When you two have finished flirting, we need to think of a name for our tuck shop.
Dineo cuts into our special moment.
You’re all jumping the gun. First thing tomorrow we need to ask Miss Heyns to get permission from The Grump. Without that, our plan is futile.
Ilana. Always the voice of reason.
Mom is more excited than we are about Project Tuck Truck.
“Food trucks and pop-up shops are all the rage now, Noldy! They’re at every flea market and music concert these days. And the owners make good money, because overhead costs are relatively low. You usually pay a fee only for your parking site.”
It’s Friday morning and Mom is busy packing my lunch box for school. While she chats, she opens the freezer drawer and removes two slices of low-GI bread from a bag. Mom doesn’t believe in waste and she buys sliced bread, which she uses slice by slice as required. I’m suddenly homesick for Ouma Dina’s kitchen, where there is always a loaf of fresh white bread, which you can slice any way you like. Thick slices that can absorb lots of butter and honey. It’s an unwritten rule in Ouma Dina and Oupa Jack’s house that the crust of a fresh loaf is always mine.
“I know, Ma, but we’re waiting to hear from the school. They have to give permission first. The Grump has this thing about tradition. The school has never had a tuck shop. He believes it’s up to parents to send their kids to school with healthy food.” It strikes me as I speak that Mom and The Grump would probably be great buddies. The thought sends a shiver down my spine.
“I agree with Mr Van Deventer, of course,” she says with some measure of satisfaction. “But there’s no reason why a tuck shop should sell junk food. And with Dewald as chef, the food will be healthy and of a high standard. Don’t you agree?” She smiles as she slices tomatoes for my rustic sandwiches.
Has nobody ever told mothers what happens to tomato sarmies between breakfast and first break? The bread goes soggy and limp, and the tomato skin starts to wrinkle like an old person’s flesh. By second break the skin has shrunk from the tomato. I shudder at the image.
Mom wraps my unimaginative sandwich in tin foil, and then places it in a brown paper bag. She tries to use plastic as infrequently as possible. As an afterthought, she reaches for the shocking-pink block of sticky notes lying on the kitchen counter. She scribbles a hasty pop-up shop on the top page, tears it off and pastes it onto the brown bag, before she hands me my lunch.
“A temporary shop set up to trade at a predetermined site for a predetermined purpose, and which disappears afterwards. Or something to that effect,” she states. “Use it!”
A couple of miraculous things have happened since we hatched our plan two days ago. Aside from Edwin’s dad being so cool as to donate the Kombi, Miss Heyns has given us a cute mini fridge she has no use for.
Three days before school closes for the winter holidays, the four of us and Edwin Daniels are called on the intercom to the headmaster’s office. Charmaine and Magriet, who would ordinarily have whooped with delight at the thought of us getting into trouble, sit primly at their desks at the back of the classroom. Edwin must have told them about our tuck-truck plans. High school is like a world war. There are allied forces, and a friend of your friend automatically becomes your friend too.
The Grump sits rubbing his bony hands behind his heavy mahogany desk.
“Good morning, learners,” he says.
We all squirm uncomfortably in the fake leather chairs arranged in a perfect semi-circle around his desk. It feels like we’re in an intimate movie theatre, with a thriller about to show on the screen. A flickering subtitle pops up on my mind’s screen.
The Grump. Destroyer of Dreams. Miss Heyns forms the rear guard and sits in an armchair behind us.
“Miss Heyns has told me of your plan to start a mobile tuck shop at the school,” says the principal.
A long silence follows. He looks at each of us as though he’s never laid eyes on us before, although most of us – except, of course, me – have been attending his school for almost three years.
“I’m not a fan of tuck shops. Children battle enough with concentration as it is. It makes no sense to pump them full of sugar and preservatives.”
I sense our collective courage slump and sink down into our shoes.
“However ...”
Our collective courage perks up again and cautiously peeps over the rims of our shoes.
“I’m aware of the story behind this tuck-shop idea. You’re aiming to help a fellow learner. Someone who is experiencing difficult times. I like your reason. Dewald Fourie is a good guy and a diligent learner. To lose one’s mother when you’re barely sixteen is no joke. To have to leave your school and hostel, to be deprived of all your friends ... well, that must be brutal.”
