SomeWhere...

A Father and his two sons that watch over everthing the have...

Somewhere…

As he sat on the porch of his single storey farm house watching the sunset, Ian could think only one thing: that he was tired. A lifetime of working outside in the scorching African sun had made his skin thick and coarse to the touch. As he ran a hand through his thinning white hair, he thought of all the instability in the region and this fatigued him even more. The farm had sheltered Ian’s family for two generations and he had until recently never seen a reason why it should not shelter them for at least another two more. But as he thought of the anger that raged in the hearts of the Blacks, Ian could see that this was looking less and less likely.

His eyes traced the path from the main gate, a kilometre or so away from main house, to the stoop outside the front door. He thought back to the day he and his dearly-departed wife had returned from their honeymoon. As a joke she had insisted on sweeping the stoop clean before Ian was allowed to enter.

“When in Rome…” was her sole explanation, which whilst annoyingly vague at the time, Ian had discovered was a nod to the traditions of the Blacks who worked on the farm alongside them.  No matter how random or spur of the moment her actions may have seemed at the time, she always knew what she was doing. He used to draw strength from that. But that was an entire lifetime ago. Things had since changed. The creaking sound of the front door’s iron outer shutter roused Ian from his daydream.

“Dinner is ready, father.” It was Paul, the younger of his two sons. In his youth Ian had worried about his son’s mental state. Not in a bad way by any means but it’s just that Paul was not the most sociable of people, always more content to sit alone, propped up against a tree scribbling in his journal. Ian answered without looking directly at the young man.

“Thank you Paul, I’ll be there in a minute.” As his father spoke Paul looked troubled. There was a look in his father’s eye which he had in recent times come to notice more and more. He stood there for a moment looking awkward, wondering if he should say or do something. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, unable to find the right words. He turned to head back inside. “How is the writing coming along, my boy?” Ian asked this time looking up at Paul with a genuine interest. Paul looked surprised; his father having had rarely shown an interest in his work before.

“Um…Well,” lied Paul. “It’s coming along…”  Ian nodded, allowing his son’s obvious fiction to go unchecked for the moment. Bracing himself against the arm of the wooden bench he sat on, Ian pulled himself to his feet with a groan, stretching his muscles as he stood.

“Come,” he said, ushering his young son inside. As Ian locked the sturdy iron shutter behind them, he could not help but think that this was one habit he did not ever want to have to get used to.

 

As Ian and Paul entered the kitchen Barry, Ian’s elder son was setting the table. As Ian eased himself down into his chair at the head of the table Barry gave Paul a quick sly smirk. Paul noticed the expression yet failed to recognise its significance.

            “Is there a problem?” he asked. Barry shook his head feigning innocence as Paul fetched the cooling pot of Ox-tail Stew from on top of their big coal-fuelled stove, setting it down in the middle of the table.

            “I just wonder why you even bother to write at all if it’s all going to end up screwed up in the bin.” Paul sat motionless, a raging fire burning behind his eyes but said nothing.  Ian’s eyes went back and forth from son to son. He could see where this was going. “It’s as if that Kaffir of yours asked you to write her autobiography…” Ian slammed an open palm down onto the table.

            “That’s enough” he bellowed, breaking down into a coughing fit as he did so. Both brothers moved to help him, but he waved them both off, recovering of his own accord. Ian’s coughing had had a greater silencing effect on his two sons that his outburst could ever hope to achieve but it was in silence they remained nonetheless. When he had sufficiently recovered Ian instructed Barry to say grace and with a snort he did so.

            “For food in a world where many walk in hunger…”

 

After dinner Ian had retired to his bedroom. The constant bickering and name calling that this sons had insisted on carrying even in adulthood was yet another thing he had grown weary of. “You too will never change…” he had muttered, watching his boys’ trade dirty looks for the entire duration of the meal. He could no longer stand to watch his sons bicker; it was yet another thing in a long list he no longer that the energy for.  As he could see it there was only one solution, but that its self was fraught with both pro’s and cons. As he settled onto his comfortable king sized bed and closed his eyes, he allowed his mind to wonder once more.

            His sons had been born in this very room. He had been born there and his grandfather had been born here and even buried in a small patch towards the rear end of the plot. He had married his wife this house and when the doors had been flung open to receive them the Black workers had let out almighty cheer, decked out in their finest Kaftan’s and Dashiki’s. The neighbouring farmers had hated him for inviting so many (or perhaps any) Blacks to the ceremony but they were his friends as well as his workers. And in any case, Hope had loved it and that was the main thing.

