Confessions of a Ginger Pudding

by Zelda Bezuidenhout

  “Wait, it gets better! The cops called the owner of the boutique to fetch her dummy. Despite it being late at night, the woman immediately jumped into her car, still wearing her nightie. On arrival at the police station, she looked at the boys and the dummy and swore high and low that she’d never laid eyes on old Dolores before. It was not her doll, she said. The three boys were as surprised as the cops that the young widow didn’t recognise her own shop mannequin.”

  “Weird!” Ilana says.

  “Why would she lie about that?” I’m confused.

  “She refused to file a case against the guys. Just requested a copy of the report about the incident. The boys were released. They christened the dummy Dolores and took her back to their hostel dorm. But here comes the twist ... Every Saturday morning for the remainder of those boys’ matric year, they spent at least three hours at the young widow’s home. Apparently, one had to mow the lawn, another had to water the flower beds, and the third ... well, he worked indoors.” Dineo looks at us, waiting for the penny to drop. To give us a clue, she breaks into a sexy little dance.

  “Eeeuww!” My lips pucker with revulsion. “You mean ... the third guy ...? So, the widow was a cougar?”

  “Who knows? Maybe he was just polishing the silverware. Although, by all accounts, it wasn’t only her silverware that wore a shine once the boys had left. They say the widow always looked very radiant after the young men had done their community service!” Dineo’s dimples form commas on each cheek of her pretty face. She’s clearly enjoying her story almost as much as we are.

  “Well, that’s why old Dolores looks the way she does. She’s obviously seen too much and can’t ever unsee it!” My two friends fall about with laughter at my disgusted reaction to the legend of Dolores.

  “Anyway,” Dineo leads us back to our original thread – the subject of my shocking discovery the previous weekend, “I didn’t know Dewald had a girlfriend. It’s definitely not someone in our school. What does she look like, Ari?”

  “Oh, you know. Gorgeous. Skinny. Bubbly. The whole package.” I yank out a clump of grass with every attribute I list.

  “What was he doing in the Checkers meat section anyway?” Ilana wants to know.

  “Dewald’s uncle Quinten got him the part-time job. He’s a supervisor there. Dewald is crazy about food and cooking.” Dineo fills in the gaps.

  “How do you know all this stuff, Neo?” Ilana asks.

  “I listen. I observe. I stay in the moment,” Dineo says. We look at her sceptically. “Plus, my cousin Refilwe works with Oom Quinten,” she adds.

  We have a double period of English on Mondays. It doesn’t take me long to realise that Dewald isn’t in class this morning. English is one of the few subjects we have together. It is quite amazing how it has suddenly become my favourite subject. I have marked all my English classes in red on my weekly roster.

  I read Romeo and Juliet in my first week to ensure that I would always seem ultra-brainy and sophisticated.

  I look at Dewald’s empty chair, then at Ilana, questioning her with my eyes. She shrugs. She has no idea where he could be either. I’ll find out at break. He’s friends with Shaun Asja. They have Consumer Science together. Shaun will be able to shed light on Dewald’s absence. Perhaps that girl who fetched him from his mince-packing in Checkers on Saturday has swallowed him whole with that impossibly beautiful mouth of hers.

  WHAP!

  I’m shocked upright. Mr Crawford has the annoying habit of pacing between our desks and bringing his ruler down hard on the surface if he suspects a student of daydreaming.

  “Why, in your opinion, didn’t Juliet want to marry Paris, Miss Van Zyl?” The Crawfish asks me.

  I gulp. In my mind I hear the opening bars of the theme music for the third episode of The Chronicles of Noldy.

  “One should always marry for love,” I state with the certainty of a guru in matters of love.

  Scattered voices around the classroom begin to argue or contradict my answer, but The Crawfish whacks his ruler down on the next desktop and declares: “Yes! Precisely, Arnelia!”

  I feel a smug, relieved grin creep across my face. That was close.

  “In Shakespeare’s times, girls had very little control over their lives. Juliet showed true grit by trying to stand up for her love.”

  I bask in the glow of my small victory for the rest of the lesson, but concern over Dewald’s absence keeps niggling me. Where could he be?

  It seems that the bell for first break will never ring.

