The Orange Orchard and Other Stories

By Esmeralda Plangesis

The Orange Orchard and Other Stories is a collection of short stories based on personal experiences from childhood onward. There is one thread running through all the stories, namely the tragedy that everyone has to deal with.

A Happy Hippy in London Town is a story about my English friend, Liz Stenning, while studying in Sheffield. It was good to see her recover after divorce, but her happiness was short-lived.

The Day Blue Came was a joyful day. In the absence of both our parents, it ends in disaster. The killing of black birds seems like an omen pointing to the tragic loss of a very young child. I always recall that fairylike child when playing Willow-the-Wisp pianisimo on the piano.

The visit of a beloved uncle also turns into a nightmare. Our father had disappeared into the dark night just like The Saint in one of his favorite 1960s novels. The Show Must Go On! used to be one of his favorite quotes. My mother wrote prophetically in her last letter to me that death is part of life a few weeks before she died in a tragic car crash.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Apr 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524664992

Esmeralda Plangesis

She was born in the district of Mossel Bay, Cape Province, South Africa. There she finished at Sao Bras Junior High School. She attended Essellen Park High School (Worcester) for Matric/A-levels (1972). She enrolled for a BA in social work at the University of the Western Cape (1973). Subsequently, she was appointed as school social worker at Belhar High School (1977), and she also taught vocational guidance and English. She left South Africa in September1980 and moved to the United Kingdom. After following a foundation course, she completed a BA in sociology and political theory at Sheffield University (1984). In March 1985, she got married to Yannis Plangesis (Dr.). She did a course at the School of Modern Greek (Aristotle University). In September 1985, she started teaching English at Olziersky Language School till after the birth of her son, Hector (March 1987). She taught sociology and political theory at City College and European studies and English proficiency at the British Council since 1992. Presently, she continues to work freelance as author and translator/editor of academic books/papers for publication in the United Kingdom and United States. She is the writer of In Search of Liberation (AuthorHouse 2009).

Book preview

THE ORANGE ORCHARD

I t was late afternoon in our small village in the foothills of the mountain, sometime in spring. The sun was still fairly high in the bright blue October sky about which most people back home can get quite lyrical at times. My dad had suddenly announced that he was going to visit our uncle Willie, who was a mechanic, and asked if anyone of us wanted to accompany him. My mother and Emma had already started to prepare supper, so they decided to stay with the younger ones. I’m coming with ! Cathy shouted excitedly. Me too! My brother, Daniel, said. I had just finished practicing my Music lesson and just discovered in time what the commotion was all about. Wait, I’m coming too! I just managed to quickly jump into our emerald green Renault before my dad started the car. Since we had also finished our homework for school the next day, the three of us were always keen to get a bit of excitement from the dull routine of village life.

My father put the car-key into the ignition and started to drive uphill till we reached the gates near the two old oak trees that stood like sentries. Soon we would be driving past the small poplar grove and then continued until he reached the wealthy Cape Dutch styled farm-house of Pierre Terblanche. There he would turn through the gate in order to drive downhill to reach the older farm where his sister now lived with her husband, Willie French, since marriage. Our dad used to find this solution, when our parents` pay-checks were delayed and he could not afford to take the car to town for a full service at the garage. As kids we used to like to go with because we regarded it as a small adventure since it was situated in a deep ravine (referred to in the Afrikaans as die gat or simply the hole), that could only be reached with a road winding downhill. The sides of the road were of red and ochre clay and if it was wet it seemed closer to descending into Dante’s Inferno as the car slid around the hair-pin bends and teetered very close to the abyss. We had to hold on for dear life as my father maneuvered our car around the sharp bends. Cathy and me just looked at each other with fear in our eyes, but did not dare utter a word for fear that our dad might lose his temper again.

We were always happy to go despite the discomfort of being shaken around like bags of potatoes. Apart from a bit of excitement, it gave us an opportunity to visit our favorite aunt Sybil. She was pregnant with her second child and had another little girl, Renee, who was about two years old. Aunt Sybil used to take care of us when we were small and we still regarded her almost like our second mother. By then she was married to the mechanic, Willie French, who had set up his own car-repair business after losing his job at the jam factory in the harbor town of Mussel Bay in the aftermath of a strike. Most of the time he would end up fixing not only carburetors, but also old grandfather clocks & transistor radios or record players that was quite popular in the sixties. Since he was quite short tempered too, we would often hear him swear to the high heavens when he could not fix something because he felt so frustrated with his job & earning very little money, despite his best efforts.

As it happened I was also keen to see my newfound friend, Madge, who happened to be his younger sister. Despite the fact that she was a year or so older and two classes ahead of me, we became friends while I was in Standard three. When she left to go to High School in town, we did not see very much of her since she could not return home every weekend for financial reasons. Uncle Willie’s family was from part-French origin and lived on one of the richest, white farmers, Pierre Terblanche’ abandoned farms. They assisted him since he specialized in cattle farming in the region and had a fairly large herd to manage. The only other condition was that Willie and his ageing father fix all vehicles, like trucks and tractors that broke down since it was their stock-in trade. Pierre together with his three older brothers, Frank and Jean Terblanche owned all arable farming land in wheat and cattle surrounding our small village in a hidden corner of the south-western Cape. That meant they had control over hectares of land including black farm laborers apart from all other living creatures like chickens, cows, bulls and any rabbits, guinea fowl or wildcats for hunting.

