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Mrs. Brennen took snuff. She got it out of her grandson's store;going in and helping herself from the big tin on the second shelf.It was a habit her family deplored. Mrs. Brennen did not like snuffmuch. It was one of the things she had got over. It made her cough.But the fact that her family deplored her taking it prevented herfrom giving it up completely. She drank a little too. Not much;just enough to get "tiddly." That was what she called it, "I'm alittle tiddly to-day," she'd say, and the family didn't like thateither. Nor did she, save for the fun of shocking them and theinterest outwitting them gave her.An old woman did not have much fun, and she had her reputationas a character to keep up. Sometimes she wished she was not acharacter.

"Mad," people called her behind her back; "eccentric," to herface. "Dear Mrs. Brennen, you would do that. You are so eccentric.""Mad" she would not agree to; "eccentric," yes; if it was eccentricto like sitting on the stoep in the sun and only talking when youwanted to. There was too much talk in the world. Sometimes shewould go for days without talking. "One of her spells," they calledit. Oh, yes, she knew what they said: "Old Mrs. Brennen is havingone of her spells." But she was too busy thinking to worry aboutwhat people thought. "Let 'em talk," she said. "If they'd seen whatI've seen, they'd stay silent. If they'd seen what I've seen,they'd have something to think about. Lot of damned old women!That's what they are, men and all." Her family made her laugh withtheir goings-on. When they reached her age, if they ever did,they'd know that nothing mattered very much. She took another pinchof snuff. Some of it slipped between her fingers on to her blackalpaca dress. She flicked it off with the back of her fingers andfumed to watch a span of oxen pull up to the store.

The voorloper bent down to pick up some clods to throw intothe faces of the oxen. The driver whistled and turned the handle ofthe brake. The big wheels locked, dragged on a yard or two andstopped. Taking off his hat, the driver went into the store. Thevoorloper

Mrs. Brennen wondered how many wagons she had seen pull uplike that since she had come to Brennen's Store as a bride.Thousands and thousands

of wagons. Thousands of men, too--white men, Kaffirs, men on foot,in Cape carts, in spiders, or riding, and now they came inmotor-cars. Mrs. Brennen did not like motor-cars. Of course theysaved time. But what did one do with the time one saved? No onecould tell her that. She chuckled. They couldn't tell her, becausethey didn't know.

She had seen two wars and some native troubles. Once whenBrennen was away, the store had been burned by Kaffirs. She hadjust escaped. A friendly native had warned her. She had hidden inthe bush. She had taken Susie with her--a sweet little dog. She hadnever had another dog like Susie-black and white, as soft to touchas silk, with a wet pink nose. Generally, black-and-white dogs hadblack noses, but Susie's had been pink. As she crouched among therocks, the Kaffirs had come quite near her. Susie had tried to barkand she had held her between her knees and strangled her. Then theKaffirs had gone and she had buried Susie. The road had been movedsince then, and the new store built. Susie was buried about wherethe wagon stood now. She looked at her hands. They were very frail,veined, knotted and lumpy with gout. Once they had been beautiful.Brennen had said she had beautiful hands. Once they had strangleda pet dog while wild Kaffirs swarmed round her.

They were off-loading the wagon. Mealier. Her grandson,George, was buying them, then. He would pay too much for them. Healways paid too much for everything. She thought of a horse he hadbought once. That must have been twenty years ago. Like all horsessaid to be salted, it had died of horse sickness. She had told himit wasn't salted. Anyone could see it was not salted. A saltedhorse had a look. You couldn't explain it. You just knew the lookit had.

George came out of the store now. A stupid boy. He always hadbeen stupid.

"Don't pay ten shillings a bag!" she shouted. "Don't pay morethan eight; and sample them!" If it wasn't for me, I don't believehe'd sample them, she thought. She watched him drive a knife witha hollow groove into the bags, emptying the pips into his hand.Some chickens ran out to pick up the fallen mealiest One of thempicked a tick from the heel of the near wheeler--a big red andwhite ox that was chewing its cud.

