by Carol Gibbs
“Once the police had left with the grisly evidence I made myself a strong cup of coffee with a dash of my medicinal brandy. I needed it after the endless questioning. It doesn’t matter what you say. They always want more.”
“Grandma looks so small and lonely,” mutters Mommy as Grandma heads for the kitchen in her pompom slippers and her tight curlers to put on the kettle for tea.
Mommy is still shaken when we kiss Grandma goodbye, and I can tell she doesn’t like to leave her mother alone. Her lips are pursed and there are deep lines on her forehead as we climb onto the tram that will take us as far as Van Riebeeck High School in Kloof Street and we walk from there to Aunty Gertruida and Uncle Costa’s house in Camp Street. Mommy tells us Van Riebeeck High School is her old school and we love the big brick building with all the shutters to keep the building cool inside.
At Aunty Gertruida’s, we divide our time between watching the black-and-white piano keys going up and down and riding on the backs of the giant tortoises.
“It’s better than keeping dogs and cats,” says Aunty Gertruida. “There’s less mess.”
“But they make a hell of a noise at mating time!” adds Uncle Costa.
He takes us to his cool drink factory in Hatfield Street. We swallow gallons of Punch. We don’t envy our cousins their Greek noses, but we wish we could fill our stomachs to bursting with fizzy cool drinks every day of the week.
When we get back – Gabriel burping bits of songs in the back seat of Uncle Costa’s Chevy, sending us all into stitches – Desiree lays sticks on the ground in the form of a cross.
“I’m so proud of Desiree,” says Mommy. “She’s taught herself the sword dance.”
Desiree loves all the attention, and she skips and whirls and leaps until her hair is plastered to her forehead and she has to stop to catch her breath.
“Goodness,” says Aunty Getruida, “she may even get as far as the London Palladium.”
“There’s no doubt that that girl was born to perform,” nods Uncle Costa.
I don’t come up to scratch with my skinny legs. Aunty Gertruida says I will eventually discover I have a talent too, but she can’t tell me what it is, so I will just have to be patient and wait and see.
Aunty Dolly takes us to the Maitland Cottage Home to see the crippled children. She says we’ll have a concert and a fête for the less privileged. It will give us a sense of purpose and a feeling of pride. We see the children with their misshapen legs and the calipers resting beside their beds, waiting for them to struggle into them. We feel sorry for them looking at us through wide brown eyes. Aunty Dolly says being confined to a room and not being able to follow a whim must be hard to bear. We have a daddy who swears and shouts and loses his temper, but at least we are not lying in the Maitland Cottage Home with calipers on our legs.
Aunty Dolly teaches us a maypole dance for the concert. We hold on to ribbons and dance round and round the pole singing, while the ribbons get shorter and shorter as they twist together. We will wear our prettiest dresses and pin long ribbons onto our sleeves. We’ll have golliwogs and glasses of lemonade. Mommy will knit baby bootees by the dozen. Aunty Beryl will make fudge and Aunty Dolly will bake cakes. Aunty Dolly says that with a bit of luck we will sell them all.
I sit in Aunty Dolly’s double garage watching Desiree’s feet fly across the concrete floor. She finds the ‘swords’ without any trouble. By now Desiree thinks she is a born Scot and is living the part. She even asks Aunty Dolly where kilts come from – in her wildest dreams will she ever wear one! When she gets home she puts her swords under the bed, safe until morning light, when she will take them out, lay them on the floor and, for the umpteenth time, do another round, humming all the time. I can’t do the sword dance, so I’ll just have to keep on making golliwogs. Mommy will sew on the eyes with a needle and embroidery thread to make them come alive. I can help Desiree cut the crinkle paper into strips and pass the drawing pins up to her when we decorate the ceiling. I can also be an usherette and show the children to their seats, because I’ve watched Pottie do it at the Kritz. Aunty Dolly says we’ve embraced the cause with such vigour and fervour it’s akin to saving a whole nation.
Desiree makes a big poster to put on Aunty Dolly’s fence because the concert is in Aunty Dolly’s double garage: PROCEEDS OF CONCERT AND FATE FETE FOR MAITLAND COTTAGE HOME. Desiree writes in big letters, in brackets (CRIPPLED CHILDREN), just in case no one knows.
