by Carol Gibbs
He laughs to himself as he takes a slug from the brandy bottle. After supper, Daddy makes coffee and brandy for Uncle Nick and for anyone else passing our tent. I fall asleep with the Tilley lamp hissing in my ears and the loud voices of the men outside our tent.
The next morning the Afrikaans children play Oranges and Lemons with us. At the end of the song, instead of asking if you want to choose King or Queen, like we do at home, they ask Son of Maan? I choose sun because sun is day and sun is warm. Moon means night and chattering teeth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
After Kleinmond and Voortrekker Park, Daddy has been bitten by the camping bug. So we’re no sooner home than Daddy plans our next expedition, to a farm.
“We’re going to visit your father’s friends in Brackenfell.”
“Where’s Brackenfell?”
“Don’t worry about that, just get dressed. You know how impatient your father gets.”
We are wild with excitement because we have never been to a farm before. Before I’m allowed into the van I have to open wide and swallow Jamaica Ginger. The ginger will help settle my tummy, says Mommy. It’s a long time on the road, and she doesn’t want me getting car sick.
“I’ve packed a bottle of ginger beer too,” Mommy tells me. “Just in case.”
Desiree will complain of a sore tummy before we’ve even left Third Avenue, just so she can have some of my ginger beer.
“Tell me if you feel you’re going to vomit,” says Mommy. “Not like last time!”
The last time I got sick in Desiree’s lap. Now she treats me like someone with leprosy from Robben Island. My stomach is queasy, but by the time we get past Bellville Station I feel much better. Our voices fill the back of the van, but we don’t sing too loudly because we don’t want to upset Daddy.
The farmer takes a wife,
The farmer takes a wife,
Heigh ho, the derry-oh,
The farmer takes a wife!
But we upset Gabriel “Sh-shut the h-hell up! Y-you’re g-getting on my n-nerves.”
We don’t like it when Gabriel is upset so we fall silent. Just past Boompies Farm, Daddy stops for petrol. He fills the van at the garage with the big tin sign of a flying red horse. Gabriel spreads his arms in the cramped back of the van, dipping his wings this way and that, chanting softly over and over and over, until we’re nearly off our heads.
“R-ry met die r-rooi perd, r-ry met die r-r-rooi perd … R-r-ride with the r-red horse, ride with the r-red horse.” We’re about to leave the garage when Daddy explodes. “He hasn’t screwed the blerrie petrol cap on properly.”
Mommy shifts in her seat because it makes her uncomfortable when Daddy gets cross. “Jacob, isn’t Brackenfell the other way?”
“Don’t interfere with the driver.”
Gabriel is still chanting. “R-ride with the r-red horse, r-r-ride with the r-red horse. Ry m-met die r-rooi perd, ry m-met die r-rooi perd …”
Daddy won’t own up that we are lost. It’s a long time before we find the turning into the farmer’s yard.
The farmer’s wife waves her arms like a windmill. Her husband has his arm around her waist and he’s sucking on his pipe. They look so happy with their chickens pecking at their feet and two big black dogs barking and wagging their long fan-like tails. Before Daddy even turns the engine off, the farmer’s wife runs towards us, wearing a big smile.
“I bet they never get visitors,” says Mommy. “This place is the back of beyond.”
We call them Mr and Mrs Van Aswegen as we’ve been taught, but they will have none of it.
“A-nee-a,” says the farmer’s wife, “that’s an English idea. Call us Oom and Tannie, that’s good enough for us.”
The oom and tannie take us for a walk. They show us their dairy herd and the milking sheds, and then we walk past a tiny graveyard. Sitting in the sun on a blue bench against a whitewashed wall are three old coloured ladies in faded dresses. Desiree asks Gabriel if they’re practising for their finals and the grown-ups laugh. There are lots of pig lilies growing on the bank of the vlei.
“Why are they called pig lilies?”
“They are actually called arum lilies,” says Mommy, “but in the olden days they fed them to the pigs.”
“We still do,” says the oom.
Desiree and I tuck our dresses into our broeks and wade across the stream. Daddy has the Box Brownie at the ready and he takes snaps of us posing with big bunches of lilies in our arms, and baby Jackie paddling without his shoes on, wearing his white romper smocked in red.