Mrs. Brennen closed her eyes. Sometimes they forgot who shewas. Yes, sometimes they forgot that it was still her store. Thatshe was Cecelia Brennen, the mother of them all. The mother of amultitude of fools. Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren.It was hard to keep track of them now. Each year they came to showher the new babies they had bred. She thought of her firstgrandson. She had been so pleased with him. She looked at George;he had been the first grandson. He was leaning against the door ofthe store. Babies were like everything else; when there were somany of them, they became commonplace. It was hard to remembertheir names or even their mothers' names. She liked the Kaffirbabies best--black like puppies, and pleasantly nameless. TheKaffir women who brought them to her to admire did not expect herto remember anything; all they wanted was a smile and a present.But that was what most people wanted, when you came to think ofit--a smile and a present.

She nodded her head. They thought her memory had gone; but sheknew more than the whole pack of them put together. Knew everythingthat was worth remembering. Ninety-three, and the pattern of herlife trailed out like a cloak behind her--her loves and hates, thathad once been so hot and cold, all meaningless now--just part ofthe fabric; brilliant threads that had been woven through it.Remember--she remembered all right. The things she forgot, like thenames of her great-grandchildren, and of the women her grandsonshad married, were not important. What did it matter if she did notrecognise them all, so long as they knew her? Besides, women alllooked the same now. They had no character--short curly hair, redlips, red nails and no shape.

She watched the wagon go. The driver shouted and clapped hiswhip. The voorloper trotted in front of the running oxen. The hindwheels were still locked, and dragged. That was like a Kaffir, tostart his span with the brake on. The driver clapped his whip againand took off the brake, then he ran forward and jumped on to thedisselboom. She remembered a man being brought into the store whohad been run over that way. He had slipped and the wheels had goneover his legs. Empty of ballast, the wagon moved noisily. One wheellet out piercing squeaks. Grease, Mrs. Brennen thought. Georgeshould have noticed it and sold him some grease.

She stared down the road. It was red, unmetalled, dusty, andwide enough to turn a span. Part of it was bordered with big bluegums; grey foliaged untidy trees whose bark hung in torn whiteribbons from the trunks. There was the bottle store, the chemist's,the Standard Bank, the coolie store, and the usual white houseswith red roofs that got smaller and more disreputable as the roadwent on. The best part of the dorp was behind her. That was wherethe doctor lived, and the bank manager, and Mr. Fairburn. No oneknew quite what Mr. Fairburn did or where he got his money. Thatwas where George wanted to live. He thought it was common to liveopposite the store. He wanted to drive down to it in his new careach day, as if he was a professional man.

She laughed. Perhaps that was it, or perhaps he wanted hertucked away safely where she could not see everything that went on.But the store was her life. It did not change, like the children.It did not die. It did not go away. It grew, but it grew slowly andprecisely. You knew which way it was going to grow. Seventy yearswas a long time to sit in one place. She had been asked why she didnot travel! Travel. Why go and look for life when it was going onall around you if you had eyes to see and waited long enough? Shethought of the story of the two hunters. One had walked for miles,looking for game. The other had sat near a water-hole. The firsthad killed nothing. The second had taken what he wanted. It wasbetter and less exhausting to let things come to you than to go andsearch for them. The store was like a water-hole--everyone had tocome to it in the end. If they wanted a needle or a plough, theycame to Brennen's.

She saw a car. What a dust it threw up! It came from Pretoria.It was many years since she had been there. They said Church Squarewas now a garden. It had been the outspan. They had oftenoutspanned there in the old days. Sometimes there had been twohundred wagons, Lying wheel to wheel. But the great days were gone,and where were the men to day who could compare with the men shehad known then? Men like the old president, Joubert, De Wet, De laRey, Cecil Rhodes, or Doctor Jim. Men like Brennen her husband.That was another reason she sat in the store all day. Brennen waswith her. She could feel his company.

