Tjieng Tjang Tjerries and Other Stories

by Jolyn Phillips

  The child was so scared he pissed in his pants. Toe moer ek hom sommer daaroor ook. If Sophia didn’t come out of the house, he would’ve been dead. At least he would have died knowing Fraans Rooi was his Pa.

  I had walked this orange road so many times. I could smell the fynbos air and the little kapstyl houses withering like old age in the distance. The one facing the laslappie fields were ours once. I walked to Stêword and got a lift on a sheep’s bakkie to Pêreberg. Here, Meteens didn’t look after the house anymore. There was not a single pumpkin on the roof and the great fig tree didn’t carry fruit. I wouldn’t blame her; she was black with the burden and her earth rotten. As children, Japie and I always picked figs for Ketoet’s church bazaar fig jam. The tree was like a mother; there was always milk coming out of her branches when we picked the figs. They were Adam’s figs: big and purple and sweet. One day I decided to take a stick and write my name on her trunk and when I was finished it looked like it was bleeding. I tried to heal her with her milk that came out of her branches when we picked the figs. But my name Fraans is still there like those tronkvoël tattoos I saw some of the men wore working with me on the boats.

  Life on the farm was slow but waited for no one. We woke up the same time the earth did. Sometimes before the rooster could yawn, even before the varkblomme opened their petals near the vlei. Since Oom died, the whole kroos went to go look for work in Stêword. The day I decided to draai stokkies, I walked the devil’s road willingly into his claws. ‘Satangs kinners,’ Ma Ragel would say. The pine cone trees were daarem still here. If you stood on the stoep looking at the beautiful still life, it looks like art, God’s art.

  The evening before I ran away from home, Dolf, Kallie en Oom Dui were sitting round the gêllie, busy to sit en verkoop nôsens. While we were laughing and chatting, I looked at the warm coals, the ones that still had pieces of red in them. My eyes stood still, looking deeper and deeper into the coal. I realised that the piece of red was actually a little flame trapped inside the already-dead coal. There was a knot in my throat and I almost cried. I was that little flame. I knew if I took my things and left, Oubaas Grobelaar would never allow me to visit my family again. I would have to pay him with money. Oubaas Grobelaar gave me my first job on the farm as a wine-marker. I was good at reading and writing. Every Friday I wrote everyone’s name on those two litre bottles and filled them with black wine, ticked their names in the book as I paid everyone, paid myself. I would have to leave these thoughts here and start new ones elsewhere. Liela had also decided to work in town; we hadn’t seen her in years. I would have to leave the kaiings and skaap pootjie we braaied as children in the Dover oven. Those memories didn’t belong to me alone. All I had was this book I picked up years ago. It is all I will take with me tomorrow, I thought.

  My first book had no cover, not even a name. Then and there I decided I would make that book mine, because no one wanted it. I started reading the book with no name, my myne book. It was the best piece of rubbish that I picked up at the rubbish hole close to our house. I was so proud of it. I stuck it under my white school shirt. It smelled of cow dung, but it didn’t traak me because I’d never had something that was mine alone. That’s the day my love for words was born. I kept rhymes and stories in my mind that I would whisper to myself later when I was alone. Words were everywhere. In the morning when Klaasvakie’s sleeping dust was still in my eyes, our little huisie smelled like bak brood and moer koffie that simmered on the Dover stove and the BB tobacco smoke floating from Katoet’s pyp. All those smells I could spell. All those smells I could taste like the moer koffie and the kaiings on my bread. It’s daarem all that Meteens could not get a hold of. I drank Meteens out of my life ever since I left Pêreberg.

  When we were still wet behind the ears, Me and Japie were down by Sileja-them’s road playing with our spinning tops. We were arguing about whose spinning tops should be on the ground to get an ertjie when Meteens came staggering down the hill with a black stallion that he stole from Willowdale, a neighbouring farm. He asked us to look after the thing. We decided to take it for a gallop when Ounooi the teefhond ran under the horse’s legs. The horse had such a fright that he stood on his two hooves kicking with his front legs, neighing like a hysterical woman. Japie had already run away. I was the only one lying there, moaning on the ground. Meteens came to see why there was such a noise and he began to go mad when he saw the horse donner into the bos.

