by Carol Gibbs
“Listen, Edna’s skin looks white and her eyes are blue, just like your mother, but just remember she has a kraak, a touch of the tarbrush. Although they walk and talk just like us, their skin is not quite white like ours and her hair is kroes, worse than the coir mattress explosions.”
“Talk about rubbing it in,” mutters Mommy.
I’ve had a busy time meeting new faces and trying to fit everyone into their places. The moon is shining and my daddy isn’t home yet. I’m sitting on the kitchen table and my mommy is helping me into a pair of corduroy dungarees. Other children in other houses are getting into their pyjamas, but somehow we know we are not ordinary children in ordinary houses. Desiree and Gabriel are already dressed in their warmest clothes. Their hair is brushed over their foreheads and they smell of Mommy’s Cashmere Bouquet talcum powder.
“Why aren’t we in pyjamas?” I ask.
“Because it’s Friday,” says Gabriel, “brandy night.”
Just then, Daddy comes bursting through the door, shouting and swearing. His eyes are bulging and the veins stand out in his neck. Mommy scoops me up in her arms and I cling to her, wrapping my arms around her neck. Daddy shoves Mommy round the kitchen. We are all wailing but he is shouting and he doesn’t hear us.
“Uit, loop!”
With Out and Go ringing in our ears, we scatter like frightened animals into the black night.
Daddy has the hokkie key in his pocket, so we have to sleep in Gabriel’s pigeon hok.
“At least our Doll’s House has an outside lavatory,” says Mommy, “so we can empty our bladders like civilised people.”
The shadows with long fingers reach out for me and I’m sure the boogey man is trying to catch me. We huddle close together while Gabriel, the clown of the family, prays. “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, and please, Lord, don’t let the pigeons poep on my head, amen.”
Desiree and I say amen with him. The first of my bad memories.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Let’s go see who he is.”
“I’m scared.”
“Bangbroek! Coward!”
A black man steps from the tin hokkie that shines in the sun. We watch as he squirts tobacco juice between his big white teeth, far into the veld. His head is full of peperkorrels, tight black curls, and his beard too. He looks like the clay bust that my mommy bought at the door. He points to his chest. “Smuts, night watchman.”
Our bodies block the only light from the small window in his tin hokkie. His bed is up on bricks for protection from the tokoloshe, a bad spirit. Smuts warms his bones by lighting a fire in a tin drum pierced with holes. The coals leave wood smoke in the tiny room and the ceiling is black from fires burning through the night. He wears a khaki coat with brass buttons and a shiny lining to stop the sun from burning him. We watch as he pushes snuff up his nose, sniffs deeply until his eyes water, and then his sneezes echo around the tiny room. His hokkie is neat as a pin, but coloured people and black people have germs on their lips and the germs land on their cups when they drink from them. We don’t play with babbies and Malays, because we think they also have germs.
We find Mommy feeding stale bread to the fowls and we tell her about Smuts.
“His mother probably named him after our Jannie Smuts, the great statesman,” she says.
“He has big white teeth.”
“He probably cleans his teeth with ash.”
“He has a club,” says Gabriel. “He calls it his knopkierie.”
“And he has a fire with a big black pot balanced on the top and it’s only got three legs,” pipes up Desiree.
“It’s called a kaffir pot and he probably cooks mealie-meal in it. That’s what Natives eat,” says Mommy. “He’s brought all his superstitions with him, but I’m sure he’s wise beyond his years, like his Xhosa ancestors.”
“His palms are pink,” says Gabriel. “I wonder if his soles are too. I wonder if he’s a Nat or a Sap.”
“Mommy,” I say, “why can’t Smuts marry Aunty Ruby’s Xhosa maid, Sophie?”
“Because Sophie’s a migrant labourer.”
“What does that mean?”
“You ask too many questions.”
But we don’t; we really don’t. We already know lots about Sophie anyway.
Sophie smokes a pipe with beads of every colour of the rainbow wound round and round the long stem. Rocking back and forth, puffing contentedly on her pipe with a faraway look in her eyes, she sings a Xhosa lullaby.