She looked at George. He had not moved. George was fat. Shehated fat men. A fat woman was comfortable, but a fat man anabomination.

The car stopped at the store. A young man got out; he had aletter in his hand. He looked at the notice outside the store. Thenhe went up to George and gave him the letter. She would find outwhat was in it later. A man in a car bringing George a letter.

George was bringing him over. He looked like an Englishman.There was even something familiar about him. The turn of his heador the way he walked.

"She may know," she heard George say, "but she's difficult.She has spells."

That was another of George's delusions--that she was deaf. Shehated being shouted at, but it was worth letting them think it forthe asides she heard.

"This is Mr. Vane," George said, putting his mouth to her ear."He has come from England, Ouma."

She put out her hand. "I can see he comes from England," shesaid. "Look at his boots." Mrs. Brennen wondered if she would takesnuff now or later. He seemed a nice young man, fresh complexioned,very clean and shiny, with reddish hair.

"Sit down," she said.

He sat down.

"How much did you pay for those mealies, George?" she asked.

"Nine shillings."

He would go in a minute and leave her with the young man. Georgegot up.

"I said you weren't to pay more than eight."

She looked him up and down. Once she had had great hopes of George.

"I'II be going," George said. "See you later."

"Thank you," the Englishman said. "I do hope I'm not being anuisance, Mrs. Brennen."

"Nothing is a nuisance now," she said.

She got her snuff-box. "Take snuff?" she asked.

"No, thank you."

"Quite right, young man. A filthy habit. He"--she pointed toGeorge's back--"thinks I am a disgrace to the family." Shechuckled. "But I bred them. If it wasn't for me, there'd be nofamily--and the store is mine. That's what they don't like. They'dlike to sell the store and go into something else--too grand forBrennen's general store. Ride round in motor-cars. That's what theywant to do--just ride round and round. There's no sense in ridinground and round." She looked at her visitor. He seemed a littlebewildered. Never seen anyone like me before, she thought.

"Never seen anyone like me, have you?" she asked. "And youwon't again, young man; I'm one of the last of them. Real people,we were. Men and women. Real," she said. She closed her eyes. "Whatdo you want?" she asked. "Why did you come here? Who gave you aletter to George? No good having a letter to George. He's a fool.He's my grandson, and I know."

"It's a long story." Francis Vane lit a cigarette. He wonderedhow to begin. "It's my father," he said. "You see, his father--mygrandfather--was killed near here with the Three Hundred and First,and I wondered if anyone could tell me about it. They sent me toGeorge Brennen. I had a letter to him."

"No good sending anyone to him," Mrs. Brennen said.

"Do you remember them coming here?" Vane asked. "It was inNovember 1880."

"Of course I remember," Mrs. Brennen said. "John--that'sGeorge's father--was ill then. We thought he would die, and thenthey came. 'Kiss me Mother . . . kiss your darlingdaughter'--that's the tune they played as they marched in. They hada doctor with them--a Captain Bull. He saved John's life and wegave him a cage of wild birds. . . . But what do you want to know? sheasked.

"I want to know how it happened. You see, my grandfathercommanded the Three Hundred and First. He was killed. They said itwas his fault That he was incompetent. My father is very old nowand he broods about it. He wants to know where his father isburied. He wants to know what happened. He's very old," he saidagain.

"I'm very old," Mrs. Brennen said, "and I know; I brood too.Thinking, I call it. Your grandfather. Then that's it. That's whyI thought I'd seen you before. I danced with him that night. Hedanced well. We gave them a dance in the old store." She nodded tothe warehouse behind the present building. "We cleared everythingout. Ploughs, harrows, soft goods and all. We put buck sails overthem and gave the officers a dance. They had come from Lydenburgand were going to Pretoria. They didn't think there'd be a war.They said it would be a massacre if it came--Boars against trainedtroops like them. The Three Hundred and First," Mrs. Brennen said."Yes, the Three Hundred and First."

Francis Vane leaned forward.


