by Carol Gibbs
Mommy calls a halt to the scary stories. We watch as Aunty Beryl pours a tot from her sherry bottle and downs it in one gulp. Then she pops a Sen-Sen into her mouth. I want to pick Pixie up but Aunty Beryl is heilig about her precious dog with only three legs. She says if we injure his spindly legs she will have to put wheels under him and pull him along by a string.
“B-better than being carried in a h-handbag all day l-long, sharing s-space with a l-loaded gun,” mutters Gabriel.
Aunty Beryl lays her Bicycle playing cards on the table. She lights another Craven “A”, pours another drop of Old Brown into her glass and shuffles the cards. She lays them in straight, neat rows.
“Please, teach us to play.”
“You’re too young. Later on, I’ll teach you how to play Donkey.”
We crowd around and watch our clever Aunty Beryl swallow her sherry, suck on her cigarette and shout a triumphant “I’m out!” when she wins. That goes on all afternoon. Swig, puff, deal.
“It’s not dark yet,” says Aunty Beryl. “Go to the babbie shop and buy me a pack of Craven “A” filter-tipped. Buy some sweets with the change.”
“Better stick together,” says Mommy.
“And watch out for the man on the red bicycle,” laughs Aunty Beryl. “Catch him and you might get a reward.”
“And what about Antjie Somers?”
“What about Brown Balls with the wide shorts?”
“Can I take the g-g-gun?”
“Not even with the safety catch on!”
Desiree and I stay close to Gabriel and look over our shoulders every few minutes. We examine the colour of every bicycle parked in the bicycle rack outside Mr Abdullah’s babbie shop.
“He m-might be here. E-even c-crooks must eat, you know … And crime does n-not p-pay,” Gabriel ends in a deep voice.
Brown Balls is sitting flat on his bum inside the shop, leaning against a bag of beans, slobber running down his chin and smacking his fist in his hand. Thank heavens, his balls are out of sight. If we ever see the red bicycle Desiree will scream blue murder, Gabriel will run away and I’ll clutch at Desiree’s skirt, being plain useless.
Tomorrow I’ve got a spelling test, so I’m poring over my books.
“Come and lay the table for supper!”
“Coming!”
Desiree puts the knives and forks and the tomato sauce on the table and we sit in our usual places. We’re expected to eat in silence. As Mommy puts our plates in front of us, we say thank you and that’s the last word we will utter until we say please excuse me from the table. No picking and choosing for us. We eat what’s put in front of us. Gabriel’s elbows are flying. Daddy gives him a look and Gabriel tucks his elbows in. The stew is delicious, with dumplings on the side. Mommy and Daddy discuss the endless subject of Daddy starting his own business yet again.
“Need I remind you it took forever to pay off the last disaster?”
“This time it’ll be different.”
“I’ve seen the way you operate,” mutters Mommy and that’s all it takes.
My fork is filled with stew, halfway between my Castle on the Lake plate and my mouth, when Daddy’s hands curl under the table top, lift and shove. The table tilts at a crazy angle and plates of stew hurtle into Mommy’s lap with an almighty crash. She jumps up, scattering bits of Castle on the Lake left and right. Her pride and joy, bought with her hard-earned cash, lies smashed on the floor. Bits of carrot and meat splatter across the lino and Bessie licks at the red-and-yellow diamond patterns. A stray dumpling has slithered under the kitchen dresser and Bessie goes after it, only her docked tail visible. Thick red tomato sauce lies in puddles, like blood. The crumpled tablecloth is in a sorry heap at Mommy’s feet, covered in greasy gravy. You can hear a pin drop and we wait like statues as my daddy’s temples throb in time to the beat of our hearts. We hope he will turn on his heel and walk away, but in the silence we hear the sound of his teeth grinding. Then he starts shouting, waving his bunched fists around. I bite my nails, on the verge of tears, and Desiree has her eyes fixed on Mommy’s face. Gabriel is gazing at the door; his legs are telling him to run. His knuckles are white as his hands grip the back of the chair. As always, Mommy looks like a dove being stalked by a cat, too afraid to move left or right. Daddy has power over her. He always wins and she comes out the worse for wear. We drop to our knees and quiet as mice we pick up the bits and place them in the tablecloth then lift it by the corners and carry it outside.
