by Carol Gibbs
Salt, mustard, vinegar, pepper!
Salt, mustard, vinegar, pepper!
Red Rover, Red Rover, turn the rope over!
Salt, mustard, vinegar, pepper!
When Daddy comes home from work he loosens his tie and his collar stud and then reaches to the back of his neck to take his collar off. Mommy tells him about the ambulance coming to our street.
“Arme skepsel. Poor soul had a touch of the tar brush, that’s why she ended her life. Who’d want her as a wife?”
“Jacob, don’t be so harsh.”
“Her father’s the nigger in the woodpile, if you’ll pardon the pun. You can’t just pretend to be colourblind.”
“I feel so sorry for her mother.”
“With a name like Beelders, what d’you expect? You’re bound to have a black arse, end of subject.”
Sylvia addressed her suicide note to her father. Mrs Selbourne told us. Sylvia couldn’t live with herself because of her one-coffee-one-milk skin, especially being in love with Patrick, a white boy. She imagined the future and the colour of their children. We hope Edna doesn’t have thoughts of killing herself, but we don’t think so, because Edna with her blue eyes could easily try for white, take the Kimberley Train and disappear off the face of the earth. Aunty Dolly says the Kimberley Train is the saddest thing in the world, because once try-for-whites climb aboard, their families never see them again.
Aunty Ruby says it’s wicked and it’s called apartheid. “Who do this government think they are? Upsetting people’s lives and making them second-class citizens?”
The whole neighbourhood is in mourning.
“This is a barbaric country we live in!” says Aunty Dolly, her stiff upper lip quivering, when she and Mommy come home from the funeral. “What difference does it make, black or white? When are the people in this country going to realise how precious life is? Where will it all end?”
Mommy decides that we are ready for some social activity. The closest Girl Guide troop meets in Mowbray, headed by a spinster with big titties that hang to her waist. They get in the way when she teaches me to tie knots. I have to pass the test, so I can earn a badge to sew on my very empty sleeve, but I prefer Kim’s Game and I get nearly full marks. You have to remember objects placed on a tray, but the grown-ups say they’re not surprised because I have an extraordinary memory. That’s what they say: extraordinary.
I practise the Girl Guide vow over and over. “I promise that I will to do my best to love my God, to serve my Country, to help other people and to keep the Guide Law.”
It’s such a serious business I almost feel I should say amen at the end. I love Girl Guides. It makes me feel as though I belong and I’m proud of my blue uniform with the shiny brass trefoil. Sitting round a campfire at night is the best fun, singing in the round. The troop leader tells us a story about a horse and we do all the actions.
“Pound your chests to imitate the gallop of a horse. There he goes, over the bridge. Rub your palms together and you can hear the sound of dry grass as the horse makes his way across the veld.”
Because we are always late, we go to Girl Guides by bus instead of walking, but getting home is a different matter. On the way home, cheeks bulging with bus-money sweets, we make our way through the forest of tall umbrella pines. There are the distant sounds of buses and trains and guinea fowl chattering in trees. We pluck up all our courage to step into the vast forest. Mommy says the angels hover above our heads, protecting us. I believe her, but just to make sure, I swing my Girl Guide belt furiously above my head in circles. The buckle glints in the dappled sunlight and whistles around my ears, whipping pine cones from low overhanging branches. We get to the Liesbeeck River and wade through, our shoes held above our heads. God help us if we slip, because we will have to dry our shoes in front of the heater or in the oven, and that makes the tongues curl.
We are sitting in the classroom quiet as mice listening to Mrs Findlay telling us a story.
“Rachel de Beer and her little brother were lost in the veld. It was bitterly cold and there was snow on the ground,” Mrs Findlay clears her throat.
I put my hand up because I remember the snow-covered cottage on the Christmas card Uncle Nick sent us. “Cold, like in England?”
“In some parts of the country it can get every bit as cold as England. Rachel’s little brother was shivering and his teeth were chattering. She held him tightly in her arms and tried to keep him warm, but it didn’t help.”
