by Elsa Joubert
She got off the train at Mount Ruth station, two stations before Arnoldon. She crossed the long railway bridge and waited in the shade of the station building for the bus to Highway. People who knew her by sight were loth to approach her, put off by the black clothes she was wearing. She heard someone sitting behind her in the bus, say: Which one of her family has died? But she did not answer him.
At Highway she got off the bus and took another. She held her handbag firmly under her arm, she felt strong, stronger than the other people on the bus. The illness of her husband, she knew now, had made her weak too; now that he was dead, it was for her to be husband and wife, father and mother to his children.
The only thing that still made her weak was the uncertainty about Bonsile’s schooling. She had given him the money. Had the school taken him, or had he been too late? The school fees for Bonsile, Nomvula and Thandi had cost her more than seventy rand, and her train ticket and his and Nomvula’s and the money for Mr Kwinanu took most of the pension money.
As she walked up her old street, she felt the heat again. It rose from the mealies growing green in the gardens, it rose from the red earth at the roadside, it pushed down on her from the low grey clouds packed together in the sky. Soon it will rain, she thought. Soon it will flash and thunder and the water will pour over me. She did not walk faster. Let it pour over me, let it soak through me, my body will dry out again.
She pushed open the door of her house. It was not locked. Bonsile was seated at the table, his books open before him.
Mama is wet, he said.
She shook her head, took a cloth and began to dry her face. Then she wiped her head, arms and hands, and bent down to dry her legs. She was glad about the rain on her face, because she felt the tears running over her cheeks with the rainwater when she saw Bonsile with his books.
It goes well with you, Bonsile?
Yes, mama.
They took you in at the school?
Yes, mama.
The next day she went to the office to pay the six rand rent, then to Majola and sisi Blaauw and Emily whom she told: I wish to rent out the house, but Bonsile must stay with the people who rent it; you must lend out your ears to find good people looking for a place to stay. I am in a hurry to rent, but I do not want to make a mistake and you must help me. She went to the people of her church and told them the same.
She waited a day. She cleaned the house and yard. The mealies were growing well. Bonsile helped her with the weeding until she felt her back could stand no more. Then she sat on a chair in front of the window and took Bonsile’s clothes in her lap and patched and darned. She took her sewing machine for the last time and from the bits of material that remained she made dresses for Nomvula and Thandi and Kindjie and a shirt for Fezi. She tried to make something for each child, but at night her eyes ached, she could no longer use them, they were swollen and sore. After she had made food for Bonsile, she lay on her bed with closed eyes. Turn down the lamp in my room, Bonsile, so that I can lie in the dark, she said.
The morning of the third day a man and a woman arrived, sent by Majola. We are of his clan, they said, we are looking for a place to live.
She showed them the house and said: This room Bonsile must keep, and he will cook for himself in the kitchen. It is well, they said, and the money is right too. I will send the rent each month to the office from Cape Town, she said, then you will give the money you owe me to Bonsile, for him to buy his food.
We will look after him, sisi, said the woman. We have no children-he will be our child.
Then only one day remained before she was to take the train to Cape Town.
I want to see the child who was given to us when your father died, Bonsile.
The support of the child was another burden on her shoulders, but about this she did not complain. About the child she was glad.
I will tell Xoliswe to bring the child, mama, said Bonsile.
When Poppie got on the train the next afternoon, she had only a few cents left. Only enough, so she reckoned, to pay for the bus fare from the Cape Town station to Mosie’s house. She had cut bread to eat on the train, for the rest she would drink water.
Not only had she to pay up on the train ticket, not only had she to leave money for Bonsile’s food till the end of the month when the tenants would pay him, but the money that was over she had given to the mother of Bonsile’s child. For the child was of the blood of tata-ka-Bonsile, of mama, of ouma Hannie. It was pitifully thin, the little legs drawn up to the body like those of a newly-born child, the belly was large, blown up, the skin lighter of colour.
I have not much milk, mama, Xoliswe said as she bent forward to loosen the blanket at her back and to take the child down and lay it on the bed. The child does not grow.
Xoliswe does not wear a kopdoek, she is not makoti. She is nothing but a schoolchild who has to carry a baby on her back, thought Poppie. She is thin, so slight of build that they had to cut open her belly to get out the child, as they did with my Kindjie. But for such a young girl. ..
Xoliswe stood with eyes cast down.
The child must have extra food. Did your people not give you money to buy food for the child?
Xoliswe did not answer.
Should I have let Bonsile come under contract at the garage at Goodwood, Poppie wondered, so that his child should not starve? But then she became obstinate again. And walk the road his father had to walk as contract worker? And let his wife walk that road?
She took out the money left in her purse. She counted what she needed for her ticket. She counted off cents for her bus fare to Mosie’s house.
Take this, she told Xoliswe. I’ll send more. Xoliswe put the money in the front of her dress, then she started wrapping up the baby.
But Poppie stopped her. Wait, she said, I made some clothes for your baby, too.
Heat water on the Primus, she told Bonsile, so that we may bath the child. She soaped the baby and bathed him in the basin. She sat down on the bed, and dried the baby on her lap. She dressed him in the little shirt she’d made, she folded a nappy.
