen as Nelson Mandela's, 'Rainbow nation.'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin Farran
• Release date: Apr 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393466369

Book preview

LOST TO YOU

A battle for land, love, and life

in South Africa

1

Near Bloemfontein, South Africa Late Summer 2018

The dawn lingered, nature’s breath floated from her sleepy soul. It caressed her curves and ushered the welcome to him. Every morning, the spellbinding invitation took his hand, took his heart and drew him out to walk in her beauty. Silence yawned in the morning contentment. The heat would build today, calling the familiar itch of sweat. The itch was a handshake of commitment, a knowledge that this was the complete circle of understanding. It was as pure and alone as the last shreds of morning mist swirling and dancing in the valley, it was a world drunk with beauty. A beauty Tuck Vergowen often sipped and yet recently it left a burn of bile in his throat.

The scrape and squeak cleaved his thoughts of the morning mist. It was a familiar scrape, etched on him for years. An innocent, intrusive sound, it was unavoidable. It ripped at him, reduced him from being a better man. The rhythm echoed across the compound. There was a slight clack of metal, followed by a grating squeak, then another clack as the lower hinge snapped down securing the ankle. When he produced the prototype and held it to her across the table ten years ago, he hoped she would forgive him, or love him, or at least let her eyes rest. Had it worked? For Cassandra, yes, it had made her life functional. His mind quivered at the thought of being merely ‘functional’ when her beauty embarrassed the very wonder of Africa. It had captured his son too. It lured and stunned everyone who knew her, until she moved. Then the clunk-scrape of her foot shattered the beauty and scorched her perfection to a base mechanical rattle.

Music, as familiar as the morning dew, drifted from the kitchen. Kitty was awake. A woman of incorrigible humor, she had cooked for them all his life. Her one insistence was that when she kneaded the bread, she would play Beethoven’s moonlight sonata. It was her own dance, her communing with the kitchen world she loved. The music drifted. Her large fists pounded and turned as she ground and pummeled the dough.

The slow descending footsteps of the piano keys tumbled across his ears. There was a sinking, a dwindling in the music, like a breath held. The occasional flourish of notes would splinter up, a shard of hope. Were his thoughts that dark or was it the lingering of the music that tore at him?

His thoughts broke with a sudden clatter. That was Cassandra’s brace, or shackle. It was followed by an impish giggle. It was like the sound of tumbling rain, fresh, alive, and innocent. Chris's laugh chased the melancholy away. He glanced across and saw the two figures in silhouette against the dawn. His son was there to greet or perhaps tease her.

The wicker chair, an old friend, stretched then creaked a goodbye as he leaned forward and stood. Molly, as old as she was, lifted her head from the pillow of her master’s foot and saw the troubled expression. He rubbed her deaf ears. Her eyes drooped, and she resumed her dreams as a younger, faster dog. She could follow later. He would slip over to the kitchen and greet Kitty then head down to the barns. His wife, Pietra, had left early to check on one of the patients at her little clinic. It was a new birth and though there was family with her, it was important that the midwife reassure the young mother. Beethoven trailed off into Debussy and he walked to the house entrance.

He reached for the handle and heard the youngsters laugh. A pout puckered his lips. The innocence of young hearts flourished amongst such beauty and yet there was a brutal underbelly. They laughed again and he left them, embarrassed to be voyeur to their truth.

Cassandra was clunking with her metronome ankle brace toward the barn to do the milking. She would greet the others and make them laugh. She always wanted to hear laughter. It drowned out the clunk and scrape. She knew he was nearby. She had seen him out of the corner of her eye but chose to ignore him. She tried to hurry but the urns banged her legs. He was having trouble trying not to spill the cups he carried.

Cass. She ignored him and kept walking. Cass, slow down. Shit is the barn on fire?

Oh, hello.

Right like you never knew I was sprinting with these.

That was sprinting. You run worse than me.

So, you did see me?

No.

Liar you were speeding up to be a pain.

Why would I do that?

Why? Because… because you are a woman and a rotten shit too.

