Confessions of a Ginger Pudding

by Zelda Bezuidenhout

  “Dewald will be here soon to finish the sauce for the crêpes. It won’t take long. He’s already juiced the oranges. How do you two like your coffee?”

  “Strong. With hot milk, if it’s not too much trouble,” says Mom.

  I stare open-mouthed at the rows and rows of bottles on the open shelves. Jam, preserved quinces and lemon slices. There’s a whole library of recipe books. On a blackboard above a cupboard is a grocery list in white chalk.

  It’s the kitchen of someone who truly loves cooking. Dewald must have inherited his mom’s talent.

  “Are the three of you alone on the farm, Nina?”

  I can’t believe Mom is asking such a personal question. Thank heavens Dewald isn’t here. I’m mortified.

  “No, my dad is out with the sheep. I’m sure he’ll be back any moment now. I don’t actually live here. I’ve been teaching English in Vietnam for the past two years. I came home for ...” Nina swallows. “For my mother. She is very ill.” She turns away.

  “I know, Nina. Is there anything we can do for you? You’re so far from town out here.” Mom fiddles with the sugar bowl, turning it around and around.

  “Thanks, Tannie Lente. She was in hospital until recently. There’s nothing more they can do for her and she wants to be here on the farm ... among her people and her things.” Nina has her back to us. She reaches out a hand to the roll of paper towel on the counter. She tears off a square and I suspect she uses it to wipe away her tears. She doesn’t turn back towards us.

  Dewald and Shaun come into the kitchen just as Mom is getting up to comfort Nina.

  “Shall I make the sauce for the crêpes now?” Dewald asks with fake light-heartedness.

  “Yes, pleeease!” I play along with the pretend-everything’s-okay game and we all ignore the sad elephant in the room. I realise that Planet Okay isn’t always the idyllic place that people see from the outside.

  “I’ve never had Crêpes Suzette before, only regular pancakes,” I say as I step closer to watch Dewald put butter into a pan and light a ring on the gas stove.

  “Then you haven’t lived, Arnelia van Zyl,” he says, his look almost challenging. For one heart-stopping moment, his eyes lock with mine and I feel the heat rising to my face. I look away quickly, pick up a recipe card lying on the counter next to the stove and pretend to read it.

  Mom, Shaun and Nina are around the kitchen table, engrossed in the ritual of plunging coffee. Dewald and I are at the stove, where he is stirring the orange sauce for his little French pancakes. He is about to light the fragrant sauce with his chef’s blowtorch when his father enters the kitchen. The screen door slams twice. His father’s large figure looms perfectly still for a few moments. The man seems shocked to find so many people in his kitchen.

  “Hey, Dad, this is Arnelia and her mom,” Nina says.

  “Afternoon, Oom Dennis,” says Shaun.

  Dewald’s father looks at the lot of us, his face expressionless. He takes off his veldhoed, gives a deep sigh. “I’m going to rest,” he announces. Then he walks through and out of the kitchen. In his wake he leaves the smell of the dry winter veld and sweat.

  There’s uncomfortable silence for a few seconds, before Dewald rescues his pancakes from incineration. Mom gets the first one; it’s as neatly folded as a love letter.

  “Born up a tree!” Shaun says in an effort to lighten the atmosphere.

  “Bon appétit,” we jingle.

  We drive away in silence an hour later. I sit in the back seat again and turn around to stare through the rear window as Dewald and Nina wave us goodbye from the bottom step of the farmhouse. It’s mid-winter at Belofte. The kikuyu lawn around the farmhouse is yellowed and brittle. The farm dogs follow the Honda some distance down the dirt road, but eventually give up. They disappear into the rising dust as though in a fading movie scene.

  It feels as if one of Dewald’s pancakes is stuck in my throat. The picture being framed in the car window is so sad that I’m going to bawl for days, I just know it.

  Tannie Alma Fourie dies early one Thursday morning in June. Miss Heyns’s cellphone pings during the Afrikaans class. She takes a tissue from her handbag and wipes away a tear.