Rinse the clothes he had on in the bath water, she told Xoliswe. It is so hot outside, they’ll be dry before sunset.
She washed the blanket herself that Xoliswe had tied round her body. Bonsile can bring it to you later, when it’s dry. Take my blanket.
Now this has put an end to your schooling, Poppie said as she saw Xoliswe’s eyes resting on the books lying on Bonsile’s table. She felt sorry for Xoliswe. She had been a clever child.
And it is Bonsile who did this to her.
But then Poppie made herself strong again. What had to be, had to be. If tata-ka-Bonsile had to return to them in this child, then it was the will of the Lord. The child’s name is Vukile, mama, Xoliswe had told her. Vukile means: arisen.
On these things Poppie’s mind dwelt as she journeyed back to Cape Town.
For two days and two nights she sat up straight. She sat in the corner of the compartment, next to the corridor. The hard door frame and the backrest of the bench supported her body. She did not speak to the other passengers. At times her head dropped and she slept, to jerk awake as the train stopped. Children clambered over her legs, others pushed past her as they made their way to the toilet. When they wished to speak to her, she touched her forehead, as if she was in pain.
There was no strength left in her to share or to receive human contact.
She ate her bread sparingly, tapped water in the mug and drank it. When the others offered her food, she declined, because she had nothing to offer in return. At night she rested her body as best she could. She had given her blanket to Xoliswe, but she felt neither the cold of the night nor the early morning. The third day she ate her last piece of bread.
When the train steamed into the station and stopped, she waited till the other people got off, and then she took her bag and went down the corridor. She held on to the railing and carefully and slowly stepped down. As she put her foot on to the platform it seemed to rise up and rush at
her.
What’s the matter, auntie? a man asked her, a half coloured because he spoke Afrikaans to her. He took her by the arm and led her to a bench. Only after she had rested, was she able to start walking to the bus terminus.
Buti Mosie’s house was not far from the bus stop. The children seemed to have had a feeling that she was coming because when she got down, she heard Fezi shout: Mama, and Kindjie rushed up: Mama! But perhaps she was hearing other children shouting mama, perhaps it was not quite clear to her what she heard or saw. With the children round her, she walked on, neighbours saw her coming and recognised her. They left their gardens and came to meet her, took her bag and led her to buti Mosie’s house.
She is sick, Rhoda told Mosie when he got home that night. She has suffered much. I think she is feeling buti Stone’s death only now.
For it seemed as if her eyes did not even see her two children. She lay on the bed to which they led her and closed her eyes. That evening mama came.
Our sisi is sick, Rhoda had sent word. She has returned without telling us when to fetch her at the station. All these things have been too much for her.
Poppie lay for a week and then she got up and said: The children need money. I must go and work. Where else will my children get their food?
SIX
The people of the land
60
One night I would sleep with my brother, the next with mama, or a night with Makhulu until the corrugated iron shack that we’d built was broken down and Makhulu taken to an old-age home, Poppie says.
It was then that I got work at Mrs Swanepoel’s. The woman who took me to Mrs Swanepoel had worked twelve years for her, but she had to leave because of her legs – they were going to cut out her varicose veins. This woman told me: Come along and keep my job for me for the one month I am in hospital.
Mrs Swanepoel told me she would pay me thirty rand, but I told her I came to work for my children, I could not work for that money. I started working on Monday. Tuesday I told her I would work till Friday, then she would have to get somebody else. I cannot work for that money, I have too many children.
She was sick in bed and she asked me: Why can’t you work for thirty? I told her, she seemed to understand and she said: You had better stay; I’ll give you forty.
Later she asked me: Have you a pass, Rachel?
I have a pass, I answered, but the permits in it are not in order.
She didn’t mind this and said: It is only for a month, I suppose there won’t be any trouble. Don’t go to the front door when the doorbell rings; the inspectors are making too much fuss in our street. If they catch you at the door and your pass is not in order, then I am the one that will have to pay the fine.
You are working for government people, Hannie, the servant girl from next door, told her. They don’t like to get a bad name with the inspectors.
Mrs Swanepoel did not want to be bothered; she was a busy woman and went out a lot; and she liked Poppie’s way of working.
I needn’t tell you anything, Rachel, I see you know what to do.
She liked the way Poppie ironed her clothing and said: You have a neat hand, Rachel.
Poppie also did the cooking for Mrs Swanepoel’s dinner parties.
You grew up among whites, Poppie. You cook well.
It seemed as if Mrs Swanepoel didn’t mind the other servant not coming back after a month because her legs would not heal, and the doctor told her to work at a place without steps and staircases.
Then you will be staying, won’t you? she asked Poppie. We get along well, I needn’t tell you all the time what you have to do.
Thursday afternoons, her off afternoons, Poppie used to stay in her room; Sundays she was off all day and went home early.
And nobody had asked her about her pass.
But it worried Mrs Swanepoel that Rachel could not answer the front doorbell and she said: We must do something about this, I find it very inconvenient. What actually is the matter with your pass?