Thula baba …
We know she’s dreaming of her children in the Transkei and the children are dreaming of the money she will send. Sophie carries bundles of washing on her head. She washes the sheets outside in a big tin bath, with a block of Reckitt’s Blue. The sheets draped over the bushes are so white they dazzle our eyes.
When I come back from the lavatory and I step back inside, it’s warm and cosy, with the smell of bread rising. Desiree’s fingers climb my buttons.
“Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief! Colleen, you’re a thief!”
“Stop it, you two!” Mommy’s eyes are cross. “How would you like me to bake a cake? Maybe that’ll keep you out of mischief.”
I look at Desiree. “We can’t help it!” we wail in unison.
“There’s no such word as can’t,” Mommy mutters.
Mommy starts measuring, sifting and mixing. Six eyes watch the oven as she pops the cake in, and they’re still darting about anxiously when she finally removes it from the oven, all hot and steaming, and places it out of our reach on top of the cupboard. “Never again!” she says. “That was a once-in-a-lifetime effort,” as she wipes her hands on her apron.
“Mommy, if we collect dennepitte, then will you make tammeletjie?”
We can taste the nuts and toffee on our tongues already, so we make a beeline for the pine trees in the yard. We are smashing the brown nuts with stones when a red-faced Maureen comes to find us.
“Why does my mommy have to throw the plate against the wall every time?”
Desiree puts her arm around Maureen’s shoulders. “We’ll share our pine nuts with you.”
Maureen wipes her eyes, squats beside us and holds her hand out, the one with the af finger, open palm towards us.
“Are we late?”
“Yes. Hurry up, Skinny Legs!”
“She’s calling your bluff! She can’t tell the time,” shouts Mommy from the lounge.
“Don’t forget your coats and your pixie caps.”
Desiree and I wear the same dusty pink coats with shiny braid around the Peter Pan collars. We have bunches of cherries embroidered on our chests and the tips of the pixie caps curl over at the top and make us look like the elves in a storybook.
The Gospel Hall is all lit up. The glow from the windows falls on the path and lights our feet. Our cousins are there with their wild coir mattress explosion hair. Of all the holy pictures, I like the picture of Jesus with his hand resting gently on a little girl’s head the most. With all my heart, I want to be that little girl. Underneath the picture it says Suffer the little children to come unto Me. The lay preacher, Mr Anderson, says Jesus is all-seeing. Then why can’t he see through the walls of our Doll’s House and see the suffering of my mommy and her little children? Maybe Jesus is blind.
I love you, Lord Jesus, and ask you to stay
Close by me forever and love me, I pray.
Our friend, Leonore, is sitting in the Gospel Hall in all her glory. She dresses like a princess and has a playroom with dolls’ beds and a small kitchen dresser with tiny cups and saucers, plates and dishes. Blue-and-yellow budgies chatter away in a cage to keep her company. If we misbehave, Daddy says, why can’t you be like Leonore? Leonore is adopted and her mother is old, nearly like a granny, and she has pots of money.
We go and play at Leonore’s house and the gardener calls us into the cool darkness of the garage where he keeps his Thermos flask, his hedge clippers and his wheelbarrow. Our eyes take time to get used
to the dark and then we see his overalls crumpled around his thick ankles. With his pink palms he beckons us to come closer and look at his brown thing standing away from his body. He wants us to touch him.
I can see the whites of Desiree’s eyes in the darkness of the garage. She silently takes me by the arm and steers me backwards until we’re outside, blinking in the bright sunlight.
Leonore’s birthday table groans under the weight of cool grapes, coconut surprises and dozens of iced cakes decorated with hundreds-and-thousands and little silver balls. My eyes dart from one to the next, not knowing which to try first. We’re scared stiff of the gardener and his brown thing, but we go back to Leonore’s house every time because it’s like paradise has come to Crawford.
Also in the Gospel Hall is my friend Miriam. Miriam is always in church, squeaky clean, a halo shining on her freshly washed hair. She sits with her head bowed.
“Shhh,” says Mr Anderson, “she’s communing with the Lord.”