            He had watched endure a slow and painful death in this house. He had held her hand and muttered awkward words of encouragement as the cancer dimmed had that mischievous glint in her eye. He had remained strong through the nausea, the convulsions and the personality changes, but he had done so for her sake. He no longer knew if he had the strength anymore. “This house has seen too much death…” he spoke out loud to no one in particular. A polite cough startled Ian. When he opened his eyes he saw Paul sat at the far end of the room, sat in his mother’s wooden rocking chair, holding his journal open. ‘Is my hearing so bad?’ Ian thought to himself. He had not heard the young man enter. As softly as the young man tread, Ian could usually pick out the telltale signs.

            “I know what you’re thinking.” Paul said in his usual soft spoken manner.

            “Then why,” replied Ian pulling himself upright, “Have you not oiled those damned hinges? Every time I walk in the house I think I walking into a haunted crypt!” Paul smiled at this and then to hammer home his point Ian waved his hands around, ‘wooing’ like a cartoon ghost. Both father and son laughed at this but Paul would not be deterred so easily.

            “Will a squeak-free shutter help raise the farm’s value, father?” Ian looked at his son long and hard. He deserved to know the truth.

            “This farm has no value, at least to those who could afford it.” Paul let his journal drop to the floor as he sprang to his feet.

            “But father this place is our home!” He sat down next to his father. “We had been through times like this before and, yes it was hard but we got through them.” Ian was surprised. It had been a long time since he had seen son so animated about something. But it was of no consequence. He tried to reason with the young man.

            “This time is not like the others, Paul. Don’t you watch the news? Things have changed for the blacks, for better and for worse.” Ian coughed out these last words and gestured towards the jug of water on the nightstand beside the bed. Paul took the glass beside the bed and filled it, handing it to his father. When sufficiently recovered, Ian continued.

            “Sooner or later the ‘revolutionaries’ will come, wanting what they believe to be theirs and you not what; maybe they are right.” Paul shook his head at this, rising to his feet. “You wouldn’t be saying that if mother were still here…” Paul muttered picking his journal from the floor.

            “Well your mother is not here!” Ian boomed, reaching his feet with extraordinary speed, standing toe to toe with his son. “And even if she was this is my farm, I am your father and you will do as I say!” Paul stared into his father’s eyes and saw an energy he often found himself missing. For the first time in so long he reacted out of fear rather than respectful obedience. Nodding and muttering apologies Paul backed away towards the bedroom door. “Wait…” Ian called after his son. Ian sighed as he tried to calm himself down. “I’m sorry son. I did not mean to put it like that it’s just…” he through his hands up in frustration and settled with a groan back down onto the bed. “Where is your brother?” Ian asked staring up at the ceiling. He didn’t need this anymore, couldn’t Paul see that?

            “He’s in the front room; on guard duty.” Paul replied with a snort. Shaking his head Ian uttered a short prayer under his breath.

            “So in other words he is getting drunk stroking a gun?” Paul nodded acknowledgement. “Go and check on him. I would rather walk out than be chased out by an angry mob wanting an eye for an eye.”

            “So that’s it then? Were leaving?” Ian held up a hand indicating that the conversation was over and with a theatrical sigh; Paul went to check on his older brother.

           

Barry sat by the window, clinking his empty glass against the iron shutters. A half drunk bottle of Stroh Rum sat on the window sill. He rested a hunting rifle between his legs. For the first time since… for the first time he could remember all of the shutters around the house were looked tight. He felt like a prisoner in his own home. For nearly two weeks he had not left the property, abiding with his father’s wishes, for now at least. As he refilled his glass Barry thought of all the ‘Kaffirs’ running amok outside the gates and what he would do if any of them tried to break into his home. He allowed himself a grim smile, raising the glass to his lips as he fingered the gun’s barrel. Paul entered and Barry returned his attention to the window.

            Paul sat down on the sofa journal in hand. He put his feet up on the coffee table in a methodical fashion and opened the journal. Barry looked at his brother annoyed but Paul seemed not to notice. Barry shook his head and returned his attention to the window. Paul took out a pen and held it above the blank page for a moment before tapping it against the journal. Barry picked up on this quickly

            “Do you have to?” Barry slurred through gritted teeth, gesturing at the pen with one hand and stopping the rifle between his legs from slipping with the other. Paul looked back at his brother, the picture of innocence.

            “What this?” The tapping became louder.

            “Yes! That!” Barry emphasized each word. Ian shrugged and shook his head, holding back a smile.