Back at the farmhouse the ladies drink coffee and eat beskuit and make polite conversation.
“Next time you come and visit, I’ll make you some waterblommetjiebredie. I guarantee you’ll never forget the taste.”
The men are drinking vaaljapie wine from a big glass jug and eating biltong.
“Joos, I’m telling you,” says the tannie loudly, “add some water! Soon this man will be dronk, and he must still drive his family home.”
But the two men go on sending the undiluted golden liquid down their throats. Daddy doesn’t protest and soon he will be blotto again.
Chained to a pole in the yard is a baboon.
“He’s a full-grown m-male and his n-name is A-a-absolom.”
The servant girl says we can feed him potato peels.
“Oppas, stand far away,” she warns us. “He’s fast and his teeth are big.”
She points to her own eyeteeth on either side of a big gap. Carefully I hold out peels, but before I know what’s happening, Absolom grabs me around the waist and drags me, screaming, across the rough ground to his pole. He sinks his teeth into my side. Gabriel runs the wrong way, away from the farmhouse. Desiree runs into the lounge, screaming.
“Absolom, Absolom, what are you doing? Allemagtig, wat maak jy?”
The oom wraps the chain around Absolom’s body so I can wriggle free. Hysterical, I run as fast as my skinny legs can carry me, right into my mommy’s arms. The bite in my side hurts and I have scratches on my legs and my back. The tannie gives me sugar water and helps Mommy bathe my wounds. When I’ve calmed down, I’m allowed to sit in the straight-backed chair in the lounge, feeling sorry for myself. The sun is sinking behind the koppie and turning the trunks of the bluegum trees pink and still the farmer fills my daddy’s glass with golden vaaljapie. Every time the oom fills Daddy’s glass he says, “Sit murg in jou pype – puts marrow in your bones”, and without fail the tannie adds, “I keep on saying, add some water.”
“Please, Jacob, can we go home? Colleen isn’t feeling well.”
But Daddy won’t budge because he and the oom are talking about the Boer War. “Our courage and determination are legendary. Our Boer forefathers were heroes. And what about the concentration camps and the scorched-earth policy? I don’t suppose the blerrie English will ever apologise for that! Jacob Le Seuer doesn’t mince his words. I would have told Kitchener his fortune! Boggers!”
“Time to smoke a pipe before we have a heart attack over the blerrie English,” says the oom, and he brings out the biggest jar of tobacco I’ve ever seen and he shoves a pipe in my daddy’s hand. “Present! Mind you, there are a few good English. What about Churchill?”
The oom pulls his shoulders back and recites parts of Churchill’s speech.
“Let’s drink to General Joubert, Scheepers and the rest of them.”
“Loopdop,” mutters Daddy.
Thank heavens! Last drink!
Baby Jackie is fast asleep on the worn-out lino with a cushion from the lounge couch under his head. Daddy’s legs don’t go the way he wants them to. He stands up and then sits down again all at the same time. He fumbles in his trouser pocket for the keys.
“I’ve been telling you all day, voeg ’n bietjie water by, but you buggers don’t listen to me.”
“You’re talking rubbish, woman! Jy praat mos gek,” says her husband, laughing. “We’re not drinking brandy. I’ve been doing the drinking and you’re drunk!�
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“And I’m mad as a hatter and far from home. Maar wag, it sounds better in Afrikaans. En ek’s hoogs bedonnered en ver van die huis!”
We climb into the van and Desiree plants kisses against the glass of the porthole window. The tannie laughs and the oom blows his nose loudly on a limp rag he drags out of his pocket. Then he lifts it, contents and all, and waves goodbye. He slaps Daddy on the back through the open window. “Kom veilig tuis,” he says, suddenly serious. “Get home safely.”
“Totsiens tot weersiens,” shouts the tannie. “Goodbye until next time.”
“You won’t catch me here again,” mutters Mommy.
Daddy starts the engine and we wind our way past the vlei, the milking sheds and the graveyard, until the lights of the van pick out the main road. Mommy is holding Jackie on her lap, but her fists are bunched up. “Jacob, stop the van. You’re going to crash. I’d rather go by bus and get home in one piece.”