  Meteens is my eldest sister’s husband. He said he caught Ketoet with his watches. He is always dressed grênd with leather boots and five watches on each arm.

  ‘Jou gemors, why did you let the horse run wild? Djulle ga gemoer word vedag! Bleddy gedrogte!’

  I could see Mêg run out of the house holding onto her dress. ‘Ag, leave the child, he is smaller than you.’

  ‘You tell me fokkol, jou dikgat, djou useless bitch. Loep help Sileja in the kitchen.’

  Mêg didn’t give him any face. She was a kind meisiekint. ‘Is jy okay, klonkie, wat’s fout?’ she asked.

  ‘My foot, my toe,’ I moaned.

  She tore a piece off from her dress and made it into a knot. ‘Dè,’ she said. ‘Bite on it.’

  ‘Huh, why–? Aaah it’s sore,’ I screamed.

  She snapped my toe back to its position. ‘Ag, don’t be such a tjankbalie. It will heal soon.’

  ‘Siestog,’ Ouma Ragel always said, ‘she is a sagte hart kint.’ I didn’t have a Ma but Mêggie was a Ma to me. She taught me how to iron a shirt in its naat and she was the one who forced her last R2 into my hand. It was still a lot of money then. She always told me, ‘Klonkie, you must never hide your tears. It’s the only thing that brings the heart a little bit of light.’ She greeted me, standing by the gate with her arms folded, ‘Mooi leer by die skool and carry God in your heart always.’

  All these memories made my eyelids heavy, lullabying me into a deep sleep. It really felt okay to sleep on my brother’s lawn waiting for him to get home. I needed to say sorry…

  ‘Fraans! Fraans! Liewe Here, is it really you? What are you doing on Pêreberg? Jinne, man, look at you.’ I hear Japie’s words make my headache bigger. Japie spat on the grass because the stench coming from his brother made him nauseous. He had been away for two days to help Baas Fourie with the sow; she gave birth to seven piglets the day before. It was a difficult birth. And now he had to deal with his drunken brother who he last saw at the funeral eight years ago.

  ‘Boeta, I waited for you the Sunday afternoon,’ I said.

  ‘You’re gesuip, Fraans. It’s blêddie Tuesday.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Japie. Ekkiritie bedoelie. I lost control of the wheel, it was so misty and the road was muddy. I’m sorry sorry, my boeta.’

  ‘Bedaar! What are you talking about?’

  ‘Adrie and Korrietjie.’

  Japie sat with me on the grass. His eyes were wet. He’d promised himself he’d never cry, but his heart became small when he saw his brother lying there drunk and helpless.

  ‘Boeta?’

  ‘Yes, Fraans.’

  ‘Do you still remember that rympie Juffrou Sheila taught us in school?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Lamtietie damtietie doe-doe, my liefstetjie.’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Sing it with me, Japie.’

  ‘You should stop drinking, Fransie. Oom Tas is driving you mad. This is pure dronk verdriet.’

  ‘Ag toe, man…’

  ‘Okay, then. You will have to start first.’

  ‘Lamtietie damtietie doe-doe, my liefstetjie,’ we both started.

  Moederhart rowertjie, dierbaarste diefstetjie

  Luister hoe fluister die wind deur die boompetjie

  Heen en weer wieg hy hom al oor die stroompetjie

  Doe-doe-doe blaretjie, slapenstyd nadertjie

  Doe-doe-doe blommetjie, nag is aan kommetjie

  So sing die windtjie vir blaartjies en blommetjies.

  Japie and I both started laughing. Japie took a deep brea
th. The tears made his heart lighter. It’s in the past now,’ Japie said, talking to the sky, with a vague look in his eyes.

  ‘Please forgive me, Japie.’ I looked at my brother, smiling. I had not felt like this in years.

  ‘Forgive yourself first, Fraans,’ Japie said. ‘Forgive yourself.

  Secrets

  I knew that if Ma found out about Boeta and me, she would prob­ably lock me up. My mother had never liked the Groene­walds. She always said that they were evil people and that we shouldn’t mix with that sort. ‘Meng jou met die semels en die varke vreet jou op,’ that’s what Ma says about people she thinks are sinful.