           “No, not really...” The tapping continued. Barry slammed a hand against the window sill. The tapping ceased. Ian looked at his brother puzzled.  “Is there a problem?” he asked. Barry rose from his chair quickly, leaning on the rifle to steady him self. He crossed the room with impressive co-ordination and put his face right up in his younger brothers. His breath smelt of aniseed.

            “Leave, now.” His voice was quiet and level. He was teetering on the edge of control; just where Paul wanted him.

            “That’s exactly what father wants to do.” This made Barry falter. “And this time he looks serious.” Barry calmed down and returned to his seat. He thought for a moment.

            “What makes this time any different?” he thought aloud.

            “He’s getting old…” Paul reasoned with a shrug. “He doesn’t have the drive to start over again.” As Paul spoke Barry was back up on his feet, pacing the floor, shaking his head.

            “No, no…Something’s different. The Kaffirs have had there moments…”

            “Must you call them that?” Paul snapped. His brother’s constant slew of racial slurs was one of Paul’s pet hates. He suspected that his brother knew this and went out of his way to include them more frequently into his conversations as a result. Barry put his hands up in apology.

            “I’m sorry.” He said. “The munts have had there moments before but…” Paul slammed his journal shut.

            “Why do you hate them so much?” he asked, his blood beginning to boil. “Are you surprised they are rebelling? After all we have put them through; the rape, the murders, we treat them as if they are barely human!” Paul was on his feet now, shaking with rage. He hadn’t even noticed himself stand. Barry beamed. He loved goading his brother on the subject on Kaffir rights, as if they actually had any. He spoke like a school teacher trying to explain simple arithmetic to an adult.

            “The Blacks,” he said emphasizing the word. “Are resources to be used and then discarded however we see fit.” He crossed his arms triumphant. The rifle lay in the crook of his elbow and he tried to rest his chin on the tip of the barrel. “When was the last time you heard of a herder asking his sheep how long they wanted their coats to be? Or if the grass was green enough for their liking?” He turned to the window, looking for his glass. “He won’t leave. We have too much history here.” He took a long sip of his drink and winced as the Rum burned his throat. “And if he won’t protect it…” As he spoke his stare fixed on the front gate. “I will.” Paul noticed the change in his brother’s voice and stood beside him at the window.

            “It looks like we may be leaving sooner than you think.” Barry put down his glass and checked his rifle, cocking it.

            “Go and get him. Now!” He nearly shouted the last word spurring his younger brother into motion. Minutes later Ian calmly walked in. He put on his reading glasses and looked out towards the main gate.

            “There here…” he said

Dozens of Blacks stood outside the gates shouting and chanting. They shook the gates and screamed for Ian go out and face them. “Fetch my coat” he ordered Paul.

            “Why? Where are you going?”

            “To talk to them,” he said with a placating smile. “Like civilised human beings.” He added looking at the gun Barry was readying. “You two stay here.” He listened to his sons’ protest and then held up a hand. “You have the rifle; you can cover me from here.” He aimed this last statement at Barry who nodded solemnly.

 

About half an hour later Ian walked back in. The crowd outside the gates had all but dispersed but Barry still sat by the window, thumbing the rifle. At least now the bottle of Stroh had disappeared. ‘Paul’s influence no doubt’ Ian thought. He took off his coat and slumped down on the sofa with a groan. Both sons looked at their father anxious for information.

            “Well?” asked Barry unable to stand it anymore. “What happened?” Ian didn’t even need to say anything; his sons to see the answer in his face.

            “Pack your bags,” Ian mumbled. “We leave in the morning.” Barry threw the rifle against the wall in disgust.

“No…” he muttered himself as he stormed out of the room, kicking a stool out of the way as he did. Ian called after his son but it was too late. He looked to Paul for his son just sat there staring into space, shaking his head. A tear formed in Paul’s eye. “The only reason they are not in here as we speak, raising the place to the ground,” Ian tried to explain “Is out of respect for me.” Paul was unsurprised. His parents had been held in high regard within the Black community for decades. “Had this been your brother’s farm…” Paul nodded. Had they run the farm the way Barry would have liked, they’d all be dead by now. “We leave in the morning.” Paul stood up, picking up his journal. He took one last around the room, taking in as much as he could and then when to pack. Tomorrow would be a big day, for all of them.

 

 

Two hours after sunset, the flat bed truck they usually used to transport produce to market sat in front of the house loaded with suitcases, food and whatever else they to fit onto it. Ian kept one eye on the main gate as he finished securing the cargo. The crowd outside the gates had been steadily growing over the last hour, but no one had made a move, yet. Ian staggered outside overburdened with luggage. He dropped the bags down next the truck and exhaled, leaning against it.