Everyone loves the concert. Desiree does some fancy dancing and the crowd shouts, “Encore!” Aunty Dolly’s dream comes true and every golliwog is sold and the lemonade and cakes go down a treat. We’re no sooner home than the star of the show is fast asleep on our bed. There will be no humming and dancing to wake me in the morning light, only the sound of Desiree’s even breathing. We can’t wait for Aunty Dolly to add up the money. She is full of praise for our efforts.
“Four pounds, ten and six!”
Aunty Dolly says our names appearing in a book should be reward enough for doing good. And so it comes to pass:
Donations: Little girls and boys, Third Avenue, Crawford.
We walk ten feet tall and we’re happy we aren’t confined to a room, not being able to act on a whim, and we take our hats off to the crippled children for being so uncomplaining.
I start to wet the bed. Daddy goes berserk and rubs my nose in it. I have to sleep on a rubber sheet, but it shifts when we turn over and my pee leaks. Edna lays the sheets on the bushes to bleach. And our sheet is there every day. The days run into one, like the pee runs into the blue-and-white striped coir mattress.
“It’s your father’s fault,” says Edna. “He makes you nervous. You pee out of your subconscious.”
I don’t even know what that means.
“If y-you w-want to go with Desiree to the L-london P-palladium y-you better s-stop wetting the b-bed, or y-you’ll have to drag a r-r-rubber sheet with y-you all the w-way to England.”
“Slugs and snails and puppy dogs’ tails,” I stick out my tongue.
Instead of going with Desiree to the London Palladium, we go Mr Abdullah’s babbie shop on Taronga Road to buy our Sunday-afternoon treat.
Clouds mask the sun, but then the sun comes out again. The fine drizzle clings to our hair and the clean smell of rain on the dusty tarmac fills our nostrils. Desiree dances down the road singing. “The monkeys are getting married. The monkeys are getting married.”
A rainbow arches over our Doll’s House.
“Has anyone ever found a pot of gold?”
Maybe one day it will happen. We’ll live in a house made of glass with lush plants and fountains, lots of servants and a Studebaker with white-walled tyres.
Desiree and I hold hands as we cross the road. As we get closer we see Mr Abdullah’s son sitting on the step, rocking back and forth as usual. The grown-ups say he rocks back and forth because he enjoys the rhythm, but his brown balls escape from the wide leg of his shorts. Can’t he wear underpants to keep them in? He slams his fist into the palm of his hand, over and over again. Spit dribbles down his chin and his tongue twists in his mouth, the tip glistening in the sun. His eyes are squint. One eye looks at today and the other eye looks at tomorrow, but I’m sure he’s looking right at me, and it’s scary. We are almost through the doorway when his mother, red spot on her forehead and wearing another beautiful sari, pushes past. Her lips are stained from betel juice and those same lips belt out words only babbies can understand. She bends down and slips his balls back in. No one even notices her doing it. He doesn’t seem to know his mother has touched him.
I clutch at Desiree’s skirt as we push past Mr Abdullah’s son, past the sign that tells us Men of the World Smoke Max. If he stops bashing his hand his long fingers might shoot out and grab our ankles. We only have eyes for the pink coconut cakes and the squares filled with raisins. Mr Abdullah runs his finger through his long, wavy beard and digs around in his nostril. His tummy shows round through his long white robe and his fancy hat sits s
quarely on his head.
“Curry muncher, snot roller,” whispers Desiree.
He scowls and I hope he hasn’t heard. Desiree clears her throat.
“Six fly cemeteries and three toe-nail cakes.”
“Playing fool with me, man! Saying what you wanting, proper. After making me to look foolish, with funny names, you still want to buy your cakes on the book.”
We stand poised with our cakes and ginger beer in our hands.
“Run!”
We pass within a whisker of Mr Abdullah’s son. The sun comes out and warms our backs as we head for home. The bottle of ginger beer is getting heavy already, but I can feel it going down my throat and the bubbles exploding on my tongue.
When we reach the railway line, I remind Desiree to “Look right, then left, then right again.”
“Nothing’s coming,” says Desiree.
