The JRB presents an exclusive excerpt from The First of December, a forthcoming novel by Karen Jennings.
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Of the wreck nothing remained. There were only the waves, frothing under the southeaster that had blown for days on end. Clouds rushed across the sky, the sun coming and going, coming and going. By the time Caroline and James reached the Cape Town shore, it had gone once more, and everything dimmed a little, made dimmer still by the sand, lifted and flung across the beach by the wind. Already it was in her mouth, and she gathered saliva to swallow it down while he unfastened the veil on her bonnet and lowered it over her face. She could feel his breath on her cheek, the sting of sand at the gap between her gloves and blouse, though he had turned her away from the worst of it. The veil fell unevenly over one side of her brow and she raised a hand to adjust it. ‘Did I not do it properly?’ he asked, and she brought her hand down again, said, ‘No, you did.’ In the distance the clanging of church bells began, then paused, began again, and faded.
Before them, the shore carried the burden of the town’s waste. Stalks and peels, burnt scrapings from pots, bones gnawed bare, a mulch of fallen leaves, the swollen carcasses of dogs and cats, buckets of nightsoil, all making their slow way down the canals of the Heerengracht, before tumbling out onto the sand to mix with leavings from the nearby shambles and fish market. The beach was stained with it, a smear that lay shivering and brown wherever the waves spread it.
Packs of dogs dug through the rot, as did rats, dark and wet and bloated. Chickens wandered down from nearby fishermen’s cottages, pecking fussily at what could be found. People had come too; the destitute, the hopeful, slave apprentices, freed men and women, orphans and foreigners; though little remained of the wreck now, the ship already gone for a day and a night. Yet there were still splinters of wood drifting in the dirty foam, here and there an item of clothing, a hat, or boot, or something else sodden and lost. Most of those who had come to the shore walked with sticks of one sort or another, poking the stained shore, the piles of waste. Others removed their shoes, wading out into the water to lift out bits of floating rope and wood, or bent over to thrust their hands into the sand and filter through it. Caroline could hear their cries, saw their looks of surprise when a wave caught them, splashing into their lowered faces. But one man, shirtless, the marks of his branding clear on his chest, remained upright. He moved slowly, frowning, looking out ahead of him where the coast turned away from the town. Then his frown deepened and he stood still, waving to a woman standing nearby. She came closer and he leaned on her shoulder, lifted one of his legs out of the water, toes clenched. The woman cupped her hands beneath his foot, and he dropped what he had found into them. It was too small for Caroline to see at this distance, but it seemed to be something of value by the way they huddled close to one another, their fingers smoothing the thing between them.
‘For God’s sake.’
She looked up at the sound of James’s voice, saw that he too had noticed the pair.
‘For God’s sake,’ he said again. Then, ‘Where is Stone? This should not be allowed. It is thievery, no less than thievery.’
He took a step towards the water, but remembered her and said, ‘I’m sorry, I must see to this,’ as though that had not been his intention all along. Why else had he brought them to this stinking place, leaving the Sunday service with greater haste than usual, and marching down the Heerengracht despite the southeaster blowing hard against them. She had not been able to push through it, could not keep up with his striding. From time to time he was compelled to pause, offer her his arm, his irritation clear in the way he did not look at her when he asked ‘Better now?’ before striding on. She had begun to perspire, had felt it on her brow and lips, soaking through her chemise and marking her dress under the arms. It formed behind her knees too, made her feel both hot and cool, and she thought she might at any moment begin to shiver, or perhaps even faint, and grew afraid that she might be unwell again. Yet when James stopped to greet the gentlemen and ladies of their acquaintance, she responded to inquiries about her health with ‘Recovering quite well, thank you.’ James adding, as though he were ashamed of her slow pace, ‘A gentle stroll, by order of Dr Greene, but she’s up and about now and as well as ever.’ Then he squeezed her elbow, or nudged her softly with his own, and she would say, ‘Oh, yes, I do so look forward to seeing you at our party on Friday.’
