Rumpole on Retirement
From Rumpole and the Reign of Terror
by John Mortimer
So many cases won and lost, so many small cigars smoked, so many occasions when a cold wind seemed to blow between myself and my wife, Hilda (known to me only as She Who Must Be Obeyed), so many cups of Old Bailey canteen coffee nervously consumed while waiting for a jury to come back with a verdict, so many devastating cross-examinations – the art of cross-examining is not the art of examining crossly, but the gentle task of leading a witness politely into a fatal admission – so many bottles of Château Thames Embankment have come and gone since I was a white wig and sprang to fame for my conduct of the Penge Bungalow affair, in which I scored a win, alone and without a leader, that I sometimes can’t believe my luck in having led a life so relatively free of a dull moment.
Now my wig isn’t only a darker shade of grey, it has also undergone a sort of yellowing at the roots. However, I have not, thank God, been forced into any sort of retirement. I deeply pity those who have not been called to the Bar. They are forced into retirement at an early age, to die of boredom on some unchallenging Surrey golf course, whereas I have kept going, am known to many as ‘Rumpole of the Bailey’, and can die in a wig, however yellowing, swathed in a gown, however frayed, and perform as effectively as I hope you’ll agree I did during what, to many people, was a ‘reign of terror’.
Looking back on it now, I was, perhaps foolishly, less afraid of having a fist full of anthrax thrown in my face in Pommeroy’s Wine Bar, or of finding our chambers in Equity Court blown up on the instructions of al-Qaeda, than I was of a malignant judge, or of She Who Must Be Obeyed’s prolongued disapproval.
~
Like all the chambers in the Temple, 4 Equity Court had a list in the doorway which announced to criminals, adultresses or otherwise interested members of the public which barristers were available to help them through their troubles. As Head of Chambers, Samuel Ballard QC led the list, but as the oldest inhabitant, Horace Rumpole’s name led all the rest.
When I reported for work quite early one morning, I found – to my surprise – that strips of cardboard had been stuck over this white board, quite obliterating all of our names. Soapy Sam was at my heels on this occasion, and I pointed it out for his explanation.
‘Terrorists, Rumpole!’ He spoke as though stating the obvious.
‘You mean terrorists came and stuck cardboard over our names?’
‘No, no. I stuck on the cardboard. Well, I asked our clerk Henry to do so.’
‘May I ask with what particular end in view?’
‘If the terrorists get to know that these are the chambers of a well-known barrister, let us say, one of the leaders of our profession, they might well be tempted to leave a bomb in the building. Of course, it would be a propaganda triumph for them if they were able to murder such a person.’
‘It’s very good of you to take such precautions on my behalf, Ballard. I may have acquired a certain notoriety through various sensational victories and a long career down the Old Bailey, or in such far-flung criminal courts as Snaresbrook and the London Sessions, but I very much doubt whether al-Qaeda would think it worthwhile to launch an outrageous terrorist attack on me.’
‘Oh no, not on you, Rumpole. Certainly not on you.’ Soapy Sam was about to return to his usual irritating self. ‘I don’t suppose any terrorist would bother with a junior, however elderly and notorious, who never took silk. But blowing up a leading QC and a senior representative of our great legal system, such as …’. He seemed to be searching for a name, and then he remembered his own. ‘Well, for instance, myself, would be a distinct feather in al-Qaeda’s cap!’
‘Cheer up,’ I advised our leader. ‘I don’t suppose Bin Laden has ever heard of you. I don’t believe you’d ever get a mention in the mosques of Afghanistan.’
‘I don’t think any of us has any idea,’ Soapy Sam’s smile was rigid, ‘of what goes on in the terrorist mind. Now you go along in, Rumpole, and Luci Gribble will search that old portmanteau of yours. We can’t be too careful.’
So our fairly recently appointed Director of Marketing and Administration dug into the bag I’d bought on my earnings from the Penge Bungalow Murders, and discovered a treasure trove consisting of a couple of large clean handkerchiefs, a tube of Suck-Us-N-C cough sweets, a tattered copy of The Oxford Book of English Verse (the Quiller-Couch edition), an assortment of pens and pencils, a large notebook, and the brief in Regina v Timson, with details of Her Majesty’s latest attack on yet another member of that august family.
Now there was another group of tireless workers who had no use for the word ‘retirement’. They were the many members of that respected clan of south London villains, committing what has come to be known – in this age of drugs, knifings and blackmail – as ‘ordinary, decent crime’. There was little or no violence in the Timson records, only straightforward breaking and entering, burglary, and the receiving of stolen property; unlike the Molloys, their rival family in the area, who left a trail of wounded, sometimes murdered citizens, and persons dependent on exotic herbs, in their wake.
