‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ he asked, smiling broadly and reaching out a hand towards them. His heart was pounding in his chest and his hands felt clammy.
‘A cup of coffee, gentlemen?’
‘Ja, as oo blif.’
Afrikaans. They were clearly making a point.
He called to Vera breezily. ‘Could you go out to Lou’s for three coffees? And call the person I was hoping to see this morning before you go. See if you can postpone her appointment till later today.’
The large man came and stood by him. ‘Neuberger,’ he said. ‘A Jewish name?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Don’t eat pork eh? No bacon? No crayfish? Milk and meat? Had the snip?’
Jack said nothing.
‘Your people don’t go to church do they? Don’t believe in Jesus. Worship your own God on a Saturday don’t you – little caps on your heads, bowing and praying?’ He made a little mumbling moan, nonsense words, a pretence at incantation. The other man laughed loudly.
‘Do your business through a sheet, do you? A little hole so you don’t see your missus’s dingis. That’s what I’ve heard about you and your kind. True is it? Excuse me for asking, but I’ve always wanted to know.’
‘I’m an advocate. I don’t have to listen to this. I want to know who you are and who has sent you.’
‘Doing the van Heerden case?’
‘Yes.’
‘You like defending people like him?’
‘As I say, I’m an advocate. I defend whoever walks through my door. That’s my job.’
‘But this one interests you, ja? Appeals to you and your communist friends?’
‘I have no communist friends. I do what I can to make a living. It’s my job.’
‘This one’s an important case for you though, isn’t it? White man, black woman. It’s the kind of thing you like, hey?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You like that sort of thing? That’s something that appeals to you, hey? A bit of black, a bit of white. You done it yourself perhaps? With a black woman? You like that sort of thing.’
Jack said nothing.
‘A Dutch Reformed Church minister sleeping with a kaffir – not good is it? An Afrikaner and a cheap coloured girl. It’s important the result of this here case. First one of its kind. Look here, Mr Neuberger, you must know that no one’s all that interested in a poor white grocery store owner and his bit on the side but a minister of the church, a respected Afrikaner, now that’s a different story.’
Jack looked the man straight in the eye. ‘This is still a country where there’s a legal system, with trial by judge and jury. The jury decides who’s guilty or not. Or perhaps you didn’t realise that? Perhaps they didn’t teach you that in school? If you’ve come here to intimidate me I can go to the Bar Council – I’m sure they’d be interested in your visit.’
‘Don’t get funny with me, Mr Neuberger. We’ve just come for a little friendly chat with you. Just letting you know we’re taking a bit of an interest in this trial, nothing more. If you ask me for my personal opinion – and I know you haven’t – but if you did, I’d say to you that this new law, you know, it’s no good if commie juries just let everyone off the hook. An example’s got to be made. Just my view of it, you understand.’
‘Who’s sent you here to see me?’
‘Sent? Sent? I can assure you, Mr….’
At that moment Vera came in with the coffees. She banged the tray down on the table. ‘Clara Joubert’s coming at three o’clock.’
‘Clara Joubert?’ the large man said.
Jack groaned inwardly. Vera should have been more careful than to mention her name.
‘Another case,’ Jack said coolly. ‘A woman wanting legal advice on the sale of a piece of land in Muizenberg.’
‘Not one of your witnesses to help you get your nice Dutch Reformed Church man out of trouble?’
Jack knew that he needed to tread carefully.
‘When I qualified as an advocate I swore to uphold the tenets of the legal system. My duty is to do the best I can for any client I represent, regardless of who they might be. Presumably you also swore your own oath when you joined the police force? I assume that’s who you are, members of the police, and if so, like me, you are bound by codes of conduct and by legal duties. You are absolutely expected to operate within the law. I’m very sorry Mr…. – you never did give me your name – but I really think this conversation is reaching a natural conclusion. So, although it has been very nice to meet you, I’m afraid I am now going to have to ask you to leave. I have a very busy day ahead of me. I’ll ask Vera to see you out.’