  “Dewald Fourie’s mother has passed away.” Her chair scrapes loudly on the floor as she stands up. “Let’s say a prayer for the family.”

  I look first at Shaun, then at Ilana. My temples start throbbing and tears well up in my eyes. I get up and walk out of the classroom.

  I keep walking, on and on. On the rugby field the grass is still buried under a white blanket of winter frost. The cold air stings at the tears on my cheeks. I miss my dad. Why don’t we ever hear from him? He might as well be dead, like that frail woman propped up on her bed of pillows. Perhaps my classmates should offer up a prayer for my family too.

  A wheely good plan

  Exam time. We’re all walking around like zombies.

  Dewald hasn’t come back to school since his mother’s funeral. Shaun says he’s writing his exams on the farm, where Nina is going to be home-schooling him from now on. He has to help his dad manage the sheep, and he’s cooking the family’s meals.

  I never imagined that my life could be any drearier than it already was, but without the anticipation of seeing Dewald in our English class, I have to drag myself to school. Mom has noticed, which is why she’s been doing extra little things for me. Yesterday she put condensed milk in my morning coffee. The day before she placed a hot-water bottle on my car seat before we left for school. The old Honda’s heater has never worked.

  Midway through the exams, Dad transfers some money into Mom’s bank account. His underwater welding project on the North Atlantic coast has come to an end. Mom buys new tyres for the Honda, pays my school fees for the rest of the year, and gives me an envelope on which she has written:

  For Arnelia. With love from Dad.

  “Really, Ma?” I ask cynically. “If he loves me so much, why isn’t he here? Why hasn’t he been here for the past four years?”

  We’re in the kitchen. My mother spins around and busies herself at the sink.

  “Arnelia, don’t be ungrateful. Your father worked hard for that money.”

  She sounds unconvincing, even to herself, I swear. Like all the excuses have already been used and she has had to pull out the last one left at the bottom of the box.

  “You know what this is, don’t you, Mom? It’s payoff for his guilty conscience. I don’t want his stupid money. You keep it!”

  Mom reaches over and takes the envelope I’m holding out. She folds it in half and puts it into the pocket of my school dress.

  “It’s yours,” she says firmly. “Do what you like with it. I don’t want it either.”

  I don’t open the envelope. I slip it into one of my pretend pencil bags in which I usually store chocolate and Fizzers. If our school had a tuck shop I could have consoled myself by spending the money on sweets.

  The only time our squad gets to see Dewald is on Saturdays, after his shift in the Checkers meat section. His family depends on his wages, so Nina brings him into town from the farm early on Saturday mornings. She uses the time to shop their grocery list, and to get the things their dad needs from the farmers’ co-op. Sometimes we spot her car outside the hair salon.

  We fall into an informal arrangement to meet Dewald at The Dairy Devil for a shake every Saturday when he gets off work. Most of us save our pocket money for the luxury of a weekly Dairy Devil milkshake.

  Today, Shaun, Ilana, Dineo and I get together a little earlier. We sit at our regular table, at a window with a clear view of the street.

  “When’s Dewald coming back to school?” Dineo asks while we pretend to read the menu. We know its contents by heart, of course, and always know in advance what we’re going to order.

  “Never,” says Shaun.

  “What? He’s not even sixteen. Ho
w can he just drop out of school?”

  “His sister’s home-schooling him. There’s no money for school or hostel fees. I asked my mom if he could come live with us, but Dewald’s dad said no. That old dude can be so stubborn.” Shaun is grumpy.

  “I don’t think his dad’s stubborn,” I offer my pearl of wisdom. After all, I’m something of an expert on fathers who don’t live up to expectations. “He’s just proud.”

  “Maybe,” Shaun admits, “but I don’t think his dad really needs Dewald’s help with the sheep on the farm. Dewald has never been interested in farming. He wants to cook. We all know that his idea of spectator sports on TV is a MasterChef marathon. Oom Dennis knows it too. He’s using the farm chores as an excuse. It’s all about money. They don’t have enough dough.”

