WELCOME DOVER

Magriet Joubert (Maggie) lived on a farm on the outskirts of Malmesbury, some 35 miles from Cape Town, with her parents and five much older siblings. Born in 1890, she was what folk commonly referred to as a “laatlammertjie” (a late, surprise arrival, long after the parents thought they had completed their family). Doted on by her parents and older brothers and sisters, she grew up as a much loved, friendly and delightfully cheerful youngster. Parenting at the time was strict, but kind and caring, and the Joubert family were sticklers for firm discipline, tempered with much affection – so she was not spoilt despite the special place she was accorded in their hearts.

The family had farmed in this wheat growing area since the early 1800s. Known as the granary of the Cape, the community made a good living out of their farming enterprise. In the 1870s, however, the wheat farmers took a serious knock from a sudden drop in market prices – largely as a result of the opening up of the Western Prairies in the United States to homesteading and the knock-on effect of a glut on the international market. It wasn’t sufficient to wipe out the Joubert family, but they had to navigate the new conditions that imposed frugality on them. So – the family was no longer wealthy, but had not descended into utter poverty. They could hold their own economically – barely.

The heart of any farmhouse in the nineteenth century – especially in the winter months – was the kitchen. The kitchen was where the Welcome Dover wood/coal stove lived. It was where the kitchen table was the centre of family interaction, debates, learning from parents and exchange of banter took place. It was where good home made meals made it onto the table and into the bellies. The kitchen was a place of warmth and familial bonding. The warmth from the Welcome Dover was the epitome of homeliness.

Malmesbury was the capital of the Zwartland region. Renamed in 1829 in honour of the father-in-law of the Governor of the Cape, Sir Lowry Cole, from “Het Zwartland” to “Malmesbury”, the town was the economic and cultural centre of the farming region. Prominent in the town was the majestic Dutch Reformed Church building where the farming community gathered a few times every year for the “Nagmaal” (Holy Communion) for which they would don their best outfits and participate in this pious sacramental ritual with their families. The Dutch Afrikander folk would make use of this opportunity to catch up with one another’s lives and the deep guttural “r” would roll off their tongues in the most charming turn of phrase in the beautiful emerging “Kitchen Dutch” Afrikaans language. High Dutch was reserved for the formality of the church service, Afrikaans had become the lingua franca. Not many years hence Afrikaans was to be elevated to an official language of the Union of South Africa, and a fully fledged academic language that could express meaning on a level platform with much older international tongues.

On the very day that the Joubert family had made the trip into the town for the “Nagmaal” service, they welcomed friends and relatives at their homestead on the farm, it being situated fairly close to Malmesbury. Some would sleep overnight before making the journey to their respective farms further afield, but still in the Zwartland district. Modes of transport in those days dictated the meticulous planning of such journeys – horseback, horse or donkey drawn carts, the odd ox-wagon were all familiar sights in the town and on the gravel paths leading towards it. Often families would make a whole weekend of the occasion – a barn dance on the Friday or Saturday with accompanying “Boere-musiek” bands of some repute. Concertinas, harmonicas (mouth organs), banjos and acoustic guitars created an atmosphere of merriment. Honky-tonk pianists lifted spirits. The odd “trap orrel” (pedal driven bellows providing the air/wind to carry organ tunes to the rafters).

It was a time that children and parents all played their roles in the life of a family. Children undertook chores that were appropriate for their ages and would not dare to challenge their parents for assigning these jobs to them. This was long before the age of entitlement and pervasive laziness. Maggie, at eight years old, had the task of stoking the Welcome Dover with kindling and wood, chopped, prepared and brought to the kitchen by the older siblings. The stove had to have a healthy fire in its belly for mother to prepare nutritious and tasty “Boerekos” (MEAT, rice and roast potatoes being the staple in any respectable farmhouse).

