“My mother ...” Dewald’s voice is suddenly paper thin. He tries to swallow his emotion. “She could bake the most delicious blondies, Arnie. I wish you could have tasted them. These aren’t nearly as good as hers.”
“Tell me about her,” I say softly.
“She was an amazing woman. Bubbly, full of ideas, so creative. She could paint, sew, make pottery ... and cook, of course, like nobody else. It’s odd – I never really realised what her energy did for us all until it ... until she disappeared.”
I break another blondie in half and pass him a piece.
“These days our house feels like a ...” He searches for a comparison.
“Film set?” I suggest.
“Exactly,” Dewald says. “A movie set once all the actors have gone home. Everything’s still there, but nothing feels right. Does that make sense?”
“Makes perfect sense,” I say, and I think about the old vinyl records my dad and I used to listen to on Sunday mornings when he was still with us. His entire collection of LPs is now in unopened boxes on the floor of our lounge. When he left us, he took very few of his things. When you make a living deep-sea diving, you travel light. But neither Mom nor I have ever listened to one of his old records again, even though the turntable is plugged in and ready.
If I were to listen to Bob Dylan’s ‘Mr Tambourine Man’ now, the heartache of the past few years would form a ball of steel wool in my heart. Those sharp wire curls would cut and bruise me and the pain would be unbearable.
“My dad is a strong guy, Arnie. Farming isn’t for sissies. He’s been through many hard times and has always stayed positive and made a new plan. Now, with Mom gone, he’s unable to make new plans. He’s broken. Completely lost without her. Actually, we all are.”
Dewald looks different now. There is a visibly pulsing, vertical vein in the centre of his forehead, and his face has changed colour. There must be steel wool in his heart, and it’s busy tearing him to pieces inside. I lean in slightly and, across the table, impulsively place the back of my hand against his cheek. My spontaneous move embarrasses me and I immediately want to pull my hand back, but Dewald puts his hand over mine. We sit like that for a moment. His hand is big and warm. I can feel that one of my curls has escaped from the loose topknot I’d tied up at the speed of light earlier.
Just as Dewald lifts his other hand to brush the curl from my eyes, Mom’s study door bursts open and she stumbles out crying, holding her cellphone to her ear.
“I don’t believe it, Leina! It’s not even three years yet!” Mom probably hadn’t planned to emerge from her study, because she looks exceptionally bad. Her eyes are red from weeping, and she’s wearing her old varsity tracksuit, with its holes and droopy, stretched knees.
She pushes past Dewald and me, as if she simply doesn’t see us. She is aiming for the kettle to make tea.
She sounds as if she’s about to start hyperventilating as she talks breathlessly to Tannie Leina on the phone. “I know! I knew it would happen at some stage, but so soon? I feel so ... so dispensable!” Now she’s bawling like a baby. She lowers the volume on the iPod so that she can better hear herself cry over Debbie Harry’s ‘Call Me’.
I’m mortified. So much for the ‘normal’ family I so desperately wanted us to portray. I cast an apologetic look at Dewald and, to my astonishment, he gets up and hand signals to me, “Let’s give her some space.”
In the lounge, he says, “At least we got to taste everything. Your feedback was great, Arnelia. Thanks a stack. I can finalise the menu now. But I think I should leave. You guys have stuff going on. I’ll come back for the Tupperware another time.”
Dewald phones Nina to come pick him up. She must have been on her way already, because she’s at the gate of our complex within minutes.
Isn’t that typical? I think as I watch him hurry out the door and climb into the dusty bakkie next to his sister. Just when Dewald Fourie and I are finally connecting, my mother comes along and stuffs it all up. It’s as if she’s on a mission to ruin my life!
When I turn around to go back into the flat, I see Mom slide slowly down the kitchen cupboard and come to rest on the floor, legs straight out in front of her like a ragdoll. Her cellphone is in her lap. Fat teardrops are rolling down her cheeks, and she looks so very lost.
I soften immediately and sit next to her on the floor. I wrap my arms around her, and she says flatly: “Your father got engaged this weekend.”
