Angola Gaffletter Chapter 8.

Chapter Eight.

 

Disaster and Ill Health.

 

The years between Botswana’s wedding and the early years of the new century passed quietly. Nothing dramatic happened. Life simply moved along in its steady way, as life often does when no one is paying particular attention.

Angola grew into her thirties with the same brisk efficiency she had shown at sixteen. She ran the drapery like a well‑trained regiment, her days full of order, lists, and polished counters. She never once paused to consider marriage. It simply didn’t fit into her timetable.

Botswana settled at Lollingfolly House with Zambezi, raising their son in a home where hens wandered indoors and chimneys leaned politely eastward. Zambezi Junior grew from a solemn toddler into a thoughtful boy. He inherited his father’s quiet steadiness and his mother’s gentle pauses, but, crucially, he inherited his father’s sensible habit of thinking before acting, rather than Botswana’s tendency to drift into distractions.

Sudan completed his apprenticeship with Mr Havelock and became an exceptionally capable railway engineer. He travelled between stations with a heavy toolkit and a reputation for coaxing life out of engines that other men had given up on.

He wrote home irregularly, usually on scraps of timetable paper smudged with oil:

“I am well.”

“The 4:12 from Upper Wintle is a disgrace and I have told them so.”

Vera kept every note in her dresser drawer.

Sudan returned to Nether Wintle rarely, smelling of coal smoke and carrying the faint clank of iron in his pockets. He never stayed long, steam engines waited for no one, but he always left the house slightly improved. He tightened hinges, adjusted latches, and once repaired the kitchen pump so well that it worked better than it ever had, though no one understood how.

By 1905, Sudan was a fully qualified railway engineer: respected, competent, and still faintly surprised whenever anyone thanked him. He married a sensible young woman from Taunton who understood that engineers came home at odd hours and forgot meals when faced with interesting machinery. They lived near the goods yard, close enough for Sudan to hear shunting engines at night, which he found “soothing.”

He visited Nether Wintle even less after marriage, but always brought practical gifts: a spanner for Corning, a tin of polish for Angola, and once a curious brass contraption for Vera that turned out to be a perfectly serviceable egg‑timer.

Togo had been apprenticed to Mr Burr, the stonemason who ran the quarry outside Upper Wintle. Mr Burr believed stone revealed its true nature only to those who listened. Under his guidance, Togo learned to judge the grain of a block, read hidden lines in a cliff face, and tell whether a rock seam was trustworthy or treacherous.

He became adept at spotting faults others missed. Mr Penrith often said, “That lad can see a crack in the rock before it even knows it’s there.”

By his early twenties, Togo was a recognised mining and quarrying expert. He advised on new cuttings, assessed deep shafts, and explained to impatient foremen exactly why certain hillsides were “not to be meddled with.”

He travelled between quarries with a satchel full of maps and notebooks of geological sketches. He wrote home more regularly than Sudan, usually sending postcards of improbable machinery with notes like:

“The shale here is disgraceful. I have told them so.”

Togo married a schoolteacher from Trevalgan‑by‑the‑Sea, a Cornish village where cottages clung to the hillside as though afraid of sliding into the harbour. She was the daughter of a tin miner, sensible and fond of strong tea. She claimed she could always tell when Togo had been underground because he returned home with a thoughtful expression and pockets full of mineral specimens.

They lived in a modest cottage near the quarry office, where Togo kept a pristine shelf of labelled rock samples. Vera admired it whenever she visited.

By 1905, he too was respected, competent, and faintly surprised whenever anyone asked his opinion on anything not involving rock.

Mauritius, sticky from infancy and determined to remain so, found his calling early. While other boys were content with bread and dripping, Mauritius gravitated toward anything sweet. By his teens, he had a talent for turning fruit into something that clung lovingly to spoons.

He apprenticed with Mrs Spreadwell, the premier jam‑maker of Lower Wintle, a brisk woman with forearms like rolling pins and a firm belief that good jam ought to stand up on its own. Under her guidance, Mauritius learned the mysteries of pectin, the temperament of wild raspberries, and the exact moment a bubbling pan must be removed before it misbehaved.

By his early twenties, he was a master jam‑maker. Mrs Spreadwell sent him to Kent, where orchards stretched for miles and fruit farmers spoke of plums as though they were family. Mauritius settled in Hawkhurst, a village surrounded by apple and cherry trees, and found himself in sweet paradise.