Ben’s younger brother Luke puts up his hand. “My father is in the navy and he says they light a flare if they’re in any kind of danger.”
“She didn’t have a flare with her.” Mrs Findlay continues, “Rachel knew they had to stay where they were in case a search party came looking for them, but she couldn’t think how to keep her brother warm. Then her eyes lit on an ant heap. With her bare hands she hollowed out a space and put him inside. Then she blocked the entrance with her body. The next morning the search party found them. Rachel de Beer was frozen in that same position, still protecting her little brother. He was warm and safe, but she was dead.”
Tears fill my eyes. I look at Alice. She has tears too.
“Rachel de Beer became a folk hero because of her unselfish deed.”
I sniff and wipe my nose on my jersey sleeve.
“She will be remembered until the end of time. We must always think of others and their welfare, not only of ourselves.”
The bell rings and it’s time to pack our things.
“Class dismissed.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs Findlay.”
As we are walking home, Mrs Bells comes out of her fowl hok, egg basket on her arm. “Why are you crying?”
“It’s the story of Rachel de Beer!”
“Come inside for some lemonade.”
Mrs Bells wipes her hands on her apron and takes a frosted pink jug from the refrigerator. The net doily has shells dangling round the edge, and they clink against the sides of the jug. We swallow the sweet lemonade thirstily.
“Tell your mother I have fresh eggs straight from the nest.”
Both Alice and I promise that we will. We thank Mrs Bells for the lemonade, and carry on home.
At the corner, I say, “Goodbye, Alice, see you tomorrow.”
There are cars parked outside our Doll’s House. The lounge is full of hazy blue cigarette smoke and four noisy men. One of them is standing on the table.
“Come on, Bert, stand on one leg. You haven’t had that many.”
“You can do it,” encourages Mr Thompson.
“I’ll go next,” says my daddy.
“Let’s take bets!” suggests the man with the funny eye.
“Here, Lex, hold my glass,” says Bert, bending his leg at the knee and almost losing his balance.
“Steady on, Bert, we don’t want any broken limbs. How’ll you explain that to your wife?”
“And to your boss!” says Mr Thompson.
Mr Thompson is sometimes sad, but he’s always nice to children. He once came to teach Gabriel to play his favourite game of submarines and no one can tell war stories like Mr Thompson. Gabriel’s eyes are out on stalks when he tells us, “The last time Mr Thompson told me about Spitfires in dog fights over the sea, even in the desert. Whew! ‘Stories of bravery beyond duty,’ he says.” Gabriel says, “I can’t help it – I always break into a cold sweat. Can’t wait to tell Uncle Nick.” I don’t know about all of that, but I know I don’t like it when Mr Thompson makes me sit on his lap.
Daddy and his friends don’t see me as I slip off to my room. I’ve lost my hair ribbons again, but no one has noticed. When my homework is done I retrace my steps to try to find my hair ribbons, but no luck. Supper is over and I’m on my way to bed and there’s still laughter coming from the lounge. At least we’re not on our own if he wants to fight.
I’m alone in the bed because Desiree is spending the night at Aunty Beryl’s house, but the creak of the bedsprings wakes me. I’m half asleep, but I ca
n smell brandy. Maybe it’s my daddy come to say goodnight. But, no, it’s not. My heart races as a man climbs into bed beside me and puts his hand over my mouth, breathing hot brandy breath in my face. He puts his other hand between my legs and whispers. “Zhisis our secret.”
It tickles in my ear as he slurs and I recognise Mr Thompson’s voice. He lives in Claremont with his wife, but he always visits us on his own. His name, Bob, makes us laugh because we call a shilling a bob. He pulls my pyjama pants down and probes with his long thin fingers. I want to scream, but I can’t make a sound. He starts panting and my heart races. I wish Gabriel would wake up, but even if he did he would only run away. Mr Thompson is lying on top of me, crushing me, smothering me. He starts jerking like André when he has his fits. I don’t know if Mr Thompson will ever stop unless someone gets him into a mustard bath. Suddenly he makes a funny shout, rolls onto his back and the heaving and panting stop. His body shudders a bit and then his breathing sounds even.