Barefoot and wearing the standard attire for a girl her age, Maggie took her task seriously. She had no fear of the flames licking around the open stove-door where the fire was stoked. She had done this often enough to perform the chore with confidence. Girls mostly wore cotton dresses and ribbons that gathered the pleats. These dresses usually had a row of buttons to hold the top of the dress closely to the torso. For the task that Maggie had to perform, this was tantamount to stepping into a tinderbox.

A fire raging in the stove behind her, Maggie bent down to pick up a few of the smaller shards of chopped firewood. There was no inherent danger posed by this well maintained Welcome Dover. Its pipes and chimney were regularly cleaned to prevent blow-back. It was doing the job it was designed for. Sadly, this was not enough to prevent a dreadful accident as Maggie gaily swirled about. A ribbon found its way into the gaping mouth of the raging flames and Maggie’s nineteenth century attire burst into flames, sending the terrified youngster belting into the passage and screaming in sheer horror as she was engulfed by the flames. The buttons didn’t help the situation one iota, as her family tore at the shreds of fabric, dousing and rolling her on the floor with all deliberate haste. They saved her life, but could not prevent the third degree burns which disfigured her beautiful face and seared into her arms, legs and caused horrific wounds to her torso. 

Magriet had to be hauled off to the only General Practitioner in Malmesbury on the back of a cart. The only hint of comfort on this shaky journey was provided by a blanket her mother laid under the little girl. Upon arrival, the doctor did the best he could – rudimentary dressings and some salve that was available presumably did more harm than good. Transfer to Cape Town’s first infirmary, Somerset Hospital, was the only hope of stunting the tide of skin damage cascading across her delicate frame. That in itself was a monumental operation. Thirty miles on corrugated, bumpy roads was no way to soothe the agony of an eight year old.

Treatment of burn wounds had not yet advanced to the extent that Magriet’s appearance could be saved, rather than only her life. It is true that life saving advances had been made over the centuries, but it was only during the First World War that plastic surgery made meaningful advances. The New Zealander Sir Harold Gillies, an otolaryngologist working in London, performed the first striking improvement in plastic surgery when he operated on Walter Yeo after the Battle of Jutland. Relying on the blood supply generated by tubed pedicles, he performed the first of many successful cosmetic skin grafts that gave burnt veterans something of their lives back. Nothing like that for Maggie, though. Her injuries were suffered before those momentous strides.

Magriet survived, but her face was permanently disfigured and she lost digits on one hand. Shriveled skin covered most of her body, but she made a valiant effort to wear clothing that covered most of it. Her face bore a permanent reminder of her injuries. Singed eyelids left her with the effects of lagophthalmos (eyes that could not be closed). Scratches from foreign particles and pain and irritation became her lot in life. At night she had to sleep with eye coverings and she had to apply artificial tears to lubricate her eyes. Mercifully her sight was only minimally affected.

However, Magriet’s was a life that exemplified overcoming disaster. She returned to her former cheerful, bouncy, delightful self. She entered adulthood not as a victim, but as one who made a conscious decision to exude joy and not be weighed down by her unfortunate circumstances.

Maggie returned to the barn dances in Malmesbury. Her upbeat personality dwarfed her appearance. Her face was in the shadow cast by her exuberant nature. She loved. She married. She had children and grandchildren of her own. Maggie qualified as a teacher of first and second graders. She soared above the disappointment of a failed marriage caused by a deadbeat loser whose dalliance and philandering caused her to send him on his way. She, though, lived out the rest of her life as a joyful, happy lady who won the deep respect of all who crossed her path. An intelligent, well read figure, her influence on generations bears testimony to resilience and solid character.

Maggie was in her late eighties when she passed away. Scores of past pupils attended her funeral and paid respects to a highly regarded character in the district of the Zwartland. A well-deserved final salute to a fine lady.

©Paul M Haupt

Acknowledgement of photograph posted as part of an advertisement: https://za.pinterest.com/pin/412642384590068718/