by Jaco Jacobs
My imagination was definitely not good enough to form a picture of Mum climbing into a tree but Leila’s mother didn’t need any encouragement. I could see who Leila inherited her tree-climbing talent from. Her mum gathered her skirt in a bundle around her legs and climbed up in a flash. For a moment I considered rather staying down on the ground. Wouldn’t it be weird to spend the night in a tree with Leila as well as her mother?
But then I heard something in the dark. Close to me.
Leila and her mum yelled.
I’m sure I broke some tree-climbing record.
In silence we sat and listened. The wind was rustling through the leaves and it blew out the candle below us. I could hardly breathe.
In the pitch-dark, paper rustled, and then we heard some groaning and greedy eating sounds.
I crossed my fingers lest Leila and her mum started yelling like girls do at the movies. I was the only man up there in the tree, even though I was only thirteen years old and the smallest guy in my class. I guess I was supposed to try and keep them calm or protect them or something. But I didn’t really know how you were supposed to keep girls and their mothers calm when sitting up in a tree while some night stalker was stealing your food. Had my mum been there, she would’ve chased that villain away by now. Mum was used to scaring murderers and robbers and other thugs out of their senses. Even Dad was scared of her, although he’d never admit it.
It felt like an eternity before the eating sounds stopped.
‘Has he left?’ Leila whispered.
No one answered.
‘Hello?’ I asked cautiously. I thought of the one-eyed man who was always begging at the traffic light in front of the university and gave me the shivers when he peeped into the car with that one eye of his.
Everything was dead quiet.
‘He’s definitely left,’ said Leila.
‘I’m staying right here,’ said her mother.
When it became evident that the night stalker wasn’t planning to come back immediately, I started to relax.
I yawned.
For the thousandth time I wished that I had my mobile phone with me so that I could see what the time was or at least play games to while away the hours. But the battery probably would have become flat already because I had the oldest phone in our house. I think Noah used a Nokia like mine on the Ark. I had no idea how long I’d dozed off for. Poor Leila probably hadn’t slept a wink because it had been my turn to sleep first.
I had goosebumps again but fortunately this time it wasn’t due to mysterious noises in the dark – the night air was quite cool.
The silence was getting on my nerves, so I cleared my throat.
‘Erm…you’re stranded on an island,’ I said, ‘and you have only three things with you. A newspaper…a piece of string and…a chocolate bar. What would you do with them?’
Leila laughed softly. ‘The newspaper is easy – I’d fold it into a sun hat…and build some kind of sunshade so that I didn’t burn red like a lobster.’
‘If the string was long enough, I’d weave a hammock,’ said Leila’s mum. ‘Then I could lie in the hammock and read the newspaper until someone showed up to rescue me.’
I smiled. ‘The chocolate bar is the easiest. I would’ve eaten it.’
‘No!’ said Leila’s mum. ‘I would rather put it somewhere to attract bugs. I read that when you’re stranded without food, insects are an excellent source of protein.’
‘Gross!’ said Leila. ‘If it was a cannibal island, I’d give the chocolate to the cannibal prince. Maybe it would be love at first sight when he tasted it, and then I’d become a cannibal princess and stay on the island for the rest of my life.’
‘Gross!’ I said. ‘You want to become a cannibal?’
‘Yep, you guys better make sure you don’t end up on my island,’ Leila said in a dark voice. ‘Anything’s better than eating bugs – even a little human flesh. Grrr!’
We laughed.
But suddenly someone coughed right below the tree.
Our laughing turned into hysterical screaming. Fortunately, Leila and her mum screamed so loudly that you could barely hear me.
‘Don’t worry, it’s only me!’ said a voice.
‘It’s Uncle John,’ I said shakily. ‘The caretaker.’
A bright torch beam shone up into the tree and blinded me.
‘Do you need company?’ he asked.
‘OK,’ said Leila with a shaky laugh. ‘What would you do with a chocolate bar if you were stranded on an island?’
Uncle John thought for a moment. ‘That depends on who’s stranded on the island with me. Who knows? Maybe I’d share it.’
