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pot, with lamb potjie in it. And here, in the middle of the flames, are two big black eyes staring at me. They can see right into me.’

      ‘What do they see?’

      I shrugged.

      ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘What do you think of the third picture?’

      I looked at that one for a while.

      ‘Arms and legs and blood,’ I said. ‘There’s a woman who’s been torn in half, and a man who has been stabbed in the heart. See, here is the knife. And they have both been run over by a tractor; look at the tyre marks. They are all flat and squishy, like a pumpkin fritter.’

      ‘All right!’ she said, sitting so far forward in her armchair I thought she would fall onto the carpet. ‘And how does that make you feel?’

      ‘Hungry?’ I said. ‘It’s nearly lunch time, isn’t it?’

      ‘Hmm,’ she said, and wrote something on her clipboard.

      I swallowed. ‘My boyfriend . . .’ I said. The word felt funny on my tongue, at my age.

      ‘Mm?’

      ‘Henk. He wanted me to get help. He thinks I’m traumatised after my kidnapping. There was a murderer . . .’

      ‘You were kidnapped?’

      ‘And locked in a freezer, but I escaped, although he nearly shot me, with his bow and arrow.’

      ‘Gosh,’ said the poppie.

      ‘But it’s not that, it’s not that giving me the trouble.’

      ‘The trouble?’

      ‘Nightmares and shaking and that. Anyway, I haven’t wanted to tell Henk, but I know my troubles are not about the murderer. He’s dead and gone. My trouble is with him, Henk, coming in to my life. Getting close and all that,’ I said.

      ‘You are finding intimacy with him difficult?’

      ‘No. Yes. What do you mean by intimacy? I really want it to work out. But it’s just getting worse. Getting close to him makes me worse. It brings up the trouble. Especially when we . . . if we . . .’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Isn’t our time up?’ I said.

      She glanced at her little silver watch. ‘No, we still have plenty of time.’

      She looked at me, and I was quiet. She lifted her eyebrows to help me continue, but I held my mouth closed. It just wasn’t right to tell this young girl about my private life. I looked at the window. The curtains were still now. Still and heavy.

      ‘Mrs van Harten,’ she said. ‘Perhaps tell me about some of the difficult feelings you have. And anything you have noticed that makes your feelings better or worse.’

      I sat thinking on what she said. A little breeze moved the curtains again. A Karoo robin caught my eye as it flew past the window.

      ‘That’s an interesting question,’ I said.

      I tried again to sit up, but my feet didn’t quite reach the floor and that armchair wasn’t letting go, so I just leant back into it.

      ‘When I feel worried,’ I said, ‘potato salad – with cream and mint – makes it a lot better. I still feel lonely sometimes, although it’s a different kind of loneliness from the one I used to have, before Henk. In some ways it’s worse, because he’s right there, but . . . Anyway. Cake. Chocolate cake helps with loneliness. And with frustration, if it’s a good cake, that is – a satisfying one. With peanut butter. Cakes help with lots of problems. And you get so many different flavours. But you know, now that I think about it, you have to be careful. If you are feeling guilty, for example, and you eat chocolate cake, it can make it worse. Of course, cakes are perfect for celebrating. But you asked about difficult feelings . . .’

      I was excited now and waving my hands about. This was important stuff. And very helpful for my recipe advice column. I should make a chart of foods to go with each of the problem feelings.

      ‘Shame . . . and guilt – these are my most difficult feelings,’ I said. ‘I can’t sleep and I shake and I remember . . . things. I see things that happened long ago as if they are happening now in front of my eyes.’ I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. ‘And I’m scared of what might happen, in the future.’

      I paddled myself forward with my hands so that I was now on the front of my armchair, my feet back on the floor.

      ‘I must give it more thought . . . I’ve been eating chocolate cake for shame, and I don’t think it’s the right thing. I think maybe I need something lighter.’ I looked at the orange chairs and yellow walls. ‘With citrus. Maybe a lemon meringue pie . . .’

      ‘Mrs van Harten . . .’

      ‘Call me Maria,’ I said, feeling friendly now that the counselling was helping me so nicely. ‘Tannie Maria.’

      ‘Tannie Maria, do you maybe eat as a way of escaping your feelings?’

      ‘No . . .’ I said. ‘I’m trying to help. To help my feelings. Trying to feel better.’

      She looked down at her skinny legs and then up at me, her eyes running across my length and width.

      ‘Have you ever been on a diet, Tannie Maria?’

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      I sat at my stoep table with the first diet meal of my life in front of me. Cucumber, lettuce, tomato and a boiled egg. No dressing. I wondered if I should eat the diet pills before or after the meal. The counsellor had recommended these pills, and I’d picked them up from the chemist on the way home. I decided to have them after my lunch, like pudding.

      I looked through the diet sheet she’d given me and shook my head. I’d never use these recipes in my column; they gave punishment instead of comfort. Punishment to those who enjoy food and have a little padding.

      I clicked my tongue and looked out onto my lawn. Two of my hens were scratching through the compost heap, their rust-brown feathers fluffing up as they pecked at tasty treats. The other three were lying in the shade of the lemon tree. It was a warm day but not too hot – the right weather for Welsh rarebit. I looked at the boiled egg on my plate; it would go so well with a piece of buttered toast and a creamy sauce made with cheddar.

      I distracted myself while I ate, by answering one of the letters I’d brought home with me. The handwriting was beautiful but spidery, and the paper was thin, almost see-through.

      Dearest Tannie Maria, it said

      There is a man I fancy who is quite a bit younger than me. I think he may fancy me too. He definitely fancies my shortbread.

       When it comes to love, does age matter? Or is it just a number?

       The man has a sweet tooth and I need some more treats for him. Maybe something savoury too. I think variety may keep him visiting more often, don’t you think?

      Here’s my mother’s excellent shortbread recipe for you. She was a fine baker.

      Yours faithfully,

       A lass almost in love

      Hmm, I thought, nothing says ‘kom kuier weer’ – come visit again – like Hertzoggies, those little coconut jam tarts that General Hertzog used to love. I thanked the Scottish lass for her mother’s shortbread recipe and sent her my mother’s recipe for Hertzoggies.

      I told her that age doesn’t matter (unless the boy is under sixteen, of course, and then you must make sure the only treats you give him are the ones above the table). And I gave her a recipe for cheese scones made with mature cheddar. As cheddar matures, the quality and flavour improves.

      Your young man may realise that mature

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