Free When Time Fails (Silverman Saga Book 2) by Marilyn Cohen de Villiers Page A

he’d just come out with it. As she put out the light on her side of the bed, threw her excess pillow onto the floor and turned to him to kiss him goodnight, he’d said: ‘I think we should start a school for the farm workers’ children.’ Then he turned over and within seconds his deep, steady breathing told her he was fast asleep.
    She’d wanted to kick him, to wake him to explain, to discuss. Instead, she tossed and turned all night. He’d explained the next day and it had all made sense, except... except he wanted to use Christo’s house. She hadn’t been able to bear the thought.
    ‘Think about it,’ Thys had said. ‘Think about what Christo would have wanted. Do you really think he’d want the house he built with his own hands to be some kind of an empty shrine – a practical guy like Christo?’
    Her inspection of her brother’s house had been a formality really. She knew it made sense. She just had to force herself to let go, to face the future. Except the past wouldn’t release her.
    Her husband, relaxed in the big armchair in front of the TV, a glass of orange juice at his elbow, had looked up as she’d stormed in that afternoon. Beauty’s father – it was so obvious. Why hadn’t she seen it before? But of course she had. Perhaps that was why she’d always felt drawn to the child. Beauty and Arno... it was so clear. But she really shouldn’t have been feeling hurt, and angry, and disgust and shame – a tumult of emotions that squirmed at the pit of her stomach and insinuated itself into her brain. She had no right to feel like that. Not after so, so long. But, may the Lord forgive her, she felt betrayed and she hated herself for it .
    And Thys was right. It had been two years since the murders; she couldn’t leave Christo’s house locked up forever. He was right when he said that it would give girls like Pretty hope. He was right when he said they wouldn’t be as vulnerable to predators like Stefan Smit, because if she did what he suggested, they’d have other options .
    She berated herself for not thinking of it herself, especially after Petrus had told her how dangerous it was for the children to stay in Driespruitfontein township. They were her people. She had grown up with them, not Thys. But it was Thys who realised and gently pointed out that the workers wanted to keep the children at home, on Steynspruit, away from the so-called comrades who beat – and sometimes even killed – anyone in th e lokshi n who didn’t support them as they jostled for support while the democracy negotiations up in Johannesburg limped towards an impossible peace. So she agreed that the Steynspruit children could come home, despite her concern that they would distract Beauty from her lessons. She should have known better. Beauty – no longer a child – had been so determined to catch up with Arno and also get to high school, thatshe still appeared at the kitchen door for her lesson every day, ignoring the yells of the other children that drifted up from the farm workers ’ khay a .
    And once the children were home, he had come up with his next grand scheme. This time it had been harder but she had summoned all her will power, conquered her jealousy and churning emotions and blurted: ‘Ja, okay, let’s do it.’
    Thys had unfolded himself from the chair and danced her around the lounge to Arno and Beauty’s whoops of joy.
    ‘But I’m not going to run it,’ she’d said when he stopped, breathless.
    He stumbled. Bewilderment, disappointment flashed across his face. The children stopped dancing around and stared at her.
    ‘What do you mean you’re not going to run it? That’s the whole idea. You’ve done amazing things with Beauty. Now you can do it for all the others,’ Thys said.
    ‘No I can’t. I’m a nursery school teacher. Teaching Beauty in the kitchen is one thing. Teaching a bunch of noisy children who probably aren’t nearly as clever as Beauty is something else. They need a real