8
No Comment
For the first time in my life I woke up under a tree.
The sun was shining in my face and I slowly opened my eyes.
‘Morning, sleepyhead,’ Leila greeted me from her branch above.
She sounded cheerful for someone who had spent almost all night sitting in a tree. Sometime during the early hours she had broken her own rule and the three of us had got down and fallen asleep on our blankets but clearly Leila was already back at her post.
Leila’s mum yawned and stretched. There were leaves in her tousled hair.
There was no sign of the caretaker.
My clothes felt damp from the dew. I tried to flatten my hair with my hand. It felt as if one of Adrian’s hamsters had slept in my mouth. If my mum or dad returned, I would muster up the nerve to ask for a toothbrush and toothpaste.
A little bird was chirping up in the tree. I did a double take when I saw the upside-down food basket. Now that it was daylight, I could see for the first time how much damage the mysterious night stalker had done. Breadcrumbs and torn crisp packets were scattered on the grass.
‘Shame, maybe it was a hungry tramp,’ Leila’s mum said and started clearing up the mess.
‘Look who’s here,’ said Leila.
The caretaker was approaching us from the direction of the bowling green. He was carrying a tray with mugs.
‘I hope with all my heart there’s coffee in those mugs,’ said Leila’s mum.
‘Morning!’ greeted Uncle John merrily. ‘How are the tree protectors this morning? I brought coffee and breakfast bars.’
The smell of fresh coffee was enough to lure Leila down.
While drinking my coffee, I looked at the bowling green. Water sprinklers were tsick-tsick-tsicking rhythmically and a water curtain was flashing in the sun.
‘I switched the sprayers on early this morning,’ said Uncle John.
‘Isn’t it boring to be the caretaker of a bowling green?’ I asked. ‘I think I’d rather be caretaker at a rugby stadium. Then I could meet famous rugby players and watch every match for free. I don’t know of any famous bowls players.’
Uncle John laughed. ‘You’d be surprised. Here at our club we have two Springbok players.’ He leaned against the tree and stared, lost in thought, into the distance while blowing on his coffee to cool it down. ‘Bowls is actually a fantastic game. It’s a pity that people know so little about it.’ There was a strange smile on his lips. ‘Do you know why bowls players wear white clothes? I think they’re practising to become angels, because that’s what a group of bowls players reminds me of – angels playing around on green grass.’ He sighed. ‘My wife loved bowls. She played in the provincial team, until the cancer got the better of her. If you ask me, we’ll be playing all day long in heaven…’
‘Bowls?’ I asked and pulled a face.
‘No, I don’t think only bowls,’ said the caretaker with a grin. ‘Whatever we want to play. We won’t work or struggle or get sick – we’ll just play and play and play, from morning till night.’
I pulled a face again. ‘I don’t think you’d be able to play rugby in heaven. My dad swears way too much when he watches a game.’
The caretaker’s belly jiggled with laughter. He emptied his mug in a couple of gulps and shook the last few drops out on the grass.
‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘I’ll fetch the tray and mugs later.’ He gestured with his head. ‘Seems you have an early-morning guest.’
A young guy was walking towards us. He was tall and thin, with a beard. The beard didn’t really suit his young face – it looked like a disguise, or as if a large, fluffy animal was clinging to his jaw for dear life. He wore a pair of bright-green pants that fitted tightly around his ankles, and black and white sneakers. In his hand he held a notebook.
‘You think he’s from the municipality?’ asked Leila’s mum.
‘I don’t know,’ said Leila. ‘He doesn’t really look like someone who works for the municipality but we’d better get back into the tree.’
By the time the man was standing under the tree, Leila and I were back on our branch.
‘Good morning,’ greeted the man in a deep voice that seemed to come from the depths of his beard. He was speaking to Leila’s mum. ‘My name is Junior du Toit. I’m a journalist at the Morning News.’ He looked up into the tree. When he saw Leila and me, he smiled. ‘I’d like to do a story about the two of you.’
Leila and I looked at each other in surprise.