I must admit, if I have to be honest, that the day-to-day financing of the Rumpole household, with Hilda’s indulgence in such luxury items as furniture polish, Fairy Liquid, scrubbing brushes and Vim, would become considerably stretched if the Timson family ever did take it upon themselves to retire.
Rumpole Oor Aftreding
Uit Rumpole and the Reign of Terror
deur John Mortimer
So baie sake gewen en verloor, so baie klein sigaartjies gerook, so baie geleenthede toe dit gelyk het of ’n koue windvlagie tussen myself en my vrou Hilda (aan my slegs bekend as Sy Wat Gehoorsaam Moet Word) gewaai het, soveel koppies Old Bailey garnisoen-koffie angstig opgedrink terwyl gewag was vir die jurie om terug te keer met ’n beslissing, so baie verbysterende kruisverhore – die kuns van kruisverhoor is nie die kuns om te kruisig met die verhoor nie, maar die rustige taak om ’n getuie hoflik na ’n noodlottige toegewing te lei. So baie bottels Château Thames Embankment het gekom en gegaan sedert ek ’n wit pruik was en na roem gewip het as gevolg van my optrede in die Penge Bungalow saak, waarin ek ’n oorwinning behaal het, alleen en sonder ’n leier, dat ek soms nie my geluk kan glo nie deurdat ek ’n lewe so relatief sonder ’n oomblik van verveeldheid ervaar het.
Nou ja, my pruik is nie slegs ’n donkerder skakering van grys nie, maar dit het ook ’n soort van vergelingsproses by die wortels ondergaan. Ek is egter nie, dank die Here, in enige soort van aftreding gedwing nie. Ek voel besonder jammer vir diegene wat nie na die Balie toe geroep was nie. Hulle word op ’n vroeë ouderdom gedwing om af te tree, om op ’n onuitdagende Surrey-gholfbaan aan verveeldheid te sterf, terwyl ek aan die gang kon bly, bekend aan baie as “Rumpole van die Bailey”, en ek kan in ’n pruik doodgaan, hoe dit ookal vergeel het, gekleed in ’n toga, hoe ookal uitgerafeld, en so effektief optree soos – ek hoop julle sal daarmee saamstem – ek opgetree het in wat vir baie mense ’n “skrikbewind” was.
As ek nou daaraan terugdink, was ek, heel verspot, minder bevrees om ’n handvol antraks, in Pommeroy se Wynkroeg, in my gesig te kry, of om in ons kamers in Equity-hof, in opdrag van al-Qaeda, opgeblaas te word, as vir ’n venynige, boosaardige regter, of Sy Wat Gehoorsaam Moet Word, se voortdurende afkeuring.
~
Soos al die ander kamers in die Temple, het Equity-hof Nr. 4 ’n lys in die ingang gehad wat aan kriminele, egbreeksters of ander belangstellende lede van die publiek, aangekondig het watter advokate beskikbaar was om hulle met hulle probleme te help. Die hoof van ons Kamers, Samuel Ballard QC, se naam het boaan die lys gestaan, maar as die oudste inwoner, was Horace Rumpole se naam boaan die lys van al die ander.
Toe ek een oggend vroeg vir werk gerapporteer het, het ek – tot my groot verbasing – gevind dat kartonrepies oor die hierdie wit bord geplak was, wat ons name heeltemal uitgewis het. Soapy Sam het met die geleentheid reg agter my gestaan, en ek het dit vir hom uitgewys om sy verduideliking te hoor.
“Terroriste, Rumpole!” Hy het gepraat asof dit voor die hand liggend was.
“Bedoel jy terroriste het gekom en karton oor ons name geplak?”
“Nee, nee. Ek het die karton daar geplak. Ja wel, eintlik het ek ons klerk, Henry, gevra om dit te doen.”
“Mag ek jou vra met watter doel in gedagte?”
“As die terroriste te wete sou kom dat hiérdie die kamers van ’n welbekende advokaat is, laat ons sê, een van die leiers van ons professie, mag hulle in die versoeking kom om ’n bom in die gebou te los. Natuurlik sou dit ’n triomf vir hulle wees om so ’n persoon te vermoor.”