We cast wary glances at one another, fearing we might jinx a positive outcome from this meeting with the headmaster.
“I’m giving my approval, but only for a trial period. Let’s see if you can manage to run a tuck shop successfully and responsibly.”
We can’t contain ourselves. Like popcorn in a too-small pot we leap up and jump about, cheering and shrieking. We spontaneously hug one another. Then we turn and see Miss Heyns. She’s sitting quite still in her armchair in the corner, a little smile on her face. We all rush towards her and draw her close for a group hug.
“Thank you, sir! Thank you soooo much, sir!” Dineo gushes on our behalf. “We promise we will be extreeeeemely responsible! You’re going to be super proud of us, sir, you’ll see!”
The Grump nods. Then he says, sternly, “There are, however, a few conditions and if just one of these conditions is not met, you lose your tuck-shop privileges.”
We return soberly to our chairs.
“Firstly: it’s not to interfere with your schoolwork. Secondly: you learners are solely responsible for buying supplies, food preparation and cleaning up. My staff is already overworked. Thirdly: you will supply healthy food that is affordable for our learners. Finally, you are to keep accurate bookkeeping records of income and expenditure, which you are to present to Mr Eybers monthly. He’ll transfer your profits – as Dewald Fourie’s School and Hostel Fund deposits – to the school bank account.”
Mr Eybers is the Economic Management Studies teacher, and I expect that Dineo or Ilana will have to handle this task, because the rest of us suck at math.
“Of course, sir.”
“No problem, sir.” We exclaim our good intentions in unison.
In a rare moment of generosity, The Grump lifts the lid from a glass jar filled with Banting cookies and pushes it across his desk towards us. “Please, each of you have one. Perhaps it will prove to you that food needn’t be full of sugar and refined flour to be delicious.”
We each take one of the pale biscuits. I’m the first to take a bite. They’re not Ouma Dina’s skurwejantjie cookies, but they’re not half bad.
“Mmmmm ... Wow, they’re scrumptious, sir!” I lay the praise on a little thick, and use one of Mom’s old-fashioned pink sticky-note words for effect.
The Grump grins like someone who has just achieved a great personal victory.
A new subtitle flashes on my mental movie screen under the image of the headmaster:
The Day The Grump Found his Groove.
Tiramisu
Now that we have been given the green light for our tuck truck, the winter holidays seem far too short. There is still so much to do.
On the first Saturday of the month, my mother invites Dewald, Nina and their dad to dinner. Mom thinks this is the best way to explain the situation to Dewald’s father. I’m dying from stress, for various reasons. Mom’s cooking skills being one. Mom’s habit of getting too personal is another. I reckon it’s because she sits behind her computer day in and day out, all alone. Sometimes she forgets the rules of acceptable social interaction. Still, I’m unbelievably gratef
ul that she’s doing this for us. Dewald’s dad is a difficult man – apparently even more so now that he’s lost the love of his life.
Long before dawn on the morning of the Fouries’ visit, I hear my mother humming and pottering about in our tiny kitchen. She has Fleetwood Mac playing through her earphones on her ancient iPod, which is in the pocket of her dressing gown. I know it’s Fleetwood Mac because every now and then she rock-star yells: You can go your own waaaa-haaaay! Go your own waaaay!
She’s standing there pressing a glass bowl full of egg yolks against her hip. Wiggling her butt to the beat of the music while she furiously beats the eggs with a wire whisk. If I were to touch her now, you’d see glass and eggs fly. At the kitchen door, I pause and plan my strategy. I flick the light switch and the kitchen is in darkness. I dive back into the passage and peer at her through the doorway. I hear her mutter, “Damn!” as she slams the bowl down. She removes the earphones from her ears and opens the broom cupboard to get to our electricity distribution box. She’s talking to herself. “Load shedding! That’s all I need right now!”
Classic Lente van Zyl logic. She thinks it’s load shedding, meanwhile she can clearly hear the loud whirrrrr of our fridge.