  Boeta used to hand me letters under the desk in Afrikaans class. I never guessed that I would fall in love with Boeta the Mail Boy. But nou ja, I do not question our stolen times together. It was so secret neither my sisters nor God knew. He told me that he wanted to build houses like his father who had built the klipkerkie in Dempers Street. I liked talking to him and listening to his ideas about life. Sometimes we just went to go and sit at the vlei and talk. No one visited it anymore and it was close to church so I would always have an excuse if Ma asked.

  For a long time, we only held hands. Then, after a few weeks, Boeta let me rest my head on his shoulders or sometimes he lay on my lap and we would talk about all kinds of things. About exams and about life here in Strandtjiesvlei. When Hellie wrote to me about the bright lights in Cape Town, I showed Boeta the letter. In it, my sister had included a R5 note and a picture of her and a handsome man. She was wearing a pink dress and sandals and he was wearing high-waist pants and a tucked shirt and sunglasses. He was a mechanic and he had a car which he drove her around in. Boeta smiled and said he would make an even better life for us. My heart began to beat really fast when our fingers gently crossed into each other’s.

  When we kissed for the first time, he looked at me smiling.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Do you know our eyes are the same?’

  I did not know what to say. He rubbed his nose against mine.

  When I got home, I went straight to my bedroom. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. It was our secret. There was a knock on my door. It was Ma.

  ‘I got Mrs. Williams at the shop, Father Williams’ wife.’

  My eyes went big in my head. Immediately I thought, Oh my God, she found out! Why else would the Pastor’s wife be speaking to her? I could hear my heart beat in my chest.

  ‘Father Williams wants to see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, thank you Ma.’

  ‘Just don’t be late, it sounds important.’

  I felt relief. My secret about Boeta was still safe. I knew why Father Williams was looking for me. He was helping me apply for the teaching college in Wellington. Father Williams was hoping I would get a bursary, but we both knew it was going to be difficult. This was another secret I was keeping from Ma. I knew she would not have approved. She would have thought I was reaching above my station.

  Boeta. The bursary. When had I started to keep so much from my mother?

  I woke up the next morning. I was almost late for my duties at the church. If Ma had not woke me up so violently, I would have overslept. I was rushing to get dressed and gather my things together.

  ‘What is it with you? That shirt is not ironed,’ she scowled. ‘No child of mine walks about in town with a creased shirt. What will the people say? We are gossiped about enough. Het jy muisneste in jou kop?’

  ‘No Ma,’ I replied, fixing my cardigan.

  When I got to the church and Father Williams’ study I knocked very gently. I was shivering from nerves like a wet dog.

  ‘Come inside Lieda, have a seat. It has arrived.’

  ‘Good morning.’

  Father Williams’ eyes look concerned. We had been waiting for a response for some time now. I took the brown envelope that he held out to me. It had his address on it:

  TO MISS LIEDA APLOON

  12 APPEL STREET

  STRANTJIESFONTEIN

  7220.

  ‘Well go on,’ he said, ‘it is not going to open itself.’

  I opened the letter, hands shivering. ‘Dear Miss Aploon,’ I began to read silently. The letter made me feel so important. I had never been called a Miss before.

  ‘I got in and the bursary too,’ I told Father Williams.

  ‘Congratulations, Lieda. I know you have your concerns, but you must tell your mother. I’m sure she will be delighted.’

  ‘Maybe if you tell her, Father Williams, she will understand. ’

  ‘It is not my place, Lieda. I am very sorry. You will have to tell her yourself.’

  ‘How? She will never listen to me. Look what happened to my sisters.’

  Ma had stopped talking to my sisters when they moved to Cape Town.

  ‘Why don’t you write her a letter?’

  ‘Letter? I will think about it. Thank you, Father.’

  ‘Good luck Lieda.’

  As I walked home I tried to think about all that was happening to me. Boeta. Our love. And now Wellington next year if I did well enough in my exams. I knew I would pass them. I had been studying very hard, and I got A’s for most of my subjects during the year. But I was scared about telling Ma this news. I knew she wanted me to work for Miss Wilkenson. To settle down here and look after her. She always complained about her hands and feet. I didn’t want to be like Ma. I didn’t want to die in Strandjiesfontuin.