“Dis baie gaaf van jou, Ballard, om sulke voorsorgmaatreëls om my ontwil te tref. Ek mag ’n sekere mate van berugtheid verwerf het deur verskeie sensasionele oorwinnings en ’n lang loopbaan in die Old Bailey, of in sulke wydgestrekte kriminele howe soos Snaresbrook of die London Sessions, maar ek twyfel sterk daaraan of dit vir al-Qaeda die moeite werd sou wees om so ’n woeste terroriste aanval op my te maak.”
“O, nie op jou nie, Rumpole. Verseker nie jy nie.” Soapy Sam was besig om tot sy gewone irriterende self terug te keer. “Ek veronderstel nie enige terroris sou hom ophou met ’n junior nie, hoe oud en berug hy ookal mag wees, wat nooit ’n senior advokaat geword het nie. Maar om ’n toonaangewende QC en ’n senior verteenwoordiger van ons befaamde geregtelike stelsel op te blaas, soos …”. Dit het gelyk of hy vir ’n naam gesoek het, toe het hy sy eie naam onthou. “Wel, byvoorbeeld, soos ek myself, sou vir al-Qaeda ’n ware pluimpie wees.”
“Komaan! Kyk op,” het ek ons leier aangeraai. “Ek glo nie Bin Laden het al ooit van jou gehoor nie. Ek glo nie jou naam sou ooit in die moskees van Afghanistan genoem word nie.”
“Ek glo nie enigeen van ons het die vaagste benul nie,” Soapy Sam se glimlag was star en stram, “wat in ’n terroris se kop aangaan nie. Gaan jy nou maar in, Rumpole, en Luci Gribble sal jou ou portmanteau deursoek. Ons kan nie te versigtig wees nie.”
En so het ons redelik onlangs aangestelde Direkteur van Bemarking en Administrasie in my sak, wat ek met my verdienste van die Penge Bungalow Moorde gekoop het, gegrawe en ’n skatkis ontdek wat bestaan het uit ’n paar groot en skoon sakdoeke, ’n buisie van Suck-Us-N-C hoeslekkers, ’n verflenterde kopie van The Oxford Book of English Verse (die Quiller-Couch uitgawe), ’n versameling van penne en potlode, ’n groot notaboek, en die opdrag in Regina v Timson, met besonderhede van Haar Majesteit se jongste aanval op net nog ’n lid van daardie verhewe familie.
Dáár was nou nog ’n groep onvermoeide werkers wat geen waarde gesien het in die woord “aftrede” nie. Hulle was die vele lede van daardie eerbiedwaardige clan van Suid-Londense boewe, wat gepleeg het wat bekend geraak het as – in hierdie tydvak van dwelms, messtekery en afpersing – “gewone, ordentlike misdaad”. Daar was min of geen geweld in die Timson-verslae nie, slegs reëlregte inbraking en betreding, diefstal, en die ontvangs van gesteelde eiendom. Dit was nie soos die Molloys nie – hulle wedywerende familie in daardie geweste, wat ’n spoor van gewonde, soms vermoorde burgers, en persone wat afhanklik was op eksotiese kruie, agter hulle gelaat het.
Ek moet erken, as ek eerlik wil wees, dat die dag-tot-dag finansiering van die Rumpole-huishouding, met Hilda, wat haar oorgee aan sulke luukse items soos meubelpolitoer, Fairy Liquid, skropborsels en Vim, aansienlik gerek sou wees as die Timson-familie dit ooit op hulleself sou neem om af te tree.
Hygge
Uit The Little Book of Hygge – The Danish Way to Live Well
deur Meik Wiking
Hooga? Hhyooguh? Heurgh?
Dit is nie belangrik hoe jy verkies om “hygge” uit te spreek of selfs hoe om dit te spel nie. Om een van die grootste filosowe van ons tyd, Winnie the Pooh, te parafraseer toe daar gevra is hoe om ’n sekere emosie te spel: “Jy spel dit nie, jy voel dit.”
Hoe om “hygge” te spel en uit te spreek is egter die maklike deel. Hoe om presies te verduidelik wat dit is, is die lastig-moeilike deel. Hygge is al alles genoem, van “die kuns om intimiteit te skep”, “knusheid van die siel” en “die afwesigheid van misnoeë” tot “om plesier te vind uit die teenwoordigheid van behaaglike dinge”, “snoesige samesyn” en – my persoonlike gunsteling – “kakao by kerslig”.