Hey, good morning to you to, Chris. He rolled his eyes. She set the urns down and reached for her tea. Her hand stroked the outside of his. He gazed at her. She poured herself into his eyes as the tea cup wafted up to her lips. It’ll make me late.

What? The cows have watches?

You know what I mean.

I don’t think the cows will mind, except maybe Gladys.

She hates everything.

Except maybe you.

I can’t believe that.

He held her eyes. If he could grasp them and drink them, it would be the most succulent taste in life. I can. Cass smiled. He knew that smile, he adored it. It was that adoration that froze his impetus to act. He wanted to be a gazelle and race toward her, but his feet were glacial. He felt skewered by his desire and tethered by his fear of love. Chris drew a breath and looked toward the rising sun. Golden splinters were shooting through the trees, fingers reaching into draw in the day. Have you spoken to Mom?

Cass looked at him over her cup of tea, the steam wafted from the brim. No. I want to but… I need some time. She knew he was impatient.

Just do it. She said she would help. She can get you into the college and you can stay at Uncle Rupert’s—

What? You discussed it? Without me being there? We had an agreement.

Well, not exactly discussed it, but… kind of, in a way.

I wanted to do it right.

Sorry. You still can.

It’s not the same now. You’ve ruined it, Chris. You ruin all my surprises.

I don’t.

You do.

Don’t.

Do. Why are you so impossible? It’s the same as when we were nine. She could see the quiver of his concern. He was desperately sorry. She stood up and stamped away a few steps. How could you?

Chris realized he had offended her more than he thought. It was her dream to go to the same nursing school as his mother. He crossed behind her and held her arms. He leaned around to see if she was crying. I’m sorry. Really I am.

You don’t care. You are always like this. She turned in case he saw her smile.

He saw the flicker of her cheek. You don’t really care.

I do! I’m really upset. Even if Rupert’s place is only two blocks away.

How do you know that?

Cass had slipped. Know what?

You’ve already talked about it. He started to close in on her.

Don’t you tickle me. She backed toward the barn.

You’re such a schemer. He lunged for her, but she slipped behind the milk urn and he fell over it.

She spun and clump-ran to the barn. Bring the milk cans!

The urns were abandoned and Chris sprinted after her. He reached her in a matter of steps and snatched her dairy cap. It was her favorite. The cycling cap with narrow brim was given to her by Marcus, Chris’ brother-in-law, who was a mad Italian cyclist. The two figures, silhouetted against the sunrise, launched into a bizarre dance of angry affection. He teased her keeping it just out of her reach. Chris managed to get her body to lean close to him as she stretched up for the cap. When she jumped up to get the cap, her brace came down on the top of his foot. He snapped forward in pain and she snatched the cap free. He shot up and clasped her tiny waist. He began to spin her. Her feet shot out as Chris gained ever more momentum soon he was in trouble and tumbled to the ground. She landed on top of him and immediately began swatting him with the cap through their fit of laughter.

Tuck watched as the two figures gradually calmed and the shadows grew into one mass. Chris stood first and held his hand out to Cass.

---

The moment their hands touched a melancholy breath drifted into Tuck’s chest. A thought of hands clasped from long ago tumbled through his mind. Chris and Benjamin, Cass’s older brother, were only twelve, when the three decided on a sleep over in their tree fort. It was an elevated shed Cass’s father had built for Tuck’s first two daughters. It suffered the scene of many tea parties and girlie play days. As those girls were older by eight and ten years, the shed had been taken over by the younger adventurers. Benjamin, Cass and Chris were an inseparable trio and insisted on spending the night in the fort. It was well after midnight when he and Cass’s father, Mustafa, went to secretly check on the brave campers. When they peeked in, they saw the three of them fast asleep. The lanky Benjamin had his head driven into Chris’ armpit. The other side had Cass’s nose pressed into his shoulder and her hand clasped around Chris’. The two fathers decided it would be best to bring the little Cass home. She was younger, only ten. Mustafa crept in and lifted the little girl. The clasped hands instinctively tightened. Mustafa backed away, but the grip held. He glanced at Tuck. The two men would never fit in the tiny shed with the children scattered across the floor.

