All Things Bright and Broken

by Carol Gibbs

  “Please, Aunty Bubbles, tell us a story!”

  “Let me get my cup.”

  “Spot of brandy in your coffee?” Daddy winks.

  “No thanks, I’ll fall flat on my face!”

  “Come and listen, Gabriel.”

  But Mommy knows Gabriel is getting too big for Aunty Bubbles’s stories, so she saves him. “Gabriel, why don’t you clean up the fowl hok and give the chickens some fresh water?”

  Gabriel loves the fowl run and his pigeon loft. Mommy says it’s his private domain and he escapes there to dream. He talks to the fowls and they come when he calls their names. When he stands on the top step of his pigeon loft and shakes the shiny tin full of mealies, the pigeons wheel above his head and settle all around him. He squats down on his haunches among them, making soft cooing sounds. Sometimes he asks us to hold the pigeons tight while he slips rings on their scaly legs. Gabriel’s friends take the best birds away and race them for a day. So far Gabriel hasn’t won a thing, but he lives in hope.

  “When we were little,” begins Aunty Bubbles, “we lived on the corner of Wandel and Hatfield streets in Cape Town. Your grandpa’s shop was downstairs and we lived upstairs. There were pretty cast-iron railings upstairs on the balcony that came all the way from Scotland.”

  “Aunty Bubbles, were you born above the shop like my mommy?”

  “Yes, and the midwife lived in Schotsche Kloof, but she knew the way so well her pony and trap could have got there on their own.” She stops to draw on her cigarette and breathes smoke through her nose like St George’s dragon.

  “And then?”

  “I got my head stuck!”

  “And then?”

  “No one could get my head out again!”

  “What did they do?”

  “They had to call the fire brigade!”

  “Why, was the house on fire?”

  “No, but the firemen knew what to do.”

  “What did they do?”

  “They put grease on my head and it slipped right through!”

  We’re glad our Aunty Bubbles got her head back or she wouldn’t be here telling us stories and teaching us the jitterbug.

  “Tell us about when I was your flower girl.” Desiree likes that story best, I think.

  She takes a sip of coffee. “I met Uncle Nick when he was in the Royal Navy. We had a grand wedding in St George’s Cathedral. Uncle Nick wore his uniform and your grandma made a beautiful white lace dress for me. She made your dress too, Desiree, from pink water taffeta, with blue beads around the neck, puff sleeves and a long sash that trailed down your back.”

  “Tell about the curling tongs.”

  “The hairdresser had to change your straight hair into a curly mop, like Shirley Temple’s. You loved being at the hairdresser with the grown-up ladies, but you screamed your head off when the hairdresser burned your scalp with the curling tongs.”

  “Tell us about when Desiree danced.”

  “We had the wedding reception upstairs at Wellington Fruit Growers, in Darling Street. It’s a beautiful building with little cherub faces on either side of the door that smile at you. After we cut the cake the Master of Ceremonies cleared the floor and he announced, ‘There’s a special little girl who wants to dance for you!’ I don’t know where Desiree found the courage. She was so little but she seemed to have it all worked out.”

  “How could she tap dance in her long dress?”

  “She changed out of her fairy-tale dress and into a gathered skirt, a gingham blouse, and her tap shoes. She only knew a few steps, but she did them over and over. And then she rocked back on her heels and did cartwheels!”

  “Could you see her broeks?” we giggle.

  “Desiree is oblivious when she dances. She was wonderful.”

  Desiree smiles her dimpled smile and I wish I could be in her tap shoes.

  “Tell us some more!”

  “We were living in Wandel Street when Grandpa died of a bleeding ulcer. He was so kind. He polished our shoes every night. I can see them now, seven pairs all in a row. Your grandma was very brave. She sewed dresses round the clock to make ends meet … But, wait, I’ve got carried away again. I have to help with the lunch.”

  “Please, just tell us about the Outspan!”

  “When I was seventeen I entered a beauty competition and my photograph was in the Outspan magazine.”

  “Show us!”

  We know she carries the picture around in her handbag. And there she is in black and white, looking so pretty with her dark hair piled up.

  “Did you win?”

  “I came second. Now back to work.”

  And Aunty Bubbles, Desiree and I shuffle into the kitchen.