Mrs. Brennen saw it all. She saw them march in. "Kiss me,Mother . . . kiss your darling daughter." The drum-major tossed hisstick, caught it, twirled it; men in red--an endless stream ofsunburnt young men in red-mounted officers, rumbling transport,mules, baggage, wagons drawn by oxen, dogs that followed thebattalion with lolling tongues.

For a day Brennensdorp had been gay, populated with soldiers. Theyhad swarmed everywhere--walking about in pairs, standing in groups,or Lying on their backs in the shade of the gum trees--they hadbeen small then and their shade thin. She saw them washing inbuckets, their young chests bare, their hair wet, their eyeswrinkled against the soapy water. She had propped Johnny up so thathe could see the soldiers. And it had been hot. It was not hot likethat now. It had been so hot that the sheets of corrugated iron onthe roof cracked as they pulled at the nails. The trees had dancedup and down on the veld and the road was wet with mirage water. Thered jackets of the troops had made it seem hotter. Wherever youlooked there were red jackets. How they worked to empty the store!Everyone had helped. They had thrown mealie meal on the floor tomake it fit for dancing.

The colonel had come to thank her. "Thank you, Mrs. Brennen,"he had said. "It is very kind of you to entertain us like this."

Colonel Vane had admired her. She had seen it in his eyes. "Ihear your little boy is ill" he said. "Perhaps we can help you.Would you like to see Captain Bull, our doctor?"

She had seen him. A kindly man. He had come at once in hisdusty boots. Brennen had given him beer. The bottles were kept coolin a canvas bucket that hung from the roof. "I'll stay with him,Mrs. Brennen," the doctor said, and he had stayed watching at thebedside.

The dance had been an event. Boys had been sent out to call inthe countryside--all that were loyal, that is--and they had come,every man and woman and girl for miles round. Both sides of thestreet had been full of their Cape carts and buggies. Theregimental band played tune after tune. The doorway was filled withwatching Tommies. The dust and mealie flour had risen off the floorin clouds. It clung to the dresses of the girls, to the clothes andmoustaches of the men. Music, laughter and some kissing.

There was a tale she had heard about a clown who had madejokes while his little son was dying. She felt like that clown. Shekept going in to look at Johnny. The doctor put his finger to hislips and motioned her away. She had gone away. . . .

"May I have the pleasure of this dance, Mrs. Brennen?"

"Delighted."

"How well you dance, Mrs. Brennen."

"How light you are, Mrs. Brennen."

What did they expect, she wondered. It was strange how onecould go on saying and doing all the right things when one wasfeeling nothing. It was as if one stood some way off watchingoneself. She had noticed this, time and again. That cannot be me.This cannot be me. Cecelia Brennen could not be doing this. ButCecelia Brennen was doing it. Her place was with her son; her placewas at the dance. She was Mrs. Brennen, the wife of John Brennen,of Brennensdorp. It was her place to entertain the soldiers of theQueen.

There had been a great killing of beasts and fowls, a greatbaking, a great emptying of casks of wine and brandy. She had seento it all, and to her sick child as well. She had worn cyclamentaffeta with a bustle and hoops.

Her hair hung in ringlets round her neck. A pretty young thing--thebelle of the ball and the mother of a dying child. But he had notdied. If only Johnny can grow up strong and healthy, like theseofficers, she thought. If only-- Excusing herself, she ran to seehim. Captain Bull was asleep; the child slept, too, his hand inthat of the soldier. How tired he looked!

In the morning Johnny was better. "He'll come through," thedoctor said. He made up medicine for him in a whisky bottle. Sheand Brennen had wondered what they could give him. They could notgive money. "Give him my cage of birds," Johnny said. They werebeautiful birds; little finks of every colour--rooibekkies,blouvinks, kingvinks. They were all tame, and sang and twittered ontheir perches. She had taken them to Captain Bull. "A present fromJohnny," she said. Brennen had come at that moment with a Kaffircarrying a case of champagne. The champagne and the birds had beenstowed in the doctor's cart. The case of wine on the bed, and thecage slung from the roof and lashed to the sides, so that it shouldnot swing.