Tuck, what do I do? Mustafa whispered.

I don’t know, tug them part.

Mustafa tried to spin back with the little body, but ground Cass’s nose further into Chris’ ribs. He started to laugh. They won’t separate.

Tug harder. Maybe a quick jerk?

Mustafa jerked, and Cass’s head bounced onto Chris's stomach. They both started to laugh. Couple of idiots.

Give up.

What?

She’ll be fine. If you can’t get them apart no animal will.

Tuck watched his friend struggle to lower the little girl anchored by a sleeping iron grip.

They’d laughed all the way back to the house.

---

It was long ago, but seeing the two precocious spirits made him think they had not changed. They were still anchored to one another.

He veered to the left and headed for the machine shed. The muffled puff of his boots on the dry ochre soil held an early morning fascination. It wafted up, billowed and settled away just as quickly. Perhaps, people were the same. He took a sharp, abrupt breath. He was too full of melancholy. Move forward, always forward, head high.

Tuck was halfway across the compound when he veered to the left and headed for the machine shed. He would pick up another spray can of Teflon lube. The stuff was cheap when he bought it by the case. She could spray it on the brace and reduce the scrape.

He reached for the machine shop entrance and laughter, like a morning wind chime, echoed from the milk barn. He turned and saw Chris’ big frame carrying the pails and chasing after Cass. Two other workers watching the pair laughed. Though Cassandra was only seventeen she could charm the bark off a tree. Her mother had been the same. His gaze drifted across at the melancholy horizon. The orange-blue-grey stroke of dawn caressed the night away, preparing for a day of honest toil. So much goodness in this country, so much goodness gone, lost.

---

A flash of black skin and stern, forgiving eyes shot across his memory. It had happened so fast. He didn’t know what to do.

His hands grasped at the mass of black, scarlet flesh. The black skin was dusty and charcoal soft. The scarlet blood pumped glossy and hot, drowning his hands. He squeezed the meat, the flesh. The shard of white bone, a cleaved tree branch, poked his hands. They struggled to free her from under the plough blade. It lifted off with an evil suction of metal on flesh. He dragged her back through the dirt of the field. Like some rabid torrent, the blood washed the field. He tore his belt off and lashed it high on her thigh. The screaming of others consumed the air. Field workers dashed over in panic. Cassandra’s mother was quiet, calm. She stared at Tuck as he strapped the thigh, desperate to stop the bleeding. Bony black knees and panicked hands surrounded Tuck as the small group of workers struggled to stop the flow of blood and save the young life. He had known Cassandra’s mother, Maya, his entire life. When the stand of the disc plough gave away, it sheared her leg and a part of him as well. Amongst the screams and flashing hands, Maya’s bloody hand rested on his shoulder. She pushed his jaw to face away and whispered, Cass. She pointed at the rear of the plough.

Tuck followed her hand and immediately saw the horror. Cass, then only seven, had been sitting on the back, right fender. When the plough tumbled forward and the blade sheared Maya’s leg, the movement threw the tiny girl forward. The rear wheel had rolled over Cass’s ankle, crushing it. In the hysteria to stem the spray of blood from Maya no one noticed the girl trapped below the heavy wheel.

A lingering sigh of defeat drifted from his lungs. If any day could be wiped from one’s past, eliminated or retracted like a dark night, a foul sweat – it would be that day. It ripped through his memory, a snake bite of sorrow.

---

He reached for the machine shop door. There was another burst of laughter from the barn. He shook his head at the simplicity. Joy and silliness could erupt even at five in the morning.

The rusted metal door handle rasped clear of the latch, not unlike Cass’s brace. It was odd that the door had not been locked. The machine shed was always locked at night. Chemicals, fertilizers and back up ammunition were stored in the shed. It should never be left unlocked. He would cuff Chris for that. Even if he was his only son, he could annoy him no end. He was trustworthy, competent and real man’s man, able to pull a chuckle from the grimmest scowl or make an old woman’s heart flutter with a moment of kindness. He was a powerhouse at only nineteen and yet he could make the stupidest of screwups.