            “That’s the last of it…” he sighed, wiping the sweat from his brow with a dirty shirt sleeve. “I’ll…” Paul gestured between luggage on the floor and the back of the truck before sliding down onto the floor. Smiling, Ian sat down beside. He took his sons hand and squeezed it in his own.

            “If it’s ever safe again…” Paul nodded but couldn’t take comfort in his fathers’ words. Ian furrowed his brow. “Where is your brother? We should leave soon.” Just then Barry strode out the front loading the rifle as he marched.

            “I’m not leaving.” He announced, a determined look on his face, as Ian and Paul rose to their feet.

            “Son, we have been through this; it’s not safe…”

            “I don’t care.” Barry screamed. He took a moment to check himself. “This is our home. For three generations we have lived here.” He snapped the rifle snapped shut as he moved closer to his family. “Three generations, father. Three!”  He looked down towards the crowd outside the gate. “And if those Kaffirs, think I’m leaving with a fight…” Barry went down like a ton of bricks as Ian’s his mouth hung wide open. He was out cold. Paul shook his hand, flexing the muscles, checking his knuckles for any damage. Ian had never seen Paul hit anyone before, not even in self defence. He was stunned.

            “You think I could up with him as a brother,” Paul said searching in the back of the truck. “And not learn a thing or two?” He found what he was looking for and pulled out a length of rope. He knelt down beside his older brother uncoiling the rope.

            “Paul…” Ian protested half-heartedly.

            “What?” snapped Paul securing his brother’s mans and feet. “What? Do you think he’s going to be in the mood for polite conversation when he wakes up?” He tested the strength of his make shift bonds. He decided they would hold. “No? Then help me get him into the truck.” Stunned, Ian did as he was told. Barry came to as they were lifting him but by that time there was nothing he could do besides scream out a torrent of abuse, which he did.

            Ten minutes later they were sat inside the front gate. Paul unlocked the chains as Ian sat behind the wheel, wondering if the last few minutes of his life had actually just happened. When Paul returned he placed a reassuring hand on his father’s shoulder and smiled. When they were safely away from the farm, Paul took out his journal and started to write. Half an hour or so later Ian interrupted his train of thought.

            “You’re writing again.” He shouted over the sound of the engine and Barry’s latest tirade of abuse. Paul nodded. “That’s good. What…what are you writing…”

            “About the future,” Paul interrupted without lifting his gaze. He looked behind him, through the back of the truck and onto the dirt track. “Or about the past,” he said with a smile. “I’m not sure yet.”

            “Good,” said Ian, “That’ good.”

 

 

 

Author's Note

Commentary


This story was inspired by a conversation I had with my parents during one of my rare trips back to London during the summer. We were discussing my uncle�s memoirs (And Night Fell by Molefe Pheto). I had only recently found time to read the book and was toying with the potential of me adapting it for the screen. What got me was the blind (although completely understandable) hatred towards the whites in South Africa. Any suspicious help my uncle may (or may not � no one knows for sure) have received from sympathetic white people is always attributed as a fortunate mistake on their behalf and nothing more. There are a couple of occasions recounted in his book that just could not be coincidence. I argued this point with my parents and naturally they could not see where I was coming from. My uncle was an important man in both the black and white community; his name could have carried some weight within just the right circles. Or maybe nor. Either way I wanted to show a less biased view of racial hatred.

This story changed many times in its conception, switching from Sci-fi to apocryphal and back again as the story demanded it. In the end I decided to give the story a real-world setting without out locking it to any specific region, or time period. The idea being that these characters could be in Africa as much as they could be Palestine or Iraq.

I regret that the argument between the two brothers is so brief. I would have liked to properly explore the various atrocities that have been committed under white rule. I also regret the subplot involving Paul�s black girlfriend was allowed to fall to the wayside. I doubt I would have had them meet up at any point but it would have been fun to explore what Ian and Barry really felt about it. My only hope is that in future drafts I am able to condense other sections down to make more room to for this one.

I would have liked to make the Afrikaans accent more pronounced but every time I tried it seemed the results just seemed comical. I tried to differentiate the age gap between father and sons but making Ian speak more formal than the two boys. I�m not sure how well this came across.

Reviews

[Traces]

'Somewhere' is a excellent story...the puncuation is perfect and that's nice to see in an authors writing. This story is so compelling and causes one to feel they are right there living it with the author. Well done, and welcome to WriterCafe. Holly

[Wellum Hulder]

This is a cool story well done. I think you are right in that the argument could have been a little more developed. Also, I think in paragraph one/second sentence: Remove "that" from he was tired or maybe go with a colon and then keep "that."

Anyway, nice one.