The man got up slowly and, as he did so, he pushed Jack’s chair hard, so that it rolled backwards, crashing heavily into the bookcase and toppling over a large volume of torts and a heavy textbook.
‘Oh my goodness, clumsy old me. Let me pick this up for you.’ He reached down and righted the chair. With one hand, he ostentatiously dusted down the seat cover. ‘I hope nothing’s broken, no damage done. Come, Stefan.’ He spoke in Afrikaans again. ‘We have other people to see. Good day Mr Neuberger.’
When they had gone, Jack stood still for a moment. His knees trembled and it took an effort of will to keep himself upright. He took out a large linen handkerchief and wiped his face, took a few deep breaths, then rearranged the fallen books and stacked them carefully on his shelf, pulled his chair back to his desk and picked up the phone.
‘Vera, call Clara Joubert. Ask her to come in right away. And tell her it’s urgent. I must see her today.’
Chapter 15
1944
One day, a good few months after our return from Bloubergstrand, Mrs Mostert came into the shop with Terence. He was smiling at me and tugging at his mother’s arm.
‘Ask,’ he said. ‘Please mama, ask.’
He flapped his arms up and down wildly. Mrs Mostert laughed. ‘You look like you’ve just eaten a hot babotie Terence! Calm yourself down.’
She turned to Ma. ‘Would Jackie like to come for a day out at the beach, at Hout Bay?’ she said. ‘It’ll be a long day, but he can sleep over at the garage so we don’t disturb you coming back late. It’ll be a chance for you to have a bit of a rest. It’d do you good, I’m sure – you must be in need of a break, with the baby on the way.’ She paused. Sauly was looking up at her with big open eyes. ‘ And Saul can come too if you like.’
Ma placed one hand on her growing belly. She smiled.
‘Both boys off my hands for a day... and no Sauly waking me up first thing in the morning. Boy, that’d be something!’
But then she saw my crestfallen face. Sauly was a nuisance; he cried and whined and wanted to join in all my games. If I refused, he went running to Ma to complain. If I let him play, he invariably spoiled things by ignoring the rules. It always ended up in arguments and tears and Pa or Ma would step in, crossly reminding me of my duties as an older brother and the expectation of greater maturity that rested on my shoulders. In one way or another, Sauly always managed to make trouble. And what’s more, he was clearly becoming Pa’s favourite, usurping the position that I had once held and now lost, seemingly forever. Sauly was quick with his fingers, keen to help when Pa constructed paper aeroplanes or little balsa wood boats. He loved weighing and measuring, playing with all the little implements that Pa had made for me when I was small and in which I had failed to show any real interest. Sauly was not my favourite person.
Ma looked at me hard, then sighed. ‘ Let Jackie go on his own. It’ll be a nice outing for him. He deserves something good for a change.’
Terence and I shared a conspiratorial smile.
Ma packed up a small little bag with a towel and my grey woollen swimming trunks, a pair of pyjamas and a toothbrush, Sauly
all the while howling in the background, ‘ Me toooooo, me toooooooo.’ I suddenly felt sorry for him and a bit ashamed at the delight I felt at leaving him behind. Should I tell Ma that I wouldn’t mind if he came along? No. It was too good an opportunity to be free of him and the rest of my family as well. I didn’t say anything.
Ma moved heavily over to the jars of biscuits on the counter. She unscrewed the lids and filled a big paper bag with a good mix of the best biscuits. ‘For the journey,’ she said. My eyes were focused on the door, watching in case Pa came back in at any moment and caught her at it and said something embarrassing in front of Terence and Mrs Mostert, or worse still, found some reason why I could not go to Hout Bay after all. But Ma managed to hurriedly scoop up some extra fig rolls and drop them quickly into the paper bag and collect everything together for my trip to the seaside before Pa had returned from his errands.
Mrs Mostert gave Ma a quick squeeze on the arm.
‘I’ll bring him back safe and sound, tomorrow evening,’ she said, ‘I promise you.’
*****
Walter is driving the Chevy. Mrs Mostert is sitting beside him. Walter is singing at the top of his voice, a jazzy tune that makes him sound like he’s laughing as he sings.