  “Can’t we try to raise funds for his hostel fees?” Ilana is using the waitress’s ballpoint pen to draw on her paper serviette. It looks like a sketch of a troll with three bulging eyes.

  Every cell in my body suddenly springs to attention, even without the kick of my first sip of milkshake. “That’s a wonderful idea!”

  “A bad idea,” Dineo reckons. “You just said his dad is too proud. How’s he going to take it if we set up a charity drive to keep his son in the hostel?”

  “Unless Dewald earns the bucks himself,” Shaun pipes up mysteriously. He’s put a lot of gel in his hair today and it makes him look cheekier than usual.

  “Explain!” I demand.

  “We start a project that Dewald’s also involved in. We don’t call it the Help Dewald Fund or anything like that. We do it as a group who just wants to make some extra pocket money.” Shaun mimes dramatic quotation marks around the words ‘extra pocket money’. “But the money actually goes directly to the hostel for Dewald’s fees.” Shaun leans back smugly against the red imitation leather seat of The Dairy Devil, arms folded behind his head.

  There’s doubtful silence. Then Ilana says, “I love it, but ...”

  “But what?” Dineo’s eyebrows arch.

  “The country’s economy is in trouble. People aren’t spending on extras. It would have to be something people want really badly. None of us has the same skills. How are we going to find something we’re all capable of doing – and doing really well?” Ilana examines each of us in turn.

  It’s a good question.

  We’re all so different. Dineo has the gift of the gab and is a great strategist. Ilana doesn’t say much, but makes up for it by speaking through her drawings. Shaun likes designing clothes. Me? Well ...

  I focus on my menu without seeing a single word. A light bulb flickers to life in my head. The others are a little startled when I exclaim, perhaps a little too loudly, “I’ve got it!”

  “Eureka,” Dineo mutters drily. Shaun and Ilana look bored. It’s quite clear that very little is expected of Arnelia van Zyl.

  “Seriously, guys, I’ve got it. What’s the one thing the school needs but doesn’t have?”

  “Sexy guys ...” Dineo quips.

  “Hey!” Shaun is indignant.

  Dineo tries to back-pedal from the insult. “Okay, okay! Present company excluded.”

  Ilana is in a fit of giggles.

  “You have to admit that Hein Geyer is kinda yummy,” Shaun drawls, lost for a moment in his dreams.

  “Mmmm!” Ilana and Dineo agree.

  I snap my fingers at them impatiently. Now’s not the time to drool over the school’s hunks.

  Like a teacher trying to drum a lesson into a bunch of brainless students, I crow at my friends. “A tuck shop, peeps! A. Tuck. Shop! Every single day without a tuck shop is a lost opportunity for making stacks of money. Every day there are at least a hundred kids who have parents who are too busy, or who don’t care, who wish they could buy a toasted sarmie or chocolate milk from a school tuck shop!”

  “By ‘a hundred kids’ you actually mean one hungry kid. And that kid is you, Arnelia van Zyl!” Ilana teases.

  All three of them crack up with laughter. I sulk.

  “Oh, come on!” Ilana tries to placate me. “We’re just teasing you, Hungry Noldy!”

  I shouldn’t have confessed my nicknames to them. You really can’t trust anyone.

  “Hey, wait – it’s actually not a bad idea.” Shaun is coming on board. “I mean, Dewald’s crazy about making food. If we were to get the school’s permission, and if we get a cool teacher like Miss Heyns on our side, we’re halfway there. She’s as sad as we are that Dewald isn’t in class any more.”

  “Every square metre of the school is being used. Where would we set up a tuck shop? It’s going to cost money. We’ll have to get a gas burner ... a fridge ... that kind of thing.” Ilana is thinking out loud.

  “I know!” I’m all fired up now. “A food truck!”

  “And we’ll get one from where exactly?” Ilana asks.

  I have to admit that my dreams have never exactly been confined to reality.

  Dead silence from all around the table. It seems that my food truck idea has turned into a dead-end street.

