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Gysbert van Tonder said. And we could not help noticing a certain nasty undertone in his voice, then, when he said that.

      Johnny Coen smoothed the matter over very quickly, however. He had also had difficulties, ordering suits by post, he said. But he found it helped the Johannesburg store a lot if you sent a full-length photograph of yourself along with the order. They always returned the photograph. No, Johnny Coen said in reply to a question from At Naudé, he didn’t know why that Johannesburg store sent the photographs back so promptly, under registered cover and all. And then, when he saw that At Naudé was laughing, Johnny Coen said that that firm could, perhaps, if it wanted to, keep all those photographs and frame them. But, all the same, he added, it would help the shop a lot if, next time Jurie Steyn ordered a suit by post, he also put in a full-length photograph of himself.

      But all this talk was getting us away from what we had been saying about how more broad-minded the Groot Marico had become since the old days, due to progress. It was then that Koos Nienaber brought us back to what we were discussing.

      “Where our forefathers in the Marico were different from the way we are today,” Koos Nienaber said, “is because they hadn’t learnt to laugh at themselves, yet. They took themselves much too seriously. Although they had to, I suppose, since it was all going to be put into history books. Or at least as much of it as could be put into history books. But we today are different. We wouldn’t carry on in an undignified manner if, at the next concert, there should be something in the Joernaal to show up our little human weaknesses. We would laugh, I mean. Take Jurie Steyn and his serge suit, now. Well, we’ve got a sense of humour, today. I mean, Jurie Steyn would be the first to laugh at how funny he looks in that serge suit –”

      “How do you mean I look funny in my new suit?” Jurie Steyn demanded.

      At Naudé came in between the two of them, then, and made it clear to Jurie Steyn that Koos Nienaber had been saying those things merely by way of argument, and to prove his point. Koos Nienaber didn’t mean that Jurie Steyn actually looked funny in his new suit, At Naudé explained.

      “If he doesn’t mean it, what does he want to say it for?” Jurie Steyn said, sounding only half convinced. “And, anyway, Koos Nienaber needn’t talk. When he came round with the collection plate at the last Nagmaal, and he was wearing his new manel, I thought Koos Nienaber was an ourang-outang.”

      Nevertheless, we all acknowledged at the end that we were looking forward to the school concert. And there should be quite a lot of fun in having the Joernaal, we said. Seeing how today we had a sense of humour.

      It was not only schoolchildren and their parents that came to attend the concert in that little school building of which the middle partition had been taken away to make it into one hall. For instance, there was Hendrik Prinsloo, who had come all the way from Vleispoort by Cape-cart, and had not meant to attend the concert at all, since he was on his way to Zeerust and was just passing that way, when some of the parents persuaded him, for the sake of his horses, to outspan under the thorn-trees on the school grounds by the side of the Government Road.

      It was observed that Hendrik Prinsloo had a red face and that he mistook one of the swingle-bars for the step when he alighted from the Cape-cart. So – after they had looked to see what was under the seat of the Cape-cart – several of the farmers present counselled Hendrik Prinsloo to rest awhile by the roadside, seeing it was already getting on towards evening. They also sent a native over to At Naudé’s house for glasses, instructing him to be as quick as he liked. And if At Naudé didn’t have glasses, cups would do, one of the farmers added, thoughtfully. By the look of things it was going to be a good children’s concert, they said.

      Meanwhile the schoolroom was filling up quite nicely. There had been some talk, during the past few days, that a scientist from the Agricultural Research Institute, who was known to be in the neighbourhood, would distribute the school prizes at the concert and also give a little lecture on his favourite subject, which was correct winter grazing. Even that rumour did not keep people away, however. They had the good sense to guess that it was only a rumour, anyhow. Afterwards it was found out that it had been started by Chris Welman, because the schoolmaster had turned down Chris Welman’s offer to sing “Boere-seun”, with actions, at the concert.

      There was loud applause when young Vermaak, the schoolmaster, came onto the platform. His black hair was neatly parted in the middle and his city suit of blue serge looked very smart in the lamplight. You could hardly notice those darker patches on the jacket to which Jurie Steyn’s wife drew attention, when she said that you could see where Alida van Niekerk had again been trying to clean the schoolmaster’s suit with paraffin. Vermaak was boarding at the Van Niekerks’, and Alida was their eldest daughter.

      The schoolmaster said he was glad to see that there was such a considerable crowd there, tonight, including quite a number of fathers, whom he knew personally, who were looking in at the windows. There were still a few vacant seats for them inside, he said, if they would care to come in. But Gysbert van Tonder, speaking on behalf of those fathers, said no, they did not mind being self-sacrificing in that way. It was not right that the schoolroom should be cluttered up with a lot of fat, healthy men, over whose heads the smaller children would not be able to see properly. There was also a neighbour of theirs, from Vleispoort, Hendrik Prinsloo, who was resting a little. And they wanted to keep an eye on his Cape-cart, which was standing there all by itself in the dark. If the schoolmaster looked out of that nearest window he would be able to see that lonely Cape-cart, Gysbert van Tonder said.

      Young Vermaak, who didn’t know what was going on, seemed touched at this display of solicitude for a neighbour by just simple-hearted Bushveld farmers. Several of the wives of those farmers sniffed, however.

      Three little boys carrying little riding whips and wearing little red jackets came onto the platform and the schoolmaster explained that they would sing a hunting song called “Jan Pohl”, which had been translated from English by the great Afrikaans poet, Van Blerk Willemse. Everybody agreed that the translation was a far superior cultural work to the original, the schoolmaster said. In fact you wouldn’t recognise that it was the same song, even, if it wasn’t for the tune. But that would also be put right shortly, the schoolmaster added. The celebrated Afrikaans composer, Frik Dinkelman, was going to get to work on it.

      At Naudé said to the other fathers standing at the window that that man in the song, Jan Pohl, must be a bit queer in the head. “Wearing a red jacket and with a riding whip and a bugle to go and shoot a ribbok in the rante,” At Naudé said.

      Another father pointed out that that Jan Pohl didn’t even have such a thing as a native walking along in front, through the tamboekie grass, where there was always a likelihood of mambas.

      The next item on the programme was a group of boys and girls, in pairs, pirouetting about the platform to the music of “Pollie, Ons Gaan Pêrel Toe”. Since many of the parents were Doppers, the schoolmaster took the trouble first to explain that what the children were doing wasn’t really dancing at all. They were stepping about, quickly, sort of, in couples, kind of, to the measure of a polka in a manner of speaking. It was Volkspele, and had the approval of the Synod, the schoolmaster said. All the same, a few of the more earnest members of the audience kept their eyes down on the floor, while that was going on. They also refrained, in a quite stern manner, from beating time to the music with their feet.

      For that reason it came as something of a relief when, at the end of the Volkspele, a number of children with wide blue collars trooped onto the stage. They were going to sing “Die Vaal se Bootman”. It was really a Russian song, the schoolmaster explained. But the way the great Afrikaans poet Van Blerk Willemse had handled it, you wouldn’t think it, at all. Maybe why it was such an outstanding translation, the schoolmaster said, was because Van Blerk Willemse didn’t know any Russian, and didn’t want to, either.

      The song was a great success. The audience was still humming “Yo-ho-yo” to themselves a good way into the next item on the programme.

      Meanwhile, the fathers outside the school building had deserted their places by the windows and had drifted in the direction of the Cape-cart to make sure that everything was still in order there. And they sat down on the ground as close

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