Hygge gaan oor ’n atmosfeer en ’n ervaring, eerder as oor dinge. Dit gaan oor om by die mense vir wie jy lief is, te wees. ’n Gevoel van om tuis te wees. ’n Gevoel dat ons veilig is, dat ons teen die wêreld beskerm is, en om onsself toe te laat om nie op ons hoede te wees nie. Jy mag ’n nimmereindigende gesprek oor die klein of groot dinge in die lewe hê – of om in mekaar se stille teenwoordigheid gemaklik te wees – of om net eenvoudig heel alleen ’n koppie tee te geniet.
Een Desember net voor Kersfees het ek die naweek saam met vriende in ’n ou hut deurgebring. Die kortste dag van die jaar is opgehelder deur die sneeukombers wat die omliggende landskap bedek het. Toe die son so teen vieruur die middag gesak het, sou ons hom vir sewentien uur nie weer sien nie, en ons het ingegaan om die vuur aan die gang te kry. Na ’n staptog was ons almal moeg en half aan die slaap. Ons het in die hut in ’n halfsirkel om die kaggel gesit terwyl ons dik langmoutruie en wolkouse gedra het. Al geluid wat mens kon hoor was die pruttende bredie, vonke in die kaggel, en iemand wat ’n slukkie van hulle gekruide wyn gevat het. Toe het een van my vriende die stilte verbreek.
“Kan dit enigsins meer hygge wees?” het hy retories gevra.
“Ja,” het een van die meisies na ’n rukkie gesê. “As daar ’n storm buite sou woed.”
Ons het almal gekopknik.
~
Ek het die beste werk in die wêreld. Ek bestudeer dit wat mense gelukkig maak. By die Geluknavorsingsinstituut wat ’n onafhanklike dinkskrum is, en wat fokus op welsyn, geluk en lewensgehalte, bestudeer ons die oorsake en uitwerking van menslike geluk, en werk ons om regoor die wêreld die gehalte van mense se lewens te verbeter.
Ons is in Denemarke gevestig en, ja, ons het van Maandag tot Vrydag kerse in die kantoor – en, ja, ons kantoor was deels gekies omrede die hygge-faktor. Hoewel daar geen vuurmaakplek was nie. Nog nie. Maar ons was ook gevestig en is in Denemarke gebaseer, want die land word konsekwent beskou as een van die gelukkigste in die wêreld. Denemarke is natuurlik geensins ’n perfekte utopie nie, en die land staar uitdagings en kwessies in die gesig soos enige ander land, maar nogtans glo ek dat Denemarke ’n bron van inspirasie kan wees vir hoe lande die gehalte van lewe vir hulle burgers kan verbeter.
Denemarke se posisie as een van die gelukkigste lande in die wêreld het heelwat mediabelangstelling geskep. Weekliks word ek vrae gevra soos “Hoekom is die Dene so gelukkig?” en “Wat kan ons van die Dene leer wanneer dit kom by geluk?” Die vrae kom onder andere van joernaliste van The New York Times, The BBC, The Guardian, The China Daily en The Washington Post. Boonop besoek afvaardigings van burgemeesters, navorsers en beleidmakers van oraloor die wêreld gereeld die Geluknavorsingsinstituut in die strewe na … wel … geluk – of ten minste in die najaging om die redes te vind vir die hoë vlakke van geluk, welsyn en die kwaliteit van die lewe wat mense in Denemarke geniet. Vir baie is dit nogal ’n raaisel, want – bo en behalwe die verskriklike weer – word die Dene ook geteister deur van die hoogste belastingskoerse ter wêreld.
Onlangs egter het ek besef dat daar ’n bestanddeel in die Deense resep van geluk is wat nie voorheen raakgesien was nie – hygge. Die woord “hygge” stam af van ’n Noorweegse woord wat “welsyn” beteken. Vir amper vyfhonderd jaar was Denemarke en Noorweë een koninkryk totdat Denemarke in 1814 Noorweë verloor het. “Hygge” het vir die eerste keer in die vroeë 1800’s in geskrewe Deens verskyn, en die skakel tussen hygge en welsyn of geluk mag dus nie blote toeval wees nie.
Volgens die Europese Sosiale-opname is die Dene die gelukkigste mense in Europa, maar hulle is ook die mense wat hulle vriende en familie die meeste ontmoet, en hulle voel die kalmste en vredeliewendste. Daarom is daar ’n goeie rede dat ons ’n groeiende belangstelling in hygge sien. Joernaliste toer deur Denemarke op soek na hygge. In die VK is daar nou ’n kollege wat onderrig aanbied in Deense hygge, en regoor die wêreld duik daar hygge bakkerye, winkels en kafees op. Maar moet jy hygge skep? Hoe is hygge en geluk met mekaar verbind? En wat presies is hygge? Dit is ’n paar van die vrae wat die boek probeer beantwoord.