  I balance the egg bowl on my knees and help to shell the peas. Every now and then when no one is looking I pop one into my mouth. The peas are soft between my teeth and they taste sweet. Why are twins like two peas in a pod? Aunty Bubbles’s tanned hands peel the potatoes, and her shiny wedding band catches the light.

  “Why does it say Mary on your wedding ring?”

  “I’m named after Mary Pickford, the famous actress, but my friends call me Bubbles. They say I’m always good for a laugh.”

  The peas are shelled and the potatoes are peeled. The birds’ tummies are stuffed and they’re sewn up like in an operation, with the pope’s noses all lined up. We giggle and pull faces because we know they’re not really noses at all. The smells are delicious and now we wait for the feast.

  “I’ll lay the table!”

  As I lay the mismatched plates, I think of the smashed Castle on the Lake. Daddy and Uncle Nick sit at each end because they are the men and men are heads of the family. Aunty Bubbles and Mommy sit on one side, leaving Gabriel, Desiree and me squeezed in on the other. Jackie’s high chair is pulled up close to Mommy, so she can spoon-feed him.

  “Go call your father and Uncle Nick.”

  The men have been forgiven and we don’t even have to fight over the wishbone. I pull mine with Aunty Bubbles and make my wish. I’m not allowed to tell, or my wish won’t come true. I really want a red bicycle, but I can only make one wish, so I wish with all my heart for my daddy to stop drinking. There are lots of gristly bits for Bessie, but she sits still while we eat. She doesn’t beg, because she’s had a swift foot in the ribs before.

  Finally, Aunty Bubbles pushes her chair away from the table and stands up.

  “Who wants a surprise?”

  At last!

  “A tank for Gabriel, kewpie dolls for you girls and a frog for Jackie!”

  Our kewpie dolls are perfect little chocolate people, with their arms held stiffly by their sides and a big curl on the top of their heads. I want mine to last forever.

  “Go and play for a while so your lunch can settle. And put on the kettle on the way out.”

  Desiree chases me round the yard. I slip and fall and my kewpie doll flies through the air. She loses her head. She’s hollow and I can look right down into her legs.

  “Don’t cry,” says Aunty Bubbles. “I’ll fix her.”

  She tries to melt the chocolate with her silver lighter.

  “Ouch! Does anyone have a match?”

  Gabriel produces his American matches. He poses like Chuck and strikes the match. My kewpie doll has a crick in her neck, but her head’s back on. Jackie holds his chocolate frog and feeds himself, but his aim is not so good. Daddy fetches a face cloth from the bathroom and he comes back with the bottle of brandy from the kitchen.

  “Come on, Bubbles, Nick, have a drop.”

  “Jacob, must you? It’s Sunday!”

  “Oh, Mavis, be quiet.”

  “Have some in your coffee, Nick. There’s nothing like boeretroos for a babbalas.”

  Daddy pours a big drop of brandy into his own coffee. He takes a gulp, pulls a face and makes a funny sound as he swallows it down. “Hair of the dog!”

  Spots, hair of the dog, two peas in a pod. The grown-ups always say they’ll explain it to you later or when y
ou’re older, but they never do.

  “Can we go to Mr Grace?”

  “What about the dishes?”

  “I pass!” says Desiree, quick as a flash.

  Aunty Bubbles comes to our rescue and says she will do the dishes.

  “Please, come with us, Uncle Nick. Mr Grace lets us cut bamboo in his back yard.”

  “I’ll f-f-fetch the saw from the h-hokkie.”

  Mr Grace opens the door wide and he is almost as tall as the bamboo. A breeze has found its way over the mountain and is tugging at our clothes and his wispy white hair.

  “This i-is my Uncle N-N-Nicholas.”

  The men shake hands. Mr Grace’s kind, watery blue eyes smile at us.

  “Help yourselves,” he points to the young bamboo growing in the corner of the yard, the leaves trembling in the breeze.

  Once we’ve cut what we need, Gabriel says, “Now we’ve got bamboo, but we don’t have any tissue paper.”

  Uncle Nick takes a tickey from his trouser pocket.

  “Off you go … Aunty Bubbles and I will wait until you come back.”

