Stepping off the stagecoach Cara dusted off the hem of her gown. As she looked up she saw the notice in the window of Silverton General Stores.

WANTED: Experienced Cook. Willows Creek Timberyard. URGENT. Send telegram.

Unbelievable, she thought. After weeks of looking, this. She walked in and asked the store manager if she could take the notice, as she meant to apply.

“Sure, Cara,” he said. “With the shearers gone, work’s been scarce. Good luck to you.”

By evening Sam from the Telegraph Company brought the reply. The position was hers. She was to report to the Willows Creek depot by Friday.

The train climbed slowly out of the valley farmland and into timber country, the hills rose, the Douglas firs thickened, the settlements grew smaller and further apart. Cara slept against the window until the whistle woke her.

A huge man stood on the platform, arms folded, looking rather foreboding.

“Miss Whitmore?”

“Mr. Walker?”

He touched his cap. “Time’s short. There are thirty hungry men and an empty food store. We’ll get supplies, then I’ll show you the camp.”

He was not, she decided on the short ride to the general store, a man of many words.

The camp kitchen, when she saw it, nearly broke her heart with disgust. Grease on every surface. Flour gone to weevil. Floors filthy.

“Evening meal is seven o’clock sharp,” Silas said. “The men will be hungry.”

“Then I’d best get to it,” she said, and did not stop moving until seven struck.

She fed thirty men that night on stew and fresh bread, and Walker, arriving last, stood in the doorway and simply stared at the transformed room before he took his plate and sat with his men.

“Mrs. Simpson will need food,” he said afterward. “Smaller hut. Left out the door.”

Cara filled a basket, covered it with a cloth, and walked out into the cold.

The hut smelled of sickness before she’d even crossed the threshold. An old woman lay propped on a thin pillow, her breath shallow, her cheeks too red for comfort.

“I’m Cara,” she said gently. “I’ve brought you something to eat.”

“I’ll try,” the woman said. “Doctor Burn’s bringing more laudanum. The leg’s set, but it pains me still.”

Cara helped her sit, helped her drink, and felt the heat coming off her skin like a kettle left too long on the fire. This was no broken leg alone.

“You have a fever, Mrs. Simpson. A bad one.”

“I know it, child.” The old woman’s eyes, though tired, were sharp. “This bread. Who taught you to bake like this?”

“My mam. She was a fine cook.”

Mrs. Simpson smiled, and for a moment the sickness left her face entirely.

They talked a while - small things, the kind that women share in a quiet room. Cara tidied what she could, gave her water, made her comfortable, and rose to leave.

“Child. The top drawer. Bring me the envelope.”

Cara did as she was asked.

“Silas… is my son,” Mrs. Simpson said, and Cara went very still. “he was taken from our yard when he was five years old. We searched half our lives for him. Spent everything we had. When we found him, we gave up what remained of our old life to be near him - Eli as foreman, me in the kitchen. We never told him. There never seemed a right day for it, and then there were no days left to choose from.”

Her voice caught.

“Eli died in the camp two winters back. A tree, the timber had him before he could clear. And I - I fell in the storm last month, and I have not been right since. I know it, even if the doctor won’t say.”

“Mrs. Simpson.”

“Cara. Dear. Listen to me.” She pressed the envelope into Cara’s hands. “When I am gone, give this to Silas. Our savings. Everything. It will break him to find out this way but better broken with the truth than left never knowing his own mother held him again, even if he never knew it was her arms.”

“We can get you well,” Cara said, though her voice shook on the words.

“My sweet girl.” Mrs. Simpson took her hand. “I do not think there is time left for that kind of hoping. But there may yet be time for him to know.”

Cara sat with her until her breathing eased, and she drifted into sleep, then walked out into the dark holding the envelope as though it might catch fire in her hands.

The office light was still burning. She knocked.

“Enter.”

She placed the envelope on the desk. “You need to see this. Now.”

Silas frowned but opened it. He read the first lines. His frown deepened, then faltered, then broke apart entirely.

He read it twice more before he spoke.

“This isn’t-” He stopped. Started again. “She never said. Neither of them. Twenty years I worked beside that woman, and she never…” His voice caught. “She never said a word!”

He looked up at Cara, and for the first time since she’d met him, the big foreboding man looked like a lost boy.

“Go,” Cara said softly. “She’s still awake. Go…”

He did not run, exactly, but he did not walk slowly either. Cara followed a few paces behind, the cold biting at her hands, and stopped outside the door of the hut to let him go in alone.

Through the thin wall she heard him say, “Mrs. Simpson.” and then stop.

A long silence.

“Mam?” His voice cracked on the word, as though he had never once let himself imagine saying it.

“My boy,” came the old woman’s voice, so faint Cara had to hold her own breath to catch it. “My own boy. I looked for you every day. I never stopped looking, even after I found you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? All those years, working side by side.”

“Because I was afraid,” she whispered. “Afraid you would look at me and see only a stranger who let you go, not the one who searched for you every single day since. I wanted you to know me first as someone who mattered to you before you knew who I was to you. And then time simply - ran out on me, the way it does.”

Cara heard him take her hand. She knew it, somehow, from the small shift in his voice.

“You mattered,” he said. “Working beside you… those were the best years I had. I just didn’t know why.”

“Then I am not sorry,” the old woman breathed. “Not for any of it.”

A quietness settled. A long quiet. Cara stood outside in the dark and did not go in, because there are some things a person needs without an audience, even a kind one.

When Silas finally came out, much later, the stars bright over the timber camp, his eyes were red in the lantern light.

“She’s gone,” he said.

Cara touched his arm gently. She did not say she was sorry. She had learned already, in her short time in this hard country, that sorry never seemed to hold enough water for a loss like this one.

Instead, she said, “She got to tell you. That’s not nothing, Mr. Walker.”

He nodded, slowly, and placed his hand upon hers.

“Silas,” he said. “You’d best call me Silas now. Seems only right, given...”

They stood together a while in the cold, two people who had in their own way, sought a place to belong - and found in the unlikeliest of camps, something very near to family after all.

Friday, the first day of the Hantam Vleisfees arrived. The cold bit at the nostrils, turning Pieter’s breath into a thick, sudden plume of white steam. Overhead, dawn was breaking. Pieter lit a smoke, offered one to Diederick who was still wrapped in his bedroll. A heavy white frost covered everything. The fence wires looked like thick silver threads, and the winter grass crunched underfoot.

Soft laughter mingled with the low voices and animal activity. Jantjie arrived with their boeretroos. Huddled together the three of them discussed the day’s activities, the steam from their koffies and breath rose. Just before leaving they checked on the sheep and left instructions with Jantjie. Pieter was hungry and couldn’t wait to get back for the breakfast his mother was preparing.

Back on Vleidroom Martie was busy in her kitchen preparing the breakfast for her guests and family. Nandi had come over to lend a hand. The aga stove was laden with frying pans and the large koffie pot. The heavy bottomed copper kettle blasted its steady stream of steam into the morning air. A heavy cast iron skillet instantly crackled as hand cut strips of farm bacon and boerewors hit the surface, sending up a rich salty aroma towards the ceiling.

Next to the sizzling skillet, fresh eggs gently fried, their yellow yoke’s bright and velvety. Nandi stood making toast, turning thick slices of homemade white bread into a perfect, even golden-brown. A massive batch of buttermilk boerebeskuit (rusks), baked the previous afternoon, sat in the deep depths of the lowest warming oven, drawing out the very last bit of moisture until perfectly brittle and ready for dipping. The smells permeated through the kitchen and Martie did a final check; she nodded to Nandi and went to set the large table in the kitchen.

Back at the farmhouse Lindiwe was packing the last of the jam into a box. Pieter had already taken a few up to the showgrounds the day before, but this batch was a special and required care. Sonja walked into the kitchen.

“Lindiwe, I think we are ready. I have all the boxes, baskets and items ready on the veranda for when Pieter comes. Is that the last box?”

“Ma Sonja, ja the last box.” The corners of her mouth crinkled.

“I will be taking the children over to Martie for breakfast. Pieter will be there soon.” Sonja called for Blaze and Boetie.

As Pieter and Diederick left the showgrounds they passed the steady stream of vehicles going to the showgrounds.

“It is going to be a busy two days Diederick. I will see you back at the showgrounds later. Are you bringing your guests?”

“Ja, they are making their own way to the showgrounds. They are stopping off in Calvinia first, then meeting up with a couple from Johannesburg for breakfast at the Hantam Hotel. Apparently they met whilst looking at the fields of Namaqualand daisies. Klein wereld.”

“Ja nee, small world indeed. These Namaqualand daisies attract many folk. We are blessed. Blaze, ja, that child. Can’t get enough of galloping Bliksem through the fields.”

Breakfast at Martie went down well. The long, Oregon pine table in her kitchen was the true anchor of the family, its thick wooden surface scrubbed smooth and polished with beeswax over decades. On this freezing August morning, it was loaded with a feast designed to sustain the family through a long, exhausting day in the sharp Hantam wind.

“Ou Boet, I think you need to come visit me to show the tannies how you dance.”

“Ag nee, sus… two left feet”

Sonja enjoyed her conversation with her parents. It had been a while since she last saw them. Martie and Hendrik were glowing with pride.

“Oupa Hendrik, why did the chicken cross the road?” Boetie held his giggle back.

“Nee kind, another joke?” He turned. “Ag I will get it wrong, you tell me.”

“To get to the other side!” Boetie and Blaze burst out laughing.

The table joined in with the laughter. The food was enjoyed by all, and the rusks went down a treat. Martie started piling the dishes and Sonja collected the condiments and placed them back onto the dresser. Voices died down and the table was cleared. Everyone made their way to get ready for the Vleisfees.

“Martie, Gerrit and I will be making our way to the showgrounds with Boetie and Blaze. It will give Sonja and Pieter time to get things organised in their tent. I think Sonja will do well today. Dankie vir die lekker ontbyt.”

“Goed so Elize, Hendrik and I will make our way over a little later when things die down. We will join you there for lunch.”

Pieter and Sonja walked home, the children running playing catch. Sonja sent the children ahead to get ready so that they could go with her parents. Sonja knew Lindiwe was ready with the last of the boxes to be packed in the bakkie. Her heart was racing. She was so excited to be showcasing her own clothes and embroidery. Sarie, Nandi and Lindiwe would be at the table in the Vroue Landbou Unie tent selling their jams. This year the competition was going to be tough. Her thoughts went to Hester Rautenbach… talks was that she had something unique. Well, they would soon see.

As they approached the showgrounds, the morning was broken by the sounds of the many vehicles driving towards the showground. People arriving from every corner of the district and further afield. From the more remote, rugged tracks of the escarpment, older farmers arrived in horse-drawn carts or sturdy donkey wagons. The clack-clack of iron-rimmed wheels on the gravel road and the soft snorting of the horses cut through the hum of the engines. Locals walked from the nearby sandstone houses of Calvinia, their boots striking the hard-packed dirt roads. Children skipped ahead to keeping their feet warm, their laughter bright and sharp in the crisp air.

The deep, warm, comforting scent of damp wool, straw, and manure arose from the pens where the finest Dorpers and Merino sheep were being uncovered from their burlap blankets. The sharp, oily smell of hot paraffin heaters, exhaust fumes from idling trucks, and the distinctive scent of warm leather seats opened to the cold air. The blue, sweet smoke of wood fires from Kameeldoring, Sekelbos, and Karoo bossie kindle drifted across the grounds. The scent of fat rendered the on the open braairoosters, blended with the rich, heavy aroma of chicory coffee boiled in giant tin kettles.

Gerrit drove into the showground entrance to the visitor parking and Pieter took the road to the exhibitors parking. Between himself, Jantjie, Lindiwe and Nandi they took the boxes and baskets to the VLU tent. They set the jams down. Pieter then took the boxes of Sonja’s wares to the tent beside the VLU. Sonja had been busy the night before decorating and placing the tables to show her embroidery, baby clothes and lady’s outfits. The wedding dress - the showstopper. She placed that in the left-hand corner away from the entrance. She was ready and her mother Elize would be assisting her. Blaze and Boetie had their place at the back behind the money table. Sarie, her best friend and the two farm girls were ready as well.

Gerrit, Elize and the children arrived at Sonja’s tent.

“Ag my liewe dogter, dit lyk so baie mooi!” Elize hugged Sonja. “Ek dink dit gaan ‘n wonderlike dag wees.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “Who would have thought that one day you would accomplish this.”

“Dankie Ma, I truly appreciate it. Ja, the day arrived. One I had been looking forward to for a long time.” She took her mother’s hand, and they walked over to the money table. She showed her mum the pricing and the wrapping paper. Boetie and Blaze were busy arranging their play area.

“Ma, can Boetie and I go and play outside later?”

“Ja Blaze but remember to stay safe and away from the fires and animals.” Blaze nodded. She was looking forward to seeing everything. This year felt different. The stares didn’t bother her anymore.

The sound of voices and laughter drifted across the grounds. Children could be heard laughing and playing. Music rose to meet the day. It was like a magnet, that drew the shivering crowd away from their vehicles and into shared spaces, the collective warmth of the gathering pushed back the bitter August chill. The Vroue Landbou Unie tent filled. Every competitor glancing around to see the displays of jams, chutneys, preserves and pickles, cakes, cookies, scones, koeksisters, and rusks. At the back of the tent the vegetable table groaned under the weight of the various vegetables, but it was the huge pumpkins that drew attention.

Out in the arena farmers were busy getting their sheep prepared. Already the Boerperde – the pride of the Karoo were gathering interest. These beautiful, sturdy and muscular horses were tough work horses as they coped with difficult country, worked long hours, and go well in harness. Many farmers were on the lookout for good stock, and the show was the right place to seek quality horses. Some farmers bred good cattle, the Afrikaner, Hereford and Short Horn. These breeds did well in the Karoo. Prize poultry and small stock, although a smaller part of the show still brought great interest.

The sounds of animals, voices and movement carried across the arena as farmers moved between the different displays. Beyond the livestock pens, another kind of gathering was beginning to attract the attention of the older farmers.

This year there was a newcomer. The Veteran Tractors. Oom Sarel and his sons were busy polishing their beloved old tractors. His Green Fordson Model F built in 1920 was his favourite. Despite the age it was kept pristine. The Model N from around 1929 with its dark Green body and red wheels was a show favourite. His eldest son really admired the Lanz Bulldog circa 1930. The big chunky tractor, prewar, was Blue/Grey with red wheels. Lastly but not to be frowned upon was the Ferguson-Brown – 1936. This was a Ferguson Grey tractor and well-liked by the older farmers.

A few men had already gathered around the tractors, hands resting on hips as they looked over the old machines. Oom Sarel watched them with quiet satisfaction. For him and his sons, these were not simply old pieces of machinery; each one had a history, and today they were proud to let the district see them.

Pieter and Jantjie were with the Dorpers getting them ready for the judging whilst Diederick ensured the rams were looking their best for their judging. Jacob Rautenbach sauntered over.

“Dag Pieter. Not showing many sheep this year, I notice.”

Pieter raised his hat. “As long as the quality is good, I am happy”

Rautenbach nodded and walked away. Pieter watched him go, yes this year was different, yet he maintained hope. His sheep were in good condition and one of the rams showed great potential.

“Meneer Pieter, we are fine. Doesn’t matter what he says. This year I think we will win a few prizes. The ewes are in the best condition. And that ram with the black spot between his eyes. He is one to watch.”

“Jantjie, I think you are right. Tomorrow we will know. Let us keep an eye on the sheep and tonight you and Tata will be my security. I just want to say thank you for all the effort you have put in over these last weeks. I am grateful.”

Jantjie nodded. “Dankie. Ek is baie bly om saam met jou te werk. Ons team is rerig goed.”

Pieter put his hand on Jantjies shoulder. “Ja. Jantjie ek stem saam. Let us get the sheep back to their pens. Tomorrow is another day.”

Near the main exhibition hall, crowds formed a ring around the Boereorkes. People stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their woollen overcoats brushing against one another, their breath rising together in a single, cloud of steam.Feet tapped rhythmically in the dust, a synchronized thumping that mirrored the steady pulse of the upright bass. As the concertina squeaked out a familiar, soaring waltz, a murmur of recognition ran through the crowd. Old farmers leant on their walking sticks, nodding their heads in time, while young couples stole glances, waiting for the formal dancing to begin.

The sheer volume of hundreds of people chatting, laughing, and clapping in time with the banjo created a joyful sound against the vast, quiet isolation of the surrounding Karoo veld. Near the livestock pens another circle had formed, four and five people deep, with those at the back craning their necks to see what was happening in the centre. A ramkie twanged and the sharp wheeze of an accordion cut through the morning air. Then the rhythm changed. Feet began to move, fast and precise, heels striking the hard ground as the dancers stepped into the circle.

The crowd stood still for a moment, watching. Then someone clapped. Another joined in. Soon many hands were beating out the rhythm, faster and harder as the music gathered pace. The dancers moved with it, their feet flying, bodies dipping and turning, boots kicking up little clouds of red Karoo dust.

A dancer suddenly broke into a particularly quick series of steps and the crowd erupted. Whistles pierced the air. Men shouted encouragement, women clapped and children pushed closer, trying to see between the adults in front of them. Someone laughed when a child at the edge of the circle tried to copy the footwork and nearly lost his balance.

The music seemed to pull everyone closer. Even those who had stopped only to watch for a moment found themselves clapping along. The ramkie rattled on, the accordion wheezed, feet struck the earth and the voices of the crowd rose above it all.

From across the grounds the Boereorkes answered with its own music. The two sounds mingled in the cold morning air, one drifting over from the dancing crowd, the other from the main exhibition hall. Between them, sheep bleated, engines coughed and children shouted.

The Vleisfees was warming up, and the showground began to fill.

Over in the Vroue Landbou Unie tent the tables were packed with wonderful items to be sold and judged. Sarie, Lindiwe and Nandi were busy. At the last-minute Sonja and Sarie decided to enter a jam that they thought would be quite extraordinary. They knew that Lindiwe and Nandi would perfect this preserve. In the clear glass jar, the makataan pieces rested in their golden syrup, translucent and almost jewel-like. The thick pieces caught the light as the jar was lifted, and even before it was tasted, it drew curious glances from the women nearby. The three of them looked pretty pleased as this was a gamble. Sonja had made special covers for each jar displaying her lovely embroidery.

By late morning Blaze and Boetie had disappeared from behind the money table. They had promised to stay close, but the Vleisfees was too much temptation for them.

They wandered between the tents, stopping whenever something caught their attention. Blaze wanted to see the old tractors again, while Boetie was more interested in the horses. They stood at the edge of the Boerperde display, watching a chestnut gelding toss its head as a farmer led it around the ring.

“Look at that one, Blaze.”

“Ja what a beauty.”

“He is.”

She laughed. “Bliksem is more beautiful.”

They moved on before Boetie could argue.

The smell of braaivleis had been following them all morning. By lunchtime the fires were roaring and the Vleisfees cook-up had become another gathering place. Long tables had been set out, and farmers stood around them with plates piled high. Boerewors curled on the grills; lamb chops sizzled over the coals and the smell of smoke and rendered fat hung heavily in the cold air. Someone was turning meat over the fire while another man shouted for more bread.

Blaze spotted her family and pulled Boetie along.

“There you are!” Sonja called. “We have been looking everywhere for you.”

“We were looking at the horses.”

“And the tractors,” Boetie added.

“Well, you had better eat before you fall over.”

They found places at the table. Coffee was poured, bread passed around and plates filled. The children ate hungrily, the cold making everything taste better. For a while nobody talked about judging, prizes or competition. They simply ate.

Across the grounds, the music had started again. Somewhere near the livestock pens a sheep called out, answered by another farther away. A tractor coughed and spluttered before settling into a steady rumble. Men leaned against the pens talking quietly, while women returned to their tables to check their displays.

The day was beginning to soften.

The hard brightness of the morning had gone from the sky, and long shadows stretched across the showground.

One by one, visitors began packing their baskets and folding blankets. Children were called back to their parents. The horses were led away. The older farmers made one last circuit of the livestock pens before heading for their vehicles.

At the Vroue Landbou Unie tent, Sarie carefully checked the jars before covering the table. She lifted the makataan jar and held it for a moment in the fading light. The pieces still glowed like amber beneath the syrup.

Sonja came to stand beside her.

“I think people noticed it.”

“They did.”

“Do you think the judges will like it?”

Sonja looked across the tent.

“We will know tomorrow.”

Outside, Pieter and Jantjie were settling the sheep for the night. The noise of the Vleisfees had begun to thin, but the smell of smoke still hung over the grounds.

Blaze stood beside her father for a moment, looking back at the emptying showground.

“Pappa?”

“Yes, my kind?”

“Tomorrow will be just as busy?”

Pieter looked across the grounds, then down at her.

“Tomorrow my kind,” he said, “we will know.”

The last vehicles rolled away in clouds of pale dust.

The fires burned low.