But my foot hooks on the steel rail and my chest slams into the opposite one. The air goes out of me. I can see broken glass and a million ginger-beer bubbles dancing in front of my eyes. Blood runs freely from my wrist and my breath won’t come back. Desiree is screaming hysterically.
“Get up, Colleen, get up! There’s a train coming!”
She helps me up, but I step on the broken glass and now I have another cut on my foot. Together we stumble from the track. With a whoosh the train passes us, so close we can almost touch it. For a moment I forget about my cuts, but I’m crying because I know I’m going to get a hiding.
“What are we going to do-oo?”
“Let’s go to Erica’s grandmother.”
Desiree hooks her arm around my waist and helps me hobble back to Clive Road. Standing on the stoep we’re a pitiful sight. Desiree’s dress is bright red in patches. My cheeks are stained with tears and there’s a pool of blood at my feet. Granny Slabber opens the door.
“What happened to you?” she gasps. “Wait … I’ll fetch a towel and some cotton wool.”
She’d better be quick. I’m sure I’m bleeding to death.
Granny Slabber bends to look at my foot and blood drips on her head from my wrist. I can see it on her scalp.
“You need some sugar water.”
I gulp it down while Desiree tells our story. “Colleen tripped and smashed the bottle and she cut her wrist and then she cut her foot and now we’re here.”
“Hokaai!” says Granny Slabber. “Simmer down.”
Desiree takes a breath. “The boy at the babbie shop wears wide shorts with no underpants.” She adds, “We’re scared of him.”
“You should both be thanking God you’re normal.”
That shuts us up for a while. “I’ll have you fixed in a moment. If I can pierce ears, I can stitch you up,” she winks.
My eyes are as big as saucers as Granny Slabber busies herself with the bandages, but I don’t need stitches.
“Keep the bandages clean. Maybe you can get permission to stay home from school.”
Desiree’s chest is puffed out and she’s bursting to say something. “The train nearly rode over Colleen’s head. I saved her life.”
I limp along the road like a wounded soldier. Daddy is standing on the front stoep with his hands in his pockets. I hope he keeps them there.
“What took you so long?”
I hide behind Desiree as she tells the story.
“Colleen, you’re so clumsy! Have you got dropsy? Next time you’ll get a hiding for not looking where you’re going.”
I take my toenail cake into the back yard, under the cherry guava tree. Bessie sits beside me. The toenail cake tastes delicious, but I break off a piece for Bessie. I swallow the last crumbs and scratch the toenails from between my teeth. My cuts are stinging and the flies are buzzing around my bandages, but I’m grateful my bum isn’t red like the cherry guavas rotting on the ground.
“Gabriel, come to our concert!”
“N-not if you p-paid me.”
“We could ask Spencer and Maureen.”
“They saw it last time.”
“What about Susan?”
Desiree smiles.
“Let’s go and ask Aunty Ruby.”
We walk to First Avenue, through the turnstile, over the railway line, and we’re almost there. Granny Slabber gives us a cheery wave and calls me to the fence to check my foot. “I’m satisfied with the progress. Good girl.”
Desiree gives three sharp raps on the door.
“Good heavens, I thought it was the Scarlet Debt Collecting man.”
“Can Susan come to a concert in our school hall?”
“What time and how much does it cost?”
“It’s at two o’clock and it costs sixpence.”
“A sixpence?”
“Yes, it’s for school funds,” Desiree says airily. “It’s for our sports field.”
Aunty Ruby calms Susan’s coir mattress explosion and ties a big pink satin bow on the top of her head. Susan dresses in her best dress and her white shoes and socks and she carries a clean handkerchief. In the corner of her handkerchief, tied off in a knot, is a shiny sixpence. Susan turns around and waves goodbye to Aunty Ruby. We have what Gabriel calls a victim. But we can see Susan’s excited at the thought of the concert.
“Let’s play in our yard until the concert starts,” says Desiree. And then she adds, “I know, better still, let’s have a concert of our own in the hokkie in the meantime.”