He married a cheerful local girl who understood that jam‑making was not merely a job but a lifelong condition. She claimed she could always tell when he had been boiling preserves because he returned home smelling faintly of cherries and carrying a neat dab of jam somewhere on his clothing.

They lived in a tidy cottage near the orchards, where Mauritius built gleaming shelves for his preserves. He returned to Nether Wintle whenever possible, arriving with a basket of jams and leaving the household slightly stickier than before.

By 1905, he was respected, competent, and faintly surprised whenever anyone asked his advice on anything not involving fruit.

It was in the harsh winter of 1902 that the quiet years ended.

The high moors above Lollingfolly House were treacherous in winter, beautiful, but prone to sudden fogs, hidden dips, and sheep with a talent for wandering into danger. Zambezi Lollingfolly Senior went out after a small flock that had strayed during a blizzard. It was a task he had done a hundred times before.

He did not return.

Botswana waited until dusk, then dark, then through the long freezing night. When the search party found him the next morning, he was lying beside a fallen ewe, his crook still in hand, the snow‑covered moor stretching quiet around him.

The doctor said it had been sudden, a tired heart giving out in the bitter cold, and assured her he would not have suffered. Botswana nodded quietly, though she did not entirely believe him.

Her letter arrived in Nether Wintle two days later. At the bottom, almost as an afterthought, she had written:

“It is the ancient curse of the Lollingfolly family. The eldest father is destined to die when a male heir is born.”

Angola read the letter twice, folded it with brittle precision, and stood motionless, hands flat on the table. She did not cry, Angola rarely cried, but she felt something heavy settle inside her.

She remembered her train journey years before: the rattling carriage, the sleet, the frantic walk through mud, the bitter cold, and the exhausting hours helping Botswana through the birth of Zambezi Junior. It had been the one time in her life she had felt completely out of her depth.

She had never spoken of it since.

So when the funeral was discussed, Angola said calmly:

“I will not go.”

Botswana understood. She always understood Angola.

The village did not. They whispered behind their hands, calling her decision “odd,” “unfeeling,” and “typical of Angola Muppert.” Angola ignored them. Her reasons were her own.

Vera could not attend either; she was far too ill. The shock of Zambezi’s death worsened her chest cough and drained her strength. Even walking from parlour to kitchen left her gasping.

The doctor said firmly, “She must not travel.”

Corning agreed. He would not leave her side. He wrote to Botswana explaining that Vera was too frail. Botswana wrote back sweetly, insisting she understood.

Winter was brutal, and Vera’s strength ebbed away.

Angola noticed first, she always noticed first, and quietly took over the drapery. Corning noticed next, watching his wife with a terrified stillness.

By early spring, the doctor returned. He listened to Vera’s breathing, frowned, and finally said:

“She needs clean mountain air. Switzerland, if you can manage it.”

Corning sat heavily. Angola stood very straight.

For two days, silence hung over the house.

On the third morning, Angola stepped into the parlour, closed the door, and said:

“We must sell the drapery. The shop, the warehouse, and this house.”

Corning stared at her. “Sell it? Angola… I couldn’t! It is your livelihood. Your home. I will not force you—”

She raised a hand, stopping him.

“You are not forcing me. I am telling you what must be done.”

Corning blinked. Angola rarely spoke so plainly.

She continued, brisk and unwavering:

“Mother needs Switzerland. That requires money, far more than we have. The shop is work, yes, but right now it is a burden. You cannot run it alone, and I cannot run it while nursing Mother. We cannot keep a business simply because it has always been ours.”

Corning swallowed. “But where will you live? What will you do?”

Angola’s voice softened slightly. “I will manage. I always do.”

She stood calm and resolute, as though discussing a window display rather than dismantling her entire life.

Corning looked at her for a long time. He saw the truth, the necessity, and a strength he had always admired but never fully understood.

“If you are sure, Angola.”

“I am.”

And with that, the matter was settled.

The decision settled over the household like a change in the weather, unwelcome but unavoidable. Angola began auditing stock with terrifying efficiency. Corning wrote to the solicitor. Vera whispered, “Oh, Corning…” but did not protest.

The drapery shop, the anchor of their lives, was to be given up.

Not out of defeat, but out of love.

And Angola, who had never once sought change, became the force that set it in motion.