by Carol Gibbs
“Watch out!” warns Mommy. “Their pincers are sharp.”
Then we lie spread-eagled on the sand with our Rosebud dolls, covered in goosebumps, our fingers white with cold.
I long to see inside the bathing boxes, but as I mount the steps of yellow, blue and red, I know the doors will be closed, locked. They always are. There are people in there with big tits, taking off their clothes. I’m not supposed to be there, but if the beach inspector comes along and finds me on the steps, I stand on the balcony and wave, pretending that I belong.
We wend our way home on tired sunburned legs, almost unable to make the last steps up the path back to the railway station. Our Doll’s House seems a million miles away as we take turns to carry the baskets filled with wet bathing costumes, empty Thermos flasks and soggy towels.
Trailing behind, Desiree recites in a tired voice: She sells seashells on the sea shore …
At last, there’s the familiar sound of the key turning in the lock and the shadowy outline of the chairs in the dark, before the light goes on.
“Thank heavens, we’re home,” says Mommy as always.
Bessie’s there to greet us, panting at the door, pink tongue lolling and stump wagging. Our sunburned legs sting when we have our Sunday bath. The calamine lotion comes out of the medicine cupboard, and on Monday morning the week begins. We fall into the same pattern. Safe passage from Sunday to Thursday, then Brandy Friday. Get ready with a warm jersey.
“Why is her tummy so fat?”
My cat Brookie – the one I got as a kitten when Daddy came home from work one day and was in a good mood, the one I named Brookie because he found her in Brooklyn – has seven kittens. There are two black-and-white ones, a tabby and four pitch-black ones. My daddy puts them into a hessian sack and ties the top with a piece of rope. He puts them into a bucket of water and places a brick on top of their little heads. Edna says people from Mossienes do the same thing. Brookie looks everywhere for her kittens, but she can’t find them because they are busy drowning. The little bubbles pop to the top of the water and then the water is still. We bury Brookie’s kittens next to the Maltese poodle, and Desiree and I make crosses out of sticks to put on their graves.
We decide a church service for the dead kittens is a good idea, so we sit on the stepladder and sing.
All things bright and beautiful
all creatures great and small
All things bright and beautiful
the Lord, God, made them all.
Tears run down our cheeks because we love kittens and we don’t understand why we can’t have all seven. We tell the kittens not to worry because Jesus loves them and we will pray for their souls at Sunday school, but we don’t know what to say to the Maltese poodle, because some other children loved him once and he never belonged to us. The kittens are buried right beside Gabriel’s pigeon with the broken wing, but the pigeon is long gone, along with Bessie’s bone, stolen by some hungry dog from Mossienes.
Hilary’s mother and father are the kindest people in the world. Mrs Selbourne always makes me feel special when I sit on her lap. She brushes my hair and combs the knots out – until she discovers the lice and then she stops. Hilary is like a big sister to us and I’m like an aia to Gracie. I look after her when her mother is out and I sing songs to her. I teach her to skip and play hopscotch. We are not allowed in the garage to watch Hilary’s important brothers sending messages to the rest of the world, so we have to be content with playing Statues. The pillars on either side of the gate make perfect launching pads. We throw ourselves into the air and fall in strange poses. Desiree and I always win, because we have learned to lie still and not move a muscle.
Mr Selbourne has a middle parting and his hair smells of Potter & Moore hair cream. He is a carpenter, like Jesus, and works for the South African Railways, building coaches. His workshop smells of wood shavings and carbolic soap. He guides the plane along the plank and curls of wood come out the top, just like Goldilocks’s curls. I pin them to my hair with bobby pins, then I stand in front of the mirror in Gracie’s room and pretend I’m on stage.
Daddy says Desiree creeps into people’s hearts, but this time it’s me. The Selbournes love me like their own child and their house becomes my second home. When my birthday comes Mr Selbourne sends the postman to our house. Gabriel opens the door. Standing on the stoep is a table and two chairs, just my size, painted pink. The postman hands me a card and tells me that the table and chairs are mine to keep. I skip around the tiny furniture with joy and then I lay out a tea for my rag doll, Bimbo. When Mommy comes home she reads the card to me. Happy birthday and stay as sweet as you are. Lots of love from The Selbournes. I wish Mr Selbourne could be my daddy.