‘Where did the paper hear about us?’ Leila whispered to me.
I shrugged.
Junior du Toit opened his notebook. ‘Someone called us. Someone who offered to sell the story exclusively to us.’
I groaned. ‘Bet you that was my little brother,’ I whispered apologetically to Leila. ‘Adrian would do absolutely anything to try and make money.’
‘Unfortunately we don’t pay for stories,’ the journalist explained. ‘But I’d really like to speak to the two of you, if you don’t mind?’ He gave Leila’s mum a respectful look. ‘I assume you’re the mother of one of them?’
The lady shrugged. ‘Leila is my daughter,’ she said.
The journalist looked up again. ‘Did you sleep in the tree all night?’
Leila and I looked at each other.
‘We took turns to sleep on the ground,’ she said. ‘My mum was with us the whole time.’
Junior wrote in his notebook. ‘And are you protesting against them chopping down the tree?’
‘The tree’s been here for years,’ said Leila. ‘Why can’t the municipality bury their pipe somewhere else? Uncle John – he’s the caretaker at the bowling green – says a tree like this should be for ever. Put that in your article.’
‘Look who’s here again,’ I said with a sigh.
The white municipal pickup was coming towards us through the trees.
Red-face and Rat-face got out. Though it was still early, Red-face already had sweaty patches under his arms.
‘You two still here?’ he asked with a sigh in his voice. ‘Morning,’ he greeted Leila’s mum and the journalist. ‘I hope you’re here to speak to the kids. Talk some sense into their heads. This tree has to come down. No later than today. We’re a day behind schedule.’
‘We’re staying right here!’ Leila said cockily.
Red-face quickly turned into Purple-face. ‘Where are your parents?’ he asked. ‘Alone all night in a park? What kind of mother and father would allow something like that?’
Leila’s mum cleared her throat. ‘I am her mother.’
Red-face seemed to calm down slightly. ‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘speak to your daughter. Please. Sorry about the tree. Really. But please understand. We have no choice.’
The journalist was watching us as if we were actors in a movie, and occasionally jotted something down in his notebook.
‘Leila,’ said her mum, like the previous evening.
Leila ignored her, like the previous evening.
Red-face wiped his forehead with a hanky and muttered something about children of today being out of control and parents of today not being able to keep their children in check.
Rat-face didn’t say a word. He just scowled at us as if he wished he could cut down the tree with a chainsaw while we were still in it. To me he looked like the kind of man who would enjoy driving a bulldozer.
‘Sir, I’m Junior du Toit, reporter at the Morning News,’ the journalist said and held out his hand to Red-face. ‘I assume you’re from the municipality? Would you mind if I asked you some questions? Why must the tree be chopped down?’
It looked as if Red-face was choking on something. ‘I…I don’t speak to the press!’ he mumbled. ‘No comment. Call the municipal public relations officer. Not that it will be of any use. She’s on leave.’ He yanked open the door of the pickup and pointed a threatening finger at Leila and me. ‘You two! You’ve taken this business too far. Way too far!’
9
Dumped
‘A journalist came to see us,’ Leila announced when Mrs Merriman showed up a while later with her two poodles.
Mrs Merriman stopped to examine a sandy, grassless patch. George and Trixibelle were sniffing around excitedly.
‘A dog’s been here,’ said Mrs Merriman. ‘A big one – look at its paw prints.’
Leila and I looked at each other. I could see we were thinking exactly the same thing: was our night-time visitor a dog?
Leila’s mum had gone home to shower and put on some fresh clothes. I’d hoped that Leila would ask her mum to bring us a mobile phone or a watch or something. Even board games would be OK, although I really hated board games. Monopoly went on for ages and Adrian always won; and when we played 30 Seconds I always ended up in Donovan’s team and he couldn’t even draw a stickman. But Leila and her mum were odd. They didn’t talk to each other much.
‘I wonder what kind of dog it was,’ said Mrs Merriman, who was still staring at the paw prints. She straightened up and rubbed her back. ‘People don’t realize how many homeless dogs roam this city. I sometimes wish they could be forced to visit the SPCA at least once a year – it breaks your heart. I don’t know how anyone can just dump an animal.’
