I lived in Langebaan village on the lagoon that lies just off Saldanha Bay on the West Coast of South Africa. My daughter Susan and I were producing a little monthly magazine called Out & About on the West Coast.
The magazine diarized current events, horse racing news, stories, recipes and information about the surrounding areas. It was very popular with residents waiting eagerly to read it every month. Susan did the layout and I was journalist and editor and coffee maker, you name it.
One day as I was at my computer writing an article a knock on the door disturbed me. I opened it to greet a strange young woman with blond hair who was not beautiful but very attractive. She held a back copy of Out & About in her hand and asked if she could come in.
Over coffee she introduced herself as Debbie. Debbie had always had a dream of writing and up to now her life and not allowed this. She asked if I needed a hand and could she do an article for the magazine each month. Well I knew how difficult it was to get published and I asked her to bring me an article. She pulled a sheet of paper out of her pocket and handed it over. I told her I would read it and come back to her.
Now just recently geologist David Roberts was picnicking on the beach at Kraal Bay in the West Coast National Park. David knew that fossil prints of a large carnivore had been found on the dunes here and he began to scramble among the cliffs searching for more animal prints. He found three paw prints of a large carnivore on a rock slab.
David returned to the area a few months later as a scientist with the council for Geoscience to begin research on the geological history of the western coastal platform. He noticed a piece of quartz shaped by a stone age person protruding from the sandstone. Holding the artifact up his gaze was attracted to the low cliffs a few hundred yards away. Eureka! There he spied human footprints!
He splashed across the flats to reach the cliffs and began a systematic search that resulted in him arriving at a pinnacle known as the Pulpit Rock. He hauled himself up to a large block of sandstone and bent to examine it more closely. He brushed away the loose sand and had a heart stopping discovery for here lay two beautifully preserved human prints and so the existence of Eve as she was subsequently named, was discovered who lived and walked along these shores some 117 million years ago!
Debbie had written about this find and her writing was so vivid that I could see the real Eve walking upon the dunes thinking and dreaming much as I had done on many an occasion. I was overwhelmed at my discovery of an exceptional writing talent!
Debbie became my right hand man and little by little I learnt her story. She was married and had three children. Her husband abused her so badly that she ran away from their home in Maun, Botswana. She showed me the scars on her hands where he had forcibly held them against a hot plate on the stove. In desperation she had fled, leaving her children behind feeling sure that he would not abuse them.
She settled in Langebaan and met someone she could love and moved in with him. Some months went by and I was planning to travel to Robertson where Susan stayed on a thoroughbred stud farm with her husband and children. We had a lot of work to do together and Debbie was happy to hold the fort while I was away. However she needed to go away too and it was agreed that I would return on the day she was leaving. She would leave everything ready for me and get going early with her boyfriend.
I took a short cut back that led me to Mooreesburg on a lesser road that ended on the main artery running South to North on the West Coast. I needed to cross over, go through the town and on to Veldrif and so home. At the junction there was a huge accident with fire engines and ambulances and I crossed without seeing it in detail.
A week later Debbie had not appeared and was not answering her phone. We did not have cell phones then. I was not unduly worried but it was unusual for her not to have let me know if she was going to return late. Then my phone rang and a strange woman asked if she was indeed speaking to me. I confirmed that it was indeed I and she told me that she was Debbie’s mother. Debbie and been in that terrible accident that I had passed and had died. Her boyfriend was badly injured and was doomed to a wheel chair for the rest of his life.
I was very upset but was occupied packing up to go to Botswana for more research on the guide book Susan and I were working on, Discovering Botswana. My friend Joy who lived outside of Gaborone was expecting me. Tidying up I picked up a little inlaid wooden box that had sat on the bookshelf since I moved into the house and what made me lift the lid I don’t know. Inside was a folded A 4 typing paper.
I opened the folds and saw that the letter for that was what it was, was addressed to me. I glanced at the end and there was Debbie’s signature. I knew her handwriting well. I sat down with a glass of wine and read the letter. Tears dripped down my cheeks as her words told me just what it had meant to her to be able to write for Out & About and my friendship. I was touched to the core.
Debbie must have written it before leaving for her trip with her boyfriend and planned to give it to me on her return. I returned it to the little box that had been on the shelf when I moved in, probably left by the previous owners of the house.
The drive to Gaborone went without incident in the bitter cold of a Kalahari winter and that evening Joy and I went to bed early, both in her bedroom. Our beds were opposite and we were both keen readers. Joy had a whisky beside her and I had a glass of red wine, each with a book. We were good companions with no need to chat.
Something made me look up and there was Debbie sitting on the end of my bed. She was pale grey white but unmistakable. She spoke to me, her words quite clear. “Don’t worry Mols, I’ll show you how!” Then she was gone. I was shaking as I lifted my glass to my lips and Joy dropped her book and asked me what was wrong. I told her and being Joy she accepted what I said unconditionally.
Now I had had a few episodes of seeing things having had a grandmother who was Cornish and another who was Irish. The family believed I was what they used to call ‘fey’.
Throughout my trip I pondered on Debbie’s words thinking that I was probably going to die too. However here I am in my eightieth year still very much alive. Looking at the little box I reflect that she really meant that she would guide me through the rest of my life for I have indeed ended in quiet waters with a life rich in friends and family and am still writing and painting. I will never forget Debbie and her words.
Molly's Musings On Life And Travel 