And beneath the cold Karoo sky, the first day of the Vleisfees came to an end.

Hoping this chapter got your mouth watering and your feet tapping...
But tomorrow is the big one — who takes home the prizes?

TIME

Time is an elusive thing. Slippery, evasive, a little coy. Try to catch it and it’s gone. Try to hold it and it wriggles free. Tell it to slow down and it won’t. Tell it to hurry and it carries on at the exact same pace. Time is an excellent timekeeper. It is never late. We are.

We wait for Time to pass, watching the minutes and wondering how long it can possibly take. Sometimes we feel as though Time has forgotten us completely. Yet when we’re having fun we blame Time when it’s time to go. Is that the time? Suddenly the afternoon has disappeared, and we weren’t ready for it to end. We look at the clock as though it were its fault, as though it has somehow hurried the hours along just to spoil our fun. Where has Time gone? It has simply wandered off to its next appointment.

Time wanders when we have nowhere to be, dawdles when we are waiting, marches when we have somewhere to go, leaps when we’re not looking and flies when we’re having fun. It doesn’t seem to care which one we prefer. Sometimes it flies so fast that it feels like it passes itself, and we’re left wondering how an hour disappeared while we were doing nothing more than laughing, talking, loving or simply being alive. Sometimes a kiss makes Time feel as though it has stopped, just for a moment, before it looks at its watch and off it goes again.

Time gathers moments as it passes. A birthday, a laugh, a conversation, a hand held. Some moments it carries with us. Others it leaves behind. We don’t always notice. We spend Time on unnecessary tasks, convincing ourselves they need doing, waste Time on things that could wait, and pass Time when we have nothing better to do, all the while wondering where the hours have gone. Yet sometimes spending Time is exactly what we should be doing, when we spend it on someone we love, on a conversation that has no purpose other than being together, or on a moment we know we will wish we could have again.

We take Time out when we need to step away from the rushing of the world, perhaps to sit together and enjoy a meal, share a laugh or simply linger in a moment that feels too good to hurry. Then there are the times we are timed out before we have even begun, having spent so long preparing for the race, waiting for the right moment or wondering whether we are ready, that the starting gun sounds and we're still standing at the starting line. Sometimes we keep Time so carefully that we forget to enjoy it, until music begins and we find ourselves caught in its rhythm, forgetting the clock altogether.

Procrastination is the thief of Time, but Time never seems to bother calling the police. It simply keeps going. We blame it for everything. For those awful Times we had. Thank it for a wonderful Time. Moan at it for a hard Time. Time can be cruel. Not because it means to be, but because it never asks whether we are ready to lose something. We get busy, say later, promise ourselves there will be another visit, another afternoon, another chance to sit and talk. Time doesn’t interrupt. It simply carries on, and sometimes by the time we turn around, the chair beside us is empty and we would give anything to have that hour back.

And yet Time changes us, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. What we learn becomes wisdom. What we lose becomes memory. What hurts may become healing. Time gives us hours and asks nothing in return, but we can lose those hours without ever having used them. Because Time spent is Time gone. The moment doesn’t stay, but sometimes what the moment leaves behind does. A lesson, a scar, a laugh, a little more courage, a little more grace, a memory we didn’t know we were making.

And one day, Time runs out, because that is what Time does. It has carried us through laughter and loss, mistakes and memories, beginnings and endings, never stopping long enough for us to hold it. We spend our lives trying to catch it, measure it, save it, sometimes waste it, sometimes wish it away. Yet perhaps Time was never ours to hold. Perhaps Time was the wrapping, the moments… the gifts, and the memories… the treasures.

Wednesday 5th January 1972

As Luke walked away from the prison his thoughts returned to Jack. 614 days. Poor guy. And no investigation into the case. He shook his head. Driving home in his beloved Volvo 144, his mind kept circling back to him. Something didn’t sit right within him.

Turning into his driveway he parked, locked his car and headed to the front door.

Unlocking the door, the silence in the house was felt, it was so peaceful. Dropping his keys into the small ceramic bowl by the door, he slipped off his shoes and stood for a moment taking in the house. Nothing was out of place. The cream walls still held the warmth of the late afternoon sun. The polished wooden floor reflected the light from the patio doors. A framed photograph of his grandmother rested on the mantelpiece, her gentle smile unchanged by the passing years.

Fancying a beer, he headed into the kitchen, opened the fridge and took one out. The garden had been his latest project. When he’d inherited the little semi-detached house from his grandmother it had been tired and neglected, almost forgotten by the world. Most people had seen work. Luke had seen possibility. Every spare weekend had disappeared beneath paint, plaster, timber and soil. Slowly, room by room, flower bed by flower bed, the house had become the opposite of the one he grew up in.

Crossing through the patio doors, he made his way into the garden and sat down on the old wooden bench, stretched out his legs and listened to the evening settle around him. The tenseness in his shoulders dissipated. Taking a sip of his beer, he realised that this was the first time since he started working at the prison that a case had stayed with him. He remembered standing outside the interrogation room at the prison, listening to the conversation between Jack and the solicitor. The disappointment in Jack’s voice, the anger, the frustration.

Finishing his beer, he gathered up a few twigs that had fallen from the rowan tree, pulled some weeds, and carried them to the compost behind the garage. Stepping into the garage, he placed the beer bottle into a crate. This garden was his treasure. His gran had tended it when he was a wee lad. As a teenager he’d helped her with the bigger tasks, and he remembered the summer holidays he spent here with her. She was his sanctuary, but he stopped his thoughts there; his past wasn’t something he lingered on.

Back in the kitchen he checked the fridge for something to make for dinner. Nothing much to work with, so an omelette would do. Later, sitting in the lounge watching the telly, he realised he hadn’t followed a single minute of it - instead he found himself wondering about Jack again. An interesting man; they’d discussed much of the case together. The timeline was methodical and detailed. But the thing that worried him was Jenny and Lily. It dumbfounded him that he’d heard nothing.

Lying in bed, Luke couldn’t get comfortable. One single sentence kept entering his head.

“I just want to know they’re alright.”

He turned over. Closed his eyes. Opened them again. Frustrated, he turned over once more and eventually sleep overtook his rallying mind.

At seven o’clock his alarm woke him. He got up and went about his usual routine - shower, shaved, dressed, downstairs for breakfast. His usual oats porridge. As he stirred the pot, he suddenly said out loud:

“Did they even look for them?”

After breakfast he tidied up and made sure the place was locked. Climbing into his car, he decided to head to the library. He wanted to read what the newspapers had said about the murder of Arthur Smythe. His attention was caught by the DJ on the radio:

“And here’s this week’s number one...”

The New Seekers began singing, “I’d like to teach the world to sing...”

He barely heard the song, his mind so full of what he might find in the newspaper archives. He found a parking space on the High Street close to the library. Stepping inside, he was greeted at once by the smell of polished wood, books and old paper. He noticed the librarian behind the wooden counter.

“Good morning.”

The librarian lifted her eyes.

“Can I help you?”

“I was hoping to look at your newspaper archives.”

“Which newspapers?”

“Anything around the second of May, nineteen seventy. I’m looking for reports about Arthur Smythe.”

She nodded and disappeared into the back. A few minutes later she returned carrying two reels of microfilm and a bundle of newspapers.

“You’ll need the reader over there.” She pointed to a machine by the window.

Luke thanked her, carried the reels across and began winding through the film. He turned the handle; the screen flickered and a newspaper headline appeared.

GLASGOW BUSINESSMAN MURDERED
Article written on the 2nd of May 1970.

Luke took out his small notebook and pencil and recorded:

Arthur Smythe
Murdered: Friday 1 May 1970.
Body found in warehouse.
Successful Glasgow businessman.
Police appeal for witnesses.
Family decline questions.

He read back over the piece in one of the newspapers to confirm, then searched for other newspaper articles that had covered the murder. He found another one of interest.

MURDERED VICTIM’S WIFE SPEAKS
Article written on 5th May 1970.

He noted a little more:

Devoted husband.
Wonderful father.
Privacy requested.
Confident police will find killer.

Beneath that he added:

Public image = perfect marriage?
No mention of business concerns.

He went back over the article once more, and this time lingered on the photograph. Veronica was holding a child’s hand. Is that Lily? Where was Jenny?

He noted that too but kept returning to the photograph. Lily looked about four. She resembled her dad. He searched for more articles. Something caught his eye.

WAREHOUSE MURDER: MAN APPEARS IN COURT
Article written on 6th of May 1970

He read it and summarised in his notebook:

Jack Whittecombe arrested in connection with the murder of Arthur Smythe.
Pleaded: Not guilty.

He underlined the words NOT GUILTY twice, then trawled through the remaining articles once more. Time passed and his eyes began to squint. The library was fairly empty that morning. He glanced towards the main desk. The librarian was looking his way. He gave a small nod. She smiled. Turning back to the microfilm, he sighed.

Turn, turn, turn. Then:

HUNDREDS ATTEND ARTHUR SMYTHE’S FUNERAL
Written Thursday 14th of May 1970.

More than 100 hundred mourners gathered yesterday at St Andrew’s Church to pay their final respects to Glasgow businessman Arthur Smythe, who was found murdered two weeks ago.

Business associates and members of the local community filled the church as Reverend Douglas McLean spoke of Mr Smythe’s generosity, integrity and devotion to his work.

Police officers attended the service discreetly while enquiries into Mr Smythe’s murder continue.

Floral tributes lined the church entrance, many bearing messages from colleagues, friends and local businesses.

Following the service, mourners gathered at Glasgow Cemetery where Mr Smythe was laid to rest.

Detectives have confirmed that investigations into Mr Smythe’s murder remain ongoing.

His eye was drawn to the photograph. Walking behind the hearse - no Veronica. No Jenny. No Lily. Why weren’t they behind the hearse? A few other photographs showed staff from Arthur’s business. He read on. No names of those who’d attended. Interesting.

He picked up his pencil and jotted:

Veronica, her daughter and granddaughter. Did they attend the funeral?
Reverend Douglas McLean?
Staff?
Who were the three people walking behind the hearse?

He kept turning the handle. No further articles came up. He put his notebook and pencil away, gathered the two microfilms and bundle of newspapers, and returned them to the main desk.

“Found what you were looking for?” the librarian asked.

“Aye, I believe so. Although - you never know - I may be back. Thank you. Bye.”

He handed over the film. Back in his car he checked the time. Eleven o’clock. Plenty of time before his next shift at the prison. His mind stayed busy with questions the whole drive, and before he knew it he’d pulled up to the prison gates. The guard opened them and waved him through. He parked, grabbed his leather satchel from the back seat, and stepped through the staff entrance and greeted Hamish.

“Aye, morning, Harrington.”

“Satchel today?” He laughed.

“Aye, late shift.”

Luke stowed his satchel in the locker and locked it, pocketed the key, and made his way down to the kitchen. He greeted a few of the guards and poured himself a cuppa from the hot teapot. A couple of them exchanged pleasantries, and Ewan thanked him for covering the rest of his shift that day, reminding him how grateful he was - his missus had a check-up later and couldn’t drive herself. The guards filed through to the meeting room for their daily update. The senior officer was already there, he ran through the admissions, incidents, court visits, the hospital list, maintenance and staffing.

After the update, they collected their keys. The senior officer called Luke aside.

“Your prisoner in D11? Try to get him out the cell today.”

Luke nodded.

“I mean it. He needs to be seen. Prisoners will take offence.”

“Understood.”

On the way to D wing, he noticed the cell doors standing open - no prisoners about, apart from D11. A good opportunity to talk to Jack about an idea he’d had. The door was shut. He found the key and opened it.

“Hello?”

Jack looked up. He was on the floor; papers spread around him.

“Luke. Morning.”

“Everything okay?”

“I’ve finished my timeline. But I have a few queries.”

“Can that wait until later? The senior officer wants you outside with the others. You need the break.”

Jack agreed and gathered his papers from the floor, stood, and set them on the shelf. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“A moment.” Luke checked the corridor.

“Your case - well, I want to help. Before you disagree, I truly want to. I’ve leave available and want to use it. Firstly, to get away from this god-forsaken place. Secondly, because I can. And thirdly, I want to find your wife and daughter.”

“You what? Seriously? I’m astonished! Why on earth would you bother?”

“Let me just say - I want to help. No skin off my back. I need this break anyway. And if I can use it to find your wife and child, well, that’ll be a help to you.”

“You surprise me. But I can’t tell you where she may be. This is all getting to me. I’m not sleeping well.”

“That’s why you need to be outside - sun, fresh air, exercise. You’ve done the timeline. Now put the paperwork away. When’s your next solicitor visit?”

They walked out into the corridor. The smell of disinfectant hung in the air. “Haven’t heard. That really bothers me. How much longer will I sit here and wait? When will I see my child?”

Luke touched his arm. “Stay positive. Keep active. You’ll get through this.”

He led Jack to the exercise quarter and took his leave. The kitchen called - he needed another cup of tea.

“Hello there.” Ian passed by and made himself a coffee. He’d just come from the prison chapel. Being the prison chaplain was becoming quite tiring.

“Afternoon, Ian. Just the man I was looking for. Mind if I ask you a few questions about a prisoner?”

“Let’s go through to the communal room.” It was empty.

“Ian, it’s about Whittecombe. Does he open up to you?”

“Seems a quiet lad. But he holds a lot of anger and disappointment. He’s been isolating himself. Glad you got him out today.”

“About time, ye ken. Does he talk about his family? Lately he’s spoken to me more.”

“This surprises me, Luke. What happened to Heavy Hand Luke?”

“Ag, aye - that’s another story, Ian. Jack, now, he seems vulnerable. He’s working on his timeline. I believe he’s desperate to declare his innocence.” Luke shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Aye, his family. He misses his daughter desperately. Wonders why he hasn’t received the divorce papers.” Ian took a sip of his coffee. “Why the interest, Luke? Between us -this is quite unexpected.”

“Oh, just a passing interest, Ian. To me he’s not like the other prisoners. This isn’t the place for him.” Luke finished his tea. “Appreciate your time, Ian.”

“You know you can talk to me, Luke. Off the record.”

Luke nodded. “See you around.”

Passing the kitchen, he stepped in, washed his mug and set it on the drying rack. He needed to speak to the senior officer.

Arriving at the door, he knocked.

“Come.”

“Have you got a minute?” Luke asked as he entered.

“Aye, Luke. Take a seat.”

Luke sat. “William, I’ve leave due. Wondering when I can take it?”

“Och aye, Luke, I’ve been expecting this application.” William opened his desk drawer and took out his diary. “Our staffing’s been good lately. Let’s see.” He paged through and stopped. “Aye, I can grant you leave in February. You’ve enough owing to disappear for a month. Seventh of February to eighth of March.”

“William, thank you. That’s grand.”

“Planning to go away?”

“Och aye - time for a good break. Nothing planned yet. I’ll have a look at brochures, visit the travel agencies.” Luke laughed.

“Good to see Jack outside. Ta.” The senior officer sat back in his chair. “You two seem to hit it off well.”

“He’s a troubled man.”

“Off ye go, young man. I like the new persona.”

Luke stood a moment, nodded, and made his way out, closing the door gently behind him.

The second person who’d noticed.

Later that night, getting ready for bed, he played the conversation with Padre Ian Fraser back over in his mind. He’d almost given the show away. Heavy Hand Luke was no longer active. Trying to keep up that image had become incredibly hard. He despised it now. He wasn’t his father, and he never would be. His childhood had been awful. He shuddered.

Thankfully, that life was over...

He thought he was taking a month's leave.
He had no idea what he was about to find.

I am enjoying writing this novel and hope you are too. Thank you for seeing more to my initial short story.

Lucia enters the cemetery with a spring in her step. Coming to the Bistro is the highlight of her day. The sun has just crested the hills, and the scent of pine lingers in the air. As she walks through the gate, she notices someone sitting on the bench by the Bistro Mausoleum. She slows, her brow furrowing. Who on earth could that be? Then she quickens her pace. As she draws closer, the man looks up.

“Silvio... mio Dio! Is that really you?”

Joy bursts across her face.

Silvio stands. “Miss Lucia… It is so good to see you again.”

“Silvio! I can’t believe it! We’ve missed you so much!”

Silvio brushes his suit. “I found what I was looking for and now I am back.”

Lucia takes his arm lightly and walks into the kitchen.

“Zio Giorgio… we have a special guest.”

Giorgio comes through, dusting the flour from his hands.

“Lucia, I am busy, can’t you see!”

He stops and looks up. His eyes cannot believe whom they see.

“Silvio! Che sorpresa! You disappear for months and then stroll into my cemetery as though you’ve only been out for bread.”

Silvio chuckles.

“Giorgio, a long story. I give you the bare bones. I found my father’s grave and now I have my inheritance.”

He takes a small package out of his pocket.

“For you, Giorgio. My father’s favourite recipe cards.”

Giorgio puts his hand onto Silvio’s shoulder.

“Grazie, Silvio. This is indeed a surprise.” He wipes a tear from his eye.

Giorgio goes to his desk, sits and opens the package. He holds the ten handwritten cards with different recipes and laughs.

“È fantastico! I collect recipes. Such an honour!”

Glancing through the recipes, he announces,

“Tonight we make Coda alla Vaccinara! A true Roman dish. Oxtail, celery, tomatoes, pine nuts, raisins... and, believe it or not, a touch of bitter cocoa.”

He looks over at Silvio.

“This is Silvio’s father’s recipe. Tonight we honour him.”

Lucia smiles as she disappears into the pantry and returns carrying a freshly pressed sous chef’s jacket.

“I had a feeling one day you might come back,” she says softly. “I could never bring myself to throw it away.”

Silvio runs his fingers across the crisp white fabric, takes his suit jacket off, and slips it on. It fits as though he had never left.

Giorgio places the recipe cards into his folder with great care and leaves it on his desk.

“Come,” he says. “There is someone you have not yet met.”

He leads Silvio across the kitchen where Li Wei is quietly trimming spring onions with the same calm precision he brings to everything he does.

“Li Wei,” Giorgio says, “this is Silvio. He was my sous chef long before you arrived. And Silvio... this is Li Wei. He has become part of our family.”

Li Wei wipes his hands on his apron and offers a respectful bow before extending his hand.

“It is an honour, Chef Silvio, to meet you. Giorgio has spoken of you many times.”

Silvio smiles warmly and shakes his hand.

Antonio leaves the stockpot long enough to wrap Silvio in a brief embrace.

“You still owe me a game of chess,” he says.

“I was hoping you had forgotten.”

“Never.”

The kitchen settles into its familiar rhythm once more, yet something has changed.

The empty space that no one ever spoke about no longer feels empty.

Silvio is home.

A muddy trail of footprints suddenly appears across the freshly scrubbed kitchen floor.

Giorgio looks down.

Looks up.

Then closes his eyes for a brief moment.

“Alessandro... you plan on polishing my floor again today?”

Alessandro stops in the doorway, two baskets of fresh produce hanging from either arm. He follows Giorgio’s gaze to the muddy footprints stretching behind him.

“Oh.”

He looks at his boots.

“Oh.”

Li Wei quietly chuckles.

Without another word, Alessandro backs out of the kitchen, carefully placing each foot into the muddy prints he has already made.

Giorgio watches.

“You know... you are very funny.”

Alessandro disappears outside.

A few moments later he returns in clean boots carrying baskets of onions, celery, carrots and fresh herbs.

Only then does he notice the man standing beside Giorgio.

He blinks.

The basket slips from his fingers.

Carrots scatter across the floor.

“Silvio?”

Silvio bends down, picks up a runaway carrot and drops it back into the basket.

“You’re still dropping the vegetables.”

Alessandro grins.

“You’re still catching them.”

For a moment neither man says another word.

Then Alessandro gives him a quick, awkward hug before returning to gather the last of the carrots.

Giorgio claps his hands once.

“Forza! Back to work.”

He hands Silvio his father’s recipe card.

“Show us.”

Silvio studies it for a moment, then places it carefully beside the stove.

He lifts the heavy casserole onto the range and lays the oxtail into the warmth of the pot.

A gentle sizzle fills the kitchen.

Nobody speaks.

They simply watch as the meat slowly begins to brown in its own fat.

Only then does Silvio glance over his shoulder.

“Li Wei... the vegetables.”

Li Wei is already reaching for the onions.

Antonio quietly lights the next burner.

The kitchen, without another word, slips back into the familiar rhythm it has been waiting for.

Lucia glances down at her iPad.

Ping.

She smiles.

Ping.

Another reservation.

Ping. Ping.

“Zio Giorgio…”

He doesn’t look up from the recipe card.

“Mmm?”

“I mentioned on our page that Silvio had returned.”

She taps the screen and laughs softly.

“The bookings are coming in quickly.”

Giorgio folds his arms with quiet satisfaction.

“You see? They know where to find good food.”

Silvio gently turns the oxtail.

“Or they missed your cooking.”

Giorgio grins.

“That too.”

Lucia slips the iPad under her arm.

“Zio... what’s tonight’s special?”