We love going to Lantern Lecture because it is always on a Friday, brandy night. Desiree and I call the Lantern Lecture the Holy Show because it’s not like in the bioscope with the film stars. There’s Jesus at the well, Lazarus rising up, Sodom, Gomorrah, and the garden of Gethsemane. When Jesus turns water into wine we don’t understand, because Mommy says all the wine and brandy in the world should be emptied into the sea.
After the Holy Show, Mr Anderson tells me and Desiree to come with him to the stage and tells us to take a seat. “Did you see the pictures of Jesus knocking on the door?”
Desiree’s had enough of Jesus, but she gives him a half-smile.
“He is knocking at your heart and He wants to come in. Will you let Him in? Will you let Jesus, who died for your sins on the cross at Calvary, come into your hearts?”
Mr Anderson is tall and thin. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down when he talks and his tie moves. My feet don’t reach the floor and I start swinging my legs back and forth.
“Sit still!” Desiree digs me in the ribs. “This is serious.”
“Jesus died for your sins. The Blood of the Lamb will cleanse you. You will be absolved from all sin.” He lays a thin hand across his heart and his eyes roll back in his head. “Will you let Jesus in?”
White spit has formed in the corners of his mouth. His eyes right themselves like a sleeping doll and he looks straight at Desiree. “Will you give your heart to Jesus, our everlasting Saviour?”
“Yes.”
He looks at me. Desiree looks at me. I shift in my seat.
“Will you give your heart to Jesus our everlasting Saviour?”
I suppose if Jesus is good enough for Desiree, He is good enough for me. “Yes,” I whisper in a tiny voice.
“Let us pray.”
“Oh, Heavenly Father,” prays Mr Anderson, “We come to Thee with these two young souls who have given their hearts to Jesus, Your Son, who died on the cross for their sins. Smile upon them, look after them, oh merciful Lord; help them through their daily lives. Grant them forgiveness for their sins and everlasting life, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, amen.”
He gives us a broad smile, but I don’t feel any different. Maybe Jesus takes a while to take hold. Mr Anderson walks us to the door and I want to tell him about the white spit in the corners of his mouth, but I don’t.
We leave the hall with our collars pulled up stiffly against the cold. Our voices float on the cold night air.
Joy, joy, joy, with joy my heart is ringing,
Joy, joy, joy, His love can be my own,
Our sins are all forgiven,
We’re on our way to heaven
My heart is bubbling over
and it is joy, joy, joy.
Out of habit we do all the actions. Hopefully, when we’re dead we’ll land up slap-bang, right in the middle of heaven.
“Don’t tell Daddy we’ve given our hearts to Jesus,” warns Desiree.
“What does absolved mean?”
“Don’t know, but promise you won’t tell …”
“If you give me half of your tuppeny cake on Sunday, I won’t tell.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I don’t understand why we can’t tell Daddy, because Mr Anderson says giving your heart to Jesus is good, but Desiree always knows best. I can’t wait to wake up next morning with Jesus in my heart, but when I do I don’t feel any different. Instead, there’s just the sound of roosters crowing and the radio softly playing. The music is drowned out by Gabriel’s loud voice bragging about the penny he found in the lavatory.
My daddy’s friend, Mr Parker, was in our Doll’s House last night. Mr Parker lost the penny because he was drunk when he pulled down his pants to do his number two. Mommy says they’re drunk skunks for not taking home their week’s wages to their waiting wives. Gabriel says who knows what’s fair and what’s not? We are not about to work it out and give the money back. We take what comes our way and live to see another day.
Sunday is special, the day of our mother’s full baptism in the Gospel Hall.
“Better wear your Sunday-school clothes,” says Gabriel.
Mommy laughs and says to wear my golden dress and silver shoes. But golden dresses and silver shoes are only for princesses, so we just have to get on with it. Instead, I wear my pink gingham dress and Desiree her blue dress with buttons down the front that look like sailing ships. Gabriel brushes his hair across his forehead. He is wearing grey shorts with a blue shirt and a navy-blue tie with white dots. His school socks are neatly turned over below his knees. His shoes shine and he has brushed his beautiful white even teeth.
