by Carol Gibbs
“Watch Jackie while I make breakfast,” calls Mommy.
I stand in the kitchen doorway, keeping half an eye on Jackie while Mommy fries eggs. Daddy is on his back under the van. He appears frowning, a metal part in his hand and grease on his forehead. He is intent on soldering the broken part, which he cleans with spirits of salts. He leaves the open bottle standing on the ground beside the van. Jackie discovers it and takes a sip. After that the events are a blur of Jackie screaming, me screaming, Mommy screaming, and then Doctor West coming.
“Why didn’t you watch him?” Daddy is cross.
The ambulance screeches to a halt and the men take Jackie away with Mommy and Daddy in tow.
“He has to go to hospital to have his stomach pumped.”
An hour later a car draws to a halt outside and Uncle Johan’s six-foot frame fills our front door, stiffly dressed in his Sunday best. A gold watch chain dangles from his waistcoat pocket and his tiepin has a red stone set in gold. It looks like a ruby on the turban of an eastern king. Steaming up our path after him is his wife, who Mommy calls the ‘high-and-mighty Aunty Alida’ or ‘that towering woman with the frighteningly large bosom’. Mommy also says that Aunty Alida thinks she pees eau de cologne. Dressed in a black-and-white checked dress and a red hat, she comes to a standstill beside Uncle Johan, clutching a bunch of white chrysanthemums in her pale fleshy fist. Aunty Alida is also holding our cousin Madeleine’s hand as though her life depends on it. Mommy says Aunty Alida is afraid our circumstances are going to rub off on her. Uncle Johan was meant to take Mommy to the party in Parow all those years ago, but he couldn’t make it so Daddy took his place. If she had married Uncle Johan, we would have been the ones who owned a block of flats. I don’t know how we would have joined all our names to name the block of flats, but that’s the least of our worries right now. We know Uncle Johan and Aunty Alida didn’t make the effort to come to Jackie’s christening, but Daddy says their curiosity has got the better of them.
Gabriel steps forward and shakes hands and Desiree and I soengroet them.
“C-come inside.”
They sit down in our humble lounge on our old-fashioned chairs.
“Tell your father his sister Gertruida is coming to visit next week.” We are surprised because we know Daddy is the black sheep.
Because he’s nervous, Gabriel puts the one-bar heater on although it’s not that cold. Desiree puts the kettle on for tea. I stare shyly at my girl cousin, who’s the same age as me. I wonder if she knows I could have been her. She’s wearing a beautiful blue dress with a lace bodice and a pretty hat on her head. She has a special pink fluffy dog with a zip in its back and the dog lies on her bed and keeps her pyjamas safe. They live in a posh house in Kuils River with lots of rooms and servants by the dozen. Their block of flats is in Station Road in Bellville and is called Malinda. We’ve never seen their house or their block of flats, because we’ve never been invited, but our cousins who are in favour tell us how posh they are.
“We’ve come to see Jacob. Where are your parents?”
“They’ve taken Jackie to the hospital,” says Desiree.
“Jackie? A-nee-a!” says Uncle Johan. “A boy must always have his father’s name.”
Stuttering, Gabriel explains why we call him Jackie and why they’ve gone to hospital. Aunty Alida shakes her head.
“Haai, shame!” she repeats, pursing her thick lips, until she gets on our nerves.
Desiree rushes to the bedroom to fetch the snaps. Aunty Alida peers at them.
“Ag my moeder! Look, Madeleine, he’s beautiful. For your mother and the baby,” she says, thrusting the white chrysanthemums at Desiree, and then, just like that, they’re gone. The biscuits set aside for their tea don’t last long.
Mommy and Daddy are taking a long time at the hospital and we’re bored.
“C-come o-outside, and I’ll show y-you magic!”
“Come on, old Skinny Legs, what you waiting for?”
“A-a-abra, c-cadabra!” With a grand flourish Gabriel lights a match and holds it to a patch of sand. The sand burns brightly. We can’t believe our eyes.
“Please, Gabriel,” Desiree pleads, “show us how you do it!”
