by Irvine Welsh
Even at the time, as an eleven-year-old, I thought that his story was romanticised bullshit.
There was no doubt that Gordon had done well, at least materially, from the system. After taking a few menial but well-paid-compared-to-the-blacks-doing-the-same-thing sort of jobs, he set up a property management agency in Johannesburg. It took off, and he diversified into property development. By the time we arrived, Gordon had this large suburban home, a mansion, really, and a fair-sized timber farm out in the veld of the Eastern Transvaal, on the road to the Kruger National Park. He also had offices in Durban and Cape Town as well as property interests in Sun City.
I think the old man thought that he was just going to walk into a top job in Gordon's business. I can recall Gordon saying to him over breakfast, — Look John, I'll get you fixed up here. Don't worry about that. But I won't have you working with me. I'm a great believer in keeping business and family apart.
I remember this fairly vividly, because it resulted in an argument, and the recurrence of the tense atmosphere I was used to feeling at home and had naively thought that we had left behind in Scotland.
Kim started crying, and I recall putting my arm around her, displaying a tenderness I didn't really feel in order to try and shame my parents into stopping shouting. It proved completely ineffective. I sat with a sad, baleful expression watching the tears roll down my sister's large face. Vet's pus was pinched with tension and John and Gordon both shook visibly. This was the beginning of the end of my father's South African dream.
Dad eventually landed a job as a security guard in a supermarket at a shopping mall in a white working-class district a few miles away. Gordon assured him that it would just be a temporary measure; a first step on the ladder, as he put it. He got Ma a job, typing and filing at a city-centre office in a business run by a friend of his.
I was due to start at the Paul Kruger Memorial School with Kim in a couple of weeks' time. Bernard had enrolled at the Wilheim Kotze High, while Tony had found, again thanks to Gordon, a traineeship as a chef at a hotel in the city.
Before we started school, however, Kim and I were left at Gordon's with Valerie, the large African woman who was his housekeeper. She was very cheerful, always singing us Bantu songs. She had left her family to come and work here, sending the money back out to the place she came from. We quickly built up a relationship with her, as she was warm and friendly and made a fuss of us. This ended abruptly one day; Valerie suddenly acted cold, off-hand and distant, telling us to get out from under her feet. Kim was puzzled and saddened at this change, but I knew that Gordon had spoken to her.
Later on, my uncle, who had taken a particular interest in me, came home and took me aside, ushering me into the large garage which adjoined his house. — I don't want you getting friendly with Valerie. She's a servant. Always remember that; a servant and a Kaffir. She'll never be anything other than that. They seem friendly, they all do, that's the way with them. But never forget, as a race, they are murderers and thieves. It's in their blood.
He showed me a scrapbook he kept of cuttings from newspapers which highlighted what he referred to as 'terrorist atrocities'. I recollect being frightened and fascinated at the same time. I wanted to sit and read the scrapbook from cover to cover but Gordon snapped it shut and looked me in the eye. He placed a hand on my shoulder. His breath smelt sweet and rancid. — You see, Roy. I'm not saying Valerie's like that, she's a good person in many ways. But she needs to be kept in her place. Don't let all that cheerfulness fool you. She's got a chip on her shoulder. They all do. These people are different to you and I, Roy. They are one stage up from the baboons you'll see out in the veld. We had to take this land and show them how to develop it. We made this beautiful country, now they say they want it back. His eyes grew large, — Do you understand me?
— Aye, I nodded doubtfully. I was staring at the black hairs which grew out of his nostrils and wondering when we would get to see the baboons out in the veld.
— Think of it this way, Gordon continued, smugly inspired, — if a nasty, stupid, lazy, bad-smelling person had an old garden shed that was falling to pieces and wasn't being used, then you come along and say, I can make something of this shed. So you take on the responsibility of making the garden shed into something better. You put your heart and your soul into rebuilding it, and over the years, through your sweat and toil, it becomes a grand, beautiful palace.
Then the lazy, stupid person with the dirty-coloured skin which gives off a bad smell comes along and says:—That's my shed! I want it back! What do you say?