Giorgio holds the recipe card aloft.

“Tonight... Coda alla Vaccinara!”

He turns to the kitchen.

“Antonio... Gli antipasti. Keep them simple.”

“Sì, Chef.”

“Li Wei... the soffritto. Onion, celery and carrots. Nice and fine.”

“Sì, Chef.”

“Alessandro... pine nuts.”

“Subito!”

The kitchen settles into its familiar rhythm.

Antonio begins arranging the antipasti while Li Wei finely dices the vegetables. Beside them, Silvio patiently browns the oxtail, turning each piece until it is richly caramelised in its own fat.

A few moments later Alessandro returns, placing a bag proudly on the bench.

“Chef.”

Li Wei opens it.

He pauses.

“These are pumpkin seeds.”

Alessandro blinks.

“Really?”

Li Wei nods.

“Much larger.”

Giorgio walks over, looks into the bag and sighs.

“Tell me, Alessandro...”

Alessandro waits.

“When did pumpkins start growing on pine trees?”

Antonio continues arranging the antipasti.

“It is possible, no?”

Li Wei says nothing.

He simply holds out his hand.

“Pine nuts.”

Alessandro smiles sheepishly.

“Subito.”

He disappears through the pantry door once more.

Giorgio watches him leave before turning back to Silvio.

“Now… where were we?”

Silvio drops the onions into the casserole.

“At the beginning of a very good sauce.”

The afternoon slips by almost unnoticed.

The rich aroma drifting from the oven grows deeper with every passing hour. From time-to-time Silvio lifts the heavy lid, gently turning the oxtail before returning it to its slow embrace. The meat is beginning to surrender to the bone.

Antonio lays out the antipasti with his usual quiet precision while Li Wei prepares the vegetables and creamy polenta for the evening service. Alessandro, determined to redeem himself, polishes every saucepan until it gleams before disappearing to fetch fresh bread from the bakery.

Beyond the swing doors, Lucia and Vittorio make their final preparations.

The emerald-green waistcoat sits perfectly against Vittorio’s polished ribs, its intricate gold embroidery catching the soft afternoon light. Lucia pauses for a moment to admire him.

“You do realise,” she says with a smile, “that your waistcoats are becoming almost as famous as Giorgio’s cooking.”

Vittorio smooths an invisible crease from the front of his waistcoat.

“I should hope so.”

Lucia laughs as another notification sounds on her iPad.

Ping.

She glances at the screen.

“One final reservation.”

She walks through to the kitchen.

“Zio...”

Giorgio looks up from the oven.

“We’re completely full tonight.”

His face lights up.

“Bene!”

Lucia smiles.

“And Mayor Carlo Benedetti and his wife have just arrived.”

Giorgio instinctively straightens his toque before looking towards the oven.

“Silvio...”

Silvio carefully removes the casserole and places it on the stove. He lifts the lid.

A cloud of fragrant steam rises gently through the kitchen.

Without a word he stirs the rich, velvety sauce one final time before tasting it.

A tiny pinch of salt.

One last whisper of bitter cocoa.

He stirs.

The deep crimson sauce glistens as it coats the tender oxtail.

Giorgio closes his eyes and breathes in.

“Bellissimo.“

Silvio gives the smallest of nods.

“It is ready.”

For a heartbeat nobody moves.

Then Giorgio claps his hands once.

“Forza! Apriamo le porte!“

The kitchen comes alive.

Ding.

The little bell above the entrance announces another arrival.

Conversation softens for a heartbeat before carrying on. Candlelight dances across polished glasses as Vittorio glides towards the door.

He opens it with his customary grace.

“Buona sera. Benvenuti al Bone Appétito Bistro.“

Their eyes linger for just a moment on the elegantly dressed skeleton welcoming them at the door.

Then, almost without thinking, they smile.

Mayor Carlo Benedetti removes his hat and steps inside. Beside him, Signora Elena pauses for a moment, taking in the softly lit dining room, the gentle music and the scent drifting from the kitchen.

“It smells wonderful,” she says quietly.

Vittorio inclines his skull.

“Our chef would consider that the finest compliment.”

Lucia appears beside him, her warm smile as welcoming as ever.

“Mayor Benedetti... Signora... it is an honour to welcome you.”

“The pleasure is ours,” the Mayor replies. “We have heard wonderful things about this place.”

Lucia leads them through the bustling restaurant. Every table is occupied. Quiet conversation fills the room, punctuated now and then by laughter and the gentle clink of glasses.

As they pass the open kitchen, Giorgio catches sight of them.

His eyes widen.

Without turning around he murmurs,

“Silvio...”

“Sì?”

“Our guests have arrived.”

Silvio does not look up immediately. He finishes spooning the glossy sauce over the oxtail before lifting his eyes.

“I thought they might.”

Giorgio chuckles.

“You haven’t changed.”

“No.”

Silvio wipes the edge of the serving dish with a clean cloth.

“But the sauce has.”

Giorgio laughs softly.

“Then let us make your father proud.”

The dining room hums with quiet conversation.

Vittorio glides effortlessly between the tables, balancing silver trays with practiced elegance. His emerald-green waistcoat catches the candlelight as he places each dish before its grateful recipient.

“Coda alla Vaccinara. Buon appetito.”

The rich aroma follows him through the Bistro.

At the Mayor’s table, Carlo Benedetti lays his knife gently beside his plate after the very first mouthful.

He looks across at his wife.

Neither speaks.

Elena smiles first.

“This...”

She pauses.

“…is extraordinary.”

The Mayor nods slowly.

“I have eaten Coda alla Vaccinara in Rome.”

He cuts another piece of the tender oxtail.

“This is every bit its equal.”

Lucia catches Giorgio’s eye from across the dining room and gives the smallest of nods.

He exhales quietly.

Silvio continues serving the next plates as though he has heard nothing at all.

Antonio places the antipasti before another table.

Li Wei ladles creamy polenta with his usual calm precision.

Alessandro, carrying a basket of warm bread, finally reaches the Mayor’s table without dropping a single thing.

Giorgio notices.

“Well done.”

Alessandro smiles.

“I practiced.”

The evening slips by in a gentle rhythm of conversation, laughter and empty plates returning to the kitchen.

As the last guests leave, Vittorio turns the little sign on the door.

Closed.

Silence settles over the Bistro once more.

Giorgio removes his toque and lays it on the counter.

He looks around at the tired but smiling faces gathered in his kitchen.

Then his eyes rest on Silvio.

Without saying a word, he picks up the handwritten recipe cards and places it carefully back into its folder.

Silvio nods.

“My father would have been happy.”

Giorgio smiles.

“No…”

He gently pats the folder.

“…he would have been proud.”

Outside, the cemetery lies peacefully beneath a canopy of stars.

Inside the Bone Appétito Bistro, another evening has quietly become a memory.

The Bistro family is complete again. Somehow, it already feels as though Silvio had never been away.

Thank you for joining the Bistro family again this week. I have a feeling more than a few of you may be asking for Silvio's father's Coda alla Vaccinara recipe!

The morning dawned clear over Vlei Droom. No hint of rain in the air. Three glorious days of sunshine. The Karoo transformed from a dry desert into a vibrant landscape carpeted with blooming wildflowers.

This time of the year the seasonal crowd was expected. Hendrik and Martie had their work cut out. Sonja’s parents and Elize were staying over. Diederick was hosting a young couple he met in Upington a few weeks before. Many farmers were hosting family or acquaintances during the spring. A wonderful boost for the district, although some farmers smiled a little less when flower season arrived. From sunrise to sunset, passing visitors stopped to admire and photograph the carpets of Namaqualand daisies, leaving a trail of dust hanging over the farm roads.

Blaze said goodbye to her parents who were just finishing breakfast. School awaited and Elizabeth asked her to be early as she had a little surprise. Sonja and Pieter continued discussing the three-day period. The Vleisfees dominated their lives now. Pa Hendrik wandered over from his place, waved at Blaze and entered the kitchen.

“Môre sê julle twee.” He took off his hat and sat down at the table and placed his hat beside him. “Sonja you look beautiful. This pregnancy really suits you.”

“Dankie Pa, ja this baby is making its place known.” She touched his arm and pecked his cheek.

“Pieter, I have just been speaking to Fanie van Niekerk on the phone. I contacted a few of my buddies from the old days about the poisoning. Fanie came back.” He took the koffie from Lindiwe.

“Pa, Môre. Well, I never, I was hoping that something would come up. What did he have to say Pa?”

“Fanie, well, he mentioned Rascals pedigree. The farmers that have bought a Rascal offspring are talking. They are saying… bloodline is everything.”

“Pa, yes Rascal. He was from a good bloodline, and we see it in his offspring. But why now, why the poisoning?”

“Pieter, bloodline. People are talking. They forget bloodlines are only the beginning. Ja, but bloodline needs a good farmer.”

Hendrik took a long sip from his koffie. “Talk is that his bloodline is strong. Fanie says the ou from Witval has a good ram, but not as good as Rascal. There is talk that he is expanding his flock and has brought in some excellent rams this year.”

“Well, we know that the proof is in the judging. The judges this year are coming from Pretoria and Pietersburg. They say they are the best. One of them is judge at the Nationals.”

Sonja excused herself.

“Jammer Sonja, maar dit is belangrik.”

“Nee Pa, dis ok. Ek het ‘n paar dinge om te doen.” She kissed him on his cheek and went to her sewing room.

“Pieter, it is not about the judging. It is about the dilution of Rascals bloodline. This, this is the reason for his poisoning!”

“Pa, ja this is very hard to take in. Come let us go over to the field where Jantjie and the team are checking the sheep to take to the showgrounds. I could do with your support.”

While Vlei Droom prepared its finest sheep for the journey to Calvinia, visitors from every corner of South Africa were already making their way towards the Hantam.

The heavy 1954 Ford Customline moaned in second gear, its V8 engine straining against the relentless, unforgiving incline of the Botterkloof Pass. Inside the car, Julian Sterling gripped the ivory steering wheel with white knuckles. Back home in the lush, paved suburbs of Houghton, driving meant navigating a gentle turn into the country club. Here, it was a battle against the elements.

The view outside was utterly breathtaking. Beneath them, the vast, ancient bowl of the Karoo unfolded in a dizzying expanse of violet shadows and blazing orange patches of Namaqualand daisies. The sky was deep, bruised blue. But neither Julian nor Rosemary could fully appreciate the majesty of the escarpment.

“Julian, darling,” Rosemary gasped, her hand flying to her throat as a fit of coughing took her. “Cough, splutter… I feel as though I’ve swallowed half of the Cape Province!”

“Oh darling. It seems very dry. Keep your window up.” The metallic ping-ping-ping of sharp gravel stones flinging themselves against the Ford’s pristine underbody was grating on his nerves. He wondered whether the paintwork would be damaged.

“If I keep it up, we shall bake like two of those Karoo mutton chops!” she grimaced, fanning herself with a leather-bound travel guide.

The Ford bounced violently as it hit a patch of corrugated road. The soft suspension designed for smooth highways, sent the heavy car swaying like a dinghy in a high sea. Julian’s fedora slipped forward over his eyes. He glanced at Rosie and laughed, “what next,” as he lifted his hat. Through the floorboards, a fine, powdery road dust was seeping into the car, coating the polished dashboard, Julian’s crisp linen trousers, and the toes of Rosemary’s leather ballet flats in a matte, chalky film.

The next forty miles passed in a blur, the rhythmic shhh-shhh-shhh as the tyres sliced through drifts of loose sand was the only sound. The stunning orange and yellow daisy fields outside passed by for miles.

By the time the corrugated dirt road finally smoothed into the wide, gravel entry of Calvinia’s Main Street, the pristine Johannesburg vehicle looked as though it had been through a violent dust storm.

Julian swung the heavy American sedan around the corner and pulled up directly in front of the Hantam Hotel. On the hotel’s wide wooden veranda sat a dozen local sheep farmers. They sat in high-backed deck chairs, dressed in heavy woollen jackets and velskoene, puffing on pipes and nursing mid-day brandies. When the Ford groaned to a halt, every single pipe paused mid-air. The locals stared in absolute, deadpan silence at the layer of chalky Karoo dust obscuring the car’s expensive registration plates.

Julian cut the engine. The V8 died with a hot, ticking sigh.

For a moment, neither passenger moved. Julian stepped out. His once-immaculate linen trousers were entirely white from the knees down. As he closed the door fine dust slid down the door.

He walked around to the passenger side smacking the dust off his trousers with his fedora. He opened the door for his bride. Rosemary stepped onto the dusty curb and glanced at the hotel.

“Such a wonderful little hotel darling. Just like the brochure said.”

She smoothed down her pleated skirt, sending a small puff of the Hantam valley dust into the afternoon air.

From the veranda, an elderly farmer with skin like cured biltong took his pipe from his mouth. He eyed Julian, then the dust-caked Ford, and finally at Rosemary’s ruined, windswept hair.

“Middag,” the farmer called out in a low, rumbling Afrikaans drawl, his eyes crinkling with a slow, wicked amusement. “Nice weather for the flowers, hey?”

Rosemary swallowed hard, her throat clicking dryly. She raised her head and nodded.

“Yes, very nice, pity about the dust!” Rosemary laughed.

A hotel servant appeared.

“Middag Meneer, Mevrou. I am Sollie and have come to fetch your luggage.” Julian greeted him and opened the boot. Sollie took out the two large suitcases and carried them into the high ceiling lobby. The reception desk was high and the dark wood shone. Julian took his wife’s arm and stepped into the lobby. Rosemary was delighted. Although the journey was not as wonderful as she thought it would be, the hotel was very charming. The receptionist greeted them warmly.

“Good afternoon, welcome to Calvinia and the Hantam Hotel.” She said courteously.

“Afternoon, yes we are Mr. and Mrs. Sterling from Houghton, Johannesburg. We have a reservation.” He removed his fedora.

“Aaah yes. We have the bridal suite for you. Here are the keys and Sollie will take your luggage to your room. In the room you will find our information, menus and the mealtimes.”

Julian put his hand on Rosie’s waist and followed Sollie. Their bedroom faced the back garden. The cool air hit them as they entered the immaculate bedroom. The highly polished yellowwood floors smelled of rich lavender floor wax, and the high pressed ceiling kept the heat away. An elegant dark teak wardrobe and brass bed adorned the spacious room. In the corner was a tasteful washstand with porcelain jug and pitcher. Rosie was very impressed.

“Oh Julian, this is so delightful. Just as I expected. I think we are going to have a wonderful honeymoon here. My mother says that the service and food are second to none.” She kissed him and ran over to the bed. Giving it a few bounces she nodded.

“This is so comfy.”

“Yes darling, I am looking forward to spending some quality time with you.” Julian glanced over to the window facing the back garden.

“The gardens are well kept. Perhaps we could take a walk later and see what flowers they have.”

Rosie went over to him. “I would really like that. Perhaps we could take a few of the plants from here back home. A reminder of our stay.”

Rosie unpacked her suitcase. She needed a bath. Taking her toiletries, towel and dressing gown, she left the room to go down the linoleum corridor to the lady’s bathroom. After a long luxurious soak in the cast iron bathtub, she felt much better. Walking back to her room she wondered about their short stay and hoped the dust wouldn’t spoil their time together. They had been so looking forward to this time together.

Julian had also taken a bath. Both back in the bedroom they looked at the map that the receptionist had given them. Tomorrow they would be taking the road to see the glorious Hantam flowers.

Dinner that evening was served in the high ceiling dining room. The polished floors creaked as they approached their table. The table was laid with a starched white cloth. In the centre were glass salt and pepper cellars and Worcestershire sauce and a small bowl of dark green tomato preserve. Dinner that evening was slow roasted lamb served with pumpkin roasted in butter and cinnamon sticks and rustic halves of potatoes roasted in the rendered fat of the lamb.

Rosemary and Julian were very impressed with the service and food and found the table setting to be quite quaint. Rosie giggled when she saw the Worcestershire sauce. That was the last thing she expected to see on a table. And, the ladies who attended them were friendly and very courteous.

“Julian darling, this lamb is so succulent and the potatoes so delicious and crunchy.”

Julian smiled at his new wife. “I agree darling, I have never tasted pumpkin like this before. Superb.”

The hotel staff listening close by had huge smiles on their faces. They hadn’t heard this type of English before.

Back at Vleidroom the preparations were underway. Pieter strode into the storeroom to fetch the heavy woollen blankets and ground sheets. Tonight, the three of them would stay at the showground to ensure the safety of their sheep. After talking to his father that morning, he realised that he needed to up the security on his farm.

Lindiwe was busy in the kitchen packing the overnight food box. She and Nandi had been busy all afternoon baking. The braai broodjies were done and wrapped in brown paper and secured with twine, koffie pot and the bottle of milk, enamel mugs and dishes, cutlery, all wrapped securely in dishcloths. The sosaties wrapped in greaseproof and then muslin and tied. This was a special treat for the men.

She smiled. Even though there was braai fires and meat available, she knew that sosaties would go down well. Looking through all the items, she remembered the bottle of brandewyn Sonja had given her, and she placed that into the box as well.

Pieter reversed the bakkie and trailer up to the opening by the field where the show sheep were kept. Jantjie opened the trailer doors and let down the ramp. Diederick and Hendrik let the sheep out and they trotted into the trailer. Jantjie opened the ram’s kraal and Pieter guided them onto the trailer. He lifted the ramp and secured the doors.

“Goed so, dankie julle. Ons is reg vir die trek.” He looked over everything on the back of the bakkie making sure that everything was there. He covered the back with tarpaulin and secured.

“Pa ons sien jou môre. Sê hallo vir al die gaste. Dit gaan ‘n heerlike drie dae wees.” He lifted his hand and got into the bakkie.

“Ja seun. See you tomorrow. You coming back for the breakfast that Martie is making in the morning?”

“Ja pa, dit sal ek nie mis nie.!” He waved. “Tot siens Pa.”

Jantjie and Diederick got into the bakkie and they drove off. Sonja, Elizabeth and the two children waved the men off. The bleating of the sheep could be heard as they drove down the dusty driveway.

“Time for a cold drink. Elizabeth would you like a cold lemonade?”

“Oh yes please Sonja. Shall we sit here on the veranda?”

“Yes sit, I will be back in a moment. Blaze, Boetie do you want a drink too?”

The children nodded and went to sit next to Elizabeth. Boetie took Elizabeth’s hand.

“Mama makes the best lemonade.”

“Ja Boetie, the best.” Blaze smiled.

The three of them chatted waiting for Sonja. Boetie showed Elizabeth his marbles and explained what each one’s names were. He was rather proud of the goonies he got from his Pa. His favourite were the alabasters, and he liked the ironies that Jantjie gave him. Elizabeth said that her favourites were the milkies and glassies. She promised him that they will go and play a game after they had their drinks.

Arriving at the showground in Calvinia Pieter waited to be shown where they would be placing their sheep. They were directed to the livestock area and shown the two zinc roofed sheds which had already been prepared with straw on the dirt floor, and the water and food troughs were filled.

The three men got to work getting the sheep into the sheds and made sure they were fine. Jantjie took his bed roll and wool jacket off the back of the bakkie together with his kosblik. Tonight he would stay with the rams in their shed. The braai fires were already going and by the time the men ambled up to the eating area the place was busy with farmers chatting and drinking together. Jantjie stayed with the sheep and was promised a huge plate of food and a brandewyn.

“Ek het my kosblik en Thermos koffie, but a good plate of braai will go down lekker.”

The evening light descended on Calvinia. There was a hush as the sun went down. The kameeldoring wood braai fires burned down into a low, pulsing bed of white-ash coals. They glowed a deep, dull orange in the dark, breathing out a steady, dry heat. The men’s voices dropped to a low gravelly rumble as they continued drinking their brandy and coke.

From the ridges of the Hantam mountains came the eerie high-pitched wail followed by yip yip yip of the jackals. Sheep stomped and shuffled nervously in their stalls. Horses snorted and halter chains jingled. Pieter and Diederick said their goodnights and walked back to the sheds and set up their bedrolls in the back of the bakkie. Pieter had laid down a thick layer of straw and placed a tarpaulin on top. The thick bedrolls and woollen blankets would keep the descending cold and early morning frost out.

Tomorrow the Vleisfees starts…

Next week, as the first light touches the Hantam, the Vleisfees will no longer be something people have been preparing for. It will simply have begun.

Life is what we make of it.

I have heard those words so many times over the years that they have almost become a mantra. Normally they are offered with good intentions. Work hard. Love without compromise. Stay positive. Make the most of life.

This morning as I sat with a cup of coffee in my hands, while the rest of the house was quiet, I found myself wondering if there’s another side to that saying.

Perhaps, life is also about what we stop trying to make it.

A great deal of my life has been spent believing that loving people meant doing more, trying harder, thinking further ahead and, anticipating what they might need before they knew it themselves.

At first, it felt like kindness. Then kindness quietly changed into responsibility. Somewhere along the way I realised that I started carrying things that were never mine to carry.