Mrs Merriman was sounding like her old self again this morning. It was the same little speech she always made when she came to our gate to collect money for the SPCA.
She spread her pink picnic blanket under the tree and sat down. George and Trixibelle were still sniffing around curiously, as if the patchy lawn was a dog newspaper full of juicy news items. Mrs Merriman made herself comfortable and took out her magazine.
For a while, all we heard were birds chirping and Mrs Merriman’s pencil scribbling as she completed her crossword puzzle.
‘Why pink?’ asked Leila.
Mrs Merriman looked up in surprise. She stroked her pink hair, suddenly looking self-conscious, and a trace of sadness appeared around her mouth.
I couldn’t believe that Leila had asked her something like that. I had often wondered why Mrs Merriman had pink hair and wore pink lipstick and pink clothes, but I had never considered asking her why.
She gave a funny little sigh and smiled. ‘Why not pink?’ she asked. ‘All my life I had drab hair, wore drab clothes, worked in a drab office and lived in a drab house. I was even married to a drab man. So, now that I’m old and my husband is long dead, I wear pink.’
Suddenly George started to yap a short distance from us. The two sniffing doggies had wandered off from the tree and George was eyeing a thicket of shrubs suspiciously. He yapped again. Then Trixibelle let fly and started barking hysterically.
‘Georgie! Trix!’ called Mrs Merriman anxiously. ‘Come here, my darlings! What’s going on?’
She got up and went over to investigate.
A threatening growl was coming from the shrubs.
I’d once read in a magazine about wild animals, like hyenas and leopards, that prowled city streets at night and fed on leftovers in people’s rubbish bins. What on earth was I going to do if a hyena or a leopard pounced on Mrs Merriman in broad daylight?
‘Watch out, Mrs Merriman!’ I warned.
She picked up George and Trixibelle and walked back to the tree.
‘Stay here, doggies,’ she said in a strict voice.
Then she took something from the pi
nk bag. She walked back to the shrubs. Obviously she had never read magazine articles about hyenas and leopards that ended up in cities.
‘Come and see what I have,’ she said, holding something in her outstretched hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said soothingly. ‘I’ll just leave it here for you.’
She put a sandwich down on the ground and slowly backed off.
I gave Leila a quizzical look but she didn’t seem to have a clue what was going on either.
Something moved inside the shrubs. I gasped in surprise. A large black dog appeared, its head close to the ground. First it glanced around suspiciously, then it made a dash for the sandwich and wolfed it down in a couple of greedy bites. The emaciated dog’s ribs looked like they were about to poke through its skin.
‘Look!’ an astounded Leila said.
From among the shrubs a small puppy appeared clumsily on wobbly legs, followed by another one.
‘Quiet, you two,’ Mrs Merriman reprimanded when George and Trixibelle growled. She wiped her eyes as she watched the dog eating. ‘You poor, poor thing.’
She rummaged in her bag for more sandwiches. When she approached them, the black dog backed off with her tail between her legs.
Mrs Merriman put the sandwiches down in the same spot and returned to us.
The big dog stole up to the sandwiches and started eating them.
Mrs Merriman stood under the tree and watched the dog gobbling up the food.
‘When your hair’s pink and you wear pink, you’re noticed wherever you go,’ she said in a strange voice. She stopped speaking and cleared her throat. ‘I have a son but I don’t know where he is. We haven’t spoken to each other in years. He got involved with the wrong friends. Started stealing and using drugs; sometimes disappeared for weeks. I wanted to help him – that’s why I had him admitted to a rehab centre – but he was furious with me. When he left rehab he disappeared without a trace. I don’t know where he is. I don’t know whether he even has a bed to sleep in at night. Maybe he’s also sleeping under a bush in a park somewhere, like an abandoned dog. That’s where I found him the last time, when I had him admitted to the rehab centre. I’m scared I might walk past him in the street one day and we won’t even notice each other…’ She blew her nose.