The Lyndi Tree. JA Ginn Fourie
the betrayal when it is too late. She dies of tuberculosis after singing a most poignant duet with Alfredo – ‘Great God …. To die so young’.
Now I must retrace my steps and its close to midnight. When I get to the Lausanne station, it is bare. As I suspect, the only train going to Geneva is an express which doesn’t stop at Gland. I don’t have the money for a taxi, so I sit down on a bench with a loud sigh; there is no one in sight! I am considering the feasibility of spending the night on the bench on the platform in my opera outfit, when a conductor appears,
‘Que fait une jolie jeune femme seule sur le quai, où allez-vous?’/ “What is a pretty young lady doing alone on the platform … where are you going?”
I try to explain that I want to stop at Gland, he seems to understand and asks me,
‘d'où Venez-Vous?’ / “Where in the world are you from?”
‘Afrique du Sud’/ “South Africa,” I respond.
Then he says, pointing in the direction of a train,
'Veuillez attendre pendant que je parle au conducteur.’ / “Please wait whilst I speak to the driver.”
He is smiling broadly when he returns,
‘Le conducteur veut bien ralentir autant que possible pour que vous puissiez sauter du train à Gland. Il ne peut pas sonner la sirène (le sifflet?) après neuf heures du soir, donc il fera le fort son SSHH du train pour que vous sachiez que l'on est arrivé à Gland.’ / “The driver is willing to slow down as much as he can so that you can jump off at Gland. He cannot sound the siren after nine at night, so he will make the trains’ loud SH…. ing sound, so you will know when you get to Gland.”
I could have hugged him, but instead, thank him profusely for his graciousness. I remember stories about running in the same direction as the moving vehicle so as not to fall - well now is my chance to try it out. True to his word, as we near a lighted station there is the loud sh...ing sound; the doors start to open. I hold my breath as I jump and run with the train. Wowa! I made it and blow the driver a kiss. I know that he sees because he waves and blows a kiss back.
By the time I get back to La Ligniere everything is securely locked up at the Ladies Residence, even the loud spluttering of the Velo-Solex doesn’t arouse a lighted window. What now? A stone thrown at the upstairs window might break it. I walk around to see if there is a light on anywhere, but no such luck. Eventually I tie a hanky around a stone and pluck up enough courage to throw it at Madeleine’s window, upstairs. I need a second throw to get her sleepy attention. She opens the door for me and welcomes me home, no doubt grateful that her Velo-Solex is safe and to hear of the evening's adventures. We giggle a lot and then go to sleep.
Madame Vivarel congratulates me on doing what I wanted to do and experiencing the fun of finding out how the detail will all fit into place.
I learned a great lesson, much more than the French lessons, from her that night.
I purchase a waterproof, automatic, 24-carat gold Omega wristwatch with my earnings in celebration of both being in Switzerland and enjoying the time at La Ligniere. However, since the therapy room is very moist and we don’t wear jewellery to work, I keep it in its box until the morning I am due to travel to Toulon, to spend a couple of days with Madame Vivarel on the French Riviera. To my horror the bally thing won’t work. I wind it and shake it but no sign of life! I leave from Nyon early enough to go to the Omega dealer in Geneva where the shop is not yet open. In sheer frustration, I stand snivelling, while pretending to be enchanted by the menswear in the window of the shop next door. Eventually, the little jeweller opens the shop, and I tell him my tale of woe. Fortunately he understands English very well and soon calms my fears and frustration. He will adjust it and send it to Zurich, so that I can pick it up there when I go skiing at Davos in ten days. He does precisely that, and I pick it up as soon as I get to Zurich.
The Omega is still ticking away merrily 50 years later. Although when I take it for a service at an Omega jeweller in Cape Town, and he hears that I play tennis and climb mountains with it on my wrist, he is horrified. He suggests that I only wear it for special occasions, which I try to do, but now it stays in the drawer most of the time...
In Toulon Madame Vivarel and I walk everywhere or take a bus, few people have cars of their own, and public transport is excellent. Soon enough I fly out of Nice to Davos for ten days skiing and then to Bulawayo, arriving two days before Christmas 1968, as promised. Mum and Dad are at the airport to meet me. After a long hug each, and collecting my luggage, we find the car to head back to Inunwa Ranch. Dad updates me on the latest developments,
“The bush war has escalated, but ZIPRA, have recently been heavily defeated by the Rhodesian Security Forces, and Ian Smith, the Prime Minister, is sure that everything is under control. We feel reassured because he says that a White government will remain for at least his lifetime.”
I feel the familiar tightening in my gut release as we pass all the familiar landmarks; Mopani trees, the signboard on the right to Turk Mine 10 Miles. A hornbill flits intently from the red earth to a branch and back down for a tasty morsel a flying insect. Back home, so far from any help should there be a farm attack, the tightness is back. Mum and Dad seem restful and confident that God is protecting us. We spend Christmas with family and friends visiting us, and I soon feel at home. Satisfied that all is indeed well, my imagination is more active when I am far away; at home everything seems so reasonable.
Edward happens to be home and is happy to see me. He can’t believe that I have gone ‘so far and seen so many things’ as I proudly show him my pictures and outline in the atlas the route of my travels. Edward says he has only been to the Victoria Falls and Bulawayo, so he doesn’t know where all these places are across the sea which he has never seen.
I wonder at his contentment at being in one place, Rhodesia, with no aspiration to see and experience the world.
I plan to start work at the Tygerberg Service Centre in Parow, Western Cape early in 1969, then one morning Dad announces at breakfast,
“Let's take a break to visit John.”
John wasn’t home for Christmas and Dad looks up searching for my reaction, he must see the question in my eyes and continues,
“He is trading for Frasers in Basutoland. Raleqheka is a remote trading store, situated in the Thabo Putsoa Mountain range; the only access is by dirt road or helicopter.”
He looks at me,
“After our visit, you could board the train in Bloemfontein to go south to Cape Town, and we can meander back north to Rhodesia.”
Mum and I look at each other, her eyes shine with excitement, as she says,
“What a good idea, let's leave tomorrow.”
We start planning and packing suitcases, while Dad phones John to see if it suits him and to get directions. Dad says he only plans to be away for five days or so and the farmworkers will be able to care for the ranching activities for that time, there is no danger of fire with the bushveld lush and green. However, we shouldn’t tell anyone how long we will be away so that they are kept on their toes. Mmmmm a silent “why not trust them?”
We set off in the Mercedes packed full of my cases to set up house for the first time. I notice Dad pack a shovel with the usual things: an overall, bottles of water, soap and a towel, in case of a puncture, and although I say nothing I wonder what he has in mind with a shovel.
The roads in Lesotho are all gravel once we pass the capital, Maseru. The summer rains have washed deep trenches in some places; other places are deeply corrugated - so travel is slow, particularly in the mountains where erosion has eaten away at the roads like a giant brontosaurus on a primordial moonscape. Dad comments that it is the result of overgrazing, cattle and goats are the measure of wealth in this country. A couple of times we have to stash rocks in the gaping holes to proceed, the shovel comes in very handy as a lever and to fill in with dirt. We