It’s the first time she’s called Dad ‘your father’.
My phone beeps just as I’m falling asleep. It’s Dineo.
Truckers, people have given us lots of freebies, but we need money for a microwave and a gas bottle. Any ideas?
I clamber out of bed, walk over to my sock drawer and pull it open. This is where I’ve been storing one of my pretend pencil bags lately. Inside is the envelope from Dad on which Mom had written For Arnelia, with love from Dad. I tear it open and count the notes. I have no idea what microwaves or gas bottles cost, but there’s a thickish wad of R200 notes. That should be more than enough.
Micro and gas bottle sorted
I type on our WhatsApp group.
The rest of the winter holidays is a race against time to get the On a Roll Kombi ready by the start of the new term.
Three days before school reopens, the interior is completed. Our sunshine-yellow tuck truck now boasts a work counter with a spanking-new microwave and a two-ring gas burner on top. Under the counter are the gas bottle, Miss Heyns’s camping fridge and three milk crates, in which we’ll store bread rolls and other tuck.
Ilana designed a clever logo for ON A ROLL, with the two o’s forming the wheels of a Kombi. These have been printed as decals and stuck onto the sides and back of the old minibus. Shaun has made curtains from unbleached calico for the windows, and festive bunting flags for the service hatch. The poster advertising the Geyers’ bakery has pride of place at the front.
Even Dolores has had a makeover. Thanks to Shaun, she now sports a sexy On a Roll superhero outfit, complete with mask to hide her broken nose. She wears a white chef’s hat and her cape is made from flour bags that Shaun begged off the farmers’ co-op. On her chest he has drawn Ilana’s On a Roll logo. We’re going to hang our OPEN sign from her outstretched arm. Our blackboard with the daily specials will be propped up next to her.
There is two weeks’ worth of stock of meat fillings, pancakes, brownies and blondies in the Fouries’ freezer on the farm. Dewald has packed the hamburger patties in individual plastic bags, so that he can heat them one by one. Our motto from the start has been ‘No waste’.
Although we promised The Grump that we would only sell healthy food, we have unanimously decided that there had to be a couple of typical tuck items for sale, like packets of potato chips, toffees and lollipops. This is how we sold the idea to The Grump: certain items define a business as a ‘tuck shop’. If there are absolutely no sweets or chips, the kids are never, ever going to think of it as a tuck shop. The trick is: lure them with the traditional tuck-shop fare, and then seduce them with Dewald’s deliciously healthy food.
Thanks to Dineo’s debating skills, The Grump fell for it.
But I insisted on one thing: nothing is to compete with the food we produce ourselves. Chocolate bars are too similar to brownies and someone with a chocolate craving would perhaps choose the chocolate over the brownie. I had proposed this valuable marketing tip at an earlier meeting and immediately saw that Dewald valued my foresight.
The Grump put his foot down about drinks: no fizzy cold drinks are to be sold, under any circumstances. We’re only allowed to sell water and fruit juices – that’s it, full stop. Seeing as we don’t really have a fridge big enough to keep drinks cold, we decided to stock only small boxes of pure fruit juice. Cardboard is better for the environment than plastic, anyway.
Dewald is late for our final meeting in the s
hipping container.
Where are you, Chef?
Shaun types in our WhatsApp group. No response. After waiting for fifteen minutes we decide to start our meeting without him.
We’ve asked Edwin and Oom Simon to join us. Father and son are standing shyly to the side. Clearly, they’re more comfortable with machines than people.
The rest of us are chatting excitedly about the prospect of our first day as co-owners of the school’s first tuck shop. Shaun taps his ruler against the rim of a coffee mug to get our attention.
“On behalf of the On a Roll team – and that includes you, Edwin – I want to thank Mr Simon Daniels for the donation of our food truck. Without the Kombi, it would have remained just a dream. And, Edwin, your dad probably can’t wait for the day you finish school. You’re going to be an asset to his business. Thank you for the beautiful facelift you gave the old lady.”
Edwin gives a shy smile. His father looks super proud.