~
Geen resep vir hygge is voltooid en afgerond sonder kerse nie. Wanneer daar aan Dene gevra word wat hulle die meeste assosieer met hygge, sal ’n oorweldigende 85 persent kerse noem.
Die woord vir “pretbederwer” in Deens is lyseslukker, wat letterlik “die een wat die kerse doodblaas” beteken – en dit is geen toeval nie. Daar is nie ’n vinniger manier om hygge te kry as om ’n paar kerse aan te steek nie, want in Deens word hulle levende lys, of “lewende ligte” genoem.
Volgens een van die vernaamste koerante in Denemarke, steek meer as die helfte van die Dene, amper elke dag gedurende herfs en die winter, kerse aan. Gedurende Desember skiet die verbruik op na driemaal soveel, en dit is ook die tyd om die spesiale kers wat slegs in die dae wat na Kersfees lei, naamlik die kalenderlys – die aankomskers, te aanskou. Die kers is in vier en twintig strepe, een vir elke dag voor Kersfees in Desember, gemerk. So is dit dan die stadigste aftelhorlosie in die wêreld.
’n Ander spesiale kersgeleentheid is 4 Mei, ook bekend as lysfest, of “die partytjie van ligte”. Op hierdie aand in 1945, het die BBC uitgesaai dat die Duitse magte wat Denemarke sedert 1940 beset het, oorgegee het. Soos baie lande gedurende die Tweede Wêreldoorlog, was Denemarke blootgestel aan verdonkerings om te verhoed dat stadsligte vyandige vliegtuie help om te navigeer. Vandag vier die Dene nog steeds op hierdie aand die terugkoms van die lig deur kerse in hulle vensters te sit.
Hygge
From The Little Book of Hygge – The Danish Way to Live Well
by Meik Wiking
Hooga? Hhyooguh? Heurgh?
It’s not important how you choose to pronounce or even spell ‘hygge’. To paraphrase one of the greatest philosophers of our time, Winnie the Pooh, when asked how to spell a certain emotion: ‘You don’t spell it, you feel it.’
However, spelling and pronouncing ‘hygge’ is the easy part. Explaining exactly what it is, that’s the tricky part. Hygge has been called everything from ‘the art of creating intimacy’, ‘cosiness of the soul’ and ‘the absence of annoyance’ to ‘taking pleasure from the presence of soothing things’, ‘cosy togetherness’ and – my personal favourite – ‘cocoa by candlelight’.
Hygge is about an atmosphere and an experience, rather than about things. It’s about being with the people we love. A feeling of home. A feeling that we’re safe, that we are shielded from the world and allow ourselves to let our guard down. You may be having an endless conversation about the small or big things in life – or just being comfortable in each other’s silent company – or simply just being by yourself enjoying a cup of tea.
One December, just before Christmas, I was spending the weekend with some friends at an old cabin. The shortest day of the year was brightened by the blanket of snow covering the surrounding landscape. When the sun set, around four in the afternoon, we would not see it again for seventeen hours, and we headed inside to get the fire going. We were all tired after hiking and were half asleep, sitting in a semicircle around the fireplace in the cabin, wearing big jumpers and woollen socks. The only sounds you could hear were the stew boiling, the sparks from the fireplace, and someone having a sip of their mulled wine. Then one of my friends broke the silence.
‘Could this be any more hygge?’ he asked rhetorically.
‘Yes,’ one of the girls said after a moment. ‘If there was a storm raging outside.’
We all nodded.
~
I have the best job in the world. I study what makes people happy. At the Happiness Research Institute, which is an independent think-tank focusing on well-being, happiness, and quality of life, we explore the causes and effects of human happiness, and work towards improving the quality of life of citizens across the world.
We are based in Denmark and, yes, we do have lit candles at the office Monday to Friday – and, yes, our office was partly chosen because of the hygge-factor. No fireplace, though. Yet. But we were also founded, and are based, in Denmark because the country consistently ranks among the happiest nations in the world. Denmark is by no means a perfect utopia, and the country faces challenges and issues like any other country, but I do believe that Denmark can be a source of inspiration for how countries can increase the quality of life of their citizens.