  Finally free of the classroom, I find Shaun leaning in his signature laid-back pose against a pillar of the library building. Shaun Asja is what my Ouma Dina calls the school clown. Thin as a rake, with an Adam’s apple the size of a chicken egg. When he speaks – which is often and much – that egg bounces up and down like a ball in the Lotto machine. It has a hypnotic effect on me and I suspect that I miss some of his best quips because of my fascination with the bobbing egg.

  “So, where’s your partner in crime today, Shaun?” I try to sound as casual as possible.

  “Brace yourself,” he declares, his hand flying dramatically to his cheek. “Dewald’s mom has been sick for some time. Cancer. Nina, his sister, flew in from Vietnam this weekend. She teaches English there but had to come and help care for Tannie Alma, ’cause their dad can’t manage the farm and the housekeeping on his own. With Dewald in the hostel, it’s a real mess.”

  My head is suddenly noisy with the range of emotions fighting for airtime. Dewald’s mom has cancer. How awful. Is she going to die? What will happen to Dewald? What about his dad, alone on the farm? Is it possible that the beautiful girl from the butchery department is Dewald’s sister? I go from shock to sorrow, then relief, gladness and hope ... and then back to sadness.

  “Noooo! That’s horrible. Is there a chance she’ll recover?”

  “Apparently, no. That’s why they called Nina home. Things don’t look good. And if Tannie Alma dies, Dewald will have to return to the farm. He won’t be able to stay at the hostel, or even in school. He’ll have to help out on the farm. The E. coli virus thinned out their sheep numbers, shame. Practically all the pregnant ewes caught it, and the lambs only survive for a day or two after birth, before diarrhoea kills them. The drought hasn’t exactly helped either. Between you and me, there’s no money for boarding-school fees. The plan is that Nina’s going to home-school Dewald. I don’t suppose she’ll be able to return to Vietnam too soon.”

  Shaun reels off the information like someone being questioned under the glare of a white light in the interrogation room of a police station. It’s not as though I’m prying or quizzing him. I think he’s simply missing his friend. He needs to talk about Dewald.

  I’m gobsmacked. How has Dewald managed to keep going? How is he able to get to school, do his homework, keep his job at the butcher? How can he even smile? If something were to happen to my mom ... No, I’m not even going there.

  “Flippit, Shaun.” I don’t know what to say. “How can we help him?”

  Shaun seems close to tears.

  “There’s nothing more anyone can do for his mom. The best we can do for Dewald is to support him, I guess. It’s going to be a rough ride.”

  What’s in a name?

  A week drags by. Nobody hears any news about Dewald. Not even Shaun. I take a daily detour past his pillar outside the library to chat to him. He looks a little lost without his buddy. They’re the only Grade 10 boys in the Consumer Science class. The other guys basically ignore Shaun, and I reckon he prefers it that way.

  After a couple of days, I invite Shaun to join our little group. Why should he hang around alone outside the library? He accepts my offer without argument and fits into our squad with little effort. Our conversations range from the interpretation of our dreams, to the Eiffel Tower, to the budgets for the girls’ matric dance dresses.

 
“Get this,” says Shaun. “Shereen Venter’s mom has been saving for her matric dance dress since she was in Grade 8.”

  “Shereen or her mom?” Dineo asks.

  “Huh?”

  “Since WHO was in Grade 8 – Shereen or her mother? I mean, if it’s her mom, it’s going to be a spectacular dress.”

  “Oh, believe me it will be spectacular. A spectacular flop.” Shaun rolls his eyes. We laugh.

  “Well, when I’m in matric, you’re designing my dress, Shaun. I want an elegant creation, without frills. Like me,” I flatter our new friend.

  “Elegant? You?” Dineo and Ilana ask the very same question but not quite synchronised. It comes out more like an echo. They look at one another and laugh.

  That afternoon, while I’m sitting at our kitchen table wrestling with math, Shaun forwards me a message he’s received from Dewald:

  My mom’s not well. Have to catch up with homework sometime. Need latest assignments. Can you ask someone to drop it off at the farm? Don’t want to leave here now.

  Not long after the message appears in my inbox, Shaun calls me.