“Where do you think Dewald is?” I whisper in Dineo’s ear.
“On my way here I saw him at The Dairy Devil with Irma Geyer – he’ll probably be here any minute,” she answers offhandedly without realising that she’s just shot a flaming arrow right through my heart.
Irma-freaking-Geyer. Blonde, long-legged sports goddess and last year’s Junior Victrix Ludorum. The Grade 9 little sister of Hein Geyer in matric. Why would Dewald be hanging out with her? And how can he sit around with that little witch when he knows how important this last meeting in the shipping container is to all of us?
Shaun is talking about Dineo’s planned announcement about the new tuck truck at assembly on Tuesday when school reopens. I’m not paying attention. I’m in The Dairy Devil, where Dewald and Irma probably have their straws in the same milkshake glass, like in one of those cheesy movies from the sixties. I feel sick.
We’re almost at the final point on the agenda when Don Juan Fourie storms through the door, face flushed and panting for breath.
“Sorry, dudes,” he says, and collapses onto an old car seat.
“Thanks for joining us, Chef Fourie,” Shaun chirps.
“I have to be home early,” I say and begin to gather my things. “I’ll see you at half past six Tuesday morning.”
Ilana and Dineo give me quizzical looks. They know full well I don’t have to be anywhere.
I walk out and stand under the Daniels Panel Beaters signboard to phone Mom through a flood of tears.
“Please, Ma, can you come and fetch me? We finished early.”
The dog and the car
On the first day of the new term, Ilana’s mother picks Dineo and me up from our homes. She teaches at the college, which is around the corner from our school. We want to arrive together today, because we’re all a little nervous about On a Roll.
Dineo sits next to me on the back seat. She’s going through her notes for the speech she’s to deliver in the school hall this morning. It was The Grump’s suggestion that she address the entire school and introduce them to the tuck-shop-on-wheels concept.
“Today is one of the most important days in the history of our school. For the first time ever, we have a tuck shop!” She delivers the lines dramatically, then asks: “Is it too much? Be honest.”
“No, man, it’s cool,” I say. “You’re going to raise the roof.”
The prospect of today is bitter-sweet to me, like eighty per cent dark chocolate. On the one hand, I’m crazy with excitement about On a Roll. On the other hand, it’s the first time I’ll see Dewald since our meeting in the shipping container three days ago. He’s sent me several private WhatsApp messages.
Arnie, are you okay? You’re very quiet.
And my personal favourite ...
Have I done something wrong?
As if he doesn’t know.
We reach the quad, and when I see the Kombi parked in her spot next to the library, I briefly forget that my crush has a crush of his own, and that it isn’t me.
The On a Roll Kombi looks unbelievable. The service hatch is open and Shaun’s cheerful bunting flags are flapping happily in the light breeze. Through the window, I can see Shaun and Dewald scurrying about inside. The new and improved Dolores strikes a sexy pose next to the door, right next to the menu board decorated with Ilana’s cute drawings. The little CLOSED sign dangles from her slim wrist.
Ilana and Dineo scream like little girls and make a dash towards the Kombi. I follow slowly. Dineo starts singing Pharrell Williams’s song ‘Happy’ at the top of her voice, accompanied by a couple of complicated dance steps, clapping her hands to the beat. I reach Dolores and whisper: “If you’re truly a lucky charm, now’s the time to prove it, sister.”
It’s cooking at On a Roll at break. Dineo’s announcement at assembly was a huge hit. Anyone with money in their pocket comes for a closer look at the tuck shop. Curiosity probably has a lot to do with it, but we can’t keep up with the hero rolls and other tuck they’re buying.
Dewald and Shaun are on duty in the kitchen today. Ilana and I take the orders and Dineo is handling petty cash.
It is soon clear that the Captain Curry hero is a firm favourite. The frikkadels are a winner too, and it’s not long before everyone is simply calling it Balls with Ball’s. Brownies and blondies are really popular among the girls – just as I predicted. I’d expected it to be awkward to be working alongside Dewald in the confined space of the Kombi, but we’re so busy that there’s really no time for discomfort.