Pierre was still a bachelor, but there were rumors that he had already fathered several children with some of his black women servants, who never worked for him for very long. His ageing mother, despite their obvious wealth, had to carry on by herself due to her son’s extreme life-style. Several rumors went round in our village even about one very respectable woman, who lived near the grave-yard with whom according to hearsay he had had an affair. There were suspicions that her only daughter was fathered by the white farmer. She was much fairer than her brothers and sisters, used to have very European airs and refused to keep company with some of the local young girls. Some people gossiped and said that the expensive Sunday dresses that she wore with her hair in a blonde pony-tail was actually paid for by her real father, i.e. Pierre.

As a result no respectable white girl in the region wanted to marry him, despite his obvious wealth. Nonetheless no-one could quarrel with the fact that apart from being blonde and blue-eyed like Robert Redford, generally he was a very successful farmer and used to have a fairly liberal attitude about labor relations too. Apparently he paid his workers a reasonable wage and did not mind my aunt and her family living on one of his farms. That is to say he sometimes overstepped the color bar as it suited his purposes and did not give two hoots about Apartheid laws or people gossiping about him. Someone overheard him say I don’t believe in all the Christian pre-destination bullshit that the government goes on about us being different from you! As long as you do your job, I’ll pay you!

Another proof of his promiscuous life-style, was the fact that we noticed at least one blonde and blue-eyed girl playing with her much darker brothers and sisters near the house of one of his poorer farm laborers when we walked past their house one day. Our uncle Willie, aunt Sybil, their eldest daughter, Renee lived in a separate house from her in-laws in the main farm-house across the river. They were expected to pay only a token rental once per year. Furthermore they were free to keep chickens, cows and consume or sell any milk, fruit or vegetables that they produced. Uncle Willie’s younger brother, Michael usually enjoyed hunting rabbits or going eel-fishing, when he was home during school holidays from boarding school in Worcester in the Boland.

Otherwise they had a fairly relaxed relationship with the farmer, which included regular visits over endless cups of tea especially in winter, when aunty Nellie, Madge`s mother would quickly whip up some of her special fried fritters, served with home-made apricot jam. Once in a while Pierre, uncle Willie and Michael used to go hunting together. Even my father joined them once for eel-fishing. They would stay out overnight and returned sometimes forty-eight hours later leaving the women to worry whether they will return alive or had been devoured by a wild-cat or drowned somewhere in the dark river in the deepest part of the ravine.

It was a sunny day when we went on the trip into the Inferno, which was quite uneventful and we arrived too soon for my liking. We greeted Madge’s mother, aunt Nelly and her father Jean, and then rushed across the river at the foot of the hill, jumping from one flat stone to another to avoid our feet getting wet, and up the riverbank to go and see our beloved aunt Sybil and our little cousin who was still a toddler. Although her husband was running a car-fixing business, her living conditions were a far cry from what she was used to while living with us. Most of the furniture was old and rickety and she did not have a properly organized kitchen or dining-room or any bottles of apricot jam, chutney or delicious home-made peach halves on her shelves like at our house where my mother always kept the pantry well-stocked. It was easy to do over the summer school holidays, when fruit was available in abundance and my mother was not teaching and enjoyed cooking and baking. Despite everything our aunt tried to keep up appearances and pretended that everything was well, by smiling happily and offering us tea and freshly baked bread with a little butter & home-made orange marmalade. When we asked her how she was, she could not hide her concern about giving birth to her second child under those circumstances. Remember, Renee was a breach baby, so I am quite worried and really hope that I can avoid nurse Giles this time round!

When she mentioned that name, I vaguely recalled one stormy winter’s night several years before when she came to the parsonage in our village, where we were living at the time to come and have her first child. We were told to go and sleep in the lounge on the sofa and some on a large mattress on the floor where we huddled close since there was no heating in the big old house. Car-doors banged close and we heard hurried footsteps in the middle of the night. Finally I got a glimpse of the notorious staff nurse Giles as she marched through in her starched white uniform with dark-blue cape and maroon epaulettes and hooded cap perched on her short-cropped blonde hair. She was escorted hurriedly by my father through our front door and walked through our house to go and assist my aunt in the back-room.

Why the hell didn’t she come to the hospital? Now I have to be dragged out in the middle of the night… Oh, you people! She looked flushed and had an angry scowl on her slightly puffy face with wispy blond hair peeking out from underneath her white cap. She was shouting loudly, completely dismissing the fact that it was in the middle of the night and that there were children sleeping within hearing distance. Please, you must save my sister and her child; she’s been in agony for hours now!

I overheard my father plead with the angry, white midwife, who did not give two hoots that she woke us all up with her tirade. She was the terror of pregnant, young women in the country-side. Apparently, she used to swear and curse and even smacked the laboring mother if she was not cooperative enough. As a result all newly-wed women would live in fear of the white mid-wife once they became pregnant. Nonetheless even the traditional, old midwives would call upon her assistance in cases of difficult births because of her long experience of delivering babies.

Don’t worry so much, everything’s going to be fine. I said trying to reassure her as if I knew what it was all about. My dear, you’re too young to understand; my main concern is the fact that the nearest telephone is on the main farm on the hill. Sometimes we don’t have petrol for our truck because your uncle isn’t earning a lot fixing cars here in the middle of nowhere! We knew that they did not have easy access to the main road into town, where the nearest hospital was in case of an emergency. She only asked us to make sure that we pass on a letter to our mother when we returned home. Before we left, she called me aside and said in a low tone of voice I must tell you a secret just in case I die in child-birth. Someone must learn this terrible secret and I know you are the only one who will take me seriously. Please don’t talk like that, everything’s going to be fine, I said desperately.

"Don’t forget Renee` was a breach baby, just like little Rosie. So I don’t know about this one…anyway… (She repeated again). By the way did you know who your little cousin Rosie’s father