by Carol Gibbs
I sit at my desk, minding my own business. Mrs Findlay comes and stands next to me. “Colleen Le Seuer, you haven’t done your homework.”
“So what?”
Mrs Findlay’s eyes come out on stalks. “I’ve never heard such cheek in all my life! Go to Mr Benade’s office.”
She lifts me by my arm, clean out of my desk, and marches me to the office.
“Bend over.”
Mr Benade gives me six of the best. It’s all because Mommy said we better get some sleep while we can. Teachers will never understand. But at least we get our rations and our tummies are full.
“I’ve run out of yellow sugar, butter and rice. Go to the babbie shop and don’t dawdle! I’m on my way to my prayer meeting.”
I set out over the wide field. The blue sky stretches above my head and the grass is so green it hurts my eyes. I can read the big Joko sign on the side of the babbie shop. There are dead flies in the window and it’s dark inside the shop. The smells of curry, cardamom, paraffin, carbolic soap, nutmeg, penny polony and salted fish all blend. The babbie’s wife has hundreds of bangles on her yellow arms and they jingle when she turns the handle on the till. Her greasy black hair is tucked under a blue scarf and she smells of coconut. The end of her mauve sari trails behind her. I can’t keep my eyes off her nose. There’s a jewel buried in the soft flesh. I wonder if it hurts when she picks her nose or blows it. There’s a row of coarse hessian sacks in front of the counter, with their tops rolled over like socks, full of sugar beans, rice, lentils and dried peas. I dip my hand into the sack of rice and the grains flow through my fingers like sand on the beach. The shelves are stacked with cans of tomatoes, jam and sardines. There’s a bicycle hooked up to the ceiling sharing space with a big black whirring fan and fly-speckled paper lanterns. The beaded curtain clicks as the babbie appears in his dazzling white dress with a red fez on his head. He gives orders left and right in his own strange language. I wait until he’s done and then I stammer my request.
“P-please can, can I have half a pound of butter, a packet of yellow sugar and some rice?”
He won’t allow us to buy on the book so I first show him my money. He takes it with hands the colour of walnut shells and uses his big white teeth to undo the knot in Daddy’s handkerchief to find the shiny half-crown. He digs into the sack of rice and as he fills the shiny pan the needle swings from left to right. With a flick of his wrist he opens a paper bag and fills it. His sharp knife slices through a pound of butter and then he wraps half of it in greaseproof paper. He climbs the rickety wooden steps to reach for a small packet of yellow sugar. He lays my change in the corner of the handkerchief and ties a tight knot, but the best part is yet to come, a free sweet.
“Pasella.” He slides a big, soft, brown sweet across the counter. I’m satisfied with his choice. It tastes like heaven.
On the way home, when I pass the stream, there are tadpoles in the shallow pools, but I don’t have a jar. It won’t take a minute though to stop and collect a garden spider from the young pine trees. They are so pretty, with their yellow-and-black striped bodies and long graceful legs. I don’t know why people are scared of them.
“Come, little spider, come to me, I won’t hurt you. Got you.”
When I get home, I hide my spider in the hokkie. If Mommy finds it in the packet she will scream the house down. Gabriel showed me how to get the web out of the spider’s bum and how to wind the fine silk strands around a piece of bark.
Our back step is a favourite place to sit with my friends the spiders. Other people have garden chairs, but not us. Our step gets a bit crowded with Bessie, Daddy, Mommy, Desiree, Gabriel and me, and sometimes baby Jackie too, but Jackie has gone back to Grandma’s house and Aunty Rita had to leave because of Castle on the Lake.
In the kitchen, Mommy has a dishcloth over her shoulder. Her face is red and she looks worried. “Look at the time!”
“I’m sorry, but the babbie took a long time.”
“You’re telling fibs.”
My mommy is very clever. She knows how long it takes to walk to the babbie shop and back. We have tamatiebredie. I like to watch as Mommy pours boiling water over the tomatoes and they wrinkle like old man’s skin. But I don’t like it when Mommy slices the onions and she cries.
“You have to be up early tomorrow because it’s Spring Day,” says Mommy after supper. “Colleen, have you done your homework and cleaned your boots?”