Mrs Selbourne has no bottom teeth and when she waddles around her house, she loads her mouth with Post Toasties from her apron pocket. She chews like a tortoise and we giggle behind her back. If I visit Gracie on a Monday, the enamel potty is always bubbling away on the stove, full of snotty handkerchiefs. Desiree and I don’t have a single handkerchief between us.
“Stop making those revolting sounds,” scolds Mrs Selbourne.
She takes a lace hankie from her bosom and dabs at her own nose to catch a stray drip. Mr Selbourne is gentler. “By Jove, you girls can sniff,” he says.
On Fridays, when the ice-sucker cart comes down the road with the big block of ice on the back, covered by a hessian sack, I race across the road to play with Gracie, because I know Mrs Selbourne will buy her a sucker. And I also know she will give me a funny look, but she will buy me one too, because Mr Selbourne has just brought his wages home.
“Jacob, why can’t you be like Mr Selbourne?” says Mommy. “He only drinks at Christmas and New Year and he brings all his wages home.”
“I won’t have any woman wearing the pants in my house. There can only be one captain on a ship, and that’s that.”
Desiree pulls the blanket aside and shakes my shoulder, “Get up! You’ll be late for school!” And then, later, “Come here, hold still. Let me plait your hair.”
“Eina!”
At last it’s done. I pull my shirt on and hold my arms up for the gym. It has a square neck and big box pleats and a hairy belt called a girdle. You have to tie the girdle with a special knot and I can’t do it yet. The metal band from the Peck’s Anchovette jar bites into my arm. It’s my special gold bangle and I love it.
“You can’t wear a fish-paste band to school,” Desiree scolds, like she’s already big and all grown up.
I have to find a place to hide my gold bangle until I get back.
Desiree holds my hand and we walk down the road together. She’s wearing the same uniform, with the identical girdle tied in a perfect knot. We reach the main gate and I look for Alice’s familiar face. She’s easy to spot because the sun glints on her goggle eyes. As I fall into line outside the big double doors, she comes and stands beside me under our school badge with the motto that says Aim high. The badge has a bow with the arrow pointing at the sky. The principal is a big man with a face the colour of beetroot. He wears a grey pinstriped, double-breasted suit. He says the familiar words of ‘Our Father’ that we know so well from the Gospel Hall. He drones on and on.
We have to stick pictures in a book. My hands are firmly clasped behind my back and in my head I’m saying, “I pass”, but I don’t say it out loud.
“Please, Alice, won’t you stick my picture in the book?”
The teacher has big ears.
“You mustn’t ask other children to do your work.”
She makes me pick up the glue bottle with the slanting orange top that always gets blocked. She forces me to stick my picture of a dog belonging to Mr Log. I try to do as I’m told because I don’t want her to send me to the special class down the passage where all the stupid children have to go. Then I start to bite my nails and, suddenly, it comes in a gush. It fills my broeks, runs down my legs and into my socks. My pee makes a big puddle on the floor. The children all stare. I can’t prete
nd it’s not me. The teacher can’t stop me sobbing, so she takes me to Desiree’s classroom and lets me sit there until the school bell rings. Desiree tries to pretend she doesn’t know me. Her class is learning to count with cardboard shillings, half-crowns, tickeys and pennies. The money looks so real that even Mrs Berg in her shop couldn’t tell the difference.
At school we also learn about Jesus and say school prayers. We run races on the rough field next to our school, because we don’t have a sports field yet. Desiree is nobody’s fool. She gets to hold the athletics trophy for Blue House and they always win because she’s in their team. All the teachers love her and her magic smile. She knows how to stick her chest out to break the tape at the end of the race. She wins a paintbrush and a box of paints, little oblong blocks of beautiful colour all lined up in a tin box. I envy her prize with all my heart, but my skinny legs always let me down and I never win any races. If I want to use Desiree’s paints I have to polish her shoes until they shine. I’ve asked Father Christmas to bring me my own box of paints and promised to be extra good and do my schoolwork. I’m holding thumbs and keeping my fingers crossed that Father Christmas doesn’t forget.