Someone else’s mood.

Someone else’s choices.

Someone else’s happiness.

I thought that if I tried hard enough, planned extensively, and loved without compromise, everything around me would somehow settle into place. It is rather extraordinary that life has a way of teaching us otherwise. Lately, I’ve begun to wonder whether wisdom isn’t always found in adding another habit or trying a little harder.

Sometimes wisdom is found in putting something down.

The belief that everyone must be happy because of me.

The belief that I have to make everything right.

The belief that every room must be tidy before I deserve to sit down with my own coffee.

The belief that rest has to be earned.

I now realise that those beliefs were never acts of love at all. They were burdens I quietly picked up and convinced myself I had to carry. Perhaps kindness does not mean carrying everyone else’s rucksack. Perhaps it simply means carrying my own with grace, and offering a hand when someone genuinely needs help.

There is a quiet difference. One left me exhausted. The other left enough of me to begin again tomorrow.

Tuesday 4^th January 1972

The cold bit a little harder that morning. Stanley pulled his coat tighter as he crossed the police yard, his brogues crunching over the thin crust of frost that had settled overnight. Yesterday he had arrived wondering where he would fit into the rhythm of Glasgow CID. This morning he walked with a little more purpose. He had slept surprisingly well, yet Arthur Smythe stayed with him all night. Not the man himself, but the file. He had eaten his supper without really tasting it, listened to the late evening news without hearing a word, and lain awake long after the lights were out, replaying the incident report in his mind.

It wasn’t the murder that had occupied his thoughts. Murders always presented questions. That was nothing unusual. It was the investigation itself that had refused to settle. The report was concise, neat and professional. Every page was in order. Every statement sat where it should. Yet somewhere beneath all that neatness Stanley still had a few niggling thoughts. He couldn’t have explained them if someone had asked. Experience had taught him that neat paperwork didn’t always tell the whole story.

He climbed the stairs, acknowledged the constable at the front desk with a nod and pushed through the swing doors into CID. The office was busy. Typewriters clattered, telephones rang with familiar insistence and cigarette smoke drifted lazily beneath the fluorescent lights. It was ordinary. Comfortably ordinary. Stanley found himself smiling as greeted his colleagues and hung his coat over the back of his chair.

His eyes settled on the desk in front of him. Today the three cigarette burns in the leather blotter and the deep groove left by a pen pressed far too hard, teased him. Yesterday he had merely wondered about the detective who had occupied the chair before him; now this morning the thought returned with even greater purpose. Every investigation carried traces of the person who had conducted it. Long before a witness was interviewed or an arrest made, a detective had already decided what questions were worth asking and which could safely be ignored. If Stanley wanted to understand Arthur Smythe’s murder, perhaps he first needed to understand the man who had believed the case was solved.

He pulled open the top drawer. Pens, pencils, treasury tags and a ruler lay neatly arranged inside. The second drawer held little more than unused stationery. The bottom drawer protested before sliding open, revealing nothing except a few dog-eared envelopes and the faint smell of old tobacco. He closed it again and looked towards the grey filing cabinet standing behind the desk. It had probably stood there for years, serving one detective after another without complaint. Whoever had once called this desk his own had left scarcely a trace behind, yet Stanley couldn’t shake the feeling that he was beginning his investigation in exactly the right place.

“What’re ye after?”

Jimmy McLean stood beside the desk, empty mug in one hand, watching him with quiet amusement.

Stanley glanced over his shoulder. “I’m looking for the detective who used to sit here.”

Jimmy looked at the open drawer, then back at Stanley.

“Unless he’s shrunk overnight, ye’re no’ going tae find him in there.”

Stanley laughed.

“I thought it was worth a look.”

“Aye, well...” Jimmy shrugged. “He wis many things, but pocket-sized wisnae one of them.”

Stanley closed the drawer and rested his hands on the blotter.

“So, who was he?”

Jimmy nodded towards the corridor.

“Come on. Kettles just boiled. Coffee’s better than this stuff anyway.”

Together they left the office and wandered along the corridor to the small kitchen tucked away at the back of CID. The room was already busy. Two uniformed constables were arguing over last night’s football results while someone else searched the biscuit tin with more hope than expectation.

Jimmy reached for the coffee jar and scooped two generous spoonfuls into a pair of chipped mugs.

“Milk?”

“Just a splash.”

Jimmy topped up both mugs with hot water before handing one across.

“Cheers.”

They leaned against the counter for a moment, each taking the first cautious sip.

Stanley looked across at him.

“So... who was he?”

Jimmy smiled into his mug.

“Tam McFarlane.”

The name meant nothing to Stanley.

“Good detective?”

Jimmy nodded slowly.

“Aye... one of the best.”

He took another sip before continuing.

“Then Arthur Smythe landed on his desk.”

Stanley cradled the mug in both hands. “So, what happened to him?”

Jimmy took a sip of coffee before answering.

“Tam? He’d done his time. Thirty-two years with Glasgow City Police. Started in uniform, worked his way up through CID. Good copper. Steady as they come.”

“He retired?”

Jimmy nodded. “Aye. Retirement had been on the cards for a while. He’d earned it.”

Stanley glanced down at his mug. “And Arthur Smythe?”

Jimmy was quiet for a moment.

“That wis his last big case. He never said much, but ye could tell it bothered him. It just wouldnae sit right. Sometimes a case gets under a man’s skin, and no matter how tidy the paperwork looks, something keeps scratching away at the back o’ his mind.”

Jimmy gave a small shrug.

“Tam finished his service. Arthur Smythe just happened to be the case he took home with him.”

Stanley drained the last of his coffee, now little more than a bitter mouthful, and went back to his desk. He read over the final page of the photocopied report one last time before sliding the papers neatly back into the buff folder. His notebook followed, and he laid his pen across the top. Jimmy had been right.

Tam McFarlane had been meticulous. The report was thorough, every statement logged, every exhibit accounted for, every movement carefully recorded. Stanley couldn’t fault the investigation. If there was something everyone had overlooked, it wouldn’t be because Tam had missed it. He leaned back in his chair for a moment, his eyes drifting from the file to the rain-speckled window. The report was the finished picture. What he wanted now was everything that had gone into painting it. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out his cigarettes and headed for the back door.

The January air bit at his face as he stepped outside. He lit a cigarette and wandered a few paces across the yard before resting one shoulder against the cold brick wall. The smoke curled slowly upwards while he replayed the names in his mind. Arthur Smythe. Jack Harrington. Veronica. Jenny. Witnesses. Timings. Statements. He wasn’t looking for answers. He was looking for whatever had led Tam to his conclusions. Original witness statements. Pocket notebooks. Scene photographs. Exhibit logs. Everything.

The cigarette had almost reached his fingers before he noticed. He dropped it onto the concrete and stubbed it out beneath the toe of his brogue. Back inside, the familiar warmth of the station closed around him. Rather than returning to CID, he made his way towards the reception desk where a uniformed constable was sorting through the morning’s post.

“Excuse me,” Stanley said. “Can you tell me where the archives are?”

The constable glanced up.

“Basement. End o’ this corridor, doon the stairs and through the fire door. If Maggie’s no’ at her desk, gie the bell a ring.”

“Thanks.”

Stanley nodded and set off down the corridor. The echo of his footsteps followed him over the worn lino as he made his way towards the basement. Tam McFarlane’s report had told him how the investigation had ended. Now he intended to discover how it had begun.The basement was noticeably quieter than the floors above. The air carried the familiar scent of old paper, polish and dust, broken only by the faint clatter of a typewriter somewhere beyond the rows of shelving. Behind a wooden desk sat a dark-haired woman, her reading glasses resting low on her nose as she worked through a ledger. A thick cardigan hung loosely over her shoulders against the chill of the basement. She looked up as Stanley approached.

“Can I help you?”

Her smile caught him slightly off guard. It was open and genuine, the sort that made people immediately feel welcome.

“I’m Detective Constable Stanley...” He held up the reference slip. “I’m looking for the Arthur Smythe case.”

She glanced at the slip before looking back at him.

“That’ll be one of Tam McFarlane’s.”

“It is.”

Her smile broadened.

“I thought so.”

She disappeared between the tall shelving, her footsteps fading into the maze of records. Stanley waited, listening to the quiet shuffling of files until she reappeared carrying a stout archive carton, its edges worn from years of handling.

She set it gently on the counter.

“I remember this file.”

Stanley looked up.

“Do you?”

“Oh yes.” She rested a hand on the lid. “Mr McFarlane was meticulous. Everything had its place. I’ve never had to reorganise one of his files.” She gave a small laugh. “I wish they were all like this.”

Stanley smiled.

“So, Jimmy wasn’t exaggerating.”

“Not one bit.”

She opened the ledger and turned it towards him.

“If you’d just sign here.”

He wrote his name, the date and the time before handing the pen back.

She slid the carton across the counter. He lifted the carton. It was heavier than he’d expected.

“You’re taking it upstairs?”

“If that’s all right.”

“Of course. Just bring it back before you go home.”

“I will.”

“Good.” She smiled again. “Enjoy.”

Stanley looked down at the carton. He had a feeling he would. Stanley set the archive carton on his desk and glanced at it for a moment before deciding another coffee would help.

When he returned, McGregor was passing through the office.

“Settling in all right?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Need anything?”

“No, sir.”

“Good.”

McGregor gave a brief nod and continued on his way.

Stanley placed the mug beside the box.

As he reached for the string, Dougal Ross looked up from the report he was writing. He carefully blotted the ink with a sheet of blotting paper before replacing the cap on his fountain pen.

“Tam McFarlane’s file?”

“Aye.”

Ross nodded almost to himself.

“You’ll find everything in there.”

Stanley looked across.

“You knew him?”

“Only by his paperwork.”

He slipped the blotting paper back into his desk drawer.

“The man wasted nothing. If he wrote it down, it’ll matter.”

Stanley eased the string free and folded back the flaps. For a moment he simply looked. The contents were immaculate. Every document was arranged exactly as listed on the incident inventory. Statements were grouped together, each secured with treasury tags. Photographs sat in their own marked envelope. Forensic reports were filed separately. Notebooks, exhibits, correspondence and laboratory results all had their place. Nothing was bent; nothing was out of sequence.

Stanley found himself smiling. It was less an archive box than a detective’s final act of courtesy to whoever came after him. Taking a sip of his coffee, he reached for the original inventory list. His eyes moved slowly down the entries. Then he stopped. Veronica Smythe. She wasn’t there. He turned to the witness statements and worked through them one by one. Nothing. Veronica Smythe had never been interviewed.

Reaching for his pack of cigarettes, he walked out of the office to what had quickly become his favourite spot. Taking a drag, he wondered why she’d never been interviewed. There had to be a reason. A few possibilities crossed his mind, but he dismissed each one. None seemed to fit. He stood there for a while, lost in thought, not realising his cigarette had gone out. He shrugged and tossed the butt into the bin.

Back at his desk, he took a sip of his now cold coffee and searched through the contents of the box once more. There was still no record of an interview with Veronica. His fingers found his notebook. Interview Veronica Smythe. He reached for the envelope containing the crime scene photographs. An abandoned warehouse. The victim’s vehicle. Cigarette butts beside a wooden crate. A handkerchief lying near the driver’s door. Several interior photographs. Finally, the exterior.

It was the outside photographs that held his attention. The warehouse sat well back from the road in what had once been a busy industrial area. The surrounding warehouses stood silent and abandoned, some with boarded windows, others with doors secured by rusting chains. He opened his notebook again and wrote: Warehouse relevance.

Next, he studied the photographs of the victim. There was nothing excessively violent about them. A laceration to the left temple. Dark bruising around the wound. No other obvious injuries. His shoes were scuffed, and there were marks across the knees of his suit trousers. Stanley glanced back at the inventory list. Handkerchief – chloroform.

He picked up his pen once more. Chloroform?

It always amazes me how one small discovery can quietly change the direction of everything. I wonder where Stanley’s curiosity will lead him next.

Until next time...

The morning greets Giorgio with a glimmer of sunshine. He walks through the cemetery with a light step. Today he feels good. He enters the kitchen via the back door. He stops and looks around. He smiles, takes the cup of coffee Alessandro hands him, walks over to his desk and sits down.

He sips his coffee and opens the Cemetery Times. His eye falls on the football score.

“Che disastro!” He shakes his head. His team The Tombstone Titans have let him down again.

“Taxes to rise again!” He snorts and moves onto the entertainment section. His eye finds an interesting piece. He sips his coffee and beckons Lucia over.

“Ah, giusto in tempo! Did you see that the local theatre is showing The Phantom of the Opera”? She sits down next to him.

“Urgh the only Phantom I am seeing is the missing replies to my post.” She opens her laptop.

Giorgio continues to read the entertainment section.

“Zio, we need to talk about the dish for the night.” Giorgio smiles and continues looking at the newspaper.

“The Cemetery News won’t help in that department, Zio Giorgio!” She bursts out laughing.

Giorgio smiles. Finishes his coffee.

Lucia touches his arm.

Giorgio looks up and nods. Placing the newspaper on his table he reaches for his worn leather folder. It is his pride and joy and has travelled with him all his life.

“Tonight, a simple dish. One that many a nonna knows.”

He opens the folder and dozens of menu cards fall onto the table. His eye catches one. He beams. Looking over at Li Wei he grins.

“Orecchiette! This will be it, with a turnip sauce. Old fashioned but delicious.”

Li Wei looks up…

Antonio hides a smile and Alessandro pretends he has work to do.

“Never heard of it!” Li Wei walks over to Giorgio.

“Ascolta attentamente, it is all in the hands.” Giorgio touches his nose and smiles.

“What is Orecchiette?”

“Mamma mia, you don’t know. Yes I thought so. Later… I show you later.”

Giorgio straightens up and grins at Antonio. Clapping his hands he shouts.

“Apri bene le orecchie! We need the best flour, the one my mamma used. From ancient grains. Turnips! Onion! Garlic! Alessandro, off to the market garden. Antonio… Flour. Presto! Presto! Alessandro… my dishes. Dai, dai…”

The team leaps into action. But Li Wei continues to chop his vegetables for the night’s dishes.

“Li Wei!” Giorgio calls.

“Come… let me show you this secret.”

Li Wei covers his dishes, wipes his knife, places it into his knife roll, and walks over to Giorgio’s station.

Giorgio dusts the board with semolina before tipping a mound of flour into the bowl.

“Guarda bene,” he says. “No eggs. Just flour... and water. That is all.”

He slowly pours in the warm water, working it through the flour with his fingertips until it resembles coarse crumbs.

Li Wei frowns. “That’s it?”

Giorgio stops and looks at him.

“That’s it?” He places a hand on his heart. “Young man, Michelangelo had marble. I have flour.”

Antonio coughs into his sleeve.

Giorgio gathers the dough together and begins kneading.

Fold... press... turn.

Fold... press... turn.

“Never fight the dough,” he pauses. “If you fight her... she fights back.”

“So how do you know when it’s ready?”

Giorgio presses a finger into the dough. It springs back.

“When she stops arguing.”

Antonio’s shoulders shake.

After several minutes Giorgio holds up the smooth ball of dough.

“You see?” He taps it gently with one finger. “Soft... but she pushes back. Like my Lucia when she was sixteen.”

“Zio!” Lucia protests.

“What? It is true.”

He covers the dough with a clean cloth.

“Now...” He raises one finger. “We wait.”

“We wait?” Li Wei blinks.

“Si! Even dough deserves a little riposo. If you rush her, she becomes stubborn.”

Antonio nods solemnly.

“I dated someone like that.”

After the dough has rested, Giorgio cuts off a piece and rolls it beneath both hands until it becomes a long rope.

“Not too fat... not too thin.”

With one quick movement he slices off tiny pieces no bigger than the end of his thumb.

Li Wei leans in closer.

“Now what?”

Giorgio smiles but doesn’t answer. He picks up a small butter knife and places the flat of the blade against one piece of dough.

“Watch carefully... this is where most people fail.”

With one smooth movement he presses the knife into the dough and draws it towards him. The tiny piece curls as it travels across the board.

He lifts it gently, turns it over his thumb and presses it ever so lightly.

Holding it between his finger and thumb, he admires it with a satisfied smile.

“Perfetto.”

Then...

Li Wei asks the question.

“What is it?”

He looks absolutely astonished.

“What is it? Mamma mia! It is an orecchietta.”

Li Wei tilts his head…

“And… what is that?”

“A little ear.”

Li Wei nods.

“So, I make a few more… Then it is your turn. Watch carefully.”

Li Wei watches.

“Now you.”

Li Wei picks up the butter knife and with one smooth movement he presses the knife into the dough and draws it towards him. The tiny piece curls as it moves across the board.

Giorgio nods approvingly. “Bravo. Another one. Now another.”

Li Wei carefully shapes a second.

Then a third.

Giorgio folds his arms and smiles. “Molto bene. You have good hands.”

Antonio wanders over, picks one up, turns it over and frowns.

“Problem.”

Li Wei’s face drops.

“What?”

Antonio holds it up.

“They’re all left ears.”

The kitchen goes quiet.

Li Wei looks from the pasta to Antonio.

“How can you tell?”

Antonio shrugs.

“I’ve got two.”

Giorgio snatches the pasta.

Turns one over.

Studies it with exaggerated seriousness.

Then slowly nods.

“Madonna mia...”

Li Wei swallows.

“Really?”

Giorgio sighs.

“Antonio is right.”

Li Wei shakes his head.

Lucia, without even looking up from her laptop, says,

“Don’t listen to them. They say this to every new chef.”

Giorgio and Antonio continue laughing. Li Wei continues effortlessly making the orecchietta.

“How many more Chef?” Li Wei asks.

Giorgio walks over, looks in the bowl – smiles.

“Enough. Un complimento Li Wei – your ears are excellent… you listen.”

Antonio continues with the sauce, Alessandro walks away nodding to himself.

Li Wei laughs.

“Chef, merci… so we are done?”

Giorgio nods.

“All done, we cook before service.”

The evening shadows stretch across the old cemetery as the first guests begin making their way towards the warm glow of the Bistro. A lady draws her coat a little tighter around her shoulders as she carefully follows the winding path between the gravestones.

An owl hoots.

She startles, catches the edge of an old stone, and laughs nervously to herself.

“I do hope you’re right, Emily.”

Her daughter smiles.

“I told you not to worry, Mum. Luca and Alessia said it’s unlike anywhere they’ve ever eaten. They insisted I bring you.”

“I still think inviting your mother to supper in a cemetery is rather unconventional.”

“They also said you’d forget where you were the moment you walked through the door.”

As if on cue, the aroma of garlic and fresh herbs drifts out into the evening air.

The lady smiles.

“I suppose there are worse places to have dinner.”

Lucia opens the door before they have a chance to knock.

“Buonasera! Welcome to The Bone Appétito Bistro.”

Emily smiles.

“Good evening. Luca and Alessia recommended you very highly. They said if we were ever nearby, we simply had to come.”

Lucia laughs.

“Then Luca and Alessia have excellent taste. Welcome. Your table is waiting.”

She leads them through the dining room while Giorgio glances up from the pass. He notices the newcomers, gives the slightest nod, then returns to his sauce as though everything is exactly as it should be.

At the next table, a gentleman swirls his wine, takes a cautious sip, and wrinkles his nose.

“Excuse me...”

Lucia turns with her usual smile.

“Yes, sir?”

“I don’t wish to complain...”

Antonio quietly mutters beneath his breath,

“Then don’t.”

“...but this wine tastes remarkably like apple cider.”

The kitchen falls silent.

Without even looking up, Giorgio continues stirring.

“It improves after the second glass.”

The gentleman looks puzzled.

“It does?”

“No...”

Giorgio shrugs.

“But by then... nobody complains.”

Antonio bends over the chopping board, shoulders shaking.

Even Alessandro has to turn away to hide a smile.

Lucia sighs.

“Please ignore Chef.”

Giorgio finally looks up.

“I heard that.”

“I know.”

He smiles.

“So did everyone else.”

Lucia gathers the finished bowls from the pass, the little orecchiette glistening in garlic oil, crowned with wilted turnip tops and a generous showering of Pecorino Romano.

She inhales deeply.

“Mmm... Zio, I think this may be one of my favourites.”

Giorgio nods, giving the sauce one final stir.

“It has fed Italian families for generations. Tonight... perhaps a few ghosts as well.”

Lucia laughs.

“Table four, Vittorio.”

Without a sound, the elegant bag of bones appears. Dressed in his immaculate velvet waistcoat and polished shoes, he lifts the two bowls as though they were priceless porcelain.

“At once, Signorina.”

He glides between the tables with effortless grace.

Margaret watches him approach.

She blinks.

Then blinks again.

As he gently places the bowls before them, she leans towards Emily and whispers,

“I’m almost certain...”

Emily raises an eyebrow.

“...he’s wearing the burgundy velvet waistcoat I donated to the charity shop last autumn.”

Emily bites the inside of her cheek.

“Mum...”