“I c-can’t tell y-y-you my s-secret,” smirks Gabriel. “I’m going to be a m-magician when I grow up.”
“Do it again!”
“Only if you k-keep your eyes c-closed.”
We crook and peep as he fetches a bottle from the hokkie, unscrews the top and pours the liquid onto the sand. He repeats his trick. We clap and clap and then he turns his back and walks inside. Desiree is not sure what we’re looking for, but she soon twigs. She grabs the bottle of methylated spirits and pours it straight on to the workbench. All it needs is a match and whoosh! We run for our lives. I’m hysterical because my rag doll, Bimbo, is inside the burning hokkie. Gabriel fixes the hose to the tap and douses the flames as best as he can.
When Daddy comes storming in from the hospital he gives us a hiding to remember. We won’t be able to sit for a week and this time we deserve it.
I can’t sleep, because my bum is burning and I can still see the orange flames licking at the hokkie door. Above our bed there’s a picture, nicely coloured in, of three children playing on a bridge. The water gushes underneath. There are two angels holding hands, standing on the clouds above the children’s heads. I hope there’s a picture of angels above Jackie’s hospital bed. I hope the angels are kissing him better and looking after my precious baby brother.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
There was a little girl who had a little curl.
My hair is swept up in a big roll on top of my head. The Nestol was bought specially for Desiree, but Mommy uses up the tube on my hair.
“Sit still,” says Mommy. “We can’t waste good money.”
It costs three and six and it has a funny smell.
Use Nestol and the curls will come.
Her hair was straight,
Now admired by all.
But Desiree’s hair stays straight. Nothing helps.
“It’s not fair,” says Desiree. “You’ve got curls already. Your hair will look worse than a coir mattress explosion.”
My daddy has enough wavy dark hair for six people and Mommy says he looks like Beethoven. She says Gabriel and Jackie will never go bald either. Mommy has the most beautiful hair of all, thick and blonde with a natural curl.
I’m jammed between my cousins in the back seat of Mr Anderson’s car, the smell of the Nestol still in my nostrils. We’re all blowing spit bubbles except for Andrew. He’s picking his nose and eating what he finds. We’re on our way to Tokai Forest for the Sunday school picnic. It takes a long time in the stuffy car, but the memory of last year’s Sunday school picnic keeps me going, along with thoughts of homemade ginger beer and Mommy’s sandwiches. The farm butter is salty, the tomatoes are juicy and the cheese is sweet. Mrs Bells gave the church eggs for nothing and Mommy hardboiled them. Gabriel bashed them on our heads to crack the shells and made us smile.
“Boiled e-eggs smell like f-farts.”
Jackie is home again and he’s better. He is with us today but Gabriel and Daddy are stuck in someone’s roof in the heat doing a private job, pulling wires through pipes to make extra money. Gabriel is growing fast and he eats like a horse. Mommy makes sure he has a custard pie waiting for him and some Sunday school picnic sandwiches.
Excited children spill out of cars and run in circles, making dust devils in the sunlight.
“Look! There’s a river and big trees to climb.”
“Here’s where we are going to run our races.”
“Come back and help! Carry the rug and the Thermos flask.”
It’s funny to see Mr Anderson and the minister with their trousers rolled up, paddling in the stream. They are like gods to us in the church when they pray with their eyes tightly shut, hands held up in benediction. It’s a pity Gabriel’s not here, because he’s good at the egg-and-spoon race and he always comes f
irst. Desiree usually wins the sack race because she knows how to tuck her toes into the corners. I hop like a bunny, but my weak ankles buckle and hold me back.
The men dig in for the tug o’ war. Mr Anderson and the minister have their sleeves rolled up and they mean business. With sweaty faces as red as their armbands, they pull on the rope for dear life, feet slipping, tugging this way and that, until the green team run out of steam. The children dance with glee because their favourite, Mr Anderson, is in the winning team.
I beg Desiree to be my partner in the three-legged race.
“Okay, but then listen carefully for the start and don’t hold me back.”
Desiree bends down and ties the piece of cloth tightly around our ankles and then slips her arm around my waist. I put mine around hers and now we’re united against the world. I think of the time the train nearly rode over my head and how she saved my life. It makes me feel warm inside.