Denmark’s position as one of the happiest countries in the world has created a lot of media interest. On a weekly basis, I am asked questions like ‘Why are the Danes so happy?’ and ‘What can we learn from the Danes when it comes to happiness?’ from journalists from The New York Times, the BBC, the Guardian, the China Daily and the Washington Post, among others. In addition, delegations of mayors, researchers and policy-makers from all corners of the earth frequently visit the Happiness Research Institute in pursuit of … well … happiness – or at least in pursuit of the reasons for the high levels of happiness, well-being and quality of life people enjoy in Denmark. To many, it’s quite the mystery, as – besides the horrific weather – Danes are also subject to some of the highest tax rates in the world.
Interestingly, there is wide support for the welfare state. This support stems from an awareness of the fact that the welfare model turns our collective wealth into well-being. We’re not so much paying taxes as we are investing in our society. We are purchasing quality of life. The key to understanding the high levels of well-being in Denmark is the welfare model’s ability to reduce risk, uncertainty and anxiety among its citizens and to prevent extreme unhappiness.
However, recently, I have also come to realise that there might be an overlooked ingredient in the Danish recipe for happiness – hygge. The word ‘hygge’ originates from a Norwegian word meaning ‘well-being’. For almost five hundred years, Denmark and Norway were one kingdom, until Denmark lost Norway in 1814. ‘Hygge’ appeared in written Danish for the first time in the early 1800s, and the link between hygge and well-being or happiness may be no coincidence.
Danes are the happiest people in Europe, according to the European Social Survey, but they are also the ones who meet most often with their friends and family, and feel the calmest and the most peaceful. Therefore, it is with good reason that we see a growing interest in hygge. Journalists are touring Denmark searching for hygge; in the UK, a college is now teaching Danish hygge; and around the world, hygge bakeries, shops and cafés are popping up. But how do you create hygge? How are hygge and happiness linked? And what is hygge exactly? Those are some of the questions this book seeks to answer.
~
No recipe for hygge is complete without candles. When Danes are asked what they most associate with hygge, an overwhelming 85 per cent will mention candles.
The word for ‘spoilsport’ in Danish is lyseslukker, which literally means ‘the one who puts out the candles’, and this is no coincidence. There is no faster way to get hygge than to light a few candles or, as they are called in Danish, levende lys, or ‘living lights’.
More than half of Danes light candles almost every day during autumn and winter, and only four per cent say they never light candles, according to a survey by one of the major newspapers in Denmark. During December, the candle consumption soars to thrice as many, and this is also the time to witness the special candle that is only to be burnt in the days leading up to Christmas, namely the kalenderlys – the advent candle. This candle is marked with twenty-four lines, one for each day in December before Christmas, turning it into the slowest countdown clock in the world.
Another special candle occasion is 4 May, also known as lysfest, or light party. On this evening in 1945, the BBC broadcast that the German forces, who had occupied Denmark since 1940, had surrendered. Like many countries during the Second World War, Denmark was subject to blackouts to prevent enemy aircraft from navigating by city lights. Today, Danes still celebrate the return of the light on this evening by putting candles in their windows.
Die Melcks en Muratie
From Koljander, koljander, so deur die Bosch
by Annatjie Melck
At the end of April 1994, we left Thibault Street and went to live on Muratie. This was not easy. Muratie was a romantic, fairytale address, but in reality it was a hard adjustment to make.
Annemie Canitz had lived there, alone, for years and years, along with Johanna Davids, her household mainstay. There were no luxuries, and almost no facilities in the old house.
I remain glad, today, that Ronnie and I moved there together, for I could not have done it on my own. Ronnie was ill, and many friends and acquaintances came to visit him. As was our custom, there would always be a glass of wine and something to eat on offer.
With the help of his wine friends, I built a fine braai area for Ronnie. There he could attend to his fire, preparing meat or making potjiekos for his friends. His wine friends from the Worcester area gave him a lovely old copper brandy kettle, which became the focal point of his braai. I attended many auctions until I found a large, sixteen-seater diningroom table for the old house, and thus our culture of food and wine became established at Muratie. Interesting friends and family saw to it that there was hardly ever an empty seat at our immense diningroom table. There would be music, the kitchen would be a hive ofactivity, and the aroma of food would infuse the atmosphere of our Muratie home.
We commissioned an historian to research and record the history of the farm, and what a jewel we discovered. Muratie had been owned by Martin Melck, patriarch of the Melck family, in the late eighteenth century. He built the homestead – in which I now live – for his daughter, and Muratie remained in thefamily for the next ninety years. It is truly wonderful that the farm was restored to the Melck family in 1987, when Ronnie bought it from Annemie Canitz.