Twenty minutes into break and we’re out of Captain Curry hero rolls. Just then Irma Geyer appears in front of me to order one. “I’m sorry, we’ve just sold the last one,” I tell her.
“Tell Dewie Irma wants one. He’ll make a plan,” she says with a shake of her blonde ponytail.
I feel a red veil descend over me. I know my face probably matches my hair right now. But I don’t even care. What a cheek!
I turn to Dewald, who’s assembling the last chicken hero.
“Dewie,” I emphasise the stupid nickname, “Irma says she wants a Captain Curry hero, and she wants you to conjure one up for her.”
He looks up at me, confused, and then at Irma, who is hanging over the service counter like a flirty finch. He finishes making the chicken hero and hands it to the guy waiting for it. Then he gets out of the Kombi and goes to speak to Irma. I try not to stare, but I see her pretty mouth pout with disappointment.
“Five minutes, slaves!” Shaun yells.
We had rehearsed the drill. Five minutes before the end of first break, we finish the order we’re busy with, turn off the gas stove, switch the generator off, close the service hatch and lock the Kombi.
The tuck shop is closed during second break, which is only fifteen minutes long. That is when we go back to clean up. The counters have to be wiped down and the pots and cutlery have to be washed. All the leftover bread, frozen food and garnishes are packed into Dewald’s cooler box. Dewald takes it back to the hostel, and Matron Deetlefs stores it in the cold room so that Dewald can sort it out later, after the hostel study period. Dolores and the menu board are stored inside the Kombi before everything is locked up. We take turns to carry the refuse bags to the school rubbish-bin area and sort the contents into the various recycling bins.
And last, but not least, Dineo takes the petty cash box and sales book home to calculate our profits.
On a Roll made R922 profit on our first day. We’re talking PROFIT, peeps! So that’s AFTER I’ve deducted the cost of all our supplies and other purchases!
her message announces later. Our replies are a string of whoop-whoops and yays.
Then Shaun mentions something seemingly off- topic:
Neo, did you see the audition list for Hairspray on the notice board?
We all know about Dineo’s dream to land a role in the school play.
Yes? And?
Dineo types.
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You do realise that you can’t do On a Roll and rehearsals at the same time? We’re going to be selling food at school productions and other events. That’s probably where we’re going to make the big bucks.
The group chat goes quiet. Maybe none of us weighed up the cost of success all that well. It reminds me of the story about the dog chasing the car. What will the dog do when he eventually catches the car?
Dineo’s text pings:
On a Roll comes first. I can be in next year’s play.
Shaun responds with a volley of thumbs-up emojis.
Fifteen minutes of fame
Mom and I suddenly have something in common: we both think men are the scum of the earth. Some afternoons, she’s still in her pyjamas when she picks me up from school.
“Ma, what if the car breaks down?” I ask nervously. That’s all I need: my pyjama-clad mother walking the streets of Potchefstroom in broad daylight, begging for a can of water for the old Honda’s radiator.
“I’ll call someone for help,” she shrugs without emotion.
Mom really should forget about Dad, but she’s struggling. I don’t think she’s eating enough. On the few days she does get dressed, her jeans sag over her bony butt. The upside of this is that she doesn’t care much what I eat either. Sometimes when we get home she just says, “There’s bread in the bin, Noldy.” Then she goes back into her workroom, where she does who-knows-what.
I try not to think about Dewald and Irma. For the second time this year, I realise that I was crazy to think someone like him would fall for someone like me. He only needed me for feedback about his food. I tried to make more of it than it really was.
Irma fetches her Captain Curry hero roll at On a Roll every day, and these days Dewald makes sure she gets it by setting one aside for her. She never eats the bread, just the filling.
By the end of the week, profits are totalling R2320. Sales have dropped a little from the day of our grand opening, but there is still constant interest throughout the week. If it continues this way, we’ll easily be able to pay Dewald’s school and hostel fees. And we haven’t even started selling at school functions yet.
Confessions of a Ginger Pudding Page 8