  Shaun breaks the hush. “Edwin’s dad owns Daniels Panel Beaters. For years now there’s been a cool old Volkswagen Kombi minivan parked outside his garage. It’s just a shell. All the seats except the front one are missing. We could convert it into a mobile tuck shop!” His creative mind is already busy beautifying the interior of Edwin’s dad’s Kombi. We can all see that.

  “A mobile tuck shop? Without an engine?” It’s Dineo’s turn to be sceptical.

  “Yes, man! The Kombi has wheels. Have wheels, will travel!” Shaun beams with pride; you’d swear he invented the wheel himself. “I’m sure Oom Simon will tow the Kombi to wherever we want it.”

  “And what makes you think Mr Daniels will sell his priceless retro Kombi to us?” Dineo is trying her debating skills on us.

  “My folks and the Daniels are like this.” Shaun twists his index and middle fingers tightly, like a koeksister. “If we explain our plan, Oom Simon will lend us the Kombi. I’m certain he will. He won’t even charge us anything for it. He’s a cool guy.” Shaun looks like the cat that got the cream. A skinny cat with way too much gel in his hair.

  “Hey! What’s cooking?” Dewald slides into the red booth next to Dineo.

  We have been so involved in our money-making scheme that we hadn’t seen him enter The Dairy Devil.

  “You,” I tell him. “You’re cooking, Dewald Fourie!”

  “In the school’s brand-new tuck truck!” adds Shaun.

  “The one that’s going to make thousands so you can come back to school,” Ilana chimes in, now as enthusiastic as the rest of us.

  “I can’t leave you lot alone for a minute,” he chides like a disappointed parent. “Whose bright idea was that? No matter how much I want to come back to school, my dad’s never going to accept help. Anyway, where would we get a truck?”

  “That’s the fantastic thing! You are going to make the food and work harder than us all. You tell your dad you’re going to pay your own school and hostel fees this way. We give you all the income and your dad need never know.” Dineo explains our master plan.

  “Charity. So my friends are going to work their butts off to save mine. Lucky me. Very good for the ego.”

  “Trust me, it’s a fabulous plan. I’m going over today to ask Oom Simon about his old Kombi. I’m not only good at designing dresses, you know, Dewald. I’m a man of many talents.” Something tells me that when Shaun Asja gets an idea in his head, it’s definitely going to happen.

  The five of us spend the weekend sending each other WhatsApps. By Sunday night Shaun has been to see the Kombi and has begun sketching the layout of the interior. Edwin’s dad, Oom Simon, has given his permission on condition that Edwin renovates, panel beats and spray paints the Kombi himself, for practical experience. Edwin’s job at his dad’s panel-beating shop awaits him a
fter he completes his matric.

  Shaun sends us photos of the Kombi and the sketches he’s made of the cabin interior.

  The doorless side of the Kombi has been given a cut-out serving hatch. The piece of cut-out panel will be used to create a collapsible counter where the prepared food can be set out. We can also put sauces and seasoning out there for our customers to add to their food. Inside the Kombi he’s placed a long workbench with enough space and power points for a small fridge and microwave oven, a two-ring gas burner and two washbasins.

  Oom Simon has even lent us a generator he has in his workshop. Shaun says Edwin reckons we should consider putting a solar panel on the roof in the long term. He thinks we could use a converter to generate enough power for a 12-volt battery-operated fridge and a microwave oven.

  Most of this technical information passes over my head with a whoosh.

  Converter?

  I type the word in WhatsApp and follow it with a confused emoji after the question mark. Now there’s a word for Mom’s pink sticky notes.

  Converter ... It converts the electric current from AC to DC

  types Shaun.

  Huh?

  Ilana types.

  Don’t worry your pretty little heads about it, my lovelies. Leave it to the Shaunster.

  Our friend clearly has things under control. He’s left space under the counter for a gas cylinder, crates and groceries. A row of cute bunting and curtains add the finishing touches to his sketches.

  What snacks are we going to sell, Dewald?

  I ask.

  His answer arrives immediately.

  You’ll have to help me decide, Arnelia.

  He trusts my taste. Now who would have thought! Dewald likes cooking and I like eating. Perhaps we’re meant for each other after all.