On the beach James had begun to move her in the direction of the prison. An awning had been raised opposite, with sand raked clear beneath it. From one side of the wooden frame hung a flag of the London Missionary Society, jerking wildly before tearing free at a corner. A silver-haired preacher mounted an upturned crate, supported at each arm by a younger man, waiting as he coughed. Behind him waves thrust at the shore, throwing up sprays of white where they beat upon the rocks. The preacher continued to cough, turning to say something to one of the two men as he did. The man then called out to the sailors and apprentices, drunks and prostitutes who had gathered beneath the awning’s shade. Overhead the canvas shook noisily, the frame creaking and shaking, while the wind continued to roar, flinging sand and debris at them. Still, there were those who had heard the command and took out their hymnals, though few possessed them and fewer still could read. The rest whispered amongst themselves, passing back the number and name of the hymn they were to sing. It began slowly, without accompaniment, and was taken up drearily, seeming to be only half known, and sung unevenly, the wind carrying snatches from one end of the congregation to the other, so that they felt ever out of rhythm, and unable to catch up.
James had his hand still on the small of her back, pushing her towards the congregants. She wished he would stop, let her lean against him and rest her head. She could no longer lift her feet, felt them dragging through the wretched sand. But he pushed on, making his way to where a few men and women were seated on stools.
‘How much to sit down?’ he said.
An old man, his dark face made darker by years of sun, said, ‘Well, sir, I’m not so far gone that I can’t offer a lady a seat when she’s in need.’
He stood up, slow and stiff. She saw the bandages around his knees, the difficulty with which he moved, and she wanted to tell him that she was not in need, that she could easily stand, and he must, please, sit back down. But she felt still the threat of illness, felt the tremor of fever within her, and watched him bend forward, wipe the stool with his neckerchief, then offer her the seat with an open hand, his fingers calloused and broad and scarred.
She nodded at him, smiling a little, dizzy with the pressure of James’s hand on her shoulder, pushing her down, the seat low so that she felt she was falling, falling and certain to faint. There was not enough air, she could not fill her lungs. She gripped the folds of her skirt, looking at them in fright. They seemed awash with colour and movement. She could not focus on the pattern, rows of small flowers, she knew them, could remember them, but could not see them. They would not remain still. Above her James was speaking, ‘… of pickpockets, understand?’ Then he was striding out into the wind, and she was left with her hands clutching at those seething patterns. Around her the final words of the hymn echoed as the congregants slowly, individually, reached the end. She closed her eyes, felt the perspiration cool and settle. Something was being said, murmurs of assent came, and she found herself nodding too, nodding her way out of her panic and into calm.
The nodding spread to the rest of her, set her rocking as though upon water. She knew herself to be asleep because she had been cast adrift amongst a rush of waves, the sky a disturbance of stars overhead, and knew all of this to be impossible, impossible, not while she was still aware of the awning and the congregants around her. Yet she dreamt, seeing the wreck of the Dunlop tilting heavily bow-ward where it had run aground. Men dropped into the water in a bid to swim ashore, while women and children wailed at the stern. Far away, men in breeches and shirtsleeves shoved rowboats into the surf, struggling against the froth of waves, making little progress and almost certain to be taken under. Despite knowing herself to be dreaming, she too was being drowned, and it was certain that she would not be reached in time by the rescuers, her dress heavy, her arms weak. Stars became a shimmer, a blur, a nothing, as she gave in to the violence of the waves.
But then there was a hand on her arm, and she was awake, blinkingly awake, looking with confusion at a book being held out to her, at pages of text that she could not place.
‘Beg pardon, ma’am, would you like to share?’