  When we reach the babbie shop we push Gabriel to the front and hide behind him, because we’re scared of Brown Balls and Gabriel is big and brave. It’s only when Daddy is drunk that he caves in. The fragile tissue paper in glowing jewel colours lies on the counter.

  “W-what colour sh-shall we choose?”

  “Let’s have Mommy’s favourite colour. Purple!”

  “Don’t crease it.”

  Back home, Gabriel makes a big cross and then cuts a nick in the top of each strut and pulls the string tight to form a diamond shape.

  “H-hold the bamboo s-still while I tie the s-s-string.”

  Now the skeleton of the kite waits for the paper and the tail. Desiree and I mix flour and water and run the messy flour-glue along the string and fold the paper over. Gabriel gets a cloth and wipes off the extra.

  “Don’t lick your fingers! You’ll get worms.”

  In Edna’s space under the sink we find the polishing cloths. I love the sound the cloth makes when Gabriel rips strips down the length to make bows for the tail.

  “L-let’s go!”

  Aunty Bubbles has to run to keep up with us. The breeze is just right for flying a kite. Once we’re on the open field the wind takes the kite up, higher and higher into the wide sky.

  “Please, Gabriel, let me.”

  “N-no. Grown-ups f-first.”

  Aunty Bubbles’s cheeks are pink and her eyes are shining as she squints up at the purple spot in the sky. She’s wearing peep-toe shoes and the breeze whips her polka-dot skirt around her knees, but her hair is still piled up on her head, defying gravity. When I’m big I want to look like her and dress like her, but I don’t think I want to smoke cigarettes and breathe smoke like a dragon. I don’t want to drink spots either, because spots make your legs weak and you have to have a lie-down.

  At last it’s my turn to feel the tug-tugging of the string in my hands as I run in the sun and the kite dives this way and that. When the kite spirals down and hits the ground for the last time, we head for home.

  “Gabriel, you make the best kites in the world.”

  He smiles as Aunty Bubbles pats him on the shoulder.

  When it’s time for them to leave, Uncle Nick runs his finger up and down the columns of the railway timetable. Aunty Bubbles packs her pretty pink Celanese pyjamas.

  “Please, one more story.”

  “Next time.”

  Desiree hopes Aunty Bubbles will forget to pack her record but she doesn’t.

  “Colleen, go find your father.”

  I make my way between the tall sunflowers and the mealies. I see him lying on his back under the pine tree with an empty bottle by his side, his mouth wide open and flies buzzing around him. I shoo the flies away and peer inside his mouth. I can see his tonsils and his little tongue. I shake him, but he doesn’t budge.

  “Uncle Nick, my daddy is dead!”

  “Don’t be daft!” grins Uncle Nick. “He’s just passed out. He’ll live, but he’ll be very thirsty when he wakes up.”

  I don’t know what to say, because sometimes I want my daddy to die, but if it really happened I would cry. Uncle Nick knows about these things, because he’s had alcohol poisoning and he’s sailed the seven seas.

  “I’ll fetch my Box Brownie and take a picture for posterity.”

  “What’s posterity?”

  “It means for always.”

  So all is peace, all is calm. Tonight we will come to no harm.

  When we wake up in the morning Daddy isn’t in his bed. We rush out to find him and he’s still lying under the pine tree. His hands are folded across his chest and there’s dew on his hair. His wet shirt and trousers cling to him and still there’s no budging him.

  “He will wake in his own time,” says Mommy.

  And so we leave him there under the tree like in the Rip van Winkel in the story.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I’m queen for the day and I don’t have to work. No sweeping, no folding of sheets, and no dishes to do, but I’m late again, because I have to grapple with my bootlaces.

  “Shake a leg! We’re going to miss the train.”

  It’s the most exciting day of my life. At long last I am going to choose a new doll from the CTC Bazaars to make up for the beautiful doll that my daddy smashed. We walk to the station, just the two of us, me and Mommy, and I feel so special, queen for the day. We cross the Grand Parade with its pigeons, statues, palm trees, flower sellers and Mr Essop, who sells the best peanuts in the whole world. The building I love most is the City Hall, where I sent secret messages to Princess Margaret. Today the Grand Parade is alive with people. There are men in white coats selling things. People jostle to see the cups and saucers, plates and jugs and shoes. There are rolls of material, records, plants, belts, braces and skollies selling pocket watches. Photographers jump out of their booths, shouting.

