Confessions of a Ginger Pudding

by Zelda Bezuidenhout

  “I’ve asked my workers to throw the dead lambs in the empty old cement dam before I get to the kraal in the mornings. I can’t stand to see those limp little lamb bodies not yet two days old, Lente.” The big man looks fragile in his chunky jersey.

  As always, Nina looks oh-so glam in her jeans, boots and matching brown leather jacket. Her raven hair swings about her face as she speaks to the others around her.

  Like a true foodie, I leave the best for last: Dewald. He looks comfortable and relaxed tonight. Despite the enormous heartache he and his family have suffered recently, his crooked smile doesn’t leave his face. Every now and then he peers out at me from under his curly fringe, like no guy has ever looked at me before. While I pretend not to notice, my heart keeps on doing hip-hop dance moves.

  Dewald fetches the tiramisu from the fridge and dishes creamy squares of the pudding into the blue dishes Mom has taken from the sideboard.

  “Bloody hell!” The words are out before I can check myself. “I do believe I’m all cheered up!”

  Dewald’s tiramisu is the ideal combination of bitter and sweet, creamy and crunchy.

  Mom’s attempt to scold me about cursing is drowned out by laughter, and she gives up and joins in.

  Even Oom Dennis is shaking with laughter. “I can see your daughter has good taste, Lente.” And with that he scoops another portion into my bowl.

  After supper we leave Mom and Oom Dennis at the table and go to make coffee in the kitchen. I can see them deep in conversation, and we all know what it’s about.

  “Jislaaik, Arnelia, I hope your mom manages to convince my dad that the tuck truck is a good idea,” Dewald says while measuring ground coffee into our espresso pot. “I don’t know how else I’m ever going to get back to school.”

  “It would mean I could go back to Vietnam and send money home every month,” Nina adds.

  “The timing’s so bad, though. Mom dying, the virus, drought and so many sheep being sold at great loss ... My dad is shattered.” Dewald’s eyes fill with tears.

  Nina helps me arrange the little cups and saucers on a tray. “Dad is a survivor. We’ve had lean years on the farm before,” she soothes.

  “But Dad never lost the love of his life before.” Dewald’s voice is flat.

  “I’m sure my mom will explain everything to him very carefully,” I assure them. It’s awful to see them looking so lost and sad. “I know she looks like a hippie, but she’s wise and understands people well. She’ll approach him gently, don’t worry.”

  “Well, he’ll just have to agree to it, Arnelia. I mean, Edwin and his dad have already cut a great big hole in the Kombi. We’re too far gone to turn back now.”

  Dewald is right. I open the door a crack and peer through at the two adults sitting at the table. Mom is talking a blue streak and it appears that Oom Dennis is calmly listening.

  Like a general marshalling an army to war, I say, “I think we can safely take the coffee in now – they look quite relaxed.”

  As we approach the table, Oom Dennis says, “I was wondering what tonight was all about. I’m relieved to hear you only want to pay your school and hostel fees, Dewald. I thought there may be some other trouble.”

  Mom and I exchange a glance and look at Dewald. The three of us turn to stare at Oom Dennis.

  “Honestly, Dad! Did you think I ... we ...” Oom Dennis’s suspicion has left Dewald speechless.

  The penny drops. “Oom Dennis, you thought that Dewald and I ...?”

  Our wonky dining table wobbles from my mother’s laughter. Nina is giggling too. We laugh until the cutlery and glassware jingle on the table.

  “Well, why else would a woman who is a perfect stranger, with a daughter, ask me to dinner?”

  “Jeepers, Dad, how could you think that?” Dewald is indignant.

  By the time the Fouries leave, we have more than Oom Dennis’s permission. We have his blessing. He’s even agreed to help by supplying Dewald with meat for his lamb burgers.

  “You see? Oom Dennis isn’t such a bastard,” I tell Miss Cuddles later, sitting cross-legged on my bed.

  I’ve pasted a to-do list behind my door. I can already tick off several items:

  I cannot sleep at all. I keep thinking of Dewald, and how he cried in our kitchen when he spoke about his mom dying and his father being broken. How come I never cry about my dad any more? Is it because Mom and I lost him while he’s alive? Is Dewald’s mother more gone than my father? Gone is gone. Dead or alive.