“Time to go!”
Mommy is already at the Gospel Hall, sitting in the side room with Mr Anderson.
“What are they doing in there?” whispers Desiree.
“Praying, of course!” retorts Gabriel.
Is the baptism going to be so bad that they have to pray before it happens? What’s going to happen to my mommy? I know her head has to go under water just like all those people in the River Jordan but she can’t swim. When we go to St James beach she sits on the rocks and knits; she never swims. She almost drowned at the Long Street swimming baths when she was seventeen, she says.
We file into the church, Gabriel first, then Desiree and then me. Mommy’s friend from school, Aunty Martha, has brought her son Carl. He is my age and sits with his hands folded in his lap, neatly dressed, with not a hair out of place. We want to see every step of Mommy’s baptism, so we make for the seats in the front row. Mommy asked Daddy to come with us, but he had plenty to say.
“If you want to be part of a religious group that’s your prerogative, but don’t expect me to take part in any baptism, immersion, conversion or whatever the hell you call it.”
We wish Daddy would come to church just once. Jesus would knock on the door of his heart, holding the lantern high, with thorns on his head and blood running from his side. Mr Anderson would pray out loud and Daddy would see the light and give his heart to Jesus. Jesus would make Daddy stop drinking.
Not like that time with the advertisement.
“God helps those who help themselves,” said Mommy one day when she saw that advertisement in a magazine.
“DRINK HABIT DESTROYED,” she read out loud. “Act now! Don’t wish that your Husband did not drink. ‘Eucrasy’ has brought happiness to homes cursed with misery and ruin through drink. Harmless, tasteless, can be given secretly in any food, or voluntarily. Send thirty shillings now.”
It took forever to save the thirty shillings and then, with high hopes, Mommy sent off her money. Gabriel followed the postman every day.
“Haven’t you got a parcel for Le Seuer today?” he asked for the hundredth time.
“How big is the parcel?” the postman answered.
“We don’t know,” muttered Gabriel. “Who knows how much powder it will take?”
Then, at last, it arrived and the paper inside the box read:
If you
sprinkle this powder over his food,
he will never touch another drop, guaranteed.
We were so excited. We were going to have a daddy who never touches another drop ever again. Guaranteed. We would all be happy, especially our mommy. That afternoon, Desiree put the tin bucket under the kitchen table just in case he vomited.
“He’s coming! I can hear him whistling,” announced Gabriel breathlessly.
We scampered through the lounge and arranged ourselves around the kitchen table.
“Hello, Daddy. Our supper was lovely. We had bean curry,” said Desiree.
We couldn’t wait for him to take the first mouthful, but first he had to remove his collar stud, take off his collar and tie, and roll up his sleeves. He picked up his knife and fork, then stopped. “Today we heard Cecil’s wife’s going to have a baby so we had a drink after work to celebrate. Won’t you children cut pictures of babies out of the Outspan? We want to stick the pictures all over his workbench.”
“Jacob, your supper’s getting cold. Eat while it’s hot.”
At last he lifted his fork to his mouth and eight eyes followed his hand, but he put his fork down again to tell us about something that happened at work. I’m sure I could see my mommy’s lips say, please pick up your fork and eat. Finally, he took a mouthful and then stopped again, his fork in mid-air. “Mavis, why don’t we go on holiday to Kleinmond? We could borrow the bell tent from my cousin Samuel.”
I wondered whether he was ever going to swallow his food. We watched in silence as he loaded his fork with beans and meat, filled his mouth and chewed. I opened my mouth to shout hooray and Desiree aimed a kick at me under the table, but she kicked the tin bucket instead. Our hearts fluttered in our chests. For a second there was total silence.
“What the hell?” exclaimed Daddy, stopping mid-chew.
Desiree looked daggers at me, but I’m only little and it’s not easy for me to stay quiet about something as important as my daddy staying sober for the rest of his life. He had already taken quite a few mouthfuls and soon his plate would be empty, but he still hadn’t vomited. Desiree looked at me, I looked at Gabriel and we all looked at Mommy. She had a puzzled look on her face.