“I’m serious.”

She watches the waiter glide away.

“I’d recognise those brass buttons anywhere.”

Emily can hold it no longer.

She bursts into laughter.

Across the room Giorgio glances up.

“What is so funny?”

Emily shakes her head.

“Nothing, Chef.”

Margaret smiles as she picks up one of the little ears with her fork.

“Well...”

She studies it for a moment.

“...at least someone is making good use of it.”

Antonio snorts.

Lucia closes her eyes.

Giorgio looks utterly confused.

“I was talking about the pasta.”

A Note from the Bistro

Tonight Giorgio reminds us that some of the simplest recipes carry the richest traditions. Orecchiette, meaning little ears, has been shaped by hand in southern Italian kitchens for generations, proving that flour, water and patient hands are often all that’s needed to create something memorable.

Perhaps Giorgio was right after all. The best chefs don’t just have good hands... they have good ears too.

I hope Episode 16 brought a smile to your day.

Until next time...

Buon appetito!

Calvinia’s Blaze: Chapter 19 – Legacy

Hester Rautenbach drove down the dusty road, windows closed and her hat perched on her head as if it was a trophy. She was on a mission. Next week the Hantam Vleisfees begins. Two years in a row her jams did not make top prize. She was on her way to Marieke Steenkamp.

She passed Vlei Droom. She slowed down and looked at the beautiful farm.

“I wonder what they are up to?”

Lately she found that life seemed to take on a harder quality. Jacob was rather distant. He was so busy on the farm and didn’t seem to have time for her. And, her jams were a disaster this year.

She sped up. No time to waste. Marieke was waiting and they still had a long way to go. Witval was her destination. She drove on letting her thoughts wander to the jams that she was fetching. Marieke had found out from Karin the local doctor, that a group of coloured women made jams from wild fruit near Witval, and were proud of their heritage, Apparently they were quite unusual. It was a gamble. But she was determined this year was hers.

She pulled up outside Marieke’s house, gave the hooter a short parp. Marieke came running down the steps. Laughing she opened the passenger door and got into the Fleetmaster. This was Hester’s pride and joy.

“Môre Hester, are you as excited as I am?” She continued with her soft laughter.

“Ja, môre Marieke. Maybe a little nervous… What are we doing?” She laughed. A brittle laughter that sounded a little too shrill.

She pulled off and drove to Witval. The drive was mostly in silence. Both women had thoughts of their own to contend with. The Landbou Unie rules were quite specific. But this year Hester had other reasons.

Marieke glanced over at Hester.

“Karin couldn’t stop talking about the preserves when we met last week for koffie. Those women have been making those jams for generations,” Marieke fiddled with her handbag

Hester frowned.

“Ja, I am so interested. But.. you’re certain the judges won’t object?”

Marieke shrugged.

“I’m paying them fairly. Karin says pays them fairly. Why shouldn’t you enter it?”

“Ja wat, a good jam is a good jam. Where did you say Karin will be?”

Marieke looked in her handbag for her notebook.

“Outside the general store in Witval.”

Hester pulled up outside the general store. A single Shell petrol pump stood outside. She waved at the mechanic; he wiped his hands on an oily rag and waved back. Two farmers leant against a bakkie discussing the rainfall. Karin waited with wicker basket on her arm.

She walked over to the car and got into the back seat.

“Môre julle twee. Hoe gaan dit? Long time no see Hester.” She smiled. “I think it was at the last sokkie.”

They greeted Karin and had a laugh about the last sokkie. That was a great evening with dancing and bringing in the New Year. Hester couldn’t believe it was that long ago that they met up.

The Fleetmaster left the main road and turned onto a narrower gravel road. The dust hung behind them as they passed a broken windmill, a few grazing sheep and an old stone wall. The countryside became quieter; the only sound was the tyres crunching over the gravel road. After a mile or two, Karin pointed ahead.

“See those blue gums? Turn there.”

“Jinne tog! I should have brought Jacob’s Ford bakkie. This road is terrible!”

Hester slowed down for another pothole.

A narrow farm track wound between low stone walls before opening onto a small narrow drive. They drove onto the farm. Near the werf, but set a little apart, were four or more whitewashed cottages where several families lived. Fruit trees, vegetable gardens, chickens scratching in the yard, with washing on the line, and a pram under a Doringboom.

Smoke curled lazily from a kitchen chimney. A couple of children stopped their game to watch the unfamiliar car arrive, while chickens scattered from the road. By the Karee trees in the corner of the settlement sat a few ladies. Some were knitting whilst others plucked a few chickens.

Karin smiled.

“This is the place.”

She stepped out as though she had been there many times before. Before she reached the first gate, a woman opened the kitchen door, wiped her hands on her apron and called out,

“Morning, Karin!”

Hester hung back for a moment. She had come looking for prize-winning jam. What she found instead was something she hadn’t expected at all.

Karin motioned for them to step out of the car. Hester took off her gloves and hat; Marieke did the same.

“Morning Trientjie. Nice to see you again. How is the family. Has Dirkie found a job?”

Trientjie invited them into her compact house.

“Meet Hester and Marieke. They are here to taste your wonderful preserves.”

Trientjie laughed and greeted the two with a handshake and invited them into her voorkamer. She offered them tea and walked into her tiny kitchen and set the tray. Fetching a few of her preserves from her pantry she placed them onto the tray with teaspoons.

Hester was quiet taken with the beautifully adorned front room. The colours were deep orange and light green. Colours she would never have chosen herself. There was a subtle fragrance of lavender and rosemary.

Trientjie entered with her laden tray. She passed the tea around and offered each guest a taste of her preserves. Each jar had a deep colour, and the aromas of the three individual preserves were rather fascinating.

Hester picked up the first glass jar – Suurvye, a wild succulent that had an incredibly sour, tamarind-taste, coupled with Wild Karoo Mint that grew near the scarce riverbanks and underwater furrows of the Hantam.

Hester took a small spoonful. The zingy, tangy and refreshing taste reminded her of wild mint and wild fig. She passed the jam to Marieke.

She looked up after tasting. They both nodded and smiled. Marieke passed the bottle back.

Putting the Sour Fig preserve back on the tray she took the next one. This was just as interesting. The colour deep orange with a beautiful shine. Wild Apricot Jam with African Wormwood. Sun dried apricots boiled with a tiny amount of wormwood, a single leaf in a muslin cloth dipped into the boiling pot. It tasted earthy deep and flavoursome.

Hester was very impressed.

“Wow, dit is baie lekker, Trientjie. Anders, ja, very different. I can imagine this on a slice of toast.”

Marieke agreed.

“Yes quite delicious and the wormwood is very subtle, but, it brings out the flavours of the apricots beautifully.”

Marieke placed the jar onto the tray. Hester reached for the final preserve. Green Fig Preserve and Wild Rosemary. A match made in heaven. A clean, wild, woody aftertaste that cut through the intense sweetness.

Both women were quietly pleased.

“Nou, dit is die beste. I would never have thought of this mixture. Lekker. Baie lekker.”

Marieke laughed.

“Yes the best by far. I have never tasted such delicious flavours before. Die kleur! Wow, first time I have seen such a vibrant green preserve. Do you think the wild rosemary changed the colour? You must be very proud Trientjie.”

Trientjie smiled.

“Ja, adding the rosemary does make the colour stand out. My great, great, great grandmother’s recipes were not only about the taste, but the colour too. They were handed down and now we have them.” She quietly closed the jar lids. “I enjoy searching for the wild fruits and herbs here in the Karoo. It keeps me happy. Making the jems is a pleasure for me. Each smell… a reminder of my family.”

Chatter filled the front room. Hester thought: These preserves would cause quite a stir at the Vleisfees.

“Trientjie… are you interested in showing them at the Landbou Unie?”

“Nee, nee. Onse jems are vir die familie alleen. En, for a bit of extra money. I am not interested in competing.” She smiled coyly.

Karin watched the animated conversation. She remembered how she met Trientjie. Her daughter was a very ill young child. She had met the family when she tended their sick child at the Location Clinic on the outskirts of Calvinia. She had been contacted by the nurse. Over time she got to know the family and a great friendship had come about.

The visit came to an end and the two carried out three boxes of the prized preserves. Their laughter and chatter echoed as they walked to the car. Trientjie stood with her arm around her youngest son, waving until the Fleetmaster disappeared in a cloud of dust. Tomorrow she would collect Koba’s medicine.

The afternoon sun stretched long shadows across Vlei Droom. Everywhere there was movement. Preparations for the Hantam Vleisfees had quietly become part of the day’s work.

In the sewing room, Sonja stood back and surveyed the neat rows of boxes stacked against the wall. Nandi carefully folded another embroidered baby dress, laying a sheet of tissue paper over it before placing it gently into the crate. Nearby, ladies dresses and children’s clothes waited to be packed.

Sonja lifted a tiny baby’s dress and examined every stitch before folding it.

“No loose threads?” she asked.

Nandi took the dress, turning it over in her hands before smiling.

“Nee, Mevrou. Everything is perfect.”

Sonja placed the last dress into the final box and slowly closed the lid.

“For the first time,” she said with quiet satisfaction, “I think we’re ready.”

Outside, the farm carried on as it always had.

The four young rams grazed peacefully in their camp, unaware that in a few days they would be travelling into Calvinia. Pieter climbed through the gate carrying four leather halters over his shoulder. Diederick followed close behind, saying little. There was no need. The older man had taught him that sheep preferred calmness to noise.

Pieter slipped the first halter over the ram’s head and gently led him across the camp. The animal walked confidently beside him before being returned to the others. One by one he repeated the exercise, never rushing, never raising his voice.

Diederick watched every movement.

“You always take them one at a time,” he observed.

Pieter nodded.

“A ram must learn to trust the man beside him before he’ll stand quietly before a judge.”

He handed the halter to Diederick.

“Your turn.”

Diederick hesitated only a moment before taking hold of the leather strap. The young ram followed willingly, stopping when he stopped, walking when he walked.

Pieter folded his arms and watched.

“You’ve come a long way.”

Diederick laughed softly.

“I’ve still got a great deal to learn.”

“So did I.”

Pieter looked across the grazing flock before speaking again.

“Next year...”

Diederick turned towards him.

“Next year I’d like to see your own rams standing in that ring.”

For a moment Diederick said nothing. He looked back towards the sheep before shaking his head.

“I hope they’ll be good enough.”

Pieter smiled.

“A good flock isn’t made in the show ring.”

He stooped, picked up a handful of dry Hantam soil and let it trickle slowly through his fingers.

“It’s made here.”

Silence settled comfortably between them.

Only the soft tearing of grass, the distant creak of the windmill and the occasional bleat drifted across the veld.

Blaze had been watching from the fence with Bliksem standing quietly beside her. She looked from Diederick to the young rams, then towards her father.

A gentle smile touched her face.

“Pa...”

Pieter looked across at her.

“I learnt a new word from Miss Green today.”

Her father followed her gaze to the four young rams grazing peacefully in the late afternoon light.

“What was that?”

Blaze smiled.

“Legacy.”

Pieter nodded.

“He left us with a legacy. He left us something to remember.”

Pieter remained silent for a moment.

“Ja...” he said softly, his eyes never leaving the flock. “Old Rascal left us with a legacy, alright. He left us something to carry on.” His eyes never left the flock.

The Karoo wind stirred the grass around their feet as another day slowly drew towards its close.

Tomorrow... their trek to Calvinia’s showgrounds to take the animals and settle them.

Tonight, Vlei Droom rests quietly beneath the endless African sky.

The Hantam Vleisfees is one of the Karoo's best-loved events. Every year the quiet little town of Calvinia comes alive as people travel from across South Africa to celebrate farming, community and the traditions that have shaped this remarkable part of the country. Preparations begin months in advance, and for many, the excitement is almost as special as the event itself.

I hope you enjoyed a little taste of what is to come.

Now I can’t help wondering... are you enjoying these chapters as much as I am enjoying writing them?

I have been thinking about the strange way a weekend can leave its mark.

We set off looking for something so ordinary. A change of scenery. A little rest. A slower morning. Coffee outside. The gentle rhythm that comes from being away from the demands of everyday life. We tell ourselves that a different place might also bring a different state of mind.

Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn’t. This weekend unfolded differently.

We arrived.

We argued.

Words landed harder than they should have. Silence lasted longer than it needed to. We lost our patience, then our perspective, and eventually we simply lost one another. We carried on with the practical things because that’s what people do. Coffee was made. Meals were eaten. Doors opened and closed. Life continued as though nothing had happened.

Yet something had.

It is curious how conflict can linger long after the voices have quietened. It settles into ordinary moments, making them feel unfamiliar. A simple question becomes difficult to ask. A casual conversation is weighed before it is spoken. You begin editing yourself without even realising it.

By the end of the weekend the motorhome looked much as it had when we arrived. The cupboards still held the same plates. The kettle still waited in its place. The blankets folded as neatly as before.

Only… I had changed.

As I began packing to leave, I realised that journeys are never only about what we place in cupboards and lockers. Every place leaves something with us. Some leave laughter. Some leave unexpected friendships. Some leave memories that become part of the stories we tell for years.

Others leave quieter things. A careless remark. An unanswered invitation. The feeling of becoming smaller than you know yourself to be.

Those things have a way of slipping unnoticed into the heart’s luggage.

Perhaps that is why leaving has always felt like more than driving away. It is an invitation to decide what deserves to travel with us.

Not every wound needs to become a companion. Not every criticism deserves a permanent address in our thoughts. Not every disappointment should be unpacked into the next place we call home.

As I closed the cupboards one final time, I found myself asking a question I had never considered before.

What comes with me?

Not the chairs, the kettle, or the books.

Me.

Which version of myself will I carry into tomorrow? The one who spent the weekend replaying every hurt? Or the woman who has finally learnt that some things served their purpose, however painful, and need not travel any further?

Perhaps there is wisdom in thanking even the difficult seasons. Not because they were kind. But because they revealed something.

They showed me the weight I have been carrying. And once you recognise the weight, you are finally free to decide whether to lift it again.

This weekend did not give me the peace I had hoped for. But perhaps it offered something I needed even more. The quiet understanding that I cannot always choose what happens around me.

I can, however, choose what I take with me when I leave.

And today, that feels like enough.

My thoughts are where they lead,
Beyond the bend I cannot see.
The road is never only miles,
It is discovering more of me.

Some days are born of endurance,
The climb is long, the wind is strong.
Yet quiet strength is often found
Where weary hearts still carry on.

Then comes the joy of open skies,
Where laughter greets the morning air.
The simplest moments linger longest,
For freedom has a language rare.

A story waits around each corner,
In places old and faces new.
The world unfolds its hidden wonders
To those who dare to wander through.

The miles travelled become my story,
Each footprint holds a lesson learned.
No path is ever truly wasted
Where hope and wonder have returned.

And when the journey finds its ending,
I’ll smile at every road I’ve known.
For memories are life’s true treasure -
The richest harvest ever sown.

New to Luke Harrington Investigates?

Start with Chapter 1 and Chapter 2 before continuing.

Jack lay on the narrow bed of his new cell in Block D, watching the pale winter light creep across the ceiling. It was cleaner than his last one. The walls had been freshly painted a dull cream, the mattress still held some shape, and the blankets smelled more of disinfectant than damp. It wasn’t home, but after six hundred and four days behind bars he’d stopped expecting home to exist within prison walls.

It was Christmas Day. Somewhere beyond the prison walls families would be gathering around tables while children searched beneath decorated trees. He wondered, not for the first time, whether Lily still hung a stocking on the fireplace out of habit... or whether she’d finally accepted there would be no footsteps coming through the front door this Christmas.

The bedside alarm exploded into its shrill metallic rattle.

Stanley turned over and stopped the ringing.

“Bloody alarm!”

He fell back asleep.

Again, that sharp metallic rattle.

“Ah, bugger.” He shut off the alarm.

He rolled over. Sleep now evaded him. He peered at the clock. 06:45. He threw back the covers. His feet found his slippers. Shrugging on his terry robe, he reached for his packet of cigs, put one in his mouth, lit it, and took a long draw.

He stared through the bedroom window. Bleak. Blustery. Cold enough to make him think twice about leaving the house. Stretching, he yawned and turned towards the door. His eye caught the transfer letter lying on the bedside cabinet.

Monday 3rd January 1972 - Report for duty at 09h00 hours – Front Desk.

“What will today bring?”

Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, he saw the half-opened boxes. His kitchen was in a state too. The uneaten takeaway from last night was still on the countertop. Shrugging, he took a mug from the sink, rinsed it, and made himself a coffee. He opened a packet of gingers and walked into his front room. Moving a box off the recliner, he sat.

Today was his first day at Glasgow City Police. He dunked a ginger in his coffee too long and it broke as he lifted it.

“That’s about right,” he mumbled.

He went back upstairs to shower. Back in the bedroom, he searched for his suitcase.

“Bugger, where did I put it?”

Finding it in the box room, he took it back into his bedroom, placed it on the bed, opened it, and found his suit. A bit crushed, but hopefully the creases would wear out. He picked out a shirt and tie…

“Socks, socks. Where are you?”

He turned all the clothes out of his suitcase. He found a pair.

He turned the radio up and wound down the window. The directions weren’t exactly generous. He pulled over into a lay-by. He re-read the instructions. Yeah, he’d missed the turning. Looking at the map again, he saw his mistake. He turned around and took the next turning.

He arrived at the offices at 08h45. Not being one to be late, he found a parking spot and walked into the reception area. He approached the front desk.

“Stanley Fotheringham reporting for duty.”

He was shown to a chair.

At 09h05 the door opened and a large brute of a man with red hair approached. He noticed the tall, slim Stanley and frowned at his attire.

“Fotheringham? Welcome to Glasgow City Police. Follow me.”

He held the door open for Stanley, and they walked up two flights of stairs. They approached an office door. He knocked.

“Come!”

Stanley was ushered in. He waited. He looked at the woman in front of him. He noticed how well dressed she was. Not a hair out of place. Her desk and surroundings were as neat as a pin.

“Sit!”

Stanley took a seat in the chair. He watched her finish writing.

“Fotheringham. Detective Chief Superintendent Jean McCullam. Detective Chief Inspector Callum McGregor will be with us shortly.”

Stanley nodded.

“Pleased to meet you, Detective Chief Superintendent.”

He shifted in his seat. Just then the door opened and the redhead walked in.

“Morning, Ma’am.”

DCI McGregor took a seat next to Stanley.

“Pleased to meet you, DI Fotheringham. Today is for informalities. I will introduce you to my team and then there are a series of forms to fill in. After that, you will join the team for updates. Tomorrow you will pick up the slack.”

They continued speaking for a while and left the DCS’s office. McGregor led him through the open-plan office to a desk against the far wall.

“There you are. If you need anything, give me a shout.”

Stanley thanked him and waited until McGregor disappeared into another office before setting his hat on the desk.

The desk had seen better days. A leather blotter, scarred by years of use, sat neatly in the centre. To one side, a wire in-tray and out-tray, and a few buff case files secured with treasury tags, awaited work or despatch to another department. A telephone occupied one corner beside a chipped mug filled with biros and sharpened pencils. A desk diary lay unopened, while a small tear-off calendar still displayed last month. Behind the chair stood a grey steel filing cabinet whose top drawer refused to close completely.

Stanley ran his fingers lightly across the blotter. Three cigarette burns. One deep groove where someone had habitually pressed far too hard with a fountain pen. He smiled to himself.

“Didn’t leave willingly,” he murmured.

Around him the office hummed with the steady rhythm of ringing telephones, clattering typewriters and voices drifting between desks. Someone laughed. Someone else swore at a jammed typewriter ribbon.

For Stanley Fotheringham, it already felt like home.

DCI McGregor sat at his desk, phone in hand, listening. He tapped his foot, annoyed at the conversation.

“I understand, Mr Casey. It has been a busy time here at the station.”

He picked up a pen and drew large circles.

“Aye, I hear you. It’s been a long time since this case was re-looked at.”

He tapped the pen against the blotter.

“The case is with a DI, and we’ll put some pressure on. And, Mr Casey, if you could send us your notes on the conversation with the accused, that would be appreciated.”

He nodded a few times.

“Right then, I’m awa’.”

He popped his head around the door.

“Fotheringham.”

Stanley looked up.

McGregor jerked his head towards his door.

“Come with me.”

Stanley followed him into the DCI’s office.

McGregor closed the door behind them and pointed to the chair opposite his desk.

“Take a seat.”

He waited until Stanley was settled before reaching for a buff file.

“We’ve had a good report from your last station.”

McGregor dropped a buff file onto the desk.

“Jack.”

Stanley looked at the cover.

“It’s been sitting in Cold Cases.”

McGregor shrugged.

“Casey’s been after us for months.”

“The solicitor?”

“Aye.”

“He reckons there’s more to it than the file suggests.”

McGregor leaned back.

“I’ve not had the manpower to look at it properly.”

A pause.

“You have the time.”

Stanley nodded.