“Maybe we shouldn’t leave them alone.”
“Maybe once and f-for all they should s-s-sort out the details of their lives.”
“Aren’t you going to fetch the spade?”
Gabriel shrugs and crosses the yard. He comes back with the spade and rams it into the ground.
“Be careful not to dig on top of the Maltese poodle.”
“And don’t forget the bantams with the floppy necks.”
“And what about the dead pigeon?”
“Watch out for the false teeth.”
“And Brookie’s kittens.”
“Why d-do I always have to d-do the hard work?”
Desiree takes the heavy spade from him and digs a little. Then she passes the spade to me, but I’m clumsy and the spade slips and slides in my hands.
“Come on, Skinny Legs! Y-you can dig d-d-deeper than that.” Gabriel takes the spade back. “D-don’t forget to t-take the knives and f-f-forks inside.”
We funnel the broken china into the hole and Gabriel buries the bits of Castle on the Lake while we take turns holding the long silver torch.
The next day when Aunty Dolly hears about our latest misadventure she mutters under her breath, “Maybe one day someone will find the bits of Castle on the Lake and wonder who owned it.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It’s a heavenly day. There’s perfume in the air, banksia roses everywhere and not a cloud in the sky. Daddy whistles a tune as though nothing happened the night before. It’s Saturday and Aunty Bubbles and Uncle Nicholas are coming to stay. We have a night and two whole days with them. The train pulls into the station with a screech of brakes. Doors fly open and people spill out.
“There they are!”
Aunty Bubbles hugs me and I smell her scent. She has soft round brown eyes and she’s dark and beautiful like Desiree. Her hair is swept up in a big roll. There must be thousands of hairpins in her hair. Gabriel calls it defying gravity.
“Colleen, carry this paper bag, but careful, it’s fragile!”
I hope it’s what I think it is. Aunty Bubbles works at a sweet shop. Mommy says she gets everything at staff price.
When we get home Aunty Bubbles makes clucking sounds over baby Jackie. She tweaks his cheeks and leaves thumb and finger marks. She calls him Snookums and makes blowing noises in his neck that sound just like farts. Then she smothers him in kisses.
“Isn’t that a bit much?” mutters Daddy, but no one is listening to him because everyone is too busy sorting out where they’re going to sleep.
“It’s no good having a few spots and not knowing where you’re going to put your head,” says Uncle Nick. “Desiree, you’re on the couch, and Colleen you’re on the two pushed-together chairs. Gabriel, you’ll have to sleep on the floor.”
Gabriel worships Uncle Nick. He would happily sleep on a bed of nails.
Aunty Bubbles reminds us that she has promised to teach us the jitterbug. We scratch through the box of records. She’s laying the table for supper with mismatched plates when she sticks her head through the lounge doorway.
“You won’t find anything. I’ve brought one specially.”
“What’s it called?”
“In The Mood.”
We can’t wait to hear it.
“Supper!”
Gabriel comes from the chicken run with feathers in his hair.
“Have you fed the fowls?”
“Yes, they’re o-on their p-perches already.”
The grown-ups sit around the kitchen table eating
muis onder die kombers and we eat on the back steps, our plates balanced on our laps. Daddy pushes his cabbage and meatballs round his plate, the way he sometimes does when he comes home late. The door is wide open and so are our ears.
“Jacob, I want you to kill a rooster. But don’t touch the hens. They’re laying well.”
“Now’s a fine time to tell me.”
“I forgot.”
Uncle Nick can sense a fight brewing so he pats Daddy on the back. “I’ll help you, Jacob.”
And it works. Daddy doesn’t seem so grumpy when he thinks Uncle Nick is on his side.
Soon the sun is sinking and it’s getting dark.
“Aan die brand!” says Daddy.
It means let’s have lots of spots and let’s dance.
“Gabriel, why do they call their drinks spots?”
“Because Uncle N-nick comes from England.”
“You lie, you lie, your pants are on fire!”
We help Uncle Nick roll up our threadbare carpet like a big fat pancake. Daddy doesn’t want to jitterbug, he wants to waltz and foxtrot. Gabriel gets the box gramophone out of the cupboard, because our gram radio doesn’t work and he finds the record.