We collect pennies to pay for a new sports field, because our principal wants us to be posh like the school in Pinelands. He builds a huge scale on the front stoep and everyone who passes stops and stares. On the day the Argus man comes, Mr Benade collects all the pennies from his office and piles them high in the big pan. He needs a child to pose on the scale and he chooses Desiree. Her picture appears on the front page of the Cape Argus. She sticks the picture on the wall, so she can look at it and fill her head with thoughts of stardom before she goes to sleep.
Alice and I don’t mind school so much because we have each other. But we are both scared of the school doctor. He makes you take off your gym and then he pulls the elastic of your broeks towards him. He peers at the brown line that runs from your belly button to your thing. They say if he touches you, you must scream and run out of the room.
Alice and I are standing in line holding hands. We’ve been told the names of the five points of the castle: Nassau, van Buuren, Oranje, Leerdam … we can never remember the last one. The man takes us into a dungeon and he switches the light off so we can feel what it’s like to be a prisoner in the dark. I squeeze Alice’s hand because I’m scared and then I nudge her in the ribs and tell her how my daddy works for the Public Works Department and he put the lights in the dungeon.
“I don’t care,” Alice says. “I just wish the man would switch the lights on again.”
Alice and I also have school bioscope to look forward to. Our heads are full of Elizabeth Taylor and a film called National Velvet. Elizabeth Taylor has violet eyes. Blue is everywhere, blue skies, blue sea, blue heaven, but violet is special. At the school bioscope, there are creaking seats, coughing and last cigarettes. The man puts on Laurel and Hardy, Charlie Chaplin and the Three Stooges, one after the other. We laugh until our sides are sore. Then it’s time for the big show. The lights go out, the lion roars and the crowd claps. All of a sudden, there she is, the beautiful Elizabeth Taylor with her dark hair and violet eyes. I live each moment with her. My head is full of her, full of magic. At interval I dash to the lavatory as fast as my skinny legs can carry me. Will I be back in time? Please don’t start without me. When the man turns the projector on, the film flip-flops round and round and there is no sound. “Boo, boo!” the crowd calls out. Then he starts the film again. We settle down, transfixed by Elizabeth Taylor’s velvety voice and violet eyes, by the dark-brown horse with the flash on its nose and Mickey Rooney at her side. When the words The End appear on the screen I sit quite still, with the whirring sound in my ears and the numbers flickering in the dark on the screen. Then the lights come on. My cheeks are red.
I walk down the street but I’m not really walking. We’re galloping with the wind in our hair, carefree, me and Elizabeth Taylor and the big brown horse. She’s sitting in front and I’m holding on tight, my arms around her waist. My almond-shaped eyes aren’t violet, they are hazel like my ouma’s, but that doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except Elizabeth Taylor, the horse and me. When we stop at my house, Mickey Rooney helps me dismount and tethers the horse to the pole under our streetlight.
I’m at the gate, but not yet on the path, when swear words reach my ears and then my mommy’s high-pitched voice. The lounge curtains are closed and their shadows play on the curtain like puppets on a stage. I race up the path, desperate to get in, and reach for the doorknob. The room is thick with smoke and brawling. It happens in the twinkling of an eye. I’m stopped dead in my tracks. Dazed, I walk back between Gabriel’s streaky-bacon columns and onto the curved path. Standing under the streetlight I touch my neck. It’s wet and sticky. And my hand comes away red, red with blood. The magic horse has gone. There’s only me and my blood under the light.
Then there’s a voice from the shadows. The kind lady bends down to examine my head. “I’m taking you straight to the nurse.”
The stoep light comes on and Spencer opens the door. When he sees the blood his mouth hangs open in disbelief.
“Mommeee!”