With the music silenced and the glass bowl on the counter, it’s safe for me to enter. “Morning, Mumsy!”
“Ugh, Noldy, we have a problem with the electricity.” She’s flicking all the switches on the board down to the off position.
I place my finger on the light switch, ready to synchronise the exact moment that she flicks the switches back to the on position.
“There!” she exclaims, relieved as the kitchen floods with light.
“Mom ...” I pour cornflakes into a bowl.
“Yes, Noldy dear?”
“Damn isn’t an acceptable word.”
“You heard me?” she asks, acting all mortified. “Damn!”
We burst into peals of laughter. She pulls me close in a hug.
“I’m so lucky to have you as my daughter, Noldy van Zyl.”
“Damn lucky, Ma,” I say and we laugh some more.
I spy the open recipe book on the counter. Oh good, she’s making one of the few things she knows is foolproof: quiche. Judging by the ingredients scattered all over the kitchen, we’re having ham-and-asparagus tonight. A sure winner.
“Will you lay the table, Noldy?” It may sound like a friendly request, but it’s actually an order.
“It’s quarter to seven in the morning, Ma! You seriously need to chill. Our guests are only coming for supper!” I try to calm her down. She’s not used to entertaining, not even on such a small scale. She’s stressed enough not to notice I’ve used the word ‘chill’.
On my way back to my room a text pings on our WhatsApp group. It’s from Edwin.
We’re going to start cutting the Kombi’s service hatch today. Pop in when you can.
Now it finally feels real. Our school is getting a tuck shop. And it’s our own project! I’m suddenly nervous. What if it’s a huge flop? Everyone will think it was Hungry Noldy’s stupid idea, because she thinks everyone is as obsessed with food as she is.
I really wish I hadn’t told my friends about all my nicknames. It happened during one of those absurd lunch-break conversations. Dineo let slip that she hates it that her mother calls her Precious or Princess. Ilana said she wished her parents had given her a nickname – any nickname, even if it were something like Fishpaste or Pebble. It would prove to Ilana that her parents aren’t robots. This made us laugh. Ilana’s parents are far too correct and formal to call their daughter by any name other than the one with which she was christened.
And so I decided to entertain them with all the nicknames that had been conjured up for me over the years. As if I wanted to win the contest for the worst nicknames ever dreamed up. Of all, Hungry Noldy stuck with them. They thought it hilarious.
A week later, Mr Crawford was explaining to the English class the phrase ‘terms of endearment’. He asked who among us have nicknames. Names were shouted out. Wingnut, Sunbeam, Queenie. During a lull in the noise, Ilana pointed at me and shrieked: “Hungry Noldy!” I cringed, wishing for a spaceship to land in the classroom and for the aliens to erase all my classmates’ memories. No luck with that wish. The entire class knows now, and they are not likely to forget.
But back to tonight. Rather than dwell on my unflattering nicknames, I should try to tame my unruly tresses. I regard myself in the mirror. I’m wearing my standard uniform: loose-fitting boyfriend jeans, sneakers and a black hoodie. If a bun doesn’t work out, I could always pull the hood over my wild hair. That’s Plan B. Plan A is an updo. Ilana showed me how to make the mother of all buns. She swears you can sleep through the night without it coming undone.
I want to look pretty tonight. I don’t want to be that timid voice coming from a flaming head of untamed hair. That’s what Shaun says. He reckons my hair has become my personality. I think it’s supposed to be a compliment, but it makes me feel like a fat Merida from Brave. So, tonight I’m going to twist my hair into a bun and I’m going to use just a little of Mom’s mascara.
In an impromptu consultation with Shaun, Ilana and Dineo, they decided that my hair and eyes are my best features, and that I ought to accentuate them. Accentuate is a favourite word of Shaun’s. He uses it to describe anything, from food and clothes, to celebrities or the weather.
My fashion consultants also decide that I should wear dresses more often, given that my legs are apparently rather shapely. And that I should harness my impressive boobs to my advantage. I’ll park that idea for the moment. Dineo promised she would familiarise me with the effective use of my ‘weapons of mass seduction’. For now, I’ll keep my secret weapons camouflaged and armoured.