“Anything in particular you want me to look for?”

“No.”

Another pause.

“I want you to tell me what everybody else has missed.”

He leaned back in his chair.

“My other inspectors are tied up just now, so this one’s yours.”

Voices drifted in from outside.

McGregor glanced towards the door.

“Sounds like they’re back.”

He stood.

“Come on then. I’ll introduce you.”

Stanley rose and followed him into the open-plan office.

The team sat at their desks, busy. Typewriters continued clacking. A telephone rang and someone laughed at a remark Stanley hadn’t heard.

McGregor stopped beside a cluster of desks.

“Right, listen up a minute.”

A few heads lifted.

“This is Detective Inspector Stanley Fotheringham. He’s transferred in from Inverness. He’ll be working with us from today.”

The introductions were brief.

“DI Angus Fraser.”

A broad-shouldered man with thinning dark hair nodded once.

“Morning.”

“DS Alec Sinclair.”

Sinclair looked up from the report he was typing, offered a quick smile, and returned to the machine.

“DC Jimmy McLean.”

The youngest of the group grinned.

“You’ve picked a fine day to join us. Coffee’s dreadful.”

A ripple of quiet amusement travelled around the desks.

McGregor ignored it.

“WPC Margaret Campbell.”

She closed the file she’d been reading and stood long enough to shake Stanley’s hand.

“Pleased to meet you.”

“And you.”

McGregor turned to another desk tucked against the windows.

“And that’s Detective Sergeant Dougal Ross.”

Ross didn’t look up immediately. He finished writing a sentence, blotted the ink, then raised his eyes.

“Morning.”

Stanley noticed the neatly stacked files; each aligned perfectly with the edge of the desk.

Ross noticed Stanley noticing.

Neither said anything.

McGregor gave a satisfied nod.

“Right then.”

The room returned to work instantly. No speeches. No lingering welcome. Just detectives getting on with their day.

McGregor led Stanley back towards his desk.

“Read the file.”

He tapped it with one finger.

“Take your time.”

Without another word, he disappeared into his office.

Stanley remained standing for a moment.

Around him, the CID office held its familiar pattern. Telephones rang. Chairs creaked and somewhere a kettle boiled. Cigarette smoke drifted lazily beneath the fluorescent lights.

He sat.

The buff file lay in front of him.

The cover bore only a name.

WHITTECOMBE Jack

Below it, in blue pencil, someone had written:

UNSOLVED

Stanley rested his hand on the cover but didn’t open it straight away. Instead, he reached for the desk diary. January 1972. Blank. He wrote one line on 03/01/1972.

First day. Don’t believe the file.

Only then did he untie the treasury tag. He pulled the file towards him. Sat for a moment and decided he needed a coffee. Stanley stood, glanced around the office, then looked towards Margaret.

“Sorry... where’s the coffee kept?”

She smiled.

“Come on. I’ll show you.”

He followed her through the swing door into a cramped kitchen that looked as though it had survived several governments.

“Teas in that tin.”

“Coffees there.”

“Sugar if you take it.”

“Milks in the fridge—provided Jimmy hasn’t finished it.”

She reached up for a mug.

“These are for everyone. McGregor’s keeps disappearing, so he hides it.”

Stanley smiled for the first time that morning.

He walked back to his desk. He placed his cup of coffee on the right side of the blotter. He opened the file and looked at the incident report. A few thoughts popped into his head. Taking a sip of his coffee, he glanced around the office. What he realised was that it was quite a hive of activity. Nodding his head in approval, he spotted the copier. He took the incident report from the file and walked over to make a copy. Jimmy watched with interest.

“Getting familiar with the office, ken?”

Stanley smiled and walked back to his desk, closed the file and read through the report again. He sipped his coffee. Mmm… not bad… he thought. The report was concise and professionally written, but one paragraph held his attention a little longer than the rest. He read it again, then once more. He picked up his pencil and circled the entire paragraph.

He pulled his notepad towards him. Opened it Fand wrote:

Who is Arthur?

Arthur Smythe glanced at the brass carriage clock on the corner of his desk before laying his pen neatly across the blotter. Eight o’clock. Another working day had begun. He stood, buttoned his jacket and, as he had done every morning for the past twenty years, left his office before the first telephone had a chance to ring.

His office door remained open behind him.

The factory was already beginning to hum with life. Forklifts moved steadily between the loading bays, the familiar clatter of spanners echoed through the workshops, and the smell of machine oil drifted through the building. Arthur paused for a moment, taking it all in. To anyone else it was simply another day at Smythe Motor Supplies. To Arthur it was the sound of livelihoods. Every machine that started, every van that left the yard and every order that arrived on his desk represented a family somewhere depending on the company he had spent most of his life building.

“Morning, Mr Smythe.”

He turned and smiled. “Morning, Alec. How’s your wee lad? Better now?”

“Aye, thank you. Doctor says he’ll be back at school next week.”

“Good. Tell your wife not to rush herself back to work. Family comes first.”

Arthur continued along the workshop floor, stopping here and there, never long enough to interrupt anyone’s work, but always long enough for people to know they mattered. He knew birthdays without needing a diary. He remembered anniversaries, children leaving school, elderly parents who were unwell, and apprentices sitting examinations. He had long ago learnt that people worked harder for someone who saw them as people rather than payroll numbers.

A young apprentice struggled to manoeuvre a heavy crate onto a trolley. Arthur quietly stepped beside him without saying a word, took hold of the opposite end and together they lifted it into place.

“There you are,” Arthur said, dusting his hands together.

“I could’ve managed, Mr Smythe.”

“I’ve no doubt you could,” Arthur replied. “But there’s no prize for putting your back out before you’re twenty.”

The young man laughed as Arthur continued his way.

Nothing about Arthur invited attention. His suits were well tailored but never extravagant. His shoes were polished because he believed looking after the trivial things usually meant the bigger things looked after themselves. His desk was always tidy, not through obsession but because he disliked wasting time searching for papers he should have put away properly the first time.

By the time he returned to his office, several members of staff had already wandered in with questions. The first wanted approval for a supplier invoice. Another needed authorisation for replacement equipment. A sales representative simply wanted advice before calling on a difficult customer.

Arthur listened to each of them without once glancing towards the growing pile of paperwork on his desk.

His door remained open.

It always had.

Employees often joked that the only time Arthur Smythe ever closed it was when he was trying to concentrate on the annual accounts, and even then someone invariably knocked before five minutes had passed.

He never minded.

People were far more important than paperwork.

Only this morning, as the office slowly emptied again, Arthur remained standing by the window a little longer than usual.

His eyes drifted across the yard where drivers were loading vans for the day’s deliveries. Everything looked exactly as it should.

Yet beneath the familiar rhythm of the company he loved, something had shifted.

He could feel it.

He just hadn’t yet worked out how to stop it.

Until next week…

Thank you for reading. I’d love to know what you thought.

Pork Tenderloin with Cider, Apples and Fresh Lovage

Served on a bed of Buttery Gnocchi

Lucia glanced up from the booking screen when a small white delivery van slowed outside the cemetery gates. It sat there for a moment, then rolled forward a few metres before stopping again. She watched the driver studying the delivery note, then looking from the cemetery entrance to the address and back again. A phone appeared. A short conversation followed. Even from the reception desk she could see the puzzled shake of his head.

With obvious reluctance, he steered the van through the cemetery gates.

Lucia smiled to herself.

“It gets them every time.”

The van crept between the old headstones until the mausoleum came into view, its kitchen chimney sending a thin ribbon of smoke into the afternoon air. The driver slowed almost to a walking pace before finally pulling up behind the Bistro.

He climbed out carrying a wooden crate, glanced once more at the building to reassure himself he hadn’t imagined it, and knocked on the back door.

The door opened.

Standing before him was the Bistro’s impeccably dressed skeletal waiter.

For a heartbeat neither of them moved.

The crate slipped from the driver’s hands and landed with a dull thud on the cobbled yard.

The skeletal waiter looked down at it, then calmly bent to inspect the contents. He lifted a potato, turned it over in his bony fingers, nodded with quiet approval and placed it back in the crate.

“The potatoes are just fine.”

The driver stood rooted to the spot, his mouth opening and closing without producing a sound.

Vittorio looked up at him.

“That happens a lot.”

He brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his jacket and lifted the crate as though it weighed nothing.

“If it’s any comfort,” he said pleasantly, “you’re the third delivery driver this month.”

Only then did the colour begin to return to the driver’s face.

“I’m... I’m delivering to... here?”

“Indeed.”

Vittorio inclined his skull politely.

“Welcome to The Bone Appétito Bistro.”

He carried the crate into the kitchen just as Giorgio swept through the doorway, tying on his apron.

“Ah... eccellente!“ he declared. (Oh… excellent)

“Fresh produce. Tonight, my friends, we shall create a dish that reminds our guests why they fell in love with Italian cooking in the first place. A meal should never simply satisfy hunger. It should tell a story. It should awaken memories. It should linger long after the last forkful has disappeared.”

He lifted one of the potatoes approvingly.

“Even a humble potato has a role to play.”

Lucia appeared in the doorway with her tablet tucked under one arm.

“I’m not sure stories are what they’re asking for tonight.”

Giorgio looked up.

“The bookings?”

She nodded.

“I’ve been chatting with our regulars this morning. It’s one of those days. They all seem to be saying the same thing.”

“And what is that?”

“They’re not looking for surprises. They want something that feels familiar. Something that reminds them of home... something comforting.”

For a moment, the kitchen fell quiet.

A thoughtful smile slowly spread across Giorgio’s face.

“Ah... understood.“

He crossed to the old oak dresser in the corner of the kitchen and opened the top drawer. Inside lay a well-worn leather notebook, its edges softened by years of flour-dusted hands.

“Vediamo...“ (Let’s see…) he murmured as he carefully turned the yellowed pages.

His finger stopped.

A warm smile appeared.

“Filetto di Maiale al Sidro e Mele.“ (Pork Tenderloin with Cider, and Apples.)

Antonio leaned over his shoulder.

“A family recipe?”

Giorgio nodded.

“My Uncle Tito’s brother. Every birthday... every family celebration... this was the meal he requested.”

He closed the notebook with quiet satisfaction.

“My friends...”

He rested both hands on the workbench.

“...we have our recipe.”

He looked around the kitchen, waiting until every pair of eyes met his.

“Then...”

A smile spread across his face. He clapped his hands.

“Andiamo... si cucina!“ (Lets go… time to cook!)

There was an almost ceremonial stillness.

Giorgio clapped his hands once.

“Antonio...”

“Gli ingredienti.“ (The ingredients.)

“Yes, Chef.“

Antonio was already reaching for the vegetables, herbs, butter, and cider, arranging them neatly across the workbench.

“Li Wei...”

“Gnocchi.“

Without a word, Li Wei tipped the potatoes into a large pan and lit the stove.

“Vittorio...”

The skeletal maître d’ inclined his skull.

“Go assist Lucia“

“As you wish, Chef.”

“And I...”

Giorgio rolled up his sleeves.

“...shall prepare the pork.”

The kitchen came alive.

Potatoes simmered gently while Antonio peeled the apples and finely diced the shallots. Butter m]elted in the heavy pan before the vegetables were added, followed by the cider and a generous splash of white wine. The rich aroma slowly filled the kitchen.

Antonio stirred patiently until the sauce had reduced to a silky consistency.

He lifted a spoon.

Tasted.

His forehead creased.

He tasted again.

Then he quietly carried the spoon across to Giorgio.

The chef sampled the sauce.

He closed his eyes.

“No...”

He reached for a pinch of salt.

Another taste.

A little freshly ground pepper.

Again.

Still, he shook his head.

“Manca qualcosa.“ (Something is missing.)

Antonio glanced at the notebook.

“Il levistico?“ (The lovage?)

Giorgio nodded slowly.

“Sì.“ (Yes)

“I thought we could manage without it.”

He looked down at the recipe as though it had gently proved him wrong.

“We cannot.”

The kitchen fell silent.

Then came Li Wei’s calm voice.

“No problem.”

Everyone turned.

He had already taken off his apron.

“I fetch.”

Li Wei slipped off his apron and hung it neatly on its peg. Without saying another word, he crossed the courtyard to the small garage beside the old stone wall.

Parked inside was his pride and joy.

A gleaming cream-and-red Vespa Primavera.

Not a speck of dust marked its polished paintwork. Every chrome fitting sparkled as though it had been buffed that morning. Li Wei ran a cloth lightly over the handlebars, more from habit than necessity.

From a shelf above the workbench, he lifted his helmet. White with a narrow crimson stripe, it matched the Vespa perfectly. He settled it carefully on his head, then pulled on a pair of tan leather gloves.

Only then did he wheel the Vespa into the afternoon sunshine.

The little engine started with its familiar, cheerful purr.

By the time he had fastened the strap beneath his chin, Lucia had appeared at the kitchen door.

“Wait.”

She disappeared for a moment and returned carrying a small brown paper bag tied neatly with red and white string.

“Here.”

Li Wei looked at her questioningly.

“For the monk.”

He accepted the parcel.

“What is it?”

“Fresh almond biscuits.” She smiled. “Tell him they’re still warm.”

Li Wei slipped the little parcel carefully into his satchel beside the empty linen cloth he always carried for herbs.

“I will.”

Lucia gave the Vespa an affectionate pat.

“And tell him we’re grateful.”

Li Wei nodded, started the little engine, and rode quietly through the cemetery gates.

With a gentle twist of the throttle, he disappeared on to the narrow country road.

The countryside unfolded quietly before him. Vineyards climbed the lower slopes, their neat rows stretching towards distant hills softened by the afternoon haze. Stone farmhouses rested among silver-green olive groves, while cypress trees stood like silent sentries along the winding lanes.

Li Wei rode without hurry.

He knew every bend.

Every wayside shrine.

Every field where wild poppies nodded in the breeze.

After ten minutes the monastery appeared on the hillside, its weathered stone walls warmed by centuries of sunlight. A small bell tower overlooked terraces of herbs, vegetables and fruit trees that tumbled gently down the slope.

Li Wei parked the Vespa beneath an old olive tree and removed his helmet.

Before he had reached the wooden gate, an elderly monk was already waiting.

“Buon pomeriggio, Li Wei. You’ve come for the levistico.”

Li Wei bowed his head.

“Chef Giorgio sends his greetings.”

The monk smiled warmly.

“I wondered how long it would be before Chef Giorgio remembered.”

Together they walked in comfortable silence through the kitchen garden.

The air carried the scent of rosemary, thyme, and lavender. Bees drifted lazily between flowering herbs while rows of tomatoes, beans and artichokes basked in the afternoon sun.

At the very end of the garden, beyond the familiar herbs, stood a narrow bed bordered with old bricks.

The monk knelt.

“Here.”

Tall stems rose from the rich earth, their deep green leaves catching the light.

“Levistico.” (Lovage.)

He gently rubbed a leaf between his fingers before offering it to Li Wei.

The fragrance was unmistakable.

Fresh.

Earthy.

Rich with the scent of celery and mountain air.

“The young chefs rarely ask for it anymore,” the monk said quietly. “It takes patience to grow... and even more patience to understand.”

Li Wei breathed in the aroma and smiled.

“Chef Giorgio understands.”

The monk cut a generous handful, wrapped it carefully in a damp linen cloth and placed it into Li Wei’s canvas satchel.

“No charge.”

Li Wei shook his head gently.

“There is always payment.”

From his satchel he produced Lucia’s little paper bag.

“Lucia said to tell you they’re still warm.”

The old monk untied the string.

The warm aroma of freshly baked almond biscuits drifted into the garden.

His weathered face lit up.

“Ah...”

He looked at Li Wei and smiled.

“Then Lucia knows an old monk very well.”

He selected one biscuit, broke it in half, and handed the larger piece to Li Wei.

“It would be rude not to share.”

For a few quiet moments they stood together in the herb garden, eating warm almond biscuits while bees drifted lazily among the lavender.

Neither man felt the need to speak.

The monk wrapped the fresh levistico once more and tucked it safely into Li Wei’s satchel.

“Vai con Dio.“ (Go with God.)

Li Wei inclined his head.

“And you.”

He returned to his Vespa, the satchel resting safely beneath the seat.

The journey home somehow seemed shorter.

The scent of fresh levistico travelled with him all the way back to the Bistro.

The familiar hum of the Vespa echoed through the courtyard.

Giorgio looked up from the stove.

A broad smile spread across his face.

“È tornato!“ (He’s back!)

Li Wei stepped into the kitchen carrying the linen-wrapped bundle. Without a word, he placed it on the workbench.

Giorgio unfolded the damp cloth with almost reverent hands. He lifted a single leaf, rubbed it gently between his fingers and closed his eyes as he breathed in its unmistakable fragrance.

“Che profumo...“ (What an aroma...)

He smiled.

“Antonio.”

The young chef stepped forward.

Giorgio handed him the bundle.

“Today... you prepare the levistico.”

Antonio looked surprised.

“Me?”

Giorgio nodded.

“Every family recipe deserves another pair of hands to remember it.”

Antonio picked up his mezzaluna and began chopping the lovage. As it rocked gently across the board, the fresh aroma drifted through the kitchen.

Giorgio watched with quiet approval.

“Piano, piano...“ (Slowly, slowly.)

Antonio smiled and slowed his rhythm.

When the herbs were almost as fine as emerald confetti, Giorgio nodded.

“Perfect.“

The chopped lovage disappeared into the warm cider sauce.

Giorgio stirred once.

Twice.

He lifted a spoon.

The whole kitchen waited.

He tasted.

His face broke into the smile everyone had been hoping for.

“Madonna mia...“

Another spoonful.

“Adesso canta.“ (Now it sings.)

Around them, the kitchen settled into its familiar rhythm. Orders were called, pans hissed, and Vittorio appeared to collect the first waiting plates with the quiet efficiency of someone who had been serving guests for centuries.

The dining room was already alive with the gentle murmur of conversation. Candles flickered on every table, glasses caught the warm light, and the comforting aroma of good food drifted through the Bistro. It was another full house.

At that very moment the little brass bell above the front door chimed.

Lucia glanced towards the entrance and smiled.

“Our new guests have arrived.”

She glanced at the reservation on her tablet.

“The Bellini family.”

Five people entered the dining room together.

At their head walked Nonna Sofia, her silver hair neatly pinned beneath a cream hat. Beside her was her younger brother Marco, who had travelled from Milan after almost thirty years away. Their sister Elena followed, arm in arm with her daughter Chiara, while Chiara’s teenage son Luca brought up the rear, looking around the extraordinary restaurant with wide-eyed wonder.

Three generations. One table. One long-awaited reunion.

Lucia welcomed them warmly.

“Buona sera. Your table is ready.”

As they settled themselves, laughter soon replaced the awkwardness that sometimes follows years apart.

From the kitchen doorway, Giorgio watched quietly.

He smiled to himself.

“This,” he said softly, “is exactly who this meal was waiting for.”

Vittorio appeared beside him.

“They seem a happy family.”

Giorgio nodded.

“They will leave happier.”

He went back to his pork.

Giorgio reached for the pork tenderloin.

The pan hissed as the meat touched the hot butter.

Giorgio smiled.

“Now...”

He turned the pork, basting it with foaming butter.

“...we finish.”

The tenderloin rested before being sliced into thick medallions with a blush of pink at their centre.

Giorgio placed the thick medallions onto the warm plates.

Li Wei spooned the buttered gnocchi onto the plates.

Antonio carefully ladled the fragrant cider and lovage sauce around the pork.

Giorgio added the final touch—a few tiny leaves of fresh levistico.

He stepped back.

No one spoke.

Finally, he nodded.

“Benissimo.“ (Excellent.)

He lifted the first plate. Beckoned Vittorio.

“Come.”

One by one the five plates were carried into the dining room. The aroma of cider, apples and fresh levistico drifted ahead of them. For a moment, the conversation at the Bellini table stopped.

Marco looked down at his plate.

He breathed in deeply.

Then slowly closed his eyes.

A smile spread across his face.

“I haven’t smelled this since Mama’s kitchen.”

Across the table, Nonna Sofia reached over and gently squeezed his hand.

“I know,” she whispered.”

From the kitchen doorway, Giorgio quietly removed his chef’s hat.

Some recipes filled empty stomachs.

The special ones brought families home.

This weeks kitchen had a gentleness about it. A reverence. A recipe that brought comfort.

Giorgio seems to be finding his place in the community, despite his rather unusual location in the cemetery. Week by week, The Bone Appétito Bistro feels a little less like a curiosity and a little more like home.

I hope you’re enjoying these visits to the Bistro as much as I’m enjoying writing them. 😄

Koe Koer… koe koer

Sonja rolls over and stretches. She loved the sound of the doves in the nearby trees.

Koe Koer

She smiles. What a way to start the day. The sun was already making itself known through the curtains. Her hand finds the curve of her belly. Her heart swells. This pregnancy is wonderful.