  He gets straight to the point. “I need wheels. My folks both work all day and won’t want to drive to the farm after dark. Dineo’s gran refuses to drive on a farm road.”

  “I could ask my mom,” I offer.

  He’s relieved. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  Mom’s busy slicing green beans for supper. She’s wearing her Wednesday outfit: a baggy pair of khaki linen pants and a chunky jersey, with her only pair of leather boots. My mother doesn’t care too much about her appearance and her wardrobe is sparse. Most of her clothes are decades old.

  “Mumsy?” I use my little-girl voice.

  “You want something, Noldy.” Mom is not stupid. She puts down the paring knife with a little sigh. “I’m listening.”

  “A friend’s mother is sick, Ma. Terribly sick. She has cancer, and she’s dying. He needs to get his schoolwork up to date, but they live out on a farm. Can you take us to drop it off? All the other parents are at work until after dark. Please, Mom, you’re the only self-employed one.”

  Empathy registers on Mom’s face. “Oh shame, sweetheart. That’s heartbreaking. Who is this friend of yours? And where exactly is this farm?”

  This is when I know for sure she’s going to help us. No one has the same capacity for caring as my mother. I look at the woman who gave life to me. In my mind’s eye a golden halo forms above her head and the words Mother Teresa appear as a caption.

  Mom and I go pick up Shaun. I sit in the back from the start because Shaun has long legs. He’s waiting outside his house with a bag of books slung over his shoulder. As we draw to a stop, he slides into the passenger seat of the Honda.

  “Hi, Ma’am, I’m Shaun. Hey, Ari!” He’s adopted my nickname from the girls.

  “What’s in the basket?” He’s eyeing the basket on the seat beside me. I lift the red-and-white checkered dishcloth to show him its contents.

  “My mom made them some Hertzoggies.” I show him the container of little jam-filled tartlets with coconut topping.

  “Classy,” he says.

  I’m not sure if he’s being sarcastic or sincere. I’m just relieved Mom didn’t make her famous Van Zyl Cream Cracker cookies.

  The Fourie farm lies about 60 kilometres outside Potchefstroom. Shaun navigates while Mom drives. She talks non-stop. It’s her first visit to anyone in the area. Despite my mother’s good nature, she’s not very sociable. Still, I guess the past few months as the newbies in town have starved her of company. Translation is a lonely occupation and she spends most of her time cloistered in her little office on the shady side of our flat.

  The woman behind the wheel today is the light version of Lente van Zyl. My mom’s mother, Ouma Dina, is a free spirit, who gave her only daughter a hippie name brimming with sunshine – Lente. It means ‘spring’ in Afrikaans. Mom was born in August 1969, slap bang in the midst of the ‘Three days of Peace and Music’ of the Woodstock Festival in America. During the time of the Vietnam War, many people gave their children hippie names, like Autumn, Jade or Storm.

  In South Africa, however, parents rarely named their kids after a season, a gemstone or a natural phenomenon. Mom’s schoolmates were Deborahs who became Debbies. Maria Elizabeths may well have become Marietjie, Mariëtte or Maralize. But there were definitely no other Lentes.

  Mid-August was still mid-winter in the small Free State town where Ouma Dina and Oupa Jack lived, but spring was officially on the way. My grandmother probably hoped that the name would bestow on her daughter a happy, bright life as mild as spring. A life without the discomforts of winter or summer. Unfortunately, it didn’t quite work out that way for my mom.

  From the back seat, I stare at Mom’s pretty, thick plait, and the strands of grey woven through her reddish-brown hair. I can’t remember the last time she went to a hairdresser. Her hair is hastily tied back, or stuffed into her favourite Panama hat every morning. Maintenance payments from my father sometimes take months to reach us, and her earnings from her translations have always been meagre.

  Mom and Shaun are talking the hind leg off a donkey.

  “Have I got this straight? You’ve been designing and making clothes since you were twelve?” she asks him. She’s super impressed. We don’t even own a sewing machine.

  “Yep. It’s the coolest thing on earth, Ma’am,” Shaun says, delighted with her interest in his passion. “Give me a piece of fabric and I’m happy.”

  “Goodness!” She looks at me in the rear-view mirror, her laughter lines crinkling into friendly patterns around her green eyes. I can see she likes Shaun an awful lot.

