Mrs Catherine Josephine Maria Petty, or Kate, as her family called her, frowned slightly, and stared disapprovingly at her handiwork. She had made an error - again. Her mind had been so engrossed in the skeins of the maid's missing-boot-story that she had crocheted two treble and a double before she noticed the extra stitch. “Really, it’s too much!” she exclaimed aloud. “That’s the second time today.” 

Her exquisite handiwork was known all over Cape Town. She seldom, if ever, made a mistake. So Mrs Petty undid her work and redid it with determined concentration, forgetting, for the moment, the story of the boot. She was going to make sure her craft was perfect. 

She continued on until, hearing a seagull mewing plaintively overhead, she glanced up out of the window. She discovered that flocks of birds were now bustling about, swooping down with dare-devil-dives in the balmy air of the morning sun. The opus of fluting and piping was calming, and sure to lift away any irritation or sadness. It was likely a storm at sea that had sent them barrelling inland, and she welcomed their company. 

Her house in Gatesville Road offered her a slightly obstructed view of both the railway track and Kalk Bay harbour below, where all the cheerfully coloured fishing boats danced with the waves. It was an ideal vantage point for seeing when the men had come in with a fresh catch; or for pinpointing when guests had arrived by train. 

Now, she stood up to look out of the large windows. She was able to view unhindered the view beyond the rooftops - far out to sea, where she could watch the navy boats pass in and out of the Bay, or observe the whales when they came to shelter in warmer waters during the calving season.

The ocean air, redolent of fresh minerals and fish, was washing in, and she inhaled a lungful with delight. Nothing quite like salty air to lighten one's mood.

Her eyes caught sight of a figure to her bottom left, at the top of the stepped lane that ascended the hill from the village shops. Mary Bergh, her sister, had gone down to the tiny grocery store on the Main Road to collect the daily necessities, and she was returning with weary step. 

Mrs Petty sighed a little. Not given to reminiscing, her mind nevertheless wandered to the days when deliveries were made to one’s doorstep. Or when meat, fish, and vegetables were wheeled down the street in horse-carts for people to buy what they required for the day. All that was left of that way of life was the milk delivery in little electric carts. 

"Oh!" she suddenly exclaimed aloud. "Of course! I'll ask Papi about the boot." Papi was the milkman. Every morning except Sundays, he would stop his cart outside the houses of the village at around 4.30 - 5.30 am, when only the fishermen were awake, hop out of the vehicle, and carry a tray of full milk bottles, along with a bottle of cream and a one of yoghurt to each house. 

Every house owner would leave clean, empty milk bottles on their outside doormat overnight, with pre-purchased green coupons in the bottles to indicate to him how many milk bottles they required. (Different coloured tokens meant that they required yoghurt or cream.) Papi would simply place on the doorstep whatever the house owner had requested by 'reading' the coupons, and take away the empty bottles with their coupons inside. It was a very happy arrangement, as people would get their milk for breakfast, without having to pop down to the local shop.

  Theft of the dairy products or coupons from the doorsteps or the cart was unheard of, and Papi simply delivered via the tarred, rather than the cobbled, roads. 

At any rate, Papi (for that was what he was known as in the village) was a man who was keenly observant. She would ask him if he had noticed an unpaired gumboot standing on their doorstep early this morning. Perhaps it would give her a tiny clue going forward. 

She turned her thoughts back to her sister, who was now walking down Gatesville Road towards their house. She would reach home soon, and they would have a cup of tea. She smiled at the thought. It was just the reward Mary would need, although both of them were extremely fit at 80 and 76 years old, respectively. Mary always claimed that Kate was the fitter, despite being the older, due to the bracing sea air that she had imbibed all her life. 

A soft growl at her feet reminded her that Houdini had not had his daily constitutional. Houdini was a black Dachshund-Chihuahua-cross and had got his name from his ability to escape any confined space in a manner known only to himself. It would not do to delay - he got very restless if one wasn’t on time. 

She heaved herself awkwardly to her feet. Fit she may be, but the arthritis still played up. One of these days...she shook her head as though to refuse the thought of old-age incapacitation, then marched down the passageway to the ‘front’ door at the side of the house; passed through and locked it; and then turned to the back of the property, where a few steep steps led into Duignam Road.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Maria Antonia Wilhelmina Bergh (Mary) was musing. Her son Hugh was a geology professor at Wits University, and often spent months in the Antarctic. His ship, the Agulhas, was due back in the docks tomorrow, and he always popped by before wending his way back to Joburg. 

She loved hearing his stories of the research they did in that part of the world. It sometimes seemed a little complicated, but she was happy to hear him prattle on. 