Rising, she walked over to the wardrobe and took out her beautiful bottle green tweed with navy check suit. She had chosen a maternity pattern with a matching jacket that disguised her growing belly. Her hand lingered on the luxurious, soft material. Smiling, she walked over to the basin and started her ablutions.

Laughter from the kitchen made its way into the room. The sound of Boetie laughing was such a pleasure to Sonja. Lindiwe singing a silly song had set him off. His guffaws of laughter seemed never-ending.

The morning passed slowly, much to her delight. She savoured each moment. Standing in front of the mirror, she admired her outfit. Yes, today she felt every bit the woman she had become. Spraying a little Elizabeth Arden Blue Grass onto her wrists, she added her favourite pearls; she was ready to face the day. The Vroue Vereeniging annual meeting was taking place in Calvinia this year.

As she stepped into the kitchen, Pieter looked up from the newspaper spread across the table. The moment he saw her, he folded it neatly, laid it aside and rose to his feet. For a second he simply stood there, taking her in. His heart swelled with pride.

“Skat,” he said softly. “Jy lyk so baie mooi.”

He walked over and took both her hands in his.

“Ek is sommer verskriklik trots op jou.”

A warm blush crept across Sonja’s cheeks.

“Ag, Pieter.”

Boetie looked up from his breakfast, his eyes wide.

“Mamma, jy’s mooi.”

Lindiwe clapped her hands together.

“Ag, Ma Sonja, you look wonderful!”

Sonja laughed.

“Dankie, julle. Julle gaan my grootkop maak.”

She reached for the wicker basket standing beside the pantry.

“Kom, Lindiwe. Help my gou om die konfyt en die gemmerkoek kar toe te vat. There is still plenty to do at the Church Hall.”

Lindiwe carefully carried the jars of apricot jam, peach preserves, and tomato relish while Sonja lifted the beautifully iced ginger cake. Everything was packed securely before Sonja closed the boot.

She slipped on her white gloves, adjusted the brim of her hat, and turned back to Pieter.

“Tot later.”

He smiled.

“Enjoy, skat.”

With a final wave to the family, Sonja drove slowly down the long driveway, the tyres whispering over the red Karoo dust.

The church hall was already buzzing with cheerful voices when Sonja arrived. She had barely stepped from the car when her friend, Sarie, spotted her.

“Sonja!” she called, waving enthusiastically. “Ek het gewonder wanneer jy gaan opdaag.” She had been waiting patiently to see Sonja.

“I wouldn’t leave you ladies to do all the hard work,” Sonja laughed.

Together they carried the baskets inside.

The hall had been transformed. Crisp white tablecloths covered every table. Fresh flowers stood in polished glass vases, their colours bright against the white linen. Platters of neatly cut sandwiches waited beside trays of scones, cakes, and biscuits, while rows of bottled fruit, preserves, jams and relishes caught the morning sunlight streaming through the windows. Everywhere women were putting the final touches in place, straightening a cloth here, a chair there, moving a vase there, making sure everything looked just so.

“It looks beautiful,” Sonja said quietly.

“It does,” Sarie agreed. “I think this may be our best one yet.”

As they unpacked the last of the jars, the chairlady approached with a broad smile.

“My dear Sonja.”

She stopped for a moment and looked her up and down.

“You look absolutely blooming.”

Sonja smiled self-consciously.

“Thank you.”

“No, my dear.” The chairlady gently touched the sleeve of her jacket. “Thank you.”

She stood back, admiring the beautifully tailored navy suit she had tailored many weeks ago for her.

“I’ve received compliments all morning. Everyone wants to know who made my outfit.” Sonja beamed.

She laughed softly.

“I told them there is only one person in Calvinia with hands like yours.”

Sonja felt her cheeks grow warm.

“You are too kind.”

“Not at all.”

The chairlady straightened one of her white gloves and smiled.

“This meeting is going to be remembered for many things... and I suspect my outfit will be one of them.”

Around them the happy hum of conversation continued as the ladies of the Vroue Vereeniging put the finishing touches to a hall that had been prepared with pride, friendship and no small measure of love.

The afternoon passed in cheerful conversation, demonstrations and shared recipes. Many of the ladies left with new ideas to try in their own kitchens, while others lingered over one last cup of tea before making their way home. The Chairlady was delighted that another annual meeting had gone so well. The committee remained unchanged, with the exception of the Treasurer, who had stepped down. Sarie was elected in her place, much to Sonja’s delight.

The Tuesday morning sun had barely cleared the low koppies when Pieter climbed onto the kraal gate. He watched the flock spread across the camp. Dew still clung to the sparse tufts of Karoo grass, and somewhere beyond the windmill a korhaan called into the stillness.

His father joined him, resting both forearms on the top rail.

“We’d better start before it gets too warm.”

Pieter nodded.

“If we’re taking sheep to the Vleisfees, they’ll need time to settle.”

Old Hendrik looked towards the grazing flock.

“Exactly. Sheep don’t suddenly become show animals because somebody decides they should.”

Jantjie appeared, already carrying his stock stick.

“The boys are waiting by the sorting race, Baas.”

Within minutes the farm came alive.

The workers moved quietly, spreading out across the camp before easing the Dorpers towards the kraals. There was no shouting or chasing. Sheep responded better to patience than noise, and every man there knew unnecessary stress showed itself long before the vleisfees.

Dust rose gently beneath hundreds of hooves as the flock flowed through the gateway.

Pieter stood beside the drafting gate while his father watched every animal that passed.

“Not that ewe.”

The gate clicked.

“Too narrow through the loin.”

Another passed.

“Keep her.”

Jantjie guided her into the holding pen.

One after another they examined them.

Good mouths.

Strong backs.

Deep chests.

Well-sprung ribs.

Straight legs.

Clean pasterns.

They looked for broad hindquarters and animals carrying enough condition without becoming over-fat. A show sheep had to look healthy, alert and naturally impressive, not pampered.

An hour later Hendrik removed his hat and wiped his forehead.

“That’ll do.”

Pieter counted them.

“Eight ewes.”

His father smiled.

“Eight good ones.”

Jantjie opened the gate leading to a smaller camp beside the homestead.

Unlike the larger grazing camps, this one had been rested for weeks. Fresh grazing covered the ground, the fencing had been repaired, and the nearby kraal had been swept clean the previous afternoon.

Pieter watched the selected ewes settle almost immediately.

“This is where they’ll stay until the Vleisfees.”

His father nodded.

“We can keep an eye on them every day. Check for burrs, cuts, sore feet... make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“And they’ll get used to people.”

“Exactly.”

A sheep accustomed to being handled stood quietly when visitors gathered around. A nervous animal wasted energy and never showed itself properly.

Jantjie latched the gate.

“I think they will be spoiled here.”

His father laughed.

“They’ve earned it.”

The larger flock was moved back into the main grazing camp before attention turned to the rams.

Everyone became just a little quieter.

A good ram carried the future of a flock on his shoulders.

One after another they emerged through the race, each powerful animal pausing briefly before moving into the holding pen.

Pieter ran experienced hands across shoulders, backs and hindquarters while Hendrik studied each animal with the patience that only decades among sheep could teach.

“Too coarse.”

The ram moved on.

“Good length.”

Another stayed.

“Legs aren’t right.”

Gone.

Jantjie quietly made chalk marks on the wool whenever one was chosen.

When the last ram had passed through, only four remained standing together.

Young.

Powerful.

Balanced.

Confident.

Exactly the sort of animal’s people travelled long distances to see.

Pieter leaned against the rail.

“I’d be happy taking any one of them.”

His father smiled.

“So would I.”

The four selected young rams were led into their own secure paddock beside the ewes. They would remain there until the Vleisfees, receiving the same careful attention. Each morning, they would be checked for injuries, their hooves inspected, burrs removed from their fleece, and the dust brushed from their coats. No clever tricks. No special feeding that might upset their digestion. Simply good grazing, clean water, careful handling and time to settle.

“The best sheep,” Hendrik said, “are the ones that still look like sheep.”

Laughter drifted across the yard.

Nandi came walking from the farmhouse carrying a large enamel tray. A heavy coffee pot steamed beside thick mugs, while a cloth covered a generous pile of warm roosterkoek.

“Meneer Pieter, hier is ontbyt, Lindiwe sent it for everyone.” She placed the tray and koffie pot on a small folding table she brought.

Jantjie’s face lit up.

“Sus, you’ve just saved our lives.”

She laughed.

“We see you are busy.”

“Yes the rams kept us busy,” Jantjie replied with mock offence. “Those four are are our best.”

Pieter grinned as everyone gathered beneath the old pepper tree.

Nandi poured the coffee while butter melted into the warm roosterkoek. For a little while nobody spoke about breeding, judging, or prizes. They simply enjoyed the food, the company, and another good morning on Vlei Droom.

Only after the mugs had been emptied did Hendrik stand and brush the crumbs from his trousers.

“Time to go, Pieter there is still preparation for the Landbou Unie meeting this evening.”

The afternoon sun hung low over Calvinia as farmers’ vehicles gradually filled the parking area outside the Landbou Unie hall. Dust settled slowly behind each arrival before another bakkie or pickup rolled through the gate. Men greeted one another with firm handshakes, exchanging news of lambing percentages, broken windmills and whether the little shower a week earlier had reached as far as the Roggeveld.

Pieter climbed down from his Studebaker beside his father. Hendrik settled his hat firmly onto his head before looking across the gathering with quiet satisfaction.

“A good turnout,” he observed.

“It usually is this time of year,” Pieter replied. “Everyone wants to know what the wool buyers are thinking.”

Hendrik chuckled softly.

“If they know, they’ll be the first.”

Pieter smiled as they made their way towards the hall, stopping every few steps to greet another familiar face. Most of the farmers had known one another for years. Some had farmed alongside their fathers and grandfathers, and although they often disagreed, the Landbou Unie had always been the place where differences were aired over discussion rather than division.

As Pieter reached the entrance his eyes drifted over the line of parked vehicles. Most belonged to neighbours whose farms lay within a morning’s ride of Calvinia. One pickup, however, caught his attention.

“Gert van der Merwe’s come through from Witval,” he remarked.

Hendrik followed his son’s gaze and nodded.

“He doesn’t miss many meetings.”

Almost on cue Gert climbed down from the cab and walked across with an easy smile.

“Afternoon, Pieter. Hendrik.”

“Goeie middag, Gert,” Hendrik replied, shaking his hand warmly. “Long road.”

“It is,” Gert laughed, “but staying away doesn’t solve a farmer’s problems.”

“That’s true enough,” Pieter said. “Come inside. I think we’ve got plenty to discuss.”

The meeting began much as it always did. Hats were removed, chairs scraped across the polished wooden floor and conversations gradually faded as Pieter took his place at the head of the table.

He welcomed everyone before working through the previous month’s minutes, which were accepted without amendment. There was little appetite for formalities. Everyone knew what lay waiting further down the agenda.

“The first item,” Pieter said, glancing around the room, “is the wool market.”

A murmur spread through the hall.

Old Koos Smit leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “I don’t remember a season where men have worked so hard for so little return.”

“You’re not alone there,” Willem Nel replied. “By the time transport, shearing and everything else has been paid, there’s precious little left.”

Several heads nodded.

The discussion gathered momentum as farmers shared what they had been offered by different buyers. Although the figures varied slightly, the story remained the same. Prices were simply not where they needed to be.

Pieter allowed the conversation to run its course before speaking.

“Gentlemen, we’ve already proved something this season.”

The room became quieter.

“When prices first dropped, several of us decided not to sit back and accept the first offer put in front of us. We worked together, marketed our wool differently and managed to secure better returns than many expected.”

A few of the older farmers nodded in agreement. They remembered the effort that had gone into organising it.

“It wasn’t perfect,” Pieter continued, “and it certainly wasn’t a solution for every farmer in the district, but it reminded us of something important. We don’t have to wait for somebody else to solve every problem.”

Hendrik rested both hands on his walking stick.

“Our fathers adapted,” he said quietly. “Their fathers adapted before them. Farming has never rewarded stubborn men.”

The room fell silent.

“You learn from every season,” Hendrik continued. “The day you think you’ve learnt everything...” He smiled faintly. “...is usually the day the Karoo teaches you otherwise.”

The laughter that followed broke the tension.

Koos pointed across the table.

“Hendrik’s right. We can complain until the cows come home, but it won’t add a penny to the wool cheque.”

“It might make us feel better,” someone called from the back.

“It’ll only make your wife miserable,” another answered, drawing another ripple of laughter through the hall.

Pieter waited until the room settled once more.

“The Union will continue putting pressure where it matters. We’ve received confirmation that the matter is still being pursued nationally, and we’ll continue supporting those efforts. In the meantime we’ll keep looking after what we can control.”

There was no dramatic applause. There didn’t need to be. Every man in the room understood that farming had always required patience just as much as hard work.

Pieter glanced down at his notes before looking around the table once more.

“The next matter is water.”

Immediately several men shifted in their chairs. In the Karoo there was never a season when water could be taken for granted.

“We’ve had a little rain,” Willem Nel began, “but not enough to make anyone careless.”

There were murmurs of agreement.

“Our eastern camps freshened up nicely,” another farmer added. “The sheep picked up almost immediately.”

“We weren’t that fortunate,” Gert van der Merwe said. “Witval caught very little. The veld is hanging on, but another dry spell won’t do us any favours.”

Hendrik nodded thoughtfully.

“The Karoo has always taught patience. One good shower gives hope, but it takes many more before it fills his dams.”

Several farmers smiled.

One by one they shared reports from their own farms. A new windmill had been erected near Brandvlei. Another farmer had finally deepened a troublesome borehole after months of uncertainty. Others spoke about repairing reservoirs, replacing leaking pipes and cleaning out earth dams before the spring rains arrived.

It was never wasted conversation. Good ideas travelled quickly among farmers, and many a costly mistake had been avoided simply because someone around the table had already faced the same problem.

When the discussion finally eased, Pieter turned another page.

“I’d also like to thank everyone involved with the district stock patrols.”

The atmosphere became noticeably more serious.

“The reports over the past few months have been encouraging,” Pieter continued. “Several attempted thefts have been stopped before the sheep ever left the farms.”

Koos Smit nodded firmly.

“They’ve become nervous.”

“As they should,” another farmer replied. “Word gets around when patrols start appearing where they’re least expected.”

Pieter rested both hands on the table.

“We’ve all seen the damage stock theft causes. It isn’t simply the value of the sheep. It’s the breeding programme you’ve spent years building. Every animal lost is years of careful selection walking through a broken fence.”

More heads nodded.

No one in the room had forgotten what Pieter’s own family had endured. One of the men responsible had once worked on the farm before allowing greed to destroy both his livelihood and his freedom. His prison sentence served as a warning throughout the district.

“The patrols are making a difference,” Hendrik said quietly. “Let’s make sure they continue. Thieves soon return when they think people have become comfortable.”

Nobody argued.

The next item brought a welcome change in mood.

“Our Co-op expansion is progressing well,” Pieter announced. “The additional storage sheds are almost complete and we’re expecting several new product lines before the end of the year.”

That immediately sparked interest.

“It’ll save a trip to Upington for half the things we need,” someone remarked.

“And no more waiting weeks for ordinary supplies,” another added.

Pieter nodded.

“Exactly. The committee has also arranged demonstrations of several new agricultural implements once everything has been installed. Improved sheep handling equipment, newer shearing gear and a few mechanical innovations that should make life easier on the farms.”

“Provided they don’t cost more than the farm,” Koos muttered, drawing laughter around the room.

“That’s usually the first question,” Pieter smiled.

“The demonstrations won’t cost anything. Buying them is entirely your own affair.”

The room settled once more as Pieter reached the final item.

“Now then... the Vleisfees.”

Almost immediately the seriousness disappeared.

“The committee tells me entries are looking promising again this year. If your sheep are ready, make sure they’re entered before the closing date.”

“They’re ready,” one farmer declared confidently.

“So were yours last year,” another replied with a grin. “The judge seemed to have other ideas.”

The room erupted with good-natured laughter.

“I still say he needed spectacles.”

“No,” Hendrik chuckled. “He simply knew a better sheep when he saw one.”

Even the farmer who had spoken first laughed.

“Who’s bringing the strongest ram this year?” Koos asked with a grin.

Before anyone could answer, Willem smiled.

“Well, it won’t be Rascal.”

The room grew quieter for a moment.

Hendrik gave a small nod.

“No,” he said softly. “We lost him to poison, not age.”

“He served the district well,” Gert van der Merwe added. “I don’t know how many farmers improved their flocks because of that ram.”

Several heads nodded around the table.

Pieter smiled, although there was sadness behind it.

The conversation drifted naturally towards breeding lines, promising young rams and friendly predictions about who might take home the silverware. There were the usual boasts, the usual teasing and the usual confidence that seemed to accompany every Vleisfees long before the judging ever began.

Pieter eventually closed his notebook and looked around the room.

“Gentlemen, unless there’s any other business...”

There wasn’t.

Chairs scraped backwards and hats found heads once more. Small groups formed almost immediately, continuing conversations that would probably carry on outside beside the parked vehicles before everyone eventually turned for home.

Pieter waited near the doorway while the others drifted out into the late afternoon sunshine.

Gert van der Merwe paused beside him.

“I’ll see you again at the Vleisfees.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Pieter replied.

Neither would Gert.

With a final handshake they went their separate ways, each climbing into his vehicle before disappearing on to the dusty Karoo roads leading home.

In the Karoo time waits for no one. The farmers remain busy despite the hardships they face.

I hope you’re looking forward to this year’s Vleisfees. I have a feeling next week’s chapter will bring a smile to your face.

Your readership means more than you know. Thank you for being here.

Perhaps justice - finally - could be his.

Jack let the thought settle in his chest, a fragile thing, but alive. He lifted his eyes to the young solicitor John Casey, opposite him; studying the eagerness on the man’s face, the way ambition clung to him like a scent. Then he noticed the pen in the lawyer’s hand again - gold, with that unmistakable weighted barrel and something inside him paused.

Jack was back on Buchanan Street, standing at the glass counter in Fraser’s on a damp December afternoon, handing over far too much money for the limited-edition model Arthur had wanted so desperately. There had only ever been two sold in Glasgow. Two in the whole city.

He let the memory wash over him, warm and bitter in equal measure.

He reached out, took the pen gently between his fingers, felt its balance, its coldness, its history.

Then he looked up at the solicitor again.

And without a word, he set the pen back on the table - not dismissively, not with anger, but with a quiet clarity that belonged to a man re-claiming himself.

“Guard,” he said.

The interview room door opened the guard approached. But instead of the usual routine - cuffs on, the rough tug, the barked command - the guard simply nodded towards the corridor. A small gesture, almost respectful. Jack rose, and they walked back towards his cell together, his steps even, his spine unbent for the first time in months.

John Casey sat in his car for a long time in the prison’s car park. He felt restless. When Jack picked up the pen his heart almost stopped. He couldn’t take his mind away seeing Jack look at the pen, picking it up…

He started his car. He wasn’t looking forward to the journey home.

It was only later, lying on the thin mattress in the dark, that the realisation came to Jack: the guard had walked with him, not ahead of him. A shift so subtle he had missed it in the moment.

But now he felt it.
Something had turned.

The guard had heard more than Jack realised. The walls were thin, the words carried easily, and the guard had stood there listening to the careful little dance between the young lawyer and Jenny’s crafted story. He heard the contradictions. He heard the omissions. And he heard Jack’s voice - steady in places, breaking in others - especially when Lily’s name was mentioned.

The guard was not a cruel man by nature. Too many years of hardship had worn him down, and most days the only thing he controlled was the suffering of the men he supervised. But something in that interview broke through his armour; something made him look at Jack differently, not as another inmate but as a father standing on the edge of losing everything.

And from that moment, his manner changed. Not dramatically. Not in ways that could be reported. But in the small, human ways that matter. It began with the walk down the corridor. Jack beside him instead of behind. A quiet acknowledgement, offered without words.

The next days unfolded with a gradual, measured shift - so gentle Jack almost missed it at first. He spent long hours sitting on the floor, back against the cold wall. The interview had cracked something open inside him, and the pieces of his mind, once muddied and heavy, were beginning to settle into patterns he recognised.

One morning, the guard left a note pad on his shelf. Jack approached it slowly, cautiously, as though touching it too quickly might cause it to vanish. He didn’t write at first. He simply sat with it, letting his mind breathe in the open white space he had been denied for so long.

And then, without any ceremony, a pen appeared beside the notebook. Not an accidental addition. A deliberate choice. What he noticed though, the black wax crayon hadn’t been removed. He was rather pleased. It was part of him now.

Later Jack walked to the shelf and picked up the pen. He held it for a long moment, turning it between his fingers, feeling something like the old version of himself stir - the man who used to organise accounts and plan strategies and see through lies with razor precision.

Small changes continued. A slightly warmer blanket folded at the end of his bed. His tray began arriving with little extras – bread, fruit, sometimes a square of chocolate. A sense - faint but unmistakable - that he was no longer being treated as a problem to contain but as a person someone believed might yet stand again.