The stories that surround Muratie are endless. There had been interesting people and characters over theyears, but now it was Ronnie and my turn. The first night that I slept there, I said to Ronnie: ‘When the sun sets, I will not stay here alone.’ Well, the sun has set, and I have stayed on alone, and I continue to stay on alone, and I do so very happily.
The enjoyment of food was always important to us, and at Muratie Ronnie and I threw ourselves into this aspect of our lives together with even greater enthusiasm. We infused new life into the old homestead, and the diningroom table was always occupied for Sunday lunch – with leg of lamb, roast beef, roast pork, springbok leg and similar family recipes. One or two friends were always invited to join us, and at the end of such family meals our glasses would be raised, and Ronnie would sing the family anthem: ‘Come landlord, fill the flowing bowl.’ Thus we enjoyed so many meals, where wonderful stories were told, and friends from all over the world were made.
Johanna was always in the kitchen. At first she looked at us askance, especially me – I had, after all, taken the place of her beloved Annemie – but later she decided that I wasn’t so bad after all. She loved Ronnie from the very beginning, however, and cared for him like gold – so much so that she would have a skelm cigarette with him behind my back. Johanna still lives on Muratie today, although she has retired. She lives in a fine house, and comes once a week to brighten my home with flowers and to shine thehousehold copper and silver. She tells me who is sick, who has died, and whom she has had to bury. No one really knows how old Johanna is. She speaks a lingo of her own, and she is beloved by the whole family. We are unbelievably fond of her.
The Melcks and Muratie
From Koljander, koljander, so deur die Bosch
by Annatjie Melck
At the end of April 1994, we left Thibault Street and went to live on Muratie. This was not easy. Muratie was a romantic, fairytale address, but in reality it was a hard adjustment to make.
Annemie Canitz had lived there, alone, for years and years, along with Johanna Davids, her household mainstay. There were no luxuries, and almost no facilities in the old house.
I remain glad, today, that Ronnie and I moved there together, for I could not have done it on my own. Ronnie was ill, and many friends and acquaintances came to visit him. As was our custom, there would always be a glass of wine and something to eat on offer.
With the help of his wine friends, I built a fine braai area for Ronnie. There he could attend to his fire, preparing meat or making potjiekos for his friends. His wine friends from the Worcester area gave him a lovely old copper brandy kettle, which became the focal point of his braai. I attended many auctions until I found a large, sixteen-seater diningroom table for the old house, and thus our culture of food and wine became established at Muratie. Interesting friends and family saw to it that there was hardly ever an empty seat at our immense diningroom table. There would be music, the kitchen would be a hive ofactivity, and the aroma of food would infuse the atmosphere of our Muratie home.
We commissioned an historian to research and record the history of the farm, and what a jewel we discovered. Muratie had been owned by Martin Melck, patriarch of the Melck family, in the late eighteenth century. He built the homestead – in which I now live – for his daughter, and Muratie remained in thefamily for the next ninety years. It is truly wonderful that the farm was restored to the Melck family in 1987, when Ronnie bought it from Annemie Canitz.
The stories that surround Muratie are endless. There had been interesting people and characters over theyears, but now it was Ronnie and my turn. The first night that I slept there, I said to Ronnie: ‘When the sun sets, I will not stay here alone.’ Well, the sun has set, and I have stayed on alone, and I continue to stay on alone, and I do so very happily.
The enjoyment of food was always important to us, and at Muratie Ronnie and I threw ourselves into this aspect of our lives together with even greater enthusiasm. We infused new life into the old homestead, and the diningroom table was always occupied for Sunday lunch – with leg of lamb, roast beef, roast pork, springbok leg and similar family recipes. One or two friends were always invited to join us, and at the end of such family meals our glasses would be raised, and Ronnie would sing the family anthem: ‘Come landlord, fill the flowing bowl.’ Thus we enjoyed so many meals, where wonderful stories were told, and friends from all over the world were made.
Johanna was always in the kitchen. At first she looked at us askance, especially me – I had, after all, taken the place of her beloved Annemie – but later she decided that I wasn’t so bad after all. She loved Ronnie from the very beginning, however, and cared for him like gold – so much so that she would have a skelm cigarette with him behind my back. Johanna still lives on Muratie today, although she has retired. She lives in a fine house, and comes once a week to brighten my home with flowers and to shine thehousehold copper and silver. She tells me who is sick, who has died, and whom she has had to bury. No one really knows how old Johanna is. She speaks a lingo of her own, and she is beloved by the whole family. We are unbelievably fond of her.