“You know this one, Bubbles!” says Daddy. “It comes from Bottoms Up.”
It sounds rude to us. Soon Daddy’s feet are flying across the floor, slow, slow, quick, quick, slow … He holds my Aunty Bubbles tightly in his arms and dips her round the corners, then he drops her right back until her head almost touches the floor. The floor bounces and the needle jumps, distorting the sound.
“I’m giddy,” she giggles, holding on to him and laughing. We all laugh. We love it when they’re having fun and we can join in.
“Let me have a turn.”
“N-no!”
“Please.”
“You c-can o-over wind the gramophone!”
“I won’t be rough!”
“I-it costs s-seven and s-six to f-fix!”
Gabriel is bossy now, but he’ll get bored soon enough and then I’ll have my chance.
“Come on, May,” says Uncle Nick. “Let’s give the kids a show. Pretend we’re dancing in a competition at City Hall.”
“Yippee!”
Gabriel puts ‘Always’ on the turntable. It’s Mommy’s favourite. She closes her eyes and she’s in another world. When they’ve finished they bow low. We clap and clap as Mommy smiles.
Then it’s finally our turn. Aunty Bubbles fetches her record. The brown cover says His Master’s Voice. There’s a picture of a little dog sitting next to a gramophone, and a stamp with writing. Gabriel reads out loud.
“S-sold by M B-Berelowitz, watchmaker and j-jeweller, S-Station Road, W-Wynberg.”
“Come on, lad, put the jolly thing on,” urges Uncle Nick.
We hear the words for the first time.
In the mood …
“Come on, Desiree,” says Mommy, “you first! Remember the midwife said —”
“… she’ll be fleet of foot and spread her magic wherever she goes,” finishes Aunty Bubbles. “Come, little born dancer!”
She dances round and round on her own, clicking her fingers in time to the music and swaying her hips. Desiree watches her feet, dancing behind her. She gets it right the first time.
In the mood …
“Swing, Desiree, swing! That’s right!”
“Aan die brand!” shouts Daddy.
We clap our hands in time to the music.
In the mood …
Desiree smiles her dazzling dimpled smile over and over again.
“Come on, Gabriel, your turn.”
“I’ll turn the handle!” I shout.
Gabriel is too shy. I’m shy too, but I try. My feet won’t go the right way and Aunty Bubbles says it’s because of my weak ankles. Desiree can’t get enough. She jitterbugs and jitterbugs and jitterbugs some more.
“JACOB! What about the rooster?”
“We’re equal to the task,” Daddy winks at Uncle Nick.
“Let’s first have another spot!”
They don’t look as though they need any more spots. They seem quite jolly.
“Cheers! Here’s to cocks!” Uncle Nick raises his glass.
They stumble into the chicken run, swearing and stubbing their toes in the dark. The chickens cluck and feathers fly. Between them they catch a bird. Holding on for dear life, they shout for the chopper. Gabriel comes running and the chopper comes down. They bring it into the light only to discover it’s a hen.
“Mavis wants a cock!” shouts Uncle Nick. “So let’s give her one!”
There’s lots of drunken laughter. With much cursing, they enter the fowl hok to try again. It’s better than the Kritz Bioscope. They grope in the dark and the chopper comes down again.
“Oh no, another hen! Mavis wants a cock.”
Bingo! Third time lucky. A big, cocky rooster! In no time at all the third bird is parted from its neck forever. Very pleased with themselves, they stagger inside to celebrate their victory. Daddy knows Gabriel will finish the task. We watch as the headless birds run around the yard and listen to the raised voices in the kitchen.
“Why didn’t you stop after the first one?”
“Because you wanted a cock!”
“The best you can do is to put the kettle on!”
“Don’t you start with your sharp tongue!”
Gabriel is chasing the headless birds around the yard. I get to wind the gramophone. He brings the dead birds in.
“Kettle’s boiled!”
I smell the icky, sickly smell of wet feathers as the birds lie in the big enamel basin. Aunty Bubbles and Desiree are doing the jitterbug while Mommy and Gabriel pluck the dead birds to the strains of ‘In the Mood’. Mommy keeps muttering about not understanding the workings of drunken minds.