It’s the thought of six of the best that made me do my homework. On Spring Day we wear white. My boots match perfectly.
“I’m going to the meeting. Say your prayers and go to bed.”
“Where’s Daddy?”
“He’s going to be late.”
It’s not Friday, but we know we might be in for it. Desiree and I have made it a habit to hold hands and squeeze to stay awake until he comes home, so we can look after Mommy if he’s drunk. We squeeze and squeeze and try with all our might to stay awake, but the sandman sprinkles his dust in our eyes and we drift off. We’re fast asleep when there’s the crack of a gunshot.
We are instantly wide awake. Gabriel puts a pillow over his head, but in a minute he will be heading for the windowsill and his feet will hit the ground with a dull thud. Desiree’s feet hit the plank floor first. I follow her, clutching at the waist of the back of her pyjamas so she can hardly move. We creep silently, one step at a time. The dreaded moment has come. Will we find our mommy dead? Hearts racing, we peep through the door. A strange man lifts a rifle and peers down the sights as he wobbles a bit. He’s taking pot shots at a paraffin tin propped up on the draining board. There’s a red bull’s-eye drawn crudely in the middle.
“Kolskoot! Well done, Jim!”
“My turn.”
They have their backs to us. We slip into Mommy’s room like ghosts. She’s sitting up in bed with her hands over her ears. We’re so glad she’s alive.
“There are three of them with a gun!”
“Go back to bed. They’re only drunk men playing.”
Like children with a new toy, they don’t put the rifle down until dawn. Gabriel climbs back through the window and we drift in and out of sleep. The sandman has been driven away by the din in the kitchen. We wake up with dull eyes, but excited because of half-day at school. The only sign of the drunken men is a pile of vomit under the kitchen window. Bessie’s nose twitches busily.
“C-come away, B-bessie. I’d b-better fetch the s-spade,” mutters Gabriel.
The sun shines brightly as we step outside; we’re bursting with energy in spite of our disturbed night. The air is warm and filled with birdsong. Brookie lies sprawled in the sun. Desiree is already singing Spring Day songs as we pick veld flowers to take to school. Mrs Findlay takes us on a nature walk.
“Look how nature has carpeted the ground with flowers and dressed the oak trees in green. Look how the swallows swoop!”
We fall into step with our classmates, singing our heads off all about spring and birdsong. After our marching and singing, I sit in the classroom and yawn, wondering which of the men vomited under our kitchen window. My head nods onto my chest and Mrs Findlay makes me shy in front of the other children. Mommy says people will never understand how one man can affect all our lives. At last the school bell rings. Spring Day has been a big adventure. I forget about my daddy and the drunken men shooting bullets around our kitchen, but when I get home I see the rifle on top of the wardrobe. Dreaded thoughts fill my head.
“We’re going to the Kritz to see Marlene Dietrich in The Blue Angel. Don’t forget to give Jackie his bottle.”
Jackie is home from Grandma’s house for a few days.
“Please, Mommy, don’t go. Desiree and Gabriel are mean to me.”
“What’s this I hear?”
“I-it’s all f-fibs!”
“You’ll get a hiding, I’m warning you two!”
And then she’s waving goodbye and I’m quaking in my boots again. Gabriel and Desiree lock me in the bedroom and call me n
ames through the door.
“Skinny Legs,” they chant. “Skinny Arms, Witch’s Child!”
My legs are like matchsticks, and they don’t hold up so well.
“Wednesday legs, Whens-day going to break?”
When we have pillow fights, Desiree and Gabriel send me flying. I sometimes bump my head on the side of the bed, but that doesn’t stop them.
We’re excited because we have made our own bioscope, just like the magic lantern show. Gabriel picks up a black crayon and writes Layno on the lid of the shoebox. Desiree and I have cut pictures out of old Outspan magazines and have stuck them on to bits of lino with flour glue. Gabriel makes slits in the box with his penknife, just big enough for the pictures to slide through.
“The b-box is too l-light,” says Gabriel. “C-colleen, fetch a stone.”
I mostly do what they tell me, but not this time.