“On your marks, get set, go!”
We’re in perfect step, Desiree and me, but I don’t know if I’ll make it. Desiree’s straight hair is streaming away from her face and my mattress-explosion Nestol curls bounce to the rhythm of our feet. Desiree’s breath is coming hard.
“Faster, faster!”
Somehow I keep going. Desiree drags me across the finishing line and we win. She flings her arms around me and, with our legs still tied together, we do a jig. I fall over in the dust and gaze at the umbrella pines and the open sky. I can’t believe my luck. In my heart, I know it’s Desiree who won the race for us, but I can’t wipe the smile off my face.
“Hip-hip, hooray for the Le Seuer family!”
And then it’s the mothers’ race. The mothers joke and laugh as if it doesn’t really matter who wins, but they don’t mean it. We know our mommy wants to be first for us. She puts her foot on the line and strains forward, hands clenched in fists at her sides. Her blonde hair is tied back with a ribbon. Her skirt is tucked into the elastic of her broeks and her feet are bare. Her legs are thin, but I know how fast they move when my daddy chases her round the house. She gets lots of practice.
“On your marks …” My heart is in my mouth. “Get set …” I want to wet myself.
“Go!”
“Run, Mommy, run, run, run!”
I hardly recognise my own voice. Desiree runs beside her on the outside of the track. Mommy is coming third but then … then she finds new energy and she passes Mrs Haroldson.
“Run, Mommy, run!”
And then Mommy does the impossible. She passes Mrs Anderson, the fastest mother runner in the world! She crosses the finishing line, long legs and skirts flying. I’m wild with excitement, but my head is throbbing and my tears flow.
“What’s wrong?” asks Mr Anderson, smiling. “Your mommy won the race fair and square. She even patted the losers on the back. You’ve got nothing to cry about. Your mommy beat my wife and I’m not crying!”
But I have lots to cry about. As my mommy’s feet were racing across the track I had other pictures in my head, pictures of Mommy tearing around our Doll’s House, white flesh in the moonlight, wearing nothing but Dinky curlers and her birthday suit, with Daddy in hot pursuit. He doesn’t seem to hear our pleas or hers. Sometimes he trips over the long green snake of the hosepipe and our screams turn to wild applause.
“Come on, dry your tears! Buck up! How about some watermelon?”
“Yes, please, Mr Anderson.”
There’s silence in the back of the car on the way home. Susan’s head is resting on my shoulder, her coir mattress explosion tickling my skin. My sunburn is itchy and my feet are the colour of coal dust, but my tummy is full. Mrs Anderson is droning on about the leftovers. “There’s not an awful lot left, but shouldn’t we stop at Mossienes on the way back?”
The sun is going down and we’re struggling to stay awake. I bet my cousin Andy Pandy half a crown – half a crown that I haven’t got – that I can stay awake longer than he can. No one ever wins because I can never remember getting home and neither can he. It’s so easy to fall asleep when you’re tired and your legs feel like lead. Your head starts to wobble and then your neck flops over like the dead bantams. I’m tired, but happy at winning the three-legged race with Desiree. I’m glad my mommy won with her long legs and her flying skirts. This time next year we will be one year older. The Sunday school picnic will come around like clockwork and we’ll do it all again. Until then we will try to keep our noses clean.
It’s late at night and Daddy is having a fight with Mommy. He stops long enough to fetch a bottle of brandy from the kitchen. He unscrews the top, pours himself a big dop and downs it in one gulp. Then he takes a long draw on his cigarette and flicks ash into the overflowing ashtray. The front door flies open and Mr Selbourne steps in. Behind him is Roger, wearing his first pair of long pants, chest out, shoulders back and drawn to his full height, trying to be brave.
“You’re keeping the whole neighbourhood awake!” Mr Selbourne spits out. “We’re tired of your goings-on. Heaven knows, we’ve all been patient enough. You’re a bloody maniac!”
“Hokaai! Stop right there!” Daddy stumbles forward, finger wagging. “Who invited you in and who asked your opinion? Get out of my house or I’ll call the police.”