  “My mom uses a staple gun to hem my school dress,” I enter their conversation. “One time, when we were out of staples, she used Bostik glue.”

  “Bring your dresses to moi,” Shaun exclaims, hand on his heart. “I’ll hem them properly, and I’ll even shorten them at the same time. Legs like yours shouldn’t be hidden under long dresses.”

  Mom’s look in the rear-view mirror says, “See? I told you that you’re beautiful.”

  There’s a little signboard at the gate to the turnoff to the Fourie farm:

  BELOFTE. Dennis & Alma Fourie.

  I think about this for a moment. ‘Promise’ is a good name for a piece of land on which one hopes to make a decent living and a happy life. Like Ouma Dina, the original owner must have believed in the power of names.

  Mom noses the Honda onto the dirt road at a snail’s pace. The car’s tyres have long since passed being roadworthy and there’s definitely no money for replacements now.

  We pass through two more gates before the homestead comes into view: a square house with a large stoep and two stately palm trees guarding the steps.

  “You have reached your destination,” Shaun mimics the voice of the GPS woman. Even before the car has come to a standstill, a pack of barking dogs bursts into view, galloping towards us from the side of the house. There are large dogs, small dogs; every colour and breed imaginable. The barking must be an excellent alarm system in such a remote place. Close on the heels of the dogs, Dewald and the stunning girl I saw in Checkers make their way down the steps. So this is his sister, Nina, my brain computes.

  Shaun must have told him that Mom and I were going to be his lift today, because Dewald shows no surprise at seeing me. In fact, he flashes a hesitant James Franco grin and gives me the same formal hug he gives my mom. He smells like oranges.

  “Thanks for the homework, dude. I really don’t want to fall behind more than I already have,” he tells Shaun.

  “I brought Hertzoggies,” says Mom and hands the basket to Nina.

  Dewald and Nina peer under the dishcloth at the offerings in the basket and make appreciative noises.

  “You gu
ys have driven far – come have coffee before you drive home,” says Nina. “Dewald has made Crêpes Suzette. You must be Shaun and ... Nelia?” She’s forgotten my name.

  “Arnelia,” Dewald corrects her.

  “Arnelia, are you going to hang out with Dewald a while before you return to town?” Nina walks on ahead to the front door. We all look at each other. We hadn’t actually considered hanging out.

  “We can ...” Mom is hesitant. “If it suits you? Perhaps just a half-hour or so? I’ve only eaten Crêpes Suzette once before. And they were heavenly.”

  The Fourie home is a colourful one. A tad untidy, with heaps of books and magazines piled on tables and stacked in corners. An ancient Rhodesian ridgeback lies on a cushion in front of the fireplace. The dogs that had welcomed us outside now strut alongside us over the creaking wooden floorboards, tails wagging. The furniture is dark and bulky, the loose carpets threadbare. We pass a messy corner, where an easel displays an unfinished painting. Tubes of paint and brushes litter a low table. A huge grandfather clock ticks the passing seconds with inappropriate enthusiasm. If we did not already know someone lay dying here, this would be a warm and welcoming home.

  “Do you want to say hello to my mom, Shaun?” asks Dewald.

  We’re all uncomfortable. I can see that Shaun isn’t sure about whether or not he wants to see Dewald’s mother. Will it be “Hello”, or “Goodbye”? He wrestles with his answer for a moment, then says, “Sure.”

  Dewald and Shaun head down the passage. I bend to stroke one of the smaller dogs as I watch them go.

  When Dewald opens the door to the bedroom at the end of the passage, I catch a glimpse of the woman in the bed. Small and pale, her upper body and head propped among pillows against the headboard. Her head is tilted to one side and her eyes are closed. Dewald closes the door softly once he and Shaun are inside.

  With my new doggy friend, a woolly mongrel of dubious heritage, I follow the voices of my mother and Nina. This leads me to a room almost as large as the living room: the hearty farm kitchen. Here is another crackling fireplace. In the centre of the room stands the longest table I have ever seen. Above the table, the skeleton of an old mattress hangs suspended. From its exposed springs dangle pots, pans and all manner of kitchen equipment. Mom is sitting at the table and Nina is busy grinding coffee beans.