When Time Fails (Silverman Saga Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page A

enough for Ouma Steyn, it’sgood enough for me,’ Rosie had said, wrapping her arms across her ample chest the day the white appliance emerged, fresh and shiny from its cardboard wrappings. Petrus had helped Pa lift it down from the back of Pa’ s bakki e and carry it into the kitchen. Rosie had glared at the new interloper in barely bridled disapproval. But Annamari and Christo had gaped, wide-eyed in wonder, as the big white machine got hot, all by itself, after Pa plugged it in.
    Rosie was always busy. For as long as Annamari could remember, when Rosie wasn’t cooking or baking or cleaning or washing or ironing or chasing her out of bed so she could do her room, Rosie would be sitting in the corner of the kitchen on her little stool, crocheting a blanket or something. But not today. Today Rosie was just sitting, her swollen brown fingers resting in her lap; her normally immaculat e doe k a little askew. The streaks of grey visible under tha t doe k shocked Annamari. When had Rosie got so old?
    ‘Pretty will bring you the tray, Kleinmissie,’ Rosie said. ‘You go sit with your ma.’
    The groan from the group in the lounge as she walked back to th e stoe p indicated that Transvaal must have scored.
    ‘Where’s Arno?’ she asked Ma as she tucked the blanket up under De Wet’s chin before settling back into her chair. Kaptein had also disappeared.
    ‘There.’
    She looked towards the old jackalberry tree. It was a magical tree. She and Christo had seen it transform from a fort or castle into a tank or tractor or haunted forest. Years later, it had been her refuge when she came home for the school holidays, sitting with her back against the rough bark, dreaming of the day she’d walk down the aisle on Pa’s arm to become Mrs Thys van Zyl.
    ‘What’s that man doing?’ she asked her mother as the new farm supervisor emerged from behind the tree. He was dragging the little girl behind him, his bony fingers biting into her stick-like arm.
    ‘So sorry, Mrs Steyn, Mrs van Zyl. It won’t happen again,’ he called as he pulled the child towards the garden gate.
    Arno ran after them, crying. Annamari hurtled down th e stoe p stairs. What had that man done to her child? She hadn’t liked Stefan Smit the moment Ma had introduced him. He reminded her of a rabid meerkat. Or that character in David Copperfield – the one who was always wringing his hands. Uriah Heep. She remembered because Mr Franklin, who insisted they read Dickens and Shakespeare even if they were doing English Second Language, said he could never understand why some strange British rock band had taken the same name.
    ‘Wait. What’s going on?’ Annamari demanded.
    Stefan Smit turned and bobbed his head. His khaki fringe flopped over his milky eyes and he brushed it back with nicotine-stained fingers.
    ‘Sorry, Mrs van Zyl. I’ve told thi s hotno t kid never to come near the farmhouse but she just won’t listen. I’m sorry she disturbed you. I’ll make sure it won’t happen again.’
    He bobbed his head and turned to go.
    ‘Wait,’ Annamari said, more emphatically this time. ‘Why is Arno crying?’
    ‘This kid pushed him over. That’s why I ...’
    ‘She didn’t. She didn’t.’ Arno rushed forward, grabbed the girl’s hand and tugged, trying to pull her out of the farm supervisor’s grasp. The girl looked terrified, tears slipping down her pale coffee cheeks as she was tugged this way and that.
    ‘We wasplaying and then he came and grabbed her and he said I mustn’t play wit h kaffir s but I wasn’t. Me and Bootie was playing,’ Arno howled.
    ‘Let the child go, Mr Smit. Please.’ Annamari cut him short as he opened his mouth. ‘The children can play together if they want. But I appreciate your concern.’
    The man stepped back, frowning. ‘She’s a little troublemaker this one,’ he said. ‘The Coloureds always are. She doesn’t belong here. She belongs with her own people.’ Then he flashed a sickly half-smile and