— Get lost! I said, eager to impress.
Gordon, a thin, spindly man, with tired, watery eyes, which could suddenly glow with violence, beamed and said: — That's right! You're a true Scotsman, Roy! A real Afrikaaner! He smiled at me. Gordon always seemed to hold you in his gaze a second or two more than felt comfortable. I didn't know what an Afrikaaner was, but it sounded alright; like a true Scotsman.
I started to look at Valerie in a different light. She had had babies in the bush, knowing that she couldn't feed them, because as Gordon had explained, blacks couldn't organise themselves, couldn't do anything right. Even the good ones needed white people to look after them, to provide them with jobs and homes. It was important not to get too friendly with them though, he told me, because they got excited and reverted back to a primitive state. — You remember your dog, Winston, wasn't it?
— Yes, I said. Winston Two was in kennels somewhere. He had to spend six months in quarantine before he could join us. I was not looking forward to his reappearance.
— Remember you got him all excited?
— Yes.
— What happened?
— He bit me.
Of course, Winston did more than just bite me, he practically took my leg off. Even now, three years later, after skin grafts and intensive physio, my limp was still apparent.
Gordon looked at me intensely, – Kaffirs are like that.
You could do with some meat on these bones, Roy Strang. We're going to have to make sure you eat. That's what we're going to have to do. Yes we are.
Leave ays alane ya fuckin daft cow
DEEPER
DEEPER
DEEPER– – – – – We're driving back out through the shantytown and heading towards Lake Torto in an attempt to pick up the trail of the Stork.
Sandy was recounting a tale from his lion-hunting days: — I recall one little girl running through the village crying: 'Simba mamma wae!', which means, roughly: 'A lion has one's mother', and sure enough, this beast had seized the child's mother by the thigh and bitten the poor woman through the neck. On hearing our cries, it had dropped its kill and made off into the long grass. I headed after it, making speedy progress through the foliage in time to see the brute entering a thicket on the other side of an open range. Taking a steady aim, I fired, the bullet striking the beast and rolling him over. The blighter rose instantly, however, and unfortunately my shot with the second barrel wasn't so keen; I completely missed him. Crossing the clearing, I heard a growling challenge. Imagining that the brute was severely wounded and would before long succumb to the effect of the bullet I'd dispatched into him, I considered that discretion was the better part of valour and thought it prudent to retrace my steps for about thirty-five yards and simply await developments.
— Crikey, I said, enjoying the scent of eucalyptus in my nostrils, — What happened?
— Well, after a lapse of about an hour I became a tad restless and decided the time was ripe to explore the bush. Of course, I fully expected to find the blighter dead. All was silent, so I cautiously entered the dense undergrowth and began to follow his trail. He had clearly lost a considerable amount of blood and appeared to be limping badly. After a few yards of progress I could discern the tawny form of the lion, crouching completely motionless, head between paws, eyes glinting in the shade and staring steadily at me; but the thing was, the bugger was only about ten blasted yards away!
— Gosh . . .
—Well, I raised the bloody rifle pretty damn sharply, but without giving me time to aim and fire the bloody brute somewhat unsportingly charged at me, roaring savagely. I promptly let him have it, the bullet striking the left side of his head and smashing his shoulder. My third shot knocked him down and I thought; that should be quantum sufficit, but I'll be blowed if the bugger wasn't straight up again and coming on as strongly as ever!
— Bloody hell, Sandy, what did you do?
— It wasn't what I did, old man. I was rather fortunate that Tanu, a stout-hearted native from the village, had followed me, and the brave chap raised his spear and drove it with all his might into the brute's shoulder. The lion seized my courageous ally, though this gave me time to reload and I took up position and furnished the brute with the contents of my second barrel. Another shot finished him. God, I remember the celebrations in the village. They were overjoyed at the news of the killer lion's demise. They fashioned garments from its hide and amulets from its bones and we indulged in some pretty damn prodigious beer-drinking that evening!
— How was the native chap?
— Tanu . . . dear Tanu . . . unfortunately the poor blighter didn't survive the mauling, Sandy said, tears welling up in his eyes.