“I’m not going out in the yard in the dark.”
“I’ll come with you, bangbroek.”
Gabriel holds the torch and shines its beam on me while I dash down the back step and return with a stone.
Then we turn our hands into fists and hold them thumbs uppermost. Gabriel counts. “O-one potato, t-two potato, three p-potato, f-four.”
Desiree is the lucky one – she’s the audience. Gabriel puts the light out. I switch on Daddy’s big silver torch and give it to Gabriel and then I take my place on my haunches beside the shoebox. Gabriel shines the light on the box while I pull the pictures through. Gabriel thinks he is Pottie at the Kritz. He bristles with orders and sudden loud outbursts, using big words and telling us to behave ourselves. Then it’s my turn and I get the same treatment from the usherette and projectionist.
“Interval!”
Gabriel is wearing his snake belt with the bottle-green stripes. The belt hugs his skinny hips, holding up his khaki shorts. He hooks the torch through the loops of his belt, but the torch is too big and it dangles between his legs.
“Mind your balls!” Desiree giggles.
Gabriel blushes.
“L-line up, l-line up!”
Desiree stands in front of me with her palm outstretched. Gabriel fishes for the scoop in the Klim tin, and then lays the fine powder carefully on her outstretched palm. Desiree licks it up.
“My turn!”
We have two scoops each and it’s delicious, although it only lasts a minute. We could go on all night and only the thought of our hungry baby brother stops us, but we can’t resist a final pinch before the lights go out.
After our show they shove me into our bedroom and lock the door.
“Skinny Legs! Human Skeleton! Witch’s Child!”
They warn me that ghosts can walk through walls. Frightened out of my wits, I claw at the door.
“Fowl’s Poephol Mouth. Fowl’s Bum Mouth!”
They make noises like ghosts and by the time they open the door I’m hysterical. My skinny legs have turned to jelly and my mouth is dry. My bum cheeks are clenched together so hard I can’t let go, but they’re not done yet.
“Come see what’s in the bedroom.”
When I push the door open there’s a thud as a thick book lands on my head. At least it’s not a bucket of cold water.
“C-come and s-sit in the kitchen,” says Gabriel.
He pushes the barrel of the air gun against my temple and pulls the trigger, but the gun is too heavy for him and it jerks. The bullet whines as it bounces off the walls, once, twice, three times. I put my hands over my ears. There’s a funny smell in the air and Jackie is crying. Desiree goes to shush him and then there’s silence in the kitchen. Gabriel stands with the gun in his hands.
My legs are trembling but I follow Desiree into the bedroom. She’s got the horseshoe-shaped box from Daddy’s wardrobe. Along with his tiepin, there are starched collars and cufflinks made from coins. Gabriel comes to join us.
“The m-man on the coins is Paul K-Kruger. He’s a p-president from the olden d-days. Daddy says they are r-real gold. O-Oupa gave them to h-him.”
“Look, balloons!”
“Where are the coloured ones?”
“Let’s blow them up.”
“B-better put them back in the b-box before D-daddy gets b-back or you’ll get into t-trouble. W-Wipe the spit off and d-dry them.”
We put the balloons back carefully and lay the Paul Kruger cufflinks on top of them. If Daddy finds we’ve been scratching in his wardrobe, he’ll give us a hiding to remember.
“Where d’you get those?” Desiree asks Erica.
“From my granny.”
“Do they clip on?”
“No, they go through holes.”
“You lie, man! Let’s see your ears.”
It’s true. Erica has holes in her ears, just like the Portuguese girls.
“Did Doctor West make the holes?”
“No, my granny did.”
“Do you think your granny would make holes for me and Colleen?”
Desiree is excited, but my lip is out.
“Don’t be such a bangbroek. Mommy will be happy. How do you think Mommy’s gypsy earrings stay in her ears?”
“I don’t care.”
“Come on, it would cost a lot at Doctor West.”
“After my stitches, I’m not going near him.”