Pack up all my cares and woe
Here I go, singin’ low
Bye, bye, blackbird.
Where somebody waits for me
Sugar’s sweet, so is she
Bye, bye, blackbird.
From time to time, Mrs Mostert and Terence join in. I sing along, but only in my head, not out loud and the words I sing are a little different. Bye-bye, Cape Town. Bye-bye, the store. Bye-bye, Ada. Bye-bye Ma, Bye-bye Sauly. Bye-bye Pa.
On the back seat, we sit surrounded by bags, beach balls and striped towels. I look out the window as the houses of Parow and Cape Town flash by. Table Mountain looms up, a thin layer of cloud hanging low above it, like white marshmallow, and beneath it the gardens of Kirstenbosch lush and green, with the rhododendrons in full bloom. Soon the buildings and houses thin out and are replaced by countryside: fig and loquat trees; orange groves, grassland, rocky boulders; shacks with corrugated iron rooves and dusty yards with petrol cans, old tyres, goats and donkeys; clumps of thin pine trees; an open, empty road; a black man and woman, carrying cases on their heads, walking slowly from somewhere to somewhere, with the morning sun beating down on them; a single candyfloss cloud; the dust of an open-back lorry filled with African labourers, who smile and wave as they go by; a man sitting under a fig tree with a small pile of over-ripe mangoes for sale; a large bird swooping down to catch a lizard in its beak; the wild squawk of seagulls. And then at last – at last! Flashes of bleached white sand and foamy turquoise sea.
Walter parks the car and we carry everything out over the hot sand which burns my bare feet and makes me hop and skitter down towards the cooler wet sand near the sea. He sets up the big green umbrella, the towels, the picnic blanket and the hamper in a quiet spot, not too close to other bathers. There are coloured families sitting on the sand, making sandcastles and swimming in the sea, and there are white families, sitting in a different part, making sand castles, and swimming in the sea. We sit on our own, neither with the coloureds nor with the whites, in a strip of no-man’s-land dividing the two. Mrs Mostert splashes sun oil on Terence’s nose and shoulders but not on mine. ‘You don’t need it, Jackie, with your nice olive brown skin, like a little Arabian prince.’
Terence and I fight our way out of our clothes, flinging them down any old where, forcing our legs into tight woollen swimming trunks, poking them in the wrong way, getting our toes stuck in our hurry to get down to the sea. We race out for our first swim of the day, plunging into the shallow waters and splashing wildly, as the waves crash in and suck noisily back out again.
At midday Walter takes our lunch out of the hamper, which has been packed with ice to keep the food cold, and puts the dripping containers down on the large picnic blanket. He lays the sandwiches out on the plates and, with a sharp knife, slices up a large watermelon. It splashes pink juice and pips onto the white linen cloth that the sandwiches have been wrapped in. He opens cold bottles of fizzy drink, which hiss as he pulls off the lids with his teeth. My drink tips up in the sand and it bubbles and trickles away before anyone can right it. The tears are coming but Walter only laughs and reaches into the hamper for another. Terence giggles. I smile shyly and take a big gulp of soda that explodes in my mouth, like the froth of a sugary sea.
Walter sits down on the big picnic blanket and opens a bottle of beer for himself. I watch him. He helps himself to sandwiches. He is in his swimming trunks, legs stretched out, toes in the sand. He is sturdy, though not especially tall. His arms are strong and muscular, his skin hairless and brown. The hair on his head is short. It is springy and black, with just a fleck of grey here and there. His mouth seems to take up most of his face, his teeth a little crooked but white against his dark skin.
I look at Mrs Mostert. She too is watching Walter, with a little thoughtful little smile on her face. She is plump and pale, soft and large as a cream bun, rolls of fat appearing at the top of her bright-blue swimming costume. Her hair is unpinned from its usual knot, and tangled from the salt and the wind. Without her usual dusting of face powder, her nose and cheeks are spattered with freckles. She’s not the same Mrs Mostert who collects me from the Handyhouse in her tidy skirts and dresses, or the business-like woman who serves customers at the garage. Everything about her has loosened, expanded, softened.