It was the woman who had been seated beside her, standing now, hymnal in hand. Around them the first line was already being sung: ‘Ah wither should I go, burdened and sick and faint?’ She rose without thinking, took the corner of the hymnal with the tips of her fingers and looked down at it, still adjusting to wakefulness. She could not seem to form words, managing only to move her lips, while beside her the woman sang full heartedly. Caroline watched her turn the page, the lyrics sung loudly in her ear: ‘Some cursed thing unknown …’
She felt once more the waves upon her, the agitation of her drowning, and she wanted to shake herself free of it, to feel something else, something immense and stirring, anything, anything. Only let it be something beyond this dirty town and its ugly church and sad fashions, something warm and different. She let go of the hymnal, sat back down, grasped her hands in her lap.
But it was too much, she could take it no more, and she rose. She nodded at the woman, murmured her thanks with cast-down eyes to the man who had given up his stool for her, then pushed forward into the congregation. She could smell them, the sweat and alcohol on some, soap and pomade on others. They seemed to matter, these smells, to speak of something important, of life, of living, and she felt again a call to something, some great thing that needed to happen. She leaned forward with her yearning, pressing closer to the man in front of her, so that she fancied she could feel the warmth of his body on her bodice, smell his private scent behind the pomade and starch.
Ahead of them the preacher had once more mounted the crate. He spoke hoarsely, stopping to cough, then spoke again. ‘And they said to one another, We are verily guilty concerning our brother, in that we saw the anguish of his soul, when he besought us, and we would not hear; therefore is this distress upon us.’
Though she was close enough to hear him, she did not listen. Instead, she paid attention to the breaths and murmurs of those around her. She could hear the softly whistling nose of the man in front of her, see the white flakes in his hair, on his shoulders. Her head felt heavy and weak. She wanted to lean forward, rest her forehead between those shoulders, feel the coarse fibres of his Sunday jacket pressing into her skin, smell the life of him.
‘Conscience smote them for having sold their brother into slavery,’ the preacher said. ‘Sold and transported, without having committed any crime or done any evil. Transported, I say, to a foreign land to wear out his life in bitter bondage. That anguished soul called upon our heads to plead his cause, and the cause of a million others. It is a relief to my heart and befitting of my office as servant of Him who came to preach liberty that the day is almost arrived, this day for which so many of us have fought and prayed. God’s mercy be upon us.’
The man in front of her nodded. ‘God’s mercy,’ he said, and his voice was not what she had expected. Higher perhaps, and gentler. It should have been rough, coarse as his jacket. She looked at the woman beside him, short, her face red and clean. Between them stood a girl. All three nodded at the preacher’s words, wore the same coarse clothing. Caroline was aware of her own fine dress. The skirt, which before had been such a blur of motion, now stood solidly around her. So wide was it that it touched each of them, the whole family. It seemed to be an extension of herself, as though she had held her arms out to them, embraced them all. She began to nod along with them, to add her murmur of assent to theirs, ready to go home with them, share their meals, their space, their thoughts and exertions.
‘Come the first of December the chains will be broken for good,’ the preacher said. ‘Guilty we have been, but the Lord our God has seen fit that we should not continue to live in our guilt. We come to liberty, I say, we come to freedom!’
‘Yes,’ she murmured along with the family, but then the wind picked up suddenly and the congregants were turning away from it and the rushing sand. She had moved too far, was no longer touching the family. They seemed now a great distance from her, had become strangers. She felt once more the waves around her, the wild, churning threat of death. The family was gone and she was alone, struck blind by the sun on the water and that fierce call of the waves, drowning again, drowning.
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- Karen Jennings is a South African writer whose novel An Island was longlisted for the Booker Prize in 2021. She is currently writer-in-residence as a postdoctoral fellow at the Laboratory for the Economics of Africa’s Past, Stellenbosch University. She received the K Sello Duiker Memorial Award in 2021, and has won the Africa Region Prize of the Commonwealth Short Story Competition. Her first novel, Finding Soutbek, was shortlisted for the Etisalat Prize. Travels with my Father, a memoir, was a set university text in South Africa, and was successful in India and the UK.