  “Two for the price of one!”

  My smile is big, my teeth white.

  “It’s my birthday today.”

  The man blocks Mommy’s path, but she sidesteps him. He cups his hands around his mouth and calls out to her disappearing back.

  “Why don’t I take a photograph for her birthday?”

  She turns around and comes back.

  “How much does it cost?”

  I can’t believe my luck. One for Ouma and one for Grandma.

  “Colleen, listen to the man,” says Mommy. “He will tell you when to smile. I’m going to the knitting-wool stall.”

  I seat my tiny frame in the big chair that looks like a throne. There’s a bamboo table draped in red velvet with a Bible lying on the top. Beside me there’s a fern in a beautiful brass pot. The man tells me to smile when I hear him say, “Watch the birdie.” I wonder what Desiree will say when I show her my photograph taken on the Grand Parade, me, all by myself. The man puts his head under the black cloth.

  “Watch the birdie.”

  He’s too quick. I smile with my teeth still in my mouth, but it doesn’t matter. I’m queen for the day. The clock on the City Hall strikes the hour twelve times and the noon-day gun on Signal Hill makes us jump when it booms in our ears. I hold on tight to Mommy’s hand as we cross Darling Street. Penny whistlers on the street corner play their haunting tunes. I feel sorry for them when the Black Maria comes along to spoil their day. Every step takes us closer to the escalator in the CTC Bazaars.

  “We have to watch our pennies,” warns Mommy as we stand among a sea of dolls, just in case I get wild ideas of choosing a walking doll.

  I walk up and down, up and down the rows of dolls – and then I find her and fall in love. She’s a Wettums doll and she has forget-me-not blue eyes like Mommy’s. She fits into the crook of my arm. I’m going to name her Priscilla. Sitting in the train on the way home, I say the beautiful name over and over and over again. “Priscilla, Priscilla, Priscilla.”

  I carry her just like a re
al baby, all the way from the station. When we get home I run to show Priscilla to Alice and Maureen and anyone else who is home.

  Tonight we are having tripe and trotters. Daddy isn’t home yet, but if he were here he would smack his lips and say pens en pootjies, my favourite! We have sweet potatoes too, and I’m allowed to lick the spoon and get the last sticky bits out of the bottom of the pot. Desiree does a dance for me and sings the birthday song for the hundredth time. Baby Jackie is home from Grandma’s house and he joins in and claps his little hands. He’s sitting in his high chair and Mommy is feeding him.

  Grandma has been spoiling Jackie rotten. She makes him mashed potato, which he calls snow, and she sits for hours making aeroplane sounds as she spoons it into his mouth. When he’s swallowed the last bit, he flings his arms wide and says, “All gone!” and Grandma smiles every time. Black Cat peanut butter is his favourite and he just has to make a noise that sounds like “more” and Grandma rushes to make a fresh sandwich, thick with peanut butter and cut into little squares. It’s not fair. I love him, but I’m jealous because he still gets all the attention.

  After supper, Daddy is still not home, and Mommy looks at her watch and then up at the clock above the stove.

  “Why isn’t your father home yet?”

  We’re sitting in our three-quarter bed, Desiree, Priscilla and me. Desiree is looping wool over nails in a cotton reel, growing her French knitting. My lips tickle from playing a tune to Priscilla on a comb covered in tissue paper. The front door slams and Daddy is home.

  “Just look at the state you’re in. I hope you know it’s your child’s birthday today.”

  “I’ve brought her something.”

  But Mommy isn’t listening any more.

  “I’m just popping next door to borrow a cup of sugar,” she says. And the door slams behind her.

  Desiree, Priscilla and I have the blanket over our noses. Daddy stands at the foot of the bed, holding onto the bed knob, tie askew, battered Battersby hat on his head and a crumpled packet in his hand. He sings ‘Happy Birthday’, bows unsteadily and then hands me the crumpled packet. Inside is a bar of chocolate with a mother bird on the label, feeding hungry baby birds with wide-open beaks, sitting in a nest. Desiree pokes her fingers in my ribs under the blankets.