“I’ve driven in a worse condition than this, but please yourself.”
We tumble out of the van in Voortrekker Road in Bellville and Daddy slams the door behind us. I’m tired and hungry and sore. Will my daddy ever get home? I watch his navy-blue van weaving in and out of the traffic until the taillights blur. We cling to Mommy’s skirt as she looks for the right bus stop.
“Is everyone on strike?”
At last the bus drops us and we wait at Maitland Station for the train to take us home. Jackie clings to Gabriel, his arms wrapped around his neck as he abbas him all the way home. Mommy is glad to have all her chickens around her, more or less unscathed, except for me with a bite in my side and scratches on my body. When we get home Daddy is already fast asleep in bed. So much for our first farm outing. I would rather stay with Smuts in his hokkie where it’s safe and warm and listen to stories of the Xhosa chiefs, instead of listening to a history lesson in Afrikaans with swear words. In the morning we see the van parked on the field wheel-deep in the grass.
“You see! We could all have been dead!”
Tomorrow we have news time at school. I will tell the class about the baboon bite and the journey home. There’s not a single child in my class who has more interesting news. They usually say, my mommy baked a cake or my daddy took me fishing. They lead calm lives where everything works like clockwork. Ordinary children have their breakfast, go to school and then, when they’ve done their homework and it’s time for bed, their daddy pats them on their heads and tucks them into bed, reads them a story and kisses them good night. I could keep the class entertained forever, but I’d better leave the swear words out.
We’ve been eyeing the brown paper bag on top of the kitchen dresser for a week, but we dare not touch it. With Edna’s help it stays put.
“Jy vat nie aan ’n ander man se goed nie,” Daddy taught us. You never touch other people’s possessions.
It’s for a special occasion. Gabriel marks the date on the calendar, May the thirty-first, nineteen hundred and fifty, because we may have a South African world-champion boxer. Mr Finneran talks endlessly about the fight and all the neighbours are taking bets. South Africa already has one world champion. Bobby Locke won the British Open Golf Competition last year and Aunty Dolly was not happy. For once we don’t care what Aunty Dolly thinks. We hope Mr Toweel wins. Our homework is done and Mommy says we can stay up late and listen to the fight, because it would be a shame if we missed this important occasion.
Desiree is turning the handle of the mincing machine.
“Watch out for stray fingers. Remember what happened to Maureen!”
As she turns the handle the worms come out of the little holes at the back and plop onto the plate. Mommy chops onions to mix with the mince, egg, flour and salt. She shapes the meatballs between her palms and fries them until they’re golden brown.
“If you want to stay and listen, be quiet while the commentator’s talking! That’s an order!” Daddy warns us.
Quiet as mice, we gather round the valve radio, waiting. Daddy turns the brown knob and the red light comes on. Then the speaker crackles and whooshes.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we come to you live from Wembley Stadium in Johannesburg. This is the first time a South African has been a contender for the world bantamweight boxing title.”
The crowd explodes in a frenzy of wolf whistles and stomping feet, singing ‘Sarie Marais’ as Vic Toweel steps into the ring. We sing along.
My Sarie Marais …
The voices lift as they start the stirring chorus.
Mommy says ‘Sarie Marais’ is almost like the Transvaal’s own national anthem. When the noise dies down the announcer continues.
“In this corner we have our own Victor Toweel, Bantamweight Champion of South Africa. In the far corner, all the way from Mexico, we have Manuel Ortiz, the Bantamweight Champion of the World. May the best man win!”
The bell rings.
“Round one.”
The fight’s on. The Finnerans’ front door is wide open and we can hear their radio echoing ‘Round one’. Daddy is on his feet, shadow boxing, and he hasn’t even had a drink. If Vic Toweel wins he will bring out the brandy, of that we can be sure. Gabriel whispers that maybe we should be shouting for Mr Ortiz if we want to get some sleep. Nothing exciting happens until the eighth round, but then all hell breaks loose.
“Ortiz is throwing punches that are landing like bricks in Toweel’s face!”
“T-toweel better p-pull up his s-socks.”
“Shush!”
“Round nine. Box on.”
“Sounds like Toweel is in pain.”