  I decide to write a letter to my gran. Ouma Dina’s deep distrust of modern technology borders on hatred. Others of her age might have similar feelings, but Ouma Dina takes the cake. She does not believe in computers, cellphone messaging or email. She writes her letters in blue ballpoint on sheets of tissue-thin onionskin paper. Then she folds them neatly and puts them into envelopes. With stamps. And actually posts them. What’s more, she expects the recipient of these flat little paper gifts to communicate their reply to her in the same manner. I suspect that, if she didn’t have to rely on the Post Office, Ouma’s first choice would be postal doves to deliver her mail.

  I rummage around in my top drawer for her last letter. If there’s one thing that annoys her, it’s when someone fails to reply to absolutely everything mentioned in the letter she wrote them. I’ve been hauled over the coals more than once for misreading or ignoring part of her letters. I find the blue letter under an empty box of Cadbury’s Nutties in the drawer and get comfortable on my bed again.

  My dearest Noldybear

  I’m missing you so much. Man, it’s not right that I never see my only grandchild! How can we fix this? There are rows of jars of apricot jam on my pantry shelves and each one bears your name. How about you convince your Ma to bring you for a visit before the end of the holidays?

  Your last letter worried me, my Dollypop. What you wrote about your dad is not true. That he’s ‘written you off’. It may seem that way to you, but your ouma knows differently. I know for a fact that he loves you very much and misses you every day.

  Let me tell you a little about your father, child. (Remember, our letters are for our eyes only. You did promise to keep them in a safe place? I do the same. I keep mine in my ‘female things’ drawer, and I know Oupa Jack would never fiddle around or snoop in there.)

  Your father swept your mother off her feet when they first met. She was just nineteen and he was so different from the other chaps she usually invited home. Not full of stories or sweet-talking. Strong and silent, and always ready to jump in and get his hands dirty to help Oupa with repairs to a tractor, or a water pump, or whatever. When your mother told us she’s dating a teacher, we expected a bland fellow who would only speak about books or the marking of exam papers. Perhaps a muscle man who coached rugby. We were most surprised when Neels van Zyl turned up.

  Anyway, I saw how happy your father made my daughter. But what she didn’t realise back then was that he had both an open mind and a yearning for the open road. She thought she was marrying a dyed-in-the-wool schoolteacher. She thought she could look forward to a comfortable and predictable future with him, where he’d be home during the holidays and, perhaps, where he’d be promoted in time to headmaster or department head.

  Your mother was wrong, sweetheart. Because, not only does your father have a heart as big as the Namib Desert, he also needs a bigger world than she does. He wasn’t satisfied with his job as a Technical Drawing teacher, although he was a jolly fine one. He wanted to build a better life for himself – and for the two of you. Go overseas, see the world. He spoke to me about this many times.

  Your mother saw this as a betrayal. That he was no longer the guy she’d married. That she, Lente, and your comfortable lives in Cape Town, were not enough for him.

  A person is what he or she is, my child. You still have to learn this. Nobody can really change to adapt to another. Your father cou
ldn’t live the small life your mother wanted, and she couldn’t live as big as your father. That is why they separated.

  Please don’t be angry with your dad because he so seldom comes round. I love my daughter, but she has a hellishly strong will. It’s not your dad’s fault that you never see him. Your mother believes she’s protecting you by keeping him at a distance, because it’s always so difficult for you (and for her too, let’s face it) when he has to leave after a visit. Of course, she does this one hundred per cent because she loves you. People do things because of love that don’t always turn out well. You will also learn this with time. But things done out of love are actually okay.

  Your father sometimes phones us on the satellite phone from where he’s working on the coast of Nova Scotia. Underwater welding isn’t his dream job, child, but he enjoys the challenge of working with his hands, being outside, exposed to the elements, the time alone to read. And, of course, the fact that he’s able to put money into a trust fund for you. Did you know he does that? You’re the most important person in his life and that’s the way it will always be ...

  What nonsense. Ouma Dina must think I’m still four years old. I scrunch the letter into a ball and lob it angrily into the corner. I adore my granny, but she’s living in a dream world if she thinks Neels van Zyl ever thinks about his daughter. If he can call Ouma and Oupa Jack from the satellite phone, how come he doesn’t ever phone me? That’s a serious flaw in Ouma’s theory. She’s just practising ‘Family PR’, as Mom likes to call it. I’ve lost my inclination to write to her.

  I look at the to-do list behind my door. I realise I still have to report back on the evening with the Fouries. Dewald hasn’t been online tonight. I pick up my phone and type a message to the group:

  Truckers, we have lift off. Dewald’s dad’s on board.

  Before I press send, I add three emojis: a smile, a rocket and a thumbs-up.