“You’ve got the cheek of a café fly!”
“Balls to you!”
“The police should put you in chookie ’til you come to your senses.”
“I told you … get out of my house.”
“Look at your quivering children! And what has your poor wife ever done to deserve this kind of treatment?”
Mommy stands to one side with Desiree and me beside her, clutching each other’s hands. Gabriel is nowhere to be seen. No one has ever been brave enough to stand up to our daddy before, especially not in his own house. Mr Selbourne picks up the bottle of brandy and walks onto the stoep, with Roger dodging past Daddy. Daddy follows and lunges forward to grab the bottle, but Mr Selbourne holds it high above his head. For just a second the bottle seems to be suspended and then Mr Selbourne brings it down with all his might. The sound of shattering glass sends shockwaves around the neighbourhood and for a moment there’s silence. Then Daddy starts shouting and swearing, the veins in his neck throbbing and his eyes bulging. Mr Selbourne marches down the path, Roger running by his side.
“I’m going to call the police and I hope they show you no mercy. May you rot in hell!”
“Jou voet in ’n visblik.”
Daddy staggers down the path after him, then tries to make peace. “Don’t be stupid, Selbourne! Come and have a drink. Steek ’n dop!”
“Not if you were the last man on earth,” retorts Mr Selbourne.
“Jou hol, man!” shouts Daddy. “Your English arse!”
Not fifteen minutes later, Gabriel appears from behind the plumbago bush, just as the Black Maria arrives with a screech of tyres, but Daddy is long gone.
“He’s gone to the Lansdowne Hotel,” Mommy tells the police, “to find more booze.”
The smell of brandy is all around us and there are glass shards everywhere. Bits of label cling to the broken bottle and the golden drops bead on the red polished stoep. It’s Gabriel’s job to clean up.
“But don’t cut yourself!” warns Mommy.
Aunty Dolly comes from across the street.
“I heard the racket. I’m not surprised at Mr Selbourne, though. He’s a fearless Brit.” Then she says those familiar magic words. “Come along. Who knows what could happen?”
I’m shivering and my tears are coming.
“There, there,” she says gently and she holds me against her hip.
And so we traipse across the road again. I lie awake in the converted garage, gazing at the familiar outline of the queen stove. The sweet perfume of moonflowers washes over me. The brandy and milk have worked their magic and I have a warm feeling in my stomach. My hand supports Priscilla’s head so she can see out of the window and I sing to her.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
>
Priscilla is my friend and I cling to her when I’m afraid of the dark. I feel to see if her arm’s still in its socket. Sometimes the elastic band slips out and then I have to fiddle with a knitting needle to hook her arms back in again. The dying embers in the stove glow in the dark and I watch it with wide eyes. I see Mr Selbourne holding the brandy bottle high above his head. I wince as I remember the bottle crashing on our stoep. Mr Selbourne will be my hero forever, like Superman in the comics. I wonder where my daddy is. I run my finger over Priscilla’s lips. Her mouth is rough and breaking up from drinking water from a bottle. Mommy says it’s because she’s made of compressed sawdust. I decide her days of wetting are over, or she may disintegrate altogether. Suddenly my eyelids are heavy and I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.
I’m sitting flat on the floor getting dressed, but I haven’t got my broeks on yet. Bessie is getting on in years and we have a new fox terrier puppy called Toby. Toby nuzzles between my legs. It tickles and gives me the giggles. I have to leave the soft warm puppy behind because I’m late for school. With the sound of the bell in my ears I race through the gates. Alice beckons me to her side, and we bow our heads and close our eyes.
“Lord, grant us this day to grow in faith,” prays Mr Benade, our principal. “Bless our land, her people and our children every one.”
I peep at Alice. Her eyes are shut tight, magnified behind her bottle-bottom glasses. I can’t keep my eyes closed and I know I will be punished because it’s a big sin to open your eyes when you’re praying.
“Bless us all. Amen, amen,” Mr Benade clears his throat. “Today, children, it is with sadness that we say goodbye to a fine leader and a great statesman, a man who has left a legacy of fairness.”