I let my hand fall onto his knee and gave it a squeeze.
— A fucking brave chap, Sandy sniffed.
We drove down the dusty road in silence for a while. Then, as we cruised along the track that straddled the west side of Lake Torto, I spotted someone. — Look Sandy! It's that young lad, from the football game.
— Yes, a funny little creature! Sandy smiled. We stopped the jeep alongside him.
— Lift? I asked. — Ride? You like ride?
He looked suspiciously at us.
— What's Bantu for 'ride', Sandy? I turned to my companion. Sandy seemed different. This heat, it was making me hallucinate. . . his face looked a scaly reptilian green.
— I've dem well forgotten all the bloody fucking shitey cunt radge Bantu I ever cunting well learned! Sandy groaned, punching the jeep's body in exasperation.
I'm losing it. Concentrate.
— Never mind, Sandy, I said, turning back to our ragged young friend. — Ride? Brm! Brm! It's alright! We won't hurt you! Get into the jeep!
For some reason Sandy was rummaging through the medical supplies. A forked tongue darted out his head as he lisped in a strange voice: — Come and share some lemonade with us, young fellow. You must be absolutely parched!
The little urchin's face lit up in a delightful smile as he eyed the bottle of lemonade, and I thought that he was going to climb into the jeep.
— C'moan little fellow, we'll have some fun! Sandy said. Then he went, — Ye want a fuckin ride ya wee cunt, ah'll gie ye a fuckin ride awright . . .
No no . . . it wisnae like that, Sandy n me urnae like that . . . The native boy turned on his heels and ran away. Sandy looked distraught.
— Never mind, Sandy, I smiled, — It's just the way they're brought up.
— Yes Roy, he beamed largely, — and anyway, it's just simply heavenly being on our own.
— Tell me another one of your lion adventures, I requested. Sandy thought about this for a while, then said, — Oh, no Mr Strang. Methinks it's time for one of your shark hunting tales.
— Hmmm, I considered, — did I ever tell you about the spot of bother I got into with Johnny Shark down in Natal province?
— I don't believe you did.
— Well, I was down in Natal investigating attacks on local divers. Some suspected that one of our old friends the Great White, or at least a Tiger shark, was responsible. For some reason, I had my doubts; the bite marks on the survivors' legs seemed inconsistent. Those doubts were confirmed with a vengeance when I was diving alone near the scene of these attacks. I found myself confronted by Carcharhinus longimanus.
— The Oceanic White-tip shark, Sandy gasped.
— You know your sharks, Sandy. Anyway, this brute was circling around me. It must have been in excess of three metres long.
The Oceanic White-tip is very aggressive. This was the shark responsible for the slaughter of survivors of the Nova Scotia, when that ship sank off the Natal coast. In a similar scenario to your little encounter with the lion, this bugger came twisting towards me, just as I was about to let fly with the explosive harpoon.
— Oh my God, Sandy said, his eyes widening.
— Before I could react, the beast had fastened onto my leg. I felt no pain, however, and I took my knife and thrust it into the creature's snout. This caused the beast to loosen its grip. I quickly jammed my harpoon gun into his jaws to prevent them from closing again on my leg, then I prised my wounded limb off the monster's bed of teeth. The creature began thrashing around, trying to get the explosive gun from its mouth but, fortunately for me, only managed to detonate the device, blowing its own face to pieces. I still have a little memento from that brute ... I showed Sandy the scars on my leg.
— Gosh, he said.
We drove on, swapping tales, until night settled around the lake. We could hear the trumpeting noises the flamingos made as we drove along the track, our headlights cutting through the darkness. We were growing very tired. Somewhat fortuitously at that point, our maps indicated that there was a hut nearby and we managed to locate it fairly easily.
With our spirits lifted, we found that we were not too weary to conduct a thorough examination of our new abode. The building was constructed on high stilts and it looked out from deep in the forest down a slope over the still lake. I gleefully anticipated the morning appearance of the rising sun which would shine straight into our hut from above the lavish green hills.
