Moerkoffie. ‘Goeiemôre. Ricus.’ Good morning. His Afrikaans accent gave a soft hiss to the ‘s’ in Ricus. ‘Um . . .’ I said. ‘Hello?’ I nearly put down the phone, but instead I said, ‘It needs fixing. My car. Is this the mechanic?’ ‘It’s him, ja.’ ‘I got your number from my friend, Annemarie, in Oudtshoorn.’ ‘Annemarie,’ he said. I could hear he was smiling. ‘How is she?’ ‘Fine. Happy.’ ‘Good. Good. Please give her my best.’ ‘She told me about your group.’ ‘Ja.’ ‘My doctor thinks . . . I think . . . I have PTSD,’ I said. ‘You’re welcome to join us,’ he said. ‘We meet twice a week, usually Saturdays and Tuesdays. Come today. We’re meeting this afternoon.’ ‘Today?’ ‘Ja, four o’clock on my farm. Then something to eat afterwards.’ ‘Oh.’ Today felt so soon. ‘What do you farm?’ ‘Some sheep,’ he said, then he laughed. ‘And also panel vans.’ His laugh was rich and from his belly. ‘You can bring your car too, if you like, but I’ll only work on it on Monday.’ ‘No, my car is okay, really.