It wasn’t kindness, not fully. But it was respect. And it gave him enough space to think clearly.

By the end of the week, with the pen in hand and the pages spread before him, Jack began to rebuild the truth - carefully, methodically, the way he once rebuilt complicated cases. His mind was awake again. And someone, somewhere, wanted him awake.

He knew he had to play John Casey the solicitor. Keeping him close but at a reasonable distance with his information, Jack knew that he had to bide his time. Being inside was the dilemma. He needed someone on the outside to monitor Jenny. Where was she? Was she still with her mother in France? And Lily his dearest daughter?

He knew that the safety deposit box was his only survival. Without that, he was in a crisis. Somehow “they” must know. How on earth could he change all that? The questions went on and on. At one point he threw the stack of papers across the room and the pen fell and broke. He let out a deep roar. This riled him even more. He needed to step back, gather his thoughts, and shift the process.

The guard, disturbed by Jack’s loud voice, came to the cell. His hand was already on the baton at his belt - old habit, old reflex - before he stopped himself at the bars. He stood there a moment, as if deciding which version of himself was going to speak.

“All right, Jack?” he asked quietly.

Jack looked up with a frown. Normally the guard would be shouting, telling him to quieten down, or the baton would talk for him.

“Yeah, sorry. Feeling a bit agitated. Too much on my mind.” Jack sat down on his bed.

“The name’s Luke.” He turned and walked away.

Now this raised Jacks eyebrows. What? Jack sat there and wondered why the change? He picked up the papers and pen. Oh well, he will need another pen. Perhaps that was a saving grace as his mind was in too much of a turmoil to write anyway.

One evening, the guard lingered a moment longer than usual after collecting the tray. He said nothing. He simply glanced at the drawing Jack had started on a spare page - rough, unfinished, a small girl’s face - and gave the smallest nod before locking the door behind him. Jack sat with that nod for a long time, turning it over the way he used to turn over a column of figures that didn’t quite balance. It meant something. He just didn’t yet know what.

The weeks flew by. His alone time became cathartic. He became more methodical in his reasonings. The notebook was filling. He smiled. The pen had soon been replaced, allowing him to continue to put things together.

His thoughts kept returning to the safety deposit box. That was bothering him. Did Jenny know more than what he thought? He never ever leaked that he has this safety deposit box. Did he say something to Lily when their lives were happy and content?

Mulling this over in his thoughts he missed that Luke walked into his cell.

“Hey Jack. We are emptying this block. Due for renovations. My wing will be the first to move. That includes you. Tomorrow morning after breakfast you will be moved to Block D.”

Jack looked up quite bewildered.

“Moving! Away from this godforsaken hell cell?”

“Yes Jack. Into a new block. You will have a single cell, but your free time and meals will be shared with other prisoners.”

Jack mulled this over.

“Okay. I will be ready.”

After Luke left… Jack looked around his cell. He knew every crack in the wall, those winter draughts that crept in under the door. The tiny window that hardly brought in light, his hard bed. The shelves with his meagre possessions.

He lay on his bed. He was miserable, but it was his space. His thoughts turned to the other prisoners. Who were they, what were their crimes? How would he be treated? He shrugged and sighed.

Tomorrow… who knows what it will bring.

Every story has a beginning.
Some begin with a crime.
This one begins with a question.

Giorgio signed the last cheque with a flourish and pushed it across the desk.

“There. The gas company won’t complain for another month.”

Lucia smiled, slipping the cheque into the envelope she had already addressed. One by one she gathered the remaining envelopes into a neat pile.

As Giorgio reached into the drawer for the stamps, his hand stopped.

Silvio’s phone.

The battery had long since died, but somehow he had never found the heart to throw it away.

He picked it up for a moment, turning it over in his hands.

“Silvio...” he murmured.

It seemed like only yesterday.

Hundreds of miles away, beneath the warm Sicilian sun, Silvio stood alone before a weathered gravestone.

His thoughts drifted back to the little kitchen where he had spent his childhood beside his father. The familiar aromas of tomatoes, garlic and fresh bread seemed only yesterday. It had been just the two of them. Father and son. A lifetime later, here he stood before the one place he had searched for over centuries. He had found him. At last, the searching was over.

He turned towards his old friend.

“When your message came...” Silvio said quietly, “...I knew I had to leave.”

His friend nodded.

“It was time you found him.”

Silvio looked once more at the gravestone before extending his hand.

“Thank you. I am in your debt.”

His friend clasped it warmly and smiled.

“There is no debt between friends.”

Deep in thought, Giorgio slipped the phone back into the drawer and quietly closed it.

Beyond the office, Bone Appétito carried on as though nothing had changed. The graveyard minded the dead. Giorgio minded everyone else.

Li Wei was scrubbing the worktops. Antonio was preparing the rosemary potatoes for the Pollo alla Cacciatora, humming softly to himself as he worked. Alessandro was somewhere in the village collecting the last of Giorgio’s impossible shopping list.

Giorgio leaned back in his chair and smiled to himself.

“Where are you, Silvio?”

Alessandro came through the back door balancing two boxes of vegetables and a paper bag of olives. Catching his foot on the mat, he lurched forward. Somehow, every box landed upright.

Giorgio looked up.

“Madonna mia! One day you’ll deliver my vegetables as soup.”

Unfazed, Alessandro held up the paper bag with a grin.

“Black olives, Chef.”

Giorgio opened the bag and stared.

“They’re green.”

Alessandro frowned, peered inside and scratched his head.

“They looked black in the shop.”

The kitchen fell silent.

“...It was dark.”

Antonio burst out laughing. Lucia leaned against the office door, shaking her head, while even Li Wei paused for the briefest moment.

Giorgio closed his eyes and looked towards heaven.

“Madre di Dio... why me?”

Then he clapped his hands sharply.

“Enough! Enough! My customers are not paying to watch a comedy. Li Wei, the chicken! Antonio, the onions! Alessandro... go and find me black olives before I put you in the pot!”

Alessandro was already halfway to the door.

“Yes, Chef!”

“And this time...”

Alessandro turned.

“...try shopping in the daylight!”

The kitchen dissolved into laughter once more.

From the kitchen drifted the unmistakable aroma of garlic softening in olive oil. Li Wei carefully turned the chicken pieces until they were golden before nestling them into the rich tomato sauce to braise gently. Antonio checked the rosemary potatoes while Alessandro arrived, slightly out of breath, triumphantly holding up a bag.

“Black olives!”

Giorgio took one look inside and gave a satisfied nod.

“Better.”

Without another word, the olives disappeared into the gently bubbling sauce.

Antonio slid the rosemary potatoes into the oven.

Giorgio stopped in his tracks.

“The potatoes.”

Antonio smiled.

“Yes, Chef.”

“They were supposed to brown gently in the pan.”

Antonio shrugged.

“I thought...”

“No. Never think.”

Giorgio rubbed his forehead and scratched his head.

His toque slipped sideways, balanced for a brief moment... then dropped neatly through the floor drain.

The kitchen fell silent.

"Madonna santa! Il mio cappello da cuoco!"

Giorgio dropped to his knees and peered through the drain.

“Alessandro! Prendi le pinze!”

Alessandro appeared almost instantly, clutching a pair of kitchen tongs.

Antonio quietly rescued the potatoes from the oven.

Li Wei calmly stirred the Pollo alla Cacciatora without so much as looking up.

With one triumphant click of the tongs, Alessandro lifted the soggy toque from the drain.

He held it up.

“Chef... I think it needs seasoning.”

Antonio exploded with laughter.

Even Li Wei’s shoulders trembled.

Giorgio snatched it from the tongs.

“Questa è una cucina, non un asilo!” (This is a kitchen, not a kindergarten!)

The kitchen dissolved into laughter as Giorgio disappeared towards the office, muttering a steady stream of Italian under his breath.

Giorgio emerged from the office wearing a fresh toque, straightened his chef’s jacket and clapped his hands.

“Enough excitement. Is the first order in? The Pollo is ready for plating.”

Lucia appeared in the kitchen doorway carrying the reservation book.

“It is, Giorgio.”

She smiled.

“Our first guest is Nonna Adelina.”

The kitchen exchanged knowing glances.

Lucia lowered her voice.

“You know how particular she is. If the chicken isn’t meltingly tender, the whole village will know before breakfast.”

Giorgio nodded solemnly.

“Then tonight, we cook for Nonna.”

Li Wei spooned the rich tomato sauce over the golden chicken while Antonio added the rosemary potatoes. Giorgio studied the plate for a moment, wiped an invisible mark from the rim and finally nodded.

“Perfetto.”

The bell at the pass rang softly.

Their skeleton waiter stepped forward, lifted the plate with practiced hands and disappeared into the dining room.

Nobody spoke.

From the kitchen they watched as Nonna Adelina unfolded her napkin and smiled politely at the waiter. She studied the plate for a long moment before cutting into the chicken with the side of her fork.

It yielded effortlessly.

She lifted the first mouthful to her lips.

The kitchen held its breath.

Nonna closed her eyes.

A gentle smile spread across her face.

“Madonna mia... proprio come lo faceva mia madre.” (My goodness... just as my mother used to make it.)

The skeleton waiter bowed his head and quietly returned to the pass.

Lucia clasped her hands together, unable to hide her delight.

Giorgio folded his arms, trying very hard not to smile.

“Next!”

🦴

Until next week... some journeys take a lifetime. Others take centuries. Both are worth finishing.

… Bone Appétito accepts no responsibility for olives purchased in the dark. 🙃

Pieter sat in his office pondering what had happened that morning. Blaze... what had woken her? She had said she was restless. He shook his head. No, he thought. There was something about her. She had insisted on going that morning, almost as if she had sensed something was wrong. Blaze was his firstborn and he was immensely proud of her.

The sound of two bakkies pulling into the yard drew him onto the veranda.

“Môre, Oom Sarel. Môre, Diederick. Kom, sit.”

Once they were seated, Pieter walked into the kitchen and asked Lindiwe to bring them koffie out to the veranda.

When he returned, Diederick was speaking about his recent trip to Upington.

“I read an interesting piece in the Upington paper while I was there. They were talking about the prices some of the better Dorper rams were fetching. I remember thinking the world’s gone mad if men are prepared to pay that sort of money for a ram. Funny how that article came back to me this morning.”

Oom Sarel sat quietly for a moment before looking across at Pieter.

“You’ve been thinking like a man who’s lost his best ram,” he said. “But perhaps it’s time to think like the man who poisoned him. Good stock has value, Pieter. More value than you realise. If men have begun seeing sheep as money rather than livestock, then this isn’t something to dismiss. There may be a bigger picture.”

“Jirre, Oom Sarel... I think you may be onto something. Jantjie also mentioned something this morning that got me thinking.”

Pieter went on to tell them about the conversation they had shared while returning from the far field.

“You know the farm hands talk. They hear things long before we do. Jantjie was hesitant, though, and I don’t want to get him into trouble. Whatever he told me... it stays with us.”

Diederick leaned forward.

“Pieter, that article didn’t sound like the sort of thing to ignore. Didn’t you once say you’d seen that ou from Witval in Calvinia a while back? That can’t just be coincidence. Hulle praat nie sommer nonsens nie. That farmer is known for his quality rams.”

Silence settled over the room. Each man seemed lost in his own thoughts until Oom Sarel slowly cleared his throat.

“Something’s changing, Pieter,” he said quietly. “Ek voel dit. Rascal wasn’t poisoned because he was just another ram. He was quality... and somewhere along the line, that’s rattled someone.”

The men sat drinking their koffie in silence. Their thoughts were interrupted by the police van arriving. Sersant van Wyk and his konstabel walked onto the veranda. Pieter invited them to sit and went to ask Lindiwe to bring more koffie.

“Baie jammer, Pieter,” the sergeant said as he took his seat.

“We have done what we can. There are photographs and notes. The vet says he will have his report on my table by tomorrow morning. There may be a delay with the tests. Onderstepoort doesn’t rush.” Pieter nodded.

“Ja, Sersant. Dankie. Ek waardeer jou hulp.” He took a sip of his koffie. “So, have you any suggestions as to what may have been the reason for the poisoning?”

The sergeant shifted in his seat. He looked uncomfortable.

“Nou, die moeilikheid is... we haven’t had a poisoning in many months. The last poisoning was an internal dispute on a farm miles away from here. So, no similarities.”

Pieter noticed an uneasiness around the two policemen.

“What is your immediate concern, Sersant Van Wyk? We are sitting here trying to rack our brains. This is a sonder!” Pieter thought. It really was such a shame.

Van Wyk glanced briefly at Oom Sarel before replying.

“Ag, Pieter, we can’t jump to conclusions. We need to complete the investigation, view the vet’s report, and then consider all options.”

Oom Sarel nodded slowly.

“Dis reg so. Maar hou jou oë oop.”

“Van Wyk – this is serious business. I have many questions, but, ja. We have to be patient. Hou my op die hoogte.”

The two policemen stood, nodded to them, and made their way to the bakkie. Pieter walked with them.

“Nogmaals, dankie, Sersant. Ek wag vir jou bel. Tot later.”

He watched them drive away. He stood for a moment. Something didn’t sit right. Van Wyk knew something.

Lindiwe walked out onto the veranda to collect the koffie mugs. She nodded to Pieter.

“Lunch is ready. There is enough to include your guests.”

Pieter invited the two friends into the kitchen. Sonja was already at the table.

“Oom Sarel, Diederick. Come sit. Eat with us. Nasty business this. Arme Rascal.”

They took their seats in silence.

Oom Sarel looked down at his plate before speaking.

“Ja,” he said softly. “Rascal wasn’t just a ram. He set the standard.”

After the two friends left Pieter took his place on the veranda. His gaze wandered over the farmyard. The neat kraals, repaired fences and tidy yard bore witness to the long hours he had poured into the farm. But his thoughts kept returning to Rascal... Blaze will miss him. He smiled when he remembered the ram’s birth. Since that day Blaze had formed such a bond with Rascal. The highlight of the Vleisfees for him was watching her parade their best ram.

His thoughts returned to reality when he saw the vet’s bakkie arrive. Pieter walked over. The vet rolled down the window.

“Pieter.” He coughed. “I have all the samples. Too many dead. The count is sixteen sheep... and Rascal. I want to do a post-mortem on Rascal. Something is bothering me, Pieter. I’d rather check properly. I will be in touch.”

Pieter nodded.

“Okay, I see you have Rascal. It will be interesting to hear the results. Do we bury? Or burn?”

“I think burn. We don’t know yet what the poison is. Ja, I am off. Speak in a few days.”

“Totsiens. Thank you for your help. I look forward to your update.”

The vet pulled away and Pieter stood watching until the bakkie disappeared down the dusty road.

Pieter slowly shook his head. His best ram... gone.

He found himself standing at the kraal without quite knowing how he had got there. The four young rams had gathered near the fence as though they had been expecting him. He rested his arms on the top rail and looked at them for a long while. Rascal was there in every one of them. The broad shoulders, the proud head and that same quiet confidence that had made people stop and look. Farmers had travelled many miles to buy Rascal’s offspring, and not one had ever complained. Good stock always found good farmers.

A deep sadness settled over him, yet somehow it carried a glimmer of hope. Rascal had left the farm richer. His blood would continue long after the old ram had gone. He felt a small hand within his. He turned.

“Pa, I am so sad. Poor Rascal.” Blaze put her head on her dad’s arm.

“My child. It is such a very sad day. But, we have hope. Just look at those four little rascals.”

They stood together. Father and daughter… wondering how this would end.

The old farmhouse had long since been abandoned. A loose sheet of corrugated iron on the roof banged every now and then as the Karoo wind found its edge. Dust drifted in through a cracked window and settled on the old table where Boet sat, slowly rolling another cigarette.

Dawie had walked the length of the barn so many times that he could probably have done it blindfolded. Every few minutes he stopped at the broken window, looked towards the road, then turned and started again.

Boet struck a match.

“You’re wearing a donga in the floor. Sit down man, before you drive us both mad.”

“Jislike, I can’t sit. Not after this.”

The cigarette glowed as Boet drew deeply.

“They’re busy all over that farm. Police. Vet. Farmers. This thing’s gone wrong, Boet. We should’ve had our money by now and been halfway home.”

Boet let the smoke drift slowly from his mouth.

“And leave without getting paid? No, ek werk nie verniet nie.”

Dawie threw his hands into the air.

“Stuff the money! I just want to get out of here. We can disappear. Find work somewhere else.”

Boet shook his head.

“You disappear without your money today; you’ll disappear without it forever. That’s how men like him work.”

The wind caught the roof again. The old iron rattled and then stopped.

Dawie looked towards the telephone hanging on the wall.

“So, what now?”

Boet stubbed out the cigarette.

“Now... we make new arrangements.”

Boet walked over to the phone, turned the handle three short turns and waited.

“It’s me.”

A pause.

“No... the place is far too busy today. Everybody seems to be fishing.”

He listened.

“No. The fish are biting harder than we expected.”

Another pause.

“I’m not bringing the bait. If you still want the catch, you’ll have to bring it here.”

Dawie frowned. None of it made sense.

Boet turned away from him.

“No. I’m staying where I am. Don’t want to lose my spot.”

He listened again.

“Good. Then don’t let him be long.”

The receiver clicked back into place.

Sidney Hawthorne slowly replaced the receiver and leaned back in his chair. The office had grown quiet. Through the open window the late Kimberley afternoon drifted lazily past, carrying little more than the distant hum of traffic. He reached for his cigarette and smiled to himself.

His transfer to Kimberley CID six years earlier had earned him a reputation any detective would have envied. His thoughts wandered to Ockert Ferreira. Their arrangement had worked well for years. Until now.

Smoke drifted lazily towards the ceiling. The call from the Witval exchange had reached him only minutes earlier. His informant had wasted few words. Boet had always been difficult, but lately he had become something else entirely. Changing the arrangement proved it.

Sid sighed and reached for his car keys. This wasn’t the sort of thing that could be left to chance. If Boet wanted the money brought to him, then he’d have to deal with it himself. He had already spent far too much time cleaning up after men like Boet and Dawie.

Dry leaves drifted across the floor, gathering in the corners in the barn at the plaashuis. Boet wandered through to the little brick shed built into one corner of the barn and set the kettle on the Primus stove. He had done it so many times over the years that it had become second nature. This place had served him well. More than once, it had kept him out of sight until the dust had settled elsewhere.

Dawie stood at the broken window, his eyes never leaving the dirt road. Every few moments he shifted his weight and looked again, as though willing a vehicle to appear. The mug of koffie Boet handed him remained untouched.

“Drink it,” Boet said quietly.

Dawie managed half a smile before shaking his head.

“I just want this finished.”

“It soon will be.”

Boet took his time lighting another cigarette.

“My ma het altyd gesê… panic never solved a problem.”

Dawie looked back towards the road. The confidence that had brought him there was now replaced by quiet desperation. He wanted the money, but more than that he wanted to put as many miles as possible between himself and boet.

Outside, the dirt road remained empty.

Next week in Calvinia’s Blaze:

Life in Calvinia refuses to stand still. The Vleisfees is drawing near, the women have their own plans, and Pieter must somehow balance the demands of the farm, the Landbou Unie and a growing investigation. But somewhere beyond the dust roads, events are already unfolding that no one in Calvinia sees coming.

The other day my siblings and I found ourselves talking about age. It was one of those ordinary conversations that families have, but long after it had ended, it refused to leave me. I realised I wasn’t thinking about numbers at all. I was thinking about journeys.

Age has never interested me as much as other people expect it to. To me, age is simply the distance travelled. Life is how we travel it. The years themselves don’t impress me nearly as much as the choices we make while we’re living them.

Every morning presents another opportunity. To wake. To care. To laugh. To forgive. To look after this remarkable body that has carried me across countries, through grief, through joy, through ordinary Tuesdays and extraordinary moments. Those things seem to matter far more than the number on a birthday cake.

Life isn’t a game. It is the greatest gift we will ever receive. And gifts aren’t meant to be left unopened. They are meant to be cherished, looked after, shared and used. Every single day quietly asks the same question: What will you do with me? Not tomorrow. Not when you retire. Not when you feel younger. Today. Because what we do today paves the way for every tomorrow that follows.

So, when I hear people counting years, my mind wanders somewhere else. I don’t think about birthdays. I think about roads. I don’t think about numbers. I think about horizons. I don’t think about endings. I think about the path still waiting beneath our feet.

Perhaps that’s why, if my brother and sister ever asked me what I had learned about growing older, my answer would be very simple. I wouldn’t tell them to stop counting. I’d simply encourage them to lift their eyes.

Don’t tell me how far you’ve travelled. Tell me how you’ve lived. Tell me what made you stop in wonder. Tell me what made you change. Tell me what made you kinder. Then I’ll know the measure of your life—not by the distance, but by the journey.

❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈

Perhaps the truest measure of a life is not how far we travel, but how far our kindness continues to travel after us.