After lunch, Terence and I build sand castles and dig ditches, then run back into the sea, splashing in the shallows, while Walter and Mrs Mostert lie back on their towels and doze, close to each other, sheltered by the big green umbrella. The warm seawater rises up and washes over me. I wonder what Sauly is up to at home and am glad that he hasn’t come too. No Sauly, no Handyhouse, no Pa.
Terence finds a large piece of driftwood, gnarled and knotted and bleached white by the salt of the sea. He wants to show it to Walter, to ask if Walter can carve something out of it with his knife. We run back along the beach, scanning the umbrellas for the big green one that signals our place on the sand.
As we get close to the umbrella, I see that Walter and Mrs Mostert are not alone. They are both sitting up straight and two men, fully dressed in short-sleeved shirts and cotton trousers, are standing in front of them.
‘Stay in the sea,’ shouts Mrs Mostert but we are already out of the water and running up the beach to see what is going on.
‘Stay away boys,’ calls Walter and then, more sternly, ‘Don’t come closer.’
Terence and I hold back. We stand where we are, watching, unable to go either backwards or forwards. Now Walter gets up from his towel and places himself in front of Mrs Mostert, standing between her and the men. There is shouting. There are bad words.
‘Pasop. Watch out you blerry kaffir-lover,’ one man is yelling at Mrs Mostert. ‘We’re gonna donner you and that coloured bastard of yours.’ This man is tall and thin, with an angular face and a long jaw. His face is red with fury.
The other man, smaller and fatter, with large sweat stains on his shirt, is yelling too. He’s holding a big stick that he is swinging towards Walter, only narrowly missing him each time, like he’s playing a game with him. Walter looks about to see if anyone will come and help them. On towels, stretched out, or under their umbrellas, people are reading their books or sunning themselves. Children are playing ball or digging in the sand. Everyone sitting close by has turned away, facing the sea, or looking towards the ice-cream kiosk and the café in the distance. No one acknowledges that anything is wrong.
Terence is trailing the large piece of driftwood behind him. I wonder if I should grab it and run and hit the men with it. I could bash them on the legs, whack them as hard as I can, hit them and hit them till they run away. But I don’t move. I just stand on
the sand watching. The tears are coming and I can’t hold them back.
The man with the stick prods Walter, stabs at his feet, as if poking at a crab to make it close up tight inside its shell or scuttle away in fright. Walter stands his ground but makes no move to stop him. I don’t understand why. Why doesn’t he just grab the watermelon knife from where it’s lying on the cloth and use it to defend himself. The man grips the stick more firmly. He grunts as he takes a bigger, faster swing which arcs towards Walter, whipping his legs so that he flinches. And now the other one, the thin one who up until now has just stood and shouted, joins in, punching Walter in the face so that he falls back heavily onto the picnic blanket. He falls into the plates and left over sandwiches and overturns the hamper. Mrs Mostert screams. At the sound of her voice, the two men casually turn away and stroll off down the beach, as if enjoying the nice weather and a relaxing day at the seaside. One whistles as he walks. The other laughs.
Mrs Mostert is weeping and now faces from nearby are turned towards us, watching. But no one moves from their places under their umbrellas. They just sit and stare.
‘Don’t worry, May. It’s OK. I’m all right,’ says Walter, dabbing at his mouth, testing the damage. He spits out a single, bloody shard of broken tooth and holds it out on his hand. Mrs Mostert passes him the white linen cloth that the sandwiches have been wrapped in and he presses it to his face to stop the bleeding.
He looks anxiously towards Terence and me, to see if we’re OK.
‘Let’s pack up, boys. It’s time to go home.’
Slowly we collect everything together and put down the umbrella. Walter carries most of the bags but we help with the buckets and spades and beach ball, which we hand to Walter to put in the boot of the Chevrolet. He takes out the little plastic plug and squeezes the ball, allowing the air to slowly exhale, till the ball is a flat, flabby circle, hardly recognisable any more.
Off the Voortrekker Road Page 13