We lead our victim to the hokkie. Susan sits all on her own while Desiree and I mount the stage. Desiree is wearing a lace curtain on her head with two bobby pins holding it in place. She carries a huge bouquet of sunflowers that have left pollen on the end of her nose. She’s wearing Mommy’s skirt pulled up under her armpits and she looks more like a nun than a bride. I’m the boy, down on one knee, wearing Gabriel’s khaki shorts, shirt and spotted tie. We act out a wedding scene. Then Desiree does the splits, the backbend, and the sword dance. I recite a poem and then I do my version of Al Jolson. Down on one knee with my hand over my heart, I belt it out:
Swanee …
Susan claps loudly.
“Have you seen me pick a hankie up with my teeth when I do the backbend?” asks Desiree.
“No, do it! Do it!”
“I need to borrow your handkerchief.”
Desiree winks at me.
“We’ve got to remove the sixpence, otherwise the handkerchief will be too heavy for my mouth.”
Susan looks puzzled, but curiosity gets the better of her. I sing to keep Susan’s attention while Desiree turns her back on us and hides the sixpence.
“And now I give you The Great Desiree, who can bend her body double.”
I lay Susan’s handkerchief on the ground. Desiree stands firmly on her feet and then she bends back and places her hands squarely on either side of the handkerchief. She grips it between her teeth and stands up. She flings the handkerchief back into Susan’s lap.
“Encore!” I shout. “More!”
Desiree gives me a look and I know she can taste the sweets in her mouth. Susan claps politely and shifts in her seat. There’s silence as she waits for the next act. Her party dress is creased and her white shoes scuffed. The pink satin ribbon on top of her head has flopped.
“When are we going to the real concert?” she asks in a tiny voice.
“Oh, it’s too late!” exclaims Desiree in mock surprise.
“Where’s my sixpence?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m going to tell my mother you’re a liar and a thief!” wails Susan.
“Come on, Colleen, help us look for Susan’s sixpence.”
The sixpence is in our secret place, never to be found by cousins from across the line. Susan leaves, tear-stained and dishevelled. As soon as she’s round the corner we race for the sixpence.
Minutes later, we’re lying in the long sweet grass with a whole sixpence worth of sweets at our sides, the birds twittering above our heads. Desiree’s mouth is so full she can hardly talk.
“They won’t miss the
sixpence. Uncle Norman has a steady job. And what about Robin Hood?”
She doles out the spoils. “One for me, one for you … As Daddy says, ‘Saam gesteel, saam gedeel’. If you help to steal, you’re equally guilty.”
Winter has come to the Cape Flats and it’s cold and wet. Aunty Beryl is visiting, dolled up to the nines, a fox fur around her neck, and in her handbag is dear Pixie with only three legs. Bessie doesn’t like the fox fur or Pixie and she growls.
“Bessie, it’s only Pixie.”
“Don’t worry, my baby, I still love you.”
Aunty Beryl kisses the ugly little dog slap bang on the mouth. If Daddy were here he would pull a face behind her back and make us laugh. Mommy is ironing sheets on a thick padded blanket on the kitchen table. As Aunty Beryl sits down we get a whiff of mothballs. Her fox fur has been buried in the big trunk at the end of her bed for the long summer months. She takes off her leather gloves and unpacks her handbag onto the kitchen table. There’s a bottle of Old Brown Sherry, a toothbrush, a packet of Craven “A” cigarettes, a deck of cards and a gun. Mommy gasps.
“Beryl, is the safety catch on?”
“Reggie put it on before I left home. I’ve brought it for protection.”
“Protection from what?”
From the man on the red bicycle. You know, he’s been terrorising the women of the Cape Flats for months.”
Gabriel jumps up and locks the back door.
“Everyone is blaming the police for not catching him yet.”
Aunty Beryl lights a cigarette. “If the schweinhund follows me, I’ll say Achtung! and point the gun at him.”
“Y-you must aim for h-his tyres,” advises Gabriel.
“Please, tell us about Antjie Somers.”
Aunty Beryl takes a long draw from her cigarette and then puts it down in the brass ashtray with dragons engraved on the front and China underneath.
“Antjie Somers is worse than the man on the red bicycle,” she tells us, smoke still coming out of her nose. “He dresses like a woman. He even wears mombakkies, a female mask. When you see his Cape cart you must run like the wind, because he hops out in a flash and chases you, with murder in his eyes.”