She paged through the pass but could not understand what she saw and said: We’ll ask the master when he gets home tonight. He has lots of friends and maybe they could fix it up. Let’s see what we can do about it. But then you must promise me that you won’t leave me next month when Miss Susie and her baby are coming home. I will need you then.
Again she called Poppie: If I go to all the trouble of fixing up your pass and have you registered on my name, you must promise not to get pregnant, hey?
Poppie did not answer her.
She only saw the white woman’s eyes travelling up and down her body.
Or are you pregnant already?
No, Poppie said, I am not pregnant, madam. I’m tied off. Well, go get your pass and I’ll show it to master tonight. I really cannot get someone else before Miss Susie arrives, and you know my ways by now.
I received back my pass, Poppie said, and on it was written: No objection.
Once every six months I had to go to Observatory where they would give me a closed envelope with a paper inside to take to Langa. And at the Langa office they took my pass book and read the letter which told them how many months they had to stamp in my book. Every six months it was the same again – go to Observatory, go to Langa, and they stamped my pass book. The master had fixed up everything.
That is the way we know life. We don’t mind about justice, about whether a thing is right or not. We know of people who came to Cape Town after 1960 who were given permits and houses, and we who have been here much longer, must leave. We don’t mind any more. Our lives are upside down anyway. We’re used to it. One person gets the pass, the next one doesn’t. It’s come to be so that we don’t care if we have a pass or if we don’t. If we feel we want to visit relatives we go. We don’t worry about a pass. If they catch you, well, they catch you. That’s the way we know life.
Mosie felt bitter about the permit given to Poppie. Bitter about the years of struggle. To what purpose? This is what we should have done long ago, sisi, he said. It’s simple, man. Go work for government people. ‘Cause why, it’s them that like their comfort. It’s them that make the rules.
If it suits the white people the law does not count, said Jakkie. That’s no law, is it?
Poppie showed her pass and her permit to mama.
When the madam’s daughter and her baby come to visit, I will be getting more money. I can send ten rand to Herschel, and ten rand to Bonsile so that he can take the bus to go to school, and five rand to Xoliswe and put money aside for the children’s school fees next year. And I can give Mosie five rand for my children’s keep. Then there’s enough left for bus fare and for some clothes for the small ones.
I don’t want your money, Mosie said.
I had two feelings in my heart, Mosie explains. I was glad for my sister that she got a permit, but my heart did not want to swallow its bad feeling about all the rudeness of the policemen towards my sister all these years. And for what? It’s like this, a black man in a uniform is protected like. They don’t know what a human being is, they have no manners with a person, and you can’t talk to them proper like. If they hear that my sister has no pass, they come knock us up, they knock at the front door, they go to the window and knock there, as if they are looking for a murderer. And all this only because of a pass.
And Johnnie Drop-Eye adds: In the ‘fifties they told us we had better get pass books or else we’d be lost. That’s right, if you haven’t a pass you’re lost. But man, you’re more captive if you’ve got a pass, because the pass is not the end of everything. It’s the stamp that counts. And it’s the stamp that our sisi couldn’t get.
It’s good that you can now come home to us in the bus or on the street without being afraid they will catch you, mama told Poppie. And if you have to live with Mrs Swanepoel for ever, then you live with her for ever.
The only place where Poppie feels at home is in Cape Town, mama told Mosie. Poppie wants to be with us.
God Jesus Christ, Jakkie said. Do you forget all the
years of hardship?
Poppie did not talk back; she only said: Mama, when is buti Plank coming home?
Poppie and mama’s children sat around the table. They were singing; the whole night long they sang, church songs and other songs. Kindjie was on her lap, Fezi had crept in behind her back on the chair; Jakkie had left his friends outside and came to join in the singing.
Are you angry with me, Jakkie? Poppie asks. Because of the pass?
How can I be angry with you, sisi? I am angry because of the law.
Jakkie was back at school. After returning from the bush he said: I am not getting any place with my Standard Six. I am twenty-two and I can’t get anywhere because of this education thing.
Katie, who was charring with Mrs Louw, the woman where mama once worked, was helping him with money, and the stepfather and mama too. Mama was glad Jakkie was going back to school. He wants to become a preacher, or even a teacher, mama said. Jakkie takes it to heart when people suffer.
Come Sunday maybe old Plank will be back from the sea, Poppie, said mama. Then you will be happy, hey?
This time of my life was not very good, says Poppie. I had lost my husband and I had to live without my children. But my family was my consolation. I was glad to return to my church, the Holy Cross, and meet the people whom I knew, like Mamdungwana and Mr Mata and his wife and the minister of the Guguletu congregation, and the minister of Langa.
At first I wore my black clothes, but when the time of heavy mourning had passed I put on the black skirt and white blouse to the prayer meetings on Sunday afternoons. Because I hadn’t attended prayer meetings in Mdantsane regularly I had to be clothed again. If we stay away longer than three months we have to start all over. It’s like a class, these prayer meetings – if we stay away we are marked absent. The woman who leads the meeting reads a portion of the Lord’s Word, then she addresses us; thereafter each one may bear witness from the word, stand up and talk and sing if she wants to. Or we pray, we pray for the things close to every woman’s heart-peace in the world and that war should stay away.