  On the day our exam results were due, all of the Standard Tens got up early to wait for Oom Japie to deliver Die Burger. I knew my name would not be so hard to look for because it’s fifth on the class list. We thought we could buy it from Oom Japie directly, but he said it belonged to the shop. So we had to wait until Mr. Ford came to open up the shop.

  The newspaper was R1. We clubbed together and bought one and Hans Olivier read out the names, ‘Cindy Abrahams, Johan Abrahams…Lieda Aploon.’

  Boeta was so happy, he ran towards me. But realizing what he was about to do, he stopped and walked towards me and shook my hand. We didn’t want the rest of the class to know that we were seeing each other. ‘Congratulations Lieda,’ Boeta said, trying to hide his smile.

  ‘See you at youth practice tonight, Boeta.’

  My friends Bettie, Sheila and Dawn gathered around to congratulate me. They had already found work, working as flower packers like their mothers. They seemed to be excited working as blomme meisies.

  Later that day, I could not keep my eyes off Boeta at youth practice. I watched him laughing with his friends, hands in his white pants’ side pockets and blue tucked-in shirt. Father Williams brought along a camera and we all stood huddled up together trying to get into the picture. The boys were sitting on their knees with big afros, the girls with pastel-coloured cardigans, and, of course, Lennie, the youth league’s clown, lying on his side, with his tongue sticking out.

  Everyone was busy playing dominoes and cards when Boeta asked if he could have a word outside. I could see Adam sticking his elbow into Paul’s ribs, but I tried to give them no attention. We went out the back and stood in the corner between the toilets and the big guava tree. It was quiet and the night air was warm and there was not a single cloud in the sky.

  I was shivering so badly, not because I was cold, but because I was so nervous. He gave me his leather jacket. ‘Daarso, just like Michael Jackson’s.’

  ‘Boeta?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you think we will always recognise each other like we do now? Even after I go to Wellington?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s just that this, what we have… I don’t even know what to call it–’

  ‘Love,’ he interrupted.

  ‘Yes, love,’ I agreed, half-smiling. Suddenly my smile disappeared, ‘Boeta, I don’t want to keep this secret anymore. It feels wrong to lie to Ma.’

  ‘I agree, so what do we do?’

  ‘I don’t know Boeta, really I don’t.’

  ‘Well, if she
chases you away you can stay with us.’

  ‘No, that would break Ma’s heart. You know how she feels about your family.’

  ‘So keep the secret rather?’

  ‘Yes, let’s.’

  Two more weeks passed. Boeta and I saw each other whenever we could. Soon it would be time for me to leave for Wellington. I had already packed my suitcase along with my diary, my photo album, Ouma’s brooch and the photo of the youth league. I had pushed it under my bed, out of Ma’s sight. I hadn’t yet found the courage to tell her about the bursary, but I wrote her a letter explaining why I was going. I was checking the suitcase was still out of sight when Ma called me from the back.

  ‘Would you do the groceries today? The list is on the kitchen table.’

  ‘Yes, Ma.’

  She went on tending to her asters, Stink Afrikaners and daisies.

  Ma is totally unaware of me and my new life waiting for me and Boeta, I thought as I walked to the shop. We, her three child­ren, always knew not to ask questions, just trust and obey, I thought. Ma can keep her secrets. I don’t want to know why she doesn’t like the Groenewalds. I looked down at the shopping list. Fish oil, butter, eggs, sugar and some moer koffie, the usual stuff, and, of course, some sunlight soap, always on the list. Ma washes every day of her life. When I got home, Ma was sitting in the living room with a letter lying on the table.

  ‘Who is this boy writing to you?’

  ‘Where did Ma get that?’

  ‘Count your words, girlie. Don’t play around. If you want to screw around, you do that under your own roof, not under my roof. Do you want to end up like your sisters? They put me to shame.’

  ‘It’s not like that Ma,’ I said. ‘We are not… he is a kind person, he makes me happy.’

  ‘I want to meet this Boeta. Invite him over for dinner.’

  ‘Yes ma, you will like him, he lives in–’

  ‘I am sure he can explain himself to me and also explain why he did not have the decency to ask me for permission.’

  I ran out of the house towards Dempers Street, no.2. When I got to the house, Boeta’s father was standing over the hekkie, smoking tobacco out of his pipe.