"Good morning, Mrs. Brennen." Colonel Vane rode up. "I am gladto hear your little boy is better."

Behind the colonel there was a donkey wagon loaded with yellowpeaches. It had just come in and the soldiers were crowded roundit, eating peaches and stuffing them into their haversacks to eaton the march. The colonel was laughing.

"Fruit's good for them," he said.

"It's a good year for peaches. And the trees in the districtare weighed down with them," she said.

Then the bugles sounded. The colour-sergeants shouted, "Fallin." The markers were waiting. The men, fully accoutred, ruddy withsleep, ran out. Transport drivers cursed as their hubs bumped. TheThree Hundred and First was going. They had come and they weregoing.

"Kiss me, Mother . . . kiss your darling daughter"--the bandstruck up again. Like a red snake the regiment swung out of thedorp in a cloud of dust. Then the dust fell. To-night they wouldlie in Pretoria.


The Three Hundred and First had gone and Johnny would getwell. She was sitting with Johnny when it happened. A man camegalloping down the street. A private soldier, wounded, riding anofficer's charger. It was streaked with sweat, its chest splashedwith foam, its eyes were wild. She recognised the horse. It wasColonel Vane's horse. The big bay she had patted as he saidgood-bye.

The soldier pulled up and almost fell from the saddle.

"What is it?" she said. "Oh, what is it?" She knelt beside him inthe dust.

"The doctor sent me to get help! They are all finished!" hesaid. "They're cut to hell--the whole bloody lot! We walked intoit! The colonel's dead! I took his horse!" He began to cry. "Theygot us--they got us fair! It was murder!"

He was only a boy. She held him in her arms and the blood fromthe wound in his neck ran on to her shoulder. Suddenly he sat up."Bandages,"

he said, "and brandy . . . and food! That's what the doctor said!We've got no bandages! They're all bleeding, and nothing to stopit! Oh, God, Mrs. Brennen, nothing to stop it! I must get back!" Hedragged the horse towards him and tried to mount.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I don't know, but I must go back. I can't stay here."

"Where is it? Where did it happen?"

"At the little river--they were all round us."

"The Spruit?"

"That's what they call it."

Brennen was inspanning already, loading up the Cape cart. Thatwould be the quickest; the wagons could follow. It was not veryfar. She ran into the house for sheets, towels, bedding,mattresses, blankets, brandy; the house and store were emptied ofeverything that might be useful.

She climbed into the cart beside her husband. He had put infour horses instead of two.

"Trot the oxen, Jan!" he shouted to the driver who was inspanning.

"They cannot trot so far, baas!"

"Trot them and be damned!" Brennen said.

And then they were off at a gallop, rocking first on one wheeland then on the other as they hit the bumps in the road. Hardlychecking for the drift, they splashed through the water. Brennenhit the horses as they slowed up to pull out of it. She had neverseen him hit a horse before. They sprang into the traces again withsuch a jerk that she thought the swingletree would break loose. Shelooked at the pole. Brennen had tied it with a double riem. Theywere on the flat now. The horses were bolting. Let them bolt.Nothing could go wrong with a strong cart and good gear on astraight road unless one of the horses fell. The whip clapped likea pistol as Brennen urged them to greater speed. The four reinswere like live things in his hands as he cried out the horses'names: "Bles! Charlie! Klinkie! Chaka!" Chaka was a new blackhorse. Brennen had put him on the off lead, where he could get athim best with his whip. "Come, Bles! . . . Come, Charlie!" Shegripped the arms of her chair. What a drive it had been. She smeltthe dust in her nostrils.

The road was always dusty, but now it had been made worse bythe passing of a thousand men and their transport. The dust rose inclouds, obliterating everything, so that sometimes she could seeonly the horses' ears and their tossing manes. The reins went downto nothing. They disappeared into the dust. She could see no road.That they kept on it was a miracle.