She’d bought succulent Karoo lamb for tomorrow’s supper--a rare treat, rather too dear for their modest means. Still, one always celebrated family, didn’t one?! She thought she’d add yellow rice and raisins; pumpkin with butter and sugar; and peas with mint. She’d personally grown the pumpkin, but it would have to be the last. Good gardeners were scarce, and she no longer had the strength to do her own gardening. From now on, they would have to buy their pumpkins. 

For pudding, she thought she would add a childhood staple: jelly and custard. Not the factory-made custard, but the milky, home-made kind that you made on the stove in a pot. She had to watch her waistline after all. 

She smiled to herself. She’d been a saleswoman for many years at the exclusive Matz Boutique in Johannesburg. She’d always kept her figure svelte to impress the wealthy Randlord wives, and she was rather pleased that at her age she was still trim - not even the thick ankles that had beset her sisters plagued her. 

She was not a proud woman. In fact, her sisters often remarked that she was most like their mother, with genteel, ladylike ways, but she took pleasure in simple successes. 

Now she gave a rather vague wave to the tenants in the cottage underneath the main house, who, unusually late for work, were at their kitchen window, then made her way rather carefully up the shallow, uneven steps at the side of the house. She’d glimpsed Kate starting her walk with Houdini, so she knew she had the place to herself for a little while. Mary unlocked the door, set the shopping down on the floor in the hallway, and shut the door once again, locking it firmly behind her. 

As a rule, no one in South Africa locked their doors during the day, for it was such a safe place. In fact, she and Kate had accidentally left their doors wide open at night on more than one occasion, and the entire village knew it. However, the baboons could enter any dwelling with great skill. And they did cause such havoc, with food and pooh smeared all over the walls and couches, packets of edibles scattered all over the floor, and half eaten apples littering the couches. So it was that they locked their doors and windows when not present in a particular room. 

Shuddering at the thought Mrs Bergh picked up the shopping, put it on the kitchen table, and struck a match to light the gas stove. She put the kettle on the stove, and packed the shopping away. 

“Ooh!” she groaned out loud. “My feet! I think I’m just going to put them up for a little while.” Her shoes made a loud clunking noise on the oak floors as she walked gingerly down the hallway to the sitting room. She sank down into the comfortable, dusky, pale-green armchair - one of a set of two, and picked up her tapestry which was lying in a basket on the floor. She was going to make a cushion for the settee. She lifted her feet onto the footstool, and promptly nodded off. 

She awoke to the sound of a whistle. “The kettle!” she exclaimed, and rose quickly to her feet. 

When she reached the kitchen, there was a little cloud of steam hanging in the air. She whipped the still-tuneful kettle off the stove and popped it onto the painted tile potholder waiting expectantly on the table. Thankfully, she’d not slept for too long, and there was still enough water for a cup or two. 

Mary put a spoonful of tea leaves in a porcelain teapot, added boiling water, and closed the lid with a little clank.

Little pink and blue flowers adorned the teapot were part of a matching tea set bought in England on one of the Bergh family travels, and it always cheered her to see them. 

She popped a pale-blue tea-cosy over the top to keep the teapot warm, and carefully laid a lacy white runner on the tea-tray. Mrs Bergh added the tea-strainer, and cautiously reached for the matching flowery teacups, saucers, and teaspoons, and then poured the milk into the similarly ornamented milk jug, covering it painstakingly with a beaded doily. 

Their eldest sister Betsy had made the doily, and she was secretly very fond of it. It was such a clever idea - to add the beads so that the doily did not fly off in the wind. Of course, few people used doilies nowadays, but neither she nor Kate liked flies or other insects on their food or drinks, so they continued to use them.

She added the flowery sugar-bowl to the tray, with a silver sugar-spoon, and gathered the side-plates and little silver forks with correspondingly patterned flowers on the porcelain thumb-pads. She stretched upward for the upside-down cake tin above the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard - the one decorated with 19th century men and women in carriages - and gently levered it down. As she opened the tin with the sound of its familiar ‘twang’, the spicy aroma of fruit-cake left over from Christmas greeted her nostril. She cut two generous portions of the moist, rather sticky, cake, which she placed on a delicate serving-plate. 

She carefully removed the marzipan and icing from her slice, then picked up the tray and took it to the front room (the sitting room) and once again sat upright in the winged armchair; poured a cup of tea the Proper Way - milk first, tea second; and leaned back to enjoy her mid-morning break. Her sister would soon join her, and they could catch up on the morning’s gossip before going

on with their daily work.