My legs are wobbly as I blink back tears, blood running down my neck. I’ve even forgotten to be afraid of big, black George. Aunty Dolly draws her breath in sharply. She leads me to the bathroom where it smells of medicine. It burns when she cleans the cut on my head. Then she holds me in her strong arms and rocks me. She wipes my face with a warm wet face cloth.
“Shush, shush. Don’t cry.”
Aunty Dolly revs the engine of the Prefect. Someone has fetched my mommy and we’re sitting in the back seat, me with a wad of cotton wool and a towel wound around my head like a turban. Aunty Dolly is angry. Words tumble from her mouth in a long stream. The car lights pick out the stone wall and the driveway of Doctor West’s double-storey house. He leads us into a room with a narrow bed. He removes the towel and I lower my head onto the pillow. My blood is bright red on the snow-white pillowcase and I hope I don’t get into trouble.
When he stitches my head it’s very quiet in the room. Springy black hair sticks out of his open-necked shirt and covers the back of his hands. The smell of cigarette smoke mixed with antiseptic makes me want to vomit. He shakes his head and frowns. He is also very cross, but I don’t think he is cross with me. The grown-ups are all looking at me and saying things about my daddy. Aunty Dolly has the most to say.
“All the talking in the world won’t help, May,” she sighs. “I don’t know where this is all going to end.”
Doctor West calls Mommy and Aunty Dolly aside. I can’t hear what he’s saying to them but Mommy is crying and Aunty Dolly is frowning. I know they are talking about me and Daddy.
I feel my face getting red, redder than if you held your breath, redder than when you blow up a balloon. We drive home in silence except for my mommy sobbing softly beside me. Aunty Dolly puts me to bed in her house. She doses me as she has many times before. The first time she forced the brandy and milk between my lips I kicked and fought, but now I clutch the cup and swallow it without a thought. I watch the embers dying in the queen stove as my bandaged head rests on Aunty Dolly’s soft pillow and then I sleep the sleep of the dead.
In the morning we walk to Crawford station, Mommy with her swollen eyes and dark glasses, and me with my bandage around my head. I like it when grown-ups notice me and feel sorry for me, but I hope the children don’t stare and taunt me. The man in the ticket box raises his eyebrows at my bandage and frowns. I stick my tongue out at him, but my cheeks are burning. We get off the train at Lansdowne station and walk a long way to a red-brick building with a blue light outside. Parked in front there’s a Black Maria with a drunk man inside, peering at us through the barred window. We stand in the charge office with the stale smell of cigarettes, Scrubb’s Ammonia and Jeyes Fluid all around us. Mommy tells the policeman our story in a soft voice that sounds almost like a whisper. The policeman pats me on my head. It hurts.
The policeman picks up a pen and dips the nib into a bottle of blue ink. He writes in a big leather book. Mommy doesn’t take her dark glasses off, not even once.
What will happen to my daddy? What do they do to daddies? Will they take him away and lock him up?
After a week the bandage smells. Then it’s back to school. There’s a bald patch where Doctor West cut the hair from my head, but Mommy has brushed my curls over it.
“No one will even notice.”
The children crowd around me.
“What happened to you? Why weren’t you at school?”
My face is red, redder than when you hold your breath, redder than when you blow up a balloon. I will Alice to keep silent.
“I had scarlet fever. They took me away to the isolation ward at Somerset Hospital in Green Point.”
They didn’t take him away. He stayed my daddy.
But things are different at school after that. Maybe it had always been like that and I just hadn’t noticed before. But now I know things are different, a nightmare of questions and answers.
What is right? We look like the other children, but we live under a big black cloud while the other children bask in the sunshine. I’m sure the principal knows we are strange, but he doesn’t do anything about it. Why doesn’t someone say, hey, Mister, what do you think you’re doing? What makes you think you can scream, shout, and lock them out in the night? Someone should give our daddy some of his own medicine and punch him until he sees stars round his head like Bugs Bunny in the bioscope. Surely someone out there must care, or are we such bad children that we have to suffer frightening nights for the rest of our lives?