And then they got there. The horses shied and pulled acrossthe road as the leaders almost ran into an overturned wagon.

The dust fell slowly.

"You've come." It was the boy on the colonel's horse. "I wascoming back to find you," he said.

They got out of the cart. Some soldiers took the horses out.She saw it all--the undulating ground, the bush, the trees by theroad--many of them scored by bullets. There was blood everywhere.It ran down the sloping road into pools.

They helped the doctor to move the men, to bandage, to cutmore bandages. Tents were pitched, food cooked, great cauldrons ofhot water got ready to dress the wounded. She had gone in toColonel Vane. His legs were off. While she was with him, FrantzJoubert, the Boer commandant, had come in.

"Will you drink with me, Commandant?" the colonel said. "Andyou, too, Mrs. Brennen." It was the champagne her husband had giventhe doctor. They drank. Joubert said, "Here's to Queen Victoria.May she live long and take her soldiers from the Transvaal."

They had wrapped the dead in blankets and buried them wherethey fell along the side of the road, on the veld where they hadtaken up their positions. Beside almost every body there werepeaches; they had fallen from the hands of the men as they wereambushed. Their pipe-clayed haversacks still bulged with them. Thedead of the Three Hundred and First were buried with their peacheswhere they lay.

She saw Johnny's cage of birds. It was broken and the birdswere free. The wild birds were free once more and the men weredead.


"Yes," she said, looking up, "that's what happened to theThree Hundred and First. The birds were free and the men were dead,and buried where they fell."

"But--" Vane said.

She had not spoken. She had sat for nearly half an hour withher head sunk on her breast.

She looked accusingly at her grandson. "And they think I can'tremember. I can remember everything. I can even remember thenames."

"That's what I was afraid of," George Brennen said--"one of herspells."

They were silent, staring at the old woman; her head was loweredagain.


Suddenly, from the next house, a woman screamed at a child.

"Didn't I tell you not to eat so many peaches? Peaches--youguzzle peaches all day, and then bring them home at night, so thatyou can eat more. You'll be sick, I say. Where did you get them?Did you steal them?"

"I didn't steal them, Mother. They're the soldiers' peaches.We drove ova there to get them. They're wild peaches." The childwas crying.

Mrs. Brennen got up. "Let her have the peaches. Let her haveall she wants. The soldiers' peaches never hurt anyone." Mrs.Brennen sat down again. "The soldiers' peaches," she said--"thatgrew out of their pockets."

Tears ran down her cheeks. They followed the lines of her faceand dripped on to the snuff-stained alpaca dress. She made noeffort to stay them.

"Out of their pockets?" Vane said.

"She means their haversacks."

"Then there are peach trees?"

"Yes, there are trees--plenty of them."

"And they buried them where they fell? Do you know the placewell?" Vane asked.

"Everyone knows it well. All the children get peaches fromthem. They grow like this." George Brennen traced a pattern on thedust of the stoep with his finger. "Here is where there are themost. . . . That was where the main body got it. . . . They were buriedon both sides of the road . . . and out here is where the scoutsfell.'' He made scattered dots.

"Then there were scouts out," Vane said. "And it wasn't mygrandfather's fault."

"It was nobody's fault," Brennen said. "The Boers were hiddenand they held their fire."

Vane laughed. "Can we go over there to-morrow?" he asked."I'll make a map of it for my father. Poor father," he said. "Ifonly he had known this years ago! He nearly came once, and then hewas afraid to come--afraid of what he'd find."

"We call them the soldiers' peaches," George Brennen said."And I wish she had told you the story--I have heard it hundreds oftimes--but she's old; she has spells."

His grandmother looked up. "I remember as well as anyone," shesaid. She pointed to Vane. "I remember his grandfather. A fine man.There were some fine men in those days."

Brennen took Vane's shoulder. "Come along to my place. Spendthe night and we'll drive over there to-morrow." sat in the dust under the horns of the leaders.