Sandy exclaimed in unbounded delight as he opened cupboard after cupboard. — Towels! Cutlery and crockery! Bedding! And look, in the refrigerator: bottles of pop!
— We could light the stove to heat the room up, I suggested, pointing to the old stove in the middle of the room. It seemed as if the hut, which was really more like a small lodge, hadn't been occupied in ages.
– No, we don't need to, Sandy said, – not the way we're facing. That sun will be simply pouring in before too long! If it gets cold we
Ah mean, she kens ah've been playin away fi home, but wi her sister . . . well, ah suppose that's different right enough. It's just that she'd try n stoap ays fi seein the bairns Roy, you dinnae ken how spiteful that cunt is . . . ah fuckin gied her it tight the other day thair, telt a few home truths . . . here, ah bet if ye did wake up you'd have some stories to tell though Roy, eh? Mind you, might no be that bad. Gittin a bed bath fi the nurses everday. Ah'd be up fir that. Thir's a couple in here ah'd fuckin ride in a minute man, ah'm tellin ye . . .
Tony. You're visiting me. Fuck. This is a rare treat
— The thing is, her sister, she's gantin oan it . . .
The Big Ride
Shut up
— . . . bangs like a fuckin shitehoose door in a gale, ah'm tellin ye . . .
SHUT UP
— . . . thir aw the same, though, these daft cunts . . . fill their heids fill ay shite n they cannae wait tae whip thir fuckin keks oaf . . .
SHUT THE FUCK UP YA SICK MISOGYNISTIC WOP CUNT IT'S AFRICA AH WANT TAE THINK ABOOT
DEEPER
DEEPER– – – – – –I'm out of range of that crazy spic clown's rantings, but I can't get deep enough to hunt the Stork. I'm deep enough to remember, though.
I remember.
After Uncle Gordon's lecture, I avoided Valerie. I now looked upon her with a mixture of fear and contempt. I quickly put Kim in the picture about her and we kept out of her way, occasionally playing some mean tricks on her to ingratiate ourselves with Gordon; hiding stuff in different cupboards and that sort of thing, which caused her a great deal of distress. We made up nasty songs with words like 'coon' and 'Kaffir' and 'nigger' in them and sang them lustily around the house. Dad and Gordon would laugh approvingly at us.
I ingratiated myself with Gordon s
uccessfully; I ingratiated myself too much. Since coming to South Africa, all I had wanted was to get to see some of the wildlife I had read about in my books. One day Gordon came home and took me out with him for a drive into the bush to show mc some animals. I was excited, as we had two sets of binoculars and had packed a large picnic. It was hot and I drank a lot of Coca-Cola. Due to this, and my excitement, I got sore guts and had bad trapped wind. I was rubbing my stomach, it was agony. Gordon pulled over by the side of the road and told me to lie down flat on the back seat. He started rubbing my stomach, feeling me, then working his hand slowly inside my shorts and down over my genitals. I just gave a nervous giggle. Part of me didn't really believe that this was happening. Then I felt a diseased spasm wrench through me and I began to tense up under his touch.
— It's alright, it's all connected up, he smiled, — the stomach, the bladder . . . I know what's wrong here.
Then he opened my trousers and told me that I was a good boy while he started stroking my cock, masturbating himself with his other hand.
His face reddened and his eyes glowed strangely, yet appeared unfocused as he seemed to struggle for breath. Then his body jerked before relaxing and a sharpened concern came into his eyes. He spent a few minutes massaging my stomach again, until I farted and burped a couple of times.
This incident stayed in my mind, but the funny thing was that we had a great day out after that. I filled six pages of my notebook with what we'd seen: a Black and white colobus, a Side-striped jackal, a Clawless otter (in a stream by the forest) a Black-tipped mongoose, a porcupine and an African hare on the mammals front, while in terms of birds it was really fuckin ace: European grey wagtail, African marsh owl, Golden-rumped tinkcrbird, Olive thrush, doves of the Pink-breasted and Red-eyed variety, African snipe (which might have been a Jack snipe, I couldn't be one hundred per cent sure) and a Steppe buzzard.