Ping! A photo lands in my inbox. It’s Edwin standing in front of our Kombi. It now has a gaping hole in one side. His caption reads: Kombi’s backside. This is followed by lots of funny comments about sexy behinds. No turning back now. The Kombi’s transformation is in full swing.
Our doorbell rings promptly on the strike of 6 p.m.
Mom gives a panicky little jump. “What do you think, Noldy?”
Her quiche has been ready since this morning, and we’ve just made a salad. Our best tablecloth, white with blue embroidery, adorns the table. Blue-and-white striped serviettes are folded under knives and forks on the side plates. Ouma Dina’s Delft butter dish is at the centre, with the salt cellar and pepper grinder. Mom’s beloved Mexican goblets stand at each place setting, their blue glass twinkling in the light of a few tea candles. From her windowsill of potted herbs, she’s cut a sprig of rosemary to lay on each serviette.
“Wow, Ma, it looks so coo— I mean, breathtaking.” I hug her. “You’re the best. Thanks for going to all this trouble.”
But Mom’s too nervous to appreciate our special moment. She unties her apron and flings it onto an armchair in the lounge. “Come on, help me welcome our guests,” she calls, heading for the door.
Dewald and his family are shivering at the entrance to our flat. “Come inside, come in!” she gushes, and takes Oom Dennis’s coat. It lands on top of her apron on the chair, and when Dewald sees this, his parka joins the pile.
“Sit, please! Make yourselves at home.” Mom seems a little confused about what the next step should be.
I come to her rescue. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Yes, we have dry sherry in that carafe, Dennis, and for the kids there’s grape juice. I’m quickly going to stick the bolletjies in the oven.” Mom is fluttering about like a function planner at a royal wedding.
“Bolletjies?” Dewald rolls the strange word around on his tongue. He shoots me a questioning look.
“Buns.” I roll my eyes at him.
Oom Dennis sits on the couch paging through one of my mother’s coffee-table books. I may be wrong, but I think Dewald’s dad can be a real
bastard. I’m about to apologise for my language, when I realise that I have only thought it, not said it. Phew.
“What’s that?” I point at Dewald’s hands. He’s holding a foil-covered enamel bowl.
“Oh! Erm ... I brought dessert. Tiramisu,” he explains shyly.
“No ways! I’ve heard about it, but have never tasted it. Isn’t that—?”
“Mascarpone with sponge cake soaked in coffee. One of my brother’s specialities,” Nina says.
“Tiramisu is Italian for—” But before Dewald can finish, Mom comes back into the room.
“Pick me up!” she says.
“Yes.” To our amazement, Oom Dennis speaks from the depths of our sunken old sofa. “We all need a bit of cheering up.”
“You can say that again.” Mom goes over and clinks her glass against his sherry goblet, and then against our tumblers of grape juice.
“To the new tuck truck!” Nina toasts.
“And all who may sail in her!” I chime in dramatically.
“Sell from her!” Dewald improves on my lame joke.
We take our drinks to the table and sit down to dinner. Mom’s quiche is faultless. The crust is crisp and cheesy, the filling creamy and the asparagus has been perfectly steamed.
Dewald oozes compliments.
“This is perfect, Tannie Lente!” he exclaims over his second helping. “It makes all the difference if you use fresh asparagus. I can’t stomach the tinned stuff!”
“You’re such a food snob,” his sister teases.
“Maybe so, but those tinned elephant’s pimples taste like nothing at all.”
“Agh! Gross!” I say, as I dish up another plate of my mother’s delicious food.
I look at the people around me. Mom’s hair is piled high on her head. She’s wearing her favourite white jersey with the spotted blue scarf Dad gave her years ago. She matches the table perfectly. There’s a festive pink blush on her cheeks from the company and the sherry. For the first time in a long while she looks really happy.
Oom Dennis wears his khaki farm clothes, although it’s evident he’s applied a bit of spit and polish, as Ouma Dina would say. His lush mop of hair is neatly combed and he’s wearing a hand-knitted jersey over his shirt. He’s telling Mom how the E. coli is killing his lambs in droves.
Confessions of a Ginger Pudding Page 5