I’ve had a chance to turn the handle and I’ve tried to jitterbug. I’m only managing to stay awake because of the brown paper bag. On tired legs I make my way across the dance floor and tug at my aunty’s skirt, but she doesn’t even turn around.
“Aunty Bubbles, I put the brown paper bag on the bed.”
But Aunty Bubbles is here to dance. I think the spots have gone to her head. I make for my pushed-together chairs and curl up. Uncle Nick and Aunty Bubbles have our blankets, so tonight I have the ironing blanket and Gabriel has the army coat. I fall asleep with ‘In the Mood’ playing in my ears and the smell of the ironing blanket and wet feathers in my nostrils. Tonight we will come to no harm because Uncle Nick will look after us if he hasn’t had too many spots.
The roosters are crowing as I open my eyes. I can hear snoring coming from all over the house, but not even a peep from baby Jackie. The carpet is still rolled up and the records are strewn around the room. I tiptoe to our bedroom door. Uncle Nick has just got up and he is not wearing any clothes. I can see his bum. Then he bends down to put on his trousers and I see more than that. I run back to my pushed-together chairs. I hear him turn on the tap in the kitchen and fill his glass. There’s silence while he drinks. Quietly I make my way to the kitchen. The back door is wide open, so he must be in the lavatory. This is my chance to hop into bed with Aunty Bubbles. I hope she will tell me more stories of the olden days when she and my mommy were young girls. She’s lying on her side. I climb into the bed and lie lepel with her like two spoons fitting together. She opens one eye and farts.
“Where ’ere you be let your wind be free,” she says in a sleepy voice.
I hold my nose. Soon her mouth is wide open and she’s snoring again. Uncle Nick comes back from the lavatory. I can see by the way he wrinkles his nose that he can smell the fart too.
“A bomb won’t wake her, Love.”
Thinking about Uncle Nick’s bum and other things, I run back to my bed. I count flies on the ceiling and wonder if I should take Bessie for a walk. It’s no fun lying awake with no one to talk to. I decide to talk to the fowls. On the way out I collect the white enamel bowl with the pretty blue stripe around the rim that
we collect the eggs in.
“Come, Bessie.” And Bessie follows.
“Good morning, Queenie!”
Gabriel has named them all and Queenie is my favourite hen. She lays speckled eggs. She preens, stretching her legs and wings.
“Puk. Puk. Puk.”
I wonder if she misses her friends. Queenie escaped the drunken slaughter, but I just know one day she’s going to be presented to us, roasted, for Sunday lunch.
“I promise you, Queenie, cross my heart and hope to die. It doesn’t matter if I’m half starving to death. I’ll never ever eat you.”
The fowl run is in a mess. The bowl of mash has been upset and bits of cigarettes spill from a packet with a picture of a sailor wearing a life jacket. The chickens have had the rest. I hold a brown speckled egg to my cheek, the shell smooth and still warm from the nest.
“Thank you, Queenie, for my egg.”
Inside the household is stirring. I want to get back into Aunty Bubbles’s bed, but Mommy says not to disturb her.
“Has anyone collected the eggs?”
“Yes, can I please have Queenie’s egg?”
“Now how would you know the difference?”
But of course I do.
The sounds of ‘In the Mood’ slowly begin to fill the house. Aunty Bubbles comes into the kitchen, dressed and laughing.
“I see your Desiree is giving Ginger Rogers a run for her money.”
“Stop that noise!” shouts Daddy.
Grown-ups are strange. He loved it last night. He reaches for a big bottle of beer and fills two glasses.
“Bottoms up,” says Uncle Nick.
They down the last drop.
Breakfast is delicious. The dough rose overnight in the big enamel basin covered with a cloth, and now we have thick slices of hot bread to go with our eggs. Aunty Bubbles has a moustache from her milk.
“You better wipe that away,” says Uncle Nick, “you look like der Fuhrer.”
We know that means Hitler and we laugh.
After breakfast it’s my job to put the records back in their covers to protect them, but it’s too late. The Bing Crosby record is scratched and Mr Al Jolson has a hap out of him. I hope they don’t blame me for the missing bit. We unroll the carpet and Gabriel helps Uncle Nick push the furniture back into place.