“If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you,” he mutters before he falls asleep.
I try to slide away, afraid to wake him, but he’s sound asleep, snoring loudly. I curl into a ball and put my hands over my head. There’s a pounding in my ears and I can’t breathe. I want to vomit. My hands tremble as I pull my pyjama pants up from my skinny ankles. Frozen with terror, I lie awake in the dark, crying softly into my pillow. I drift in and out of nightmares about getting stuck in soft brown sinking sand. It sucks me in until only my fingertips stick out and I try to scream for help, but my throat is closed up so tight the words won’t come out.
Eventually, I open my eyes and there’s a pink glow in the sky. At last. I lie still, sick, the blankets over my head. Mr Thompson is awake, but he doesn’t look at me. He smells of sweat and his breath is foul with stale cigarettes. He heaves himself off the bed, groping for his trousers. I watch from under the covers as his long, thin fingers fumble with his fly buttons. Then he’s gone and the space beside me is empty, but I can still feel him and smell him.
Mommy’s high-pitched voice is coming from the kitchen. She is beside herself and for once Daddy doesn’t say, ‘You and your sharp tongue.’ I know it’s about me, but nobody tells me anything. Just before I leave for school I have to go to the lavatory. I find a tickey and I wonder if it’s Mr Thompson’s. If it is, I don’t want it, but I can’t tell the difference so I put it in my pocket. It’s an ordinary day, but I have to carry the memory of last night in my head with every step.
“Why are your eyes so red?” Alice peers at me from behind her goggles.
“It’s a secret.”
“I showed you our dead baby!”
“My eyes are red because of Rachel de Beer.”
I feel so lonely I wish the world would swallow me.
Standard Four School Report:
Colleen has missed a lot through being absent and must work hard to make up.
She seems to find it hard to concentrate.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Colleen together again.
Uncle Norman thinks it’s good for children to have pets, so he ignores Aunty Ruby’s excuses about hair and dust in the house. He brings home a ginger kitten, but he adds a vacuum cleaner as a peace offering. When we arrive at Aunty Ruby’s house for our Sunday visit, Susan comes bounding down the path. She leads us into the back yard to meet her new kitten.
“Aaah! Please can I hold him?”
She passes the kitten to me. I hold him in my skinny arms and I kiss him on the mouth. Then I squeeze and squeeze with all my might until the kitten is limp in my arms. The little paws don’t respond when I put the kitten on the ground. The limp body just flops on the ground. Susan is hysterical and she runs inside screaming. “Our kitty is dead!”
“You are in such big trouble!” hisses Desiree. “If I were you, I would run a mile. Cat murderer!”
Aunty Ruby comes running, with Mommy hot on her heels. The kitten is still on the ground and Aunty Ruby feels the kitten’s heart, but there isn’t even a flutter. It has stopped breathing forever.
All the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t put Susan’s kitten together again. Everyone knows Skinny Legs, Fowl’s Poephol Mouth and the Cat Murderer is a funny child, but they all turn a blind eye. All, except Aunty Ruby, who tells Aunty Dolly. Aunty Dolly is a nurse, so she takes the law into her own hands and now the Social Welfare Department is keeping an eye on me.
The rain comes down in buckets as we squelch home from school, forlorn and wet. Rain has been lashing the Cape Flats for weeks. It fills leaking, rusty gutters and spills over slimy, mossy walls, leaving ugly damp patches in the Muralo limewash. The whole world looks gloomy and the weather affects people’s moods. And Mommy is right – Mr Abromowitz doesn’t know how dark our kitchen gets. The pine dresser is painted dark green and doesn’t quite match the walls and the hole where the coal stove used to stand is black as night. An electric stove stands in its place, but it’s hard to see in the gloom, even though my tree blew down, as a pine tree still blocks most of the light that comes into the room through the tiny steel window. The rain seeps in under the stable door, leaving wet patches on the planks. The fowls look miserable on their perches and, to make matters worse, Bessie shakes and sprays drops of water around the room, leaving a trail of muddy paw prints behind her. It’s just as well Daddy isn’t home yet because he hates the smell of wet dog.