You couldn’t do that out here. There were too many opportunities for trouble. He would give him an almighty blast. Tuck slipped in to find the spray.

2

Ablanket of warmth enveloped the morning as he approached the open barn door. He could hear the rhythmic swoosh of the milk as the powerful hands drove the spray into the bucket, a rhythm like a sleeping child’s breath. No doubt there would be a warm foam on top of the milk. A good ‘milker’ could work up a fantastic rhythm. By pulling down slightly and starting with a forefinger, then a rippled squeeze, one finger after another, a strong stream of milk would pound into the bucket. The first few pulls were crisp and struck the bucket hard. After a dozen draws on the teats, the pitch lowered as the volume of milk increased. It became a low, soothing purr. He could have bought a few milk machines and let the vacuum hoses do the work, but there was a sense of oneness, a simplicity that came with hand milking. It was a small, well-tended herd with eight Jerseys and four Holsteins. The Jerseys were there for the higher cream content, whereas the Holsteins added volume.

Cass handled the entire milking operation. She had taken to running the small herd like her own family. She usually had one of the other worker wives helping, along with three or four little ones always clamoring for an extra cup of sweet warm milk. Cass managed the breeding, feeding and health of the animals with great pride. She delivered milk and cream to all the workers and made fantastic butter. Her ice cream was less successful and even she said she preferred store bought.

As Tuck neared the door, a wash of familiar fragrance enveloped him. The honest, buttery smell of milk infused him and chased his thoughts back to his childhood. He rarely did any milking now. He had lost the forearm power. Once you learn to milk, it is like a bicycle, you never forget, but the forearm strength required for one cow, let alone a dozen, is staggering. Cassandra could milk with the best of them.

He saw the familiar trousers bending between the brown bony hind quarters of two Jerseys. Often, he helped his childhood sweetheart and Cass was smart enough to make sure he did all the heavy lifting.

Hey, you two.

The big shoulders swiveled up from between the cows. Hey, Dad. Chris stepped back from between the cows.

As Tuck rounded the back of the cow Cass looked up from the udder and the enormous eyes and sparkling smile burst warmly towards him, Morning.

Cass, is he distracting you?

He can’t do much else.

That is so, not fair.

Tuck leaned down between the cows to face the pretty seventeen-year-old. So big and such a whiner, don’t you think?

A smile rippled across her lips. She stood up between the two cows and took her stool adeptly in the other hand. She peered up at the two large white men, their Dutch breeding dwarfed her. Though she was born in South Africa, her mother’s Arab roots showed in her fine features and petite build. She held the bucket out. Chris’s powerful arm swept it from her. Thankfully, I have eight left to milk, so he can go and annoy someone else. She threw an unsympathetic glance at her lifelong companion as he rolled his eyes. She reached for his muscled shoulder to steady herself as she stepped across the gutter. Cass emerged with a telling clunk from between the cows and scooped up another empty pail.

I swear, Cass, you can milk faster than a machine.

It’s because I know my girls.

Lucky them. Tuck turned to follow his son who was carrying the pail to the dairy and called after him, Chris, I need a few things from town. I thought, you and Cass could go and get them for me, once you’ve had breakfast. He turned back to the young woman as she slipped between to cows. If that’s okay with you, Cass?

Cass’s head popped up between the cows. The chance of an outing with Chris was an utter delight. She didn’t even speak, just nodded, maybe too quickly. Her smile was enormous. He turned back to see his son Chris in the dairy doorway with a similar stupid grin. They had always been together. Well then. Why not have a bite up at the house, Cass, it could save a bit of time.

Of course, thank you, that would be lovely, as soon as I finish.

Don’t be so polite. It puts too much strain on Chris.

Hey now, Chris called from inside the dairy. We’ll finish and be up in an hour, Dad.

Tuck turned to leave.