It would take the doctors many years to understand what was happening to Silas Mthimkhulu, and when they ultimately did, it would be too late, and it would not matter anyway because there would be no remedy for the excruciatingly unbearable pain he would be experiencing. Philemon himself would probably be dead by then, but he would die happy in the knowledge that he had avenged Sitshengisiwe’s death. All of that was in the future. Now, as Philemon trimmed Madam’s bougainvillea hedge and watched the red Aster drive by, he was more than grateful for the sign that he had done the right thing.

She had come to visit them so often that Gemma and Johan Coetzee had taken to calling her ‘Our Girl’. She more than occasionally did their grocery shopping, collected their dry-cleaning, and drove them to their doctors’ visits, which, at their time of life, were many. She did not strike them as a particularly giving person, and so they cherished her attention all the more. To make new friends so late in life was definitely something to rejoice in. They loved best that she listened to all the stories they had to tell about Our Boy and the good old days, and never seemed to tire of them. They had long ceased to read The Chronicle so they did not know of her ‘Where’s Emil Coetzee?’ series, but chances are it would not have made a difference because they recognised in her something that they recognised in themselves – a need of each other.

Besides, Our Girl had completely won them over when she gave them a poem about Our Boy that she had written:

Emil Coetzee: A Jumble of Small Things
Five azure-blue notes
A folded letter
A brown Stetson
A beige bakkie
An echoed ache
These things remain.

They did not understand the meaning of the poem, but fully appreciated its sentiment.

It was Our Boy’s birthday, and Our Girl was coming to spend the day with them. The cake had already been baked and decorated. Gemma had just removed the shepherd’s pie from the oven, and Johan was setting the table, when Gemma heard an old but familiar sound. She looked out of the window and sure enough, there it was: a red Aster at the intersection of Selborne Avenue and Borrow Street – the very spot where she and Johan had met. She called him to the window, and together they watched the car turn left onto Borrow Street.

‘I do believe there was such a car on the day we met,’ Johan said as he gave her hand a tender squeeze.

‘I believe so too,’ Gemma said, smiling at the story already waiting to be told to Our Girl.