“That was the end of the ninth round.”
We forget to finish our peanuts. What’s left of them stands in the brown paper packet on the table in the middle of the lounge.
“Toweel has an injured ear and his nose is swollen out of shape, but Ortiz seems to be weakening. Toweel is faster on his feet.”
“Round ten.”
Mr Toweel lasts the fifteen rounds. There’s total silence, then the man announces:
“Ladies and gentleman we have a new world champion.”
Mommy and Daddy hug and we dance round and round.
“Toweel won on points,” says Daddy.
“Here at Wembley Stadium there’s pandemonium. Papa Toweel, Vic’s father, is battling to get to his victorious son’s side. It’s bedlam as photographers crowd into the ring. Toweel is being lifted onto his trainer’s shoulders and he’s acknowledging the huge crowd.”
Gabriel opens the lounge window and shouts out to anyone within earshot. “Hooray! S-south A-a-africa won!”
Mr Vic Toweel sounds out of breath as he speaks. “This was the toughest fight of my life. I am only sorry my late mother was not alive to see me win the world title.”
“Vic Toweel is sure to go to church tomorrow to give thanks to the saints,” says Mommy. “He’s a devout Catholic.”
Daddy heads straight for the brandy. He pours a double and lifts his glass high in front of the radio. “To the first South African World Champion!” He downs his drink in one gulp.
“This plucky little man deserves another toast. When last did we have such a wonderful boxer in our midst?”
“C-c-curses on Mr T-t-toweel,” mutters Gabriel.
Many ‘cheers’ later, Mommy wants to make him a cup of black coffee to sober him up.
“Are you accusing me of being drunk?”
Daddy picks Jackie’s high chair up and flings it across the room. The hooks come apart as the chair slams against the wall and the high chair collapses and clatters to the floor. The enamel soup ladle flies from the nail beside the stove and leaves Ouma’s shrivelled orange peel swinging crazily. Mommy is filling the sugar basin from a two-pound bag of sugar and just for good measure he grabs the bag and empties it over her head. Mommy stands motionless, an upside-down cone of sugar on her head, like a dunce’s hat.
Daddy gives the cup a shove and black coffee spills onto the tablecloth. He glares at us.
“What are you
lot looking at? Go to bed.”
Mommy circles carefully around the back of his chair. She heads for the bathroom, shedding sugar all the way. We slink into our room, take off our clothes and get into bed, but we can’t sleep until we know our mommy is safe.
The Globe chair scrapes on the lino as Daddy gets up and heads for the lounge. We lie wide-eyed in the dark, listening to the strains of Benny Goodman’s band, but Daddy doesn’t play with the volume and distort the sound the way he usually does.
“He’s s-sitting in the ch-chair s-smoking his p-pipe.”
We hear Mommy cross the kitchen floor and then close the bedroom door. I search for Desiree’s hand in the dark and it’s a long time before we fall asleep.
Jackie grows into a beautiful child. We all love him so much he can do nothing wrong. Gabriel carries Jackie on his hip. He loops his skinny arms around Jackie’s waist and laces his fingers, holding him tight against his body. If Jackie slips, Gabriel hitches him up with a swift shift of his hips. Gabriel’s friends call him a sissy for looking after his baby brother, but he doesn’t take any notice of them.
It’s Sunday and Daddy’s brother, Uncle Johan, is coming to visit. That doesn’t happen very often because my daddy is the black sheep of the family and we never see much of the others. Uncle Johan’s wife can’t have more children and they only have one child, a girl. Daddy says Uncle Johan is envious because he wants a son to carry on his name and his thriving business.
Mommy is up early, scrubbing and polishing. “Keep an eye on Jackie for me.”
I forget to do my job. Jackie smears his number two into his clothes, and into his dark damp curls.
“Colleen, what did I ask you to do? Jackie’s dirtied himself all over.”
“I’ll help bath him.”
I blow bubbles for Jackie while Desiree sings. The bubbles float above Jackie’s head and he tries to catch them with his poo hands. After a good scrub, we dress him in his Sunday best. Gabriel carries Jackie over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and sets him down in the yard. He toddles around on his newly found legs, enjoying the feel of the springy green grass under his clean white feet.