  Then, as an afterthought, I add:

  I know it’s Sunday tomorrow, but I need at least two names for our tuck truck from each of you. Be creative, dudes! Meeting at 10am Monday morning at Oom Simon’s garage. Then we’ll look at all the suggested names. Don’t be late! We’re working against time.

  I spend the rest of the night thinking up names for the food truck. Meals on Wheels. Mobile Munchies. A Streetcar Named Desire. One sounds as silly as the next.

  Later I sneak into the kitchen to scout for leftover tiramisu in the fridge. Tiramisu? Could that be a good name for our little lorry? Nah, it’s too foreign-sounding.

  In the bluish light from the open fridge, I spoon tiramisu into my mouth directly from the Fouries’ enamel dish. Why do I feel so sad? Haven’t I just spent the evening in the company of my crush? My dream of a tuck shop for our school is coming true. And Mom had a blush on her cheeks for the first time in who knows how long. There are so many exciting things ahead, but all I can think of tonight is the last time I saw Dad. I wasn’t even twelve yet. How can he not miss me? What causes a father to forget his own daughter?

  Dad took me for an ice cream back then and afterwards sat me down on a park bench for a serious conversation. He told me how the paths of grown-ups sometimes separate and that that does not mean that they are angry with each other. He said that he was not going to live with us any more, but that I would always live in his heart. He took my hand and placed it on his chest. He tapped my hand against his coarse denim shirt, to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Boom-boom. Then he hugged me for a long time. I was silly enough to believe him.

  To hell with him, I decide, as I wipe out the last bits of tiramisu with my forefinger and lick it off. The Fouries’ enamel dish is so clean now it hardly needs washing.

  My dad’s the loser. I’m flipping fabulous.

  I put the dish in the sink and run water into it. Then I crawl into my bed with a full tummy and an empty heart.

  Holding out for a hero

  When Mom and I lived in Cape Town, the winter holidays were one long hibernation for me. My friends with parents who had money did exciting things. They went to the Kruger National Park, or to the South Coast. A few even went overseas. To Disney World, Mauritius, or to Australia to visit family. For kids like me, in whose homes there was sometimes barely enough to cover the basic needs, the attraction of winter vacations lay in sleeping in and reading books.

  These days, I don’t even get out of my pyjamas on chilly stay-at-home days. I make popcorn and watch old movies, or even read favourite books for a second time. On rare days when I feel energetic, I offer to make supper or perhaps tidy one of my cupboards. For the past few years, I’ve turned sleeping in and reading all day into an art form. So Mom is shocked by my sudden work ethic.

  “It’s not even eight o’clock! It’s the holidays. Why are you up and dressed, sweetheart? Jump back into bed, I’ll bring you a mug of hot chocolate.”

  “I’ve got stacks to do today, Ma. Time waits for no man. Or woman.” I don’t think she realises the urgency of Project Tuck Truck. The Grump and the rest of the school expect to see a fully operational tuck shop on wheels parked next to the lawn in the quad on the first day of third term. We have less than three weeks to pull off this miracle.

  Mom drops me and the big Stanley flask of hot chocolate at Daniels Panel Beaters. The old yellow Kombi is already standing on blocks, shamelessly flaunting her brand-new serving hatch. Edwin is busy cutting rubber strips to seal the edges of the opening to ensure that the service flap shuts snugly. Beside him Dineo and Ilana are twittering and twitching like two attention-deficit budgies on a sugar high.

  “Freaking wow!” I rush towards them.

  The garage smells of oil and grease. It reminds me of when I was a little girl in my dad’s workshop. Out of the blue, I have a flashback to a warm summer’s day long ago. I’m sitting on the cool cement floor next to Dad’s beloved old Land Rover. Mom walks in with two tall glasses of Oros on a tray. She smiles and I feel safe and loved.

  “Check this out, Ari!” Dineo pulls me back into the here and now. She is jumping out of her skin. “Look how big this thing is. There’s room inside for six people.”

  “More than enough space,” Ilana shrieks.

  “Whoop-whoop!” Dineo does an impromptu Michael Jackson moonwalk.

  “Remember, it’ll be much smaller once the counter and fridge go in,” Edwin reminds us, wiping the grease from his hands with an old rag.

  “Have you guys decided on a colour yet? We’ve got time to give her a coat of spray paint, if we’ve got budget for it.”

  “Let’s decide in a bit, when the others get here. Wow, she looks fantastic.” I walk around the Kombi and stroke