At school, we can hardly wait for the last bell to ring so we can run back to our heater. There’s no fireplace in our Doll’s House, but we have a single-bar electric heater with a copper dish that reflects the heat. It has a handle so we can move it around and there’s a wire grid on the front to stop us from getting burned. We huddle round the heater to warm our hands and feet. Edna makes us angel food for lunch, steaming plates of custard with sliced bananas. I could go on eating it all day, without even stopping to breathe.
It’s raining, it’s pouring …
Mommy can’t hang out the washing, so she strings a line across the kitchen. We eat with wet broeks dangling over our heads. Everything feels damp. We put newspaper in our shoes to keep the cold out.
Tomorrow we are having a spelling test and my legs feel weak. Daddy tries to teach me my words on the blackboard he made for us, but he gets cross and flings the chalk away and calls me stupid. I can’t wait for the homework lesson to finish. Daddy tells Desiree to show us how clever she is. She stands with her chest out, feet neatly side by side, her hands clasped behind her back, and recites the times table. She’s happy to be able to please our daddy, but her pride is short-lived because, when it comes to spelling, she also gets a good scolding for being stupid. Daddy stomps off in disgust, and I feel sorry for Desiree. She’s so nervous after a lesson with Daddy that she doesn’t smile her beautiful dimpled smile for days. And Gabriel has a stutter and I chew my nails and somewhere on my head I have a scar. And I can add wetting the bed to my list. Nothing is ever good enough for our daddy.
“Lightning!”
We scurry around the house and Edna helps us cover the mirrors. If we don’t cover them, the lightning will split the mirrors in half and the house may burn down and we will have bad luck for the rest of our lives.
Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home,
Your house is on fire and your children alone.
Baroom, boom, boom … Bessie ducks under the table. She’s not the only frightened one. God is rearranging the furniture for the hundredth time. The rain drums so loudly on the roof we can hardly hear ourselves speak.
“Who wants to play charms?” shouts Desiree.
“N-no th-thanks!”
Gabriel is busy drawing a Spitfire and a Messerschmitt in a dogfight. Desiree draws a bright yellow circle on the plank floor with a wax crayon. I fetch The Lady’s Own Toilet Pin Box, the tin that holds my precious charms that I collect from the penny lucky packets we buy at Berg’s. There’s Pluto the dog, Felix the cat, clowns, horses, Donald Duck and, best of all, the pink balle
rina on her tippy-toes.
“Eenie, meenie, minie, mo.”
It’s Desiree’s turn first, so I throw my charms into the circle. She bends at the waist, licks her thumb and one by one presses her thumb down. The charms stick all the way to her palm and now they are hers to keep forever or until we play again. Desiree says I actually came last, because there are only two of us playing. Gabriel understands that I am always trying to keep up so he sometimes lets me win.
Cod liver oil keeps colds at bay. I hate the taste, but I love the picture of the man carrying the big fish over his shoulder. Because of the weather the days are scrambled. Washday isn’t always on Monday and our weekly bath isn’t always on Sunday. We struggle to light the geyser because the pine cones are wet. It’s bitterly cold and we can’t get to the babbie shop across the field because our stream has turned into a fast-flowing river and we’re not allowed to go near it. The boys don’t listen and they build canoes despite the warnings. They find bits of corrugated iron and wood on building sites and they raid their fathers’ toolboxes for nails. Then all they need are two plankies from a tomato box for paddles. Gabriel paddles down the river and comes home without a scratch. But his friend Ben takes his canoe to Green Point when he visits his aunt for the school holidays. There the swells take him and we never see Ben again.