And so, with leaden feet, I approach the Slabber house. The closer we get, the tinier my steps. Desiree shoves me inside. I almost land up right in Granny Slabber’s lap, but quickly retreat to the furthest corner of the room. Granny Slabber has crooked fingers from arthritis and I just hope her aim is straight or my earrings will be lopsided forever more. She sits in her rocking chair next to the coal stove. The room is smoky and smells of boiled cabbage and salted snoek. The Slabbers’ black cat is sitting on the hearth licking her long graceful paws and passing them over her ears. Granny Slabber lights a match and bends over a needle and cork. Maybe she’s really a witch and we’re caught in a trap.
“Who wants to go first?”
Desiree steps forward.
“Tuck your hair behind your ears.”
Granny Slabber places the cork behind Desiree’s earlobe. Desiree shuts her eyes tight. She holds the hot needle in bent fingers and pushes it through. Desiree opens her eyes, her mouth shaped like an O, and races straight for the mirror. Granny Slabber calls her back. Then she does the same to the other ear.
“Who’s next?”
It’s not as though the room is crowded. But I’m not budging an inch and Desiree is embarrassed. She tries to push me forward, but my body is rigid.
“You promised!”
Desiree holds one hand behind my stiff elbow and with her other hand she crushes my fingers in a tight grip. Erica does the same on the other side. My unruly curls won’t stay behind my ears and Granny Slabber has to clip them back with bobby pins. I close my eyes tight and bite on my lip. Before I know it the deed is done. Bits of cotton trail from my ears. My hands fly up to touch my lobes. Erica takes us into her bedroom and I peer into the mirror. I will never wear heavy earrings, because I don’t want my ears to stretch like the Africans whose ears almost touch their knees.
“Don’t forget the Vaseline. Turn the cotton every day. If you don’t, your ears will fester and get stuck to your pillows.”
We are sure to be the envy of the entire neighbourhood. Mommy is going to be so happy. Desiree said so.
“Shush, here she comes!”
We hold the hair away from our faces and grin from one pierced ear to the other.
“What have you two done now?”
“I didn’t, it was Desiree. She said it would make you happy.”
“We have to turn the string around with Vaseline every day.”
I bite my nails at the thought of my ears festering.
“Have we got Vaseline?”
“Ask your father. You know he doesn’t like it if you touch his things.”
Desiree puts her finger to her lips.
But, despite our brave efforts, in the mornin
g we are stuck to the pillows with pus. Mommy gets tired of festering ears.
“If you promise to turn the cotton every day, I promise to lay-by gold earrings at American Swiss.”
Desiree and I hold hands and dance around the kitchen table.
“Gold earrings! Gold earrings! Gold earrings for us!”
We turn the cotton ten times a day.
“They’ll match my golden dress and my silver shoes!”
Finally, we get to slip the gold rings through the holes and gaze in the mirror for hours. Mommy has kept her promise.
“Don’t break a promise to a child,” she always says.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
We’re on our way to Camp Street in Cape Town to visit Aunty Gertruida. We’re looking forward to showing off our new earrings to our half-Greek cousins. I can’t wait to watch the keys on the piano played by a ghost, but first we stop at Grandma’s house to say hello. As we come up Queen Victoria Street we see a big cloud of dust. It’s Grandma furiously shaking her mats over the balcony. She doesn’t even kiss us hello.
“What’s wrong?” Mommy asks, her eyebrows knitted in a frown.
“Come inside and I’ll tell you. At three o’clock, when I lay down for my afternoon nap, I heard a loud thud above my head.”
Grandma sits down heavily on the prickly horsehair armchair.
“I crept up the stairs, pushed open the door and peered inside. Imagine my surprise! Lying on the carpet in a pool of blood was a complete stranger, stone dead!”
“What?” Mommy’s hand flies to her mouth. “You must have got the fright of your life!”
“My hands shook as I phoned the police. She jumped to her death from the top floor of Holyrood Flats. She came straight through the roof and smashed through the ceiling.”
“But … Who? How? Who was she?”
“I still don’t know, but whoever she was, imagine what pain she must have been carrying.” Grandma pauses. Her eyes shoot to us standing wide-eyed in the doorway. “She might even have been carrying a child.”
Desiree and I don’t say a word, but our eyebrows are like question marks. Why would she jump from the building with a child in her arms?