Oom Samie se Winkel
Uit Koljander, koljander, so deur die Bosch
deur Annatjie Melck
In 1981 het Gerhard Froneman na ons toe gekom en gesê onder in Dorpstraat was daar ’n winkel wat na ’n eienaar soek. Die winkel was bekend as “XL Store”. Volgens ons vriend, wat vir doktor Anton Rupert se Historiese Huise gewerk het, was dit een van die ou winkels op Stellenbosch, ’n regte ou algemene handelaar soos die ou dorpswinkel van jare gelede.
Ek stel belang in enigiets wat oud is en wat ’n storie kan vertel. Ek het ’n paar vriendinne genader en saam het ons die winkel gehuur; en twee jaar later die perseel met winkel en al gekoop. Dit was een van die onverantwoordelikste dinge wat ek ooit in my lewe gedoen het.
Professor Frans Smuts het my gevra of ek weet wie se winkel ons gekoop het. Ek het nie geweet nie. Hy het vir my vertel dat dit oom Samie se winkel was.
Wie was oom Samie? Ek het nie ’n benul gehad nie en het die winkel se geskiedenis laat navors, en so het ek dan vir oom Samie ontmoet, postuum! Hy het my so beïndruk dat ek dadelik die naam van die winkel verander het na Oom Samie se Winkel.
Oom Samie was ’n filantroop. Hy was kreupel en kon nie harde werk doen nie. Sy ouers het die winkel in 1904 vir hom gekoop. Die winkel staan vandag nog op dieselfde perseel en die gebou is net soos oom Samie dit bewoon en bedryf het as CJ Volsteedt Algemene Handelaar.
Oom Samie was bekend vir sy goedhartigheid en dat hy vir die klante wat swaargekry het altyd iets ekstra by hulle inkopies ingepak het. Ek het besluit om met die samewerking van my vennote die winkel se styl en emosie te laat herleef. Die winkel het ’n emosie, dit ruik na tabak en suiker en soutvis en kruie en speserye. Die winkel bring ’n glimlag op die gesig van die besoeker aan Stellenbosch, dit bring ’n nostalgie terug van dae en lewe lank verby.
Oom Samie se Winkel het vir my ’n lewensboei geword. Ek is verantwoordelik vir die mense wat vir my werk; ek kan nie bly lê nie, ek moet elke dag opstaan, aanmoedig en dankie sê. Ons probeer die tradisionele kosse soos bokkoms, suurvyekonfyt, heuning, borssuiker, afval, skaapkoppe, rooibostee, en nog meer aanbied. Oom Samie is vandag die oudste winkel in Stellenbosch wat nog steeds op dieselfde perseel en in dieselfde gebou handel dryf. In 2015 was Oom Samie se Winkel 110 jaar oud.
’n TV-span het daarvan te hore gekom en gevra of hulle ’n storie oor die winkel en sy mense kon doen. Die program was min of meer twee maande later op die lug. Terwyl die TV-span in die winkel was, het die aanbieder my gevra om ’n interessante storie te vertel van goed wat in die winkel gebeur het. Een storie wat onmiddelik in my geheue opgekom het, was die een van die veldskoene.
Daar hang ’n paar ou veldskoene in my winkel, en die storie gaan so: ’n Man wat met ’n klomp maters op ’n rooiwyntoer was, het met sy ou veldskoene ingestap, vir hom ’n paar skoon skoene van die rak gehaal, dit aangetrek, sy ou skoene opgehang en vertrek, sonder om te betaal.
Sowat ’n maand nadat ek die storie op TV vertel het, kry ek ’n briefie in my kantoor: “Toe ek in 1988 as ’n jong man op ’n rooiwyntoer in Stellenbosch was saam met ’n paar vrinne en Oom Samie besoek het, het ek gesien daar is nuwe vellies – ek het my ou vellies uitgetrek, ’n nuwe paar aangetrek en my oues op dieselfde plek opgehang.”
Dié perd se vriende het die program oor Oom Samie op TV gesien en hom gebel en gesê hy moet sy skoene loop betaal. Met die gevolg dat ek in my kantoor kom en die briefie en kredietkaartstrokie van R600 daar aantref – hy het ná 26 jaar sy skoene kom betaal. Die man het sy selnommer gelos, en ek het gebel om dankie te sê. Hy woon op Bothaville.
Ek weet nie wat hy daardie naweek in Stellenbosch gedoen het nie, maar hy het vir my groot plesier en ’n glimlag in my hart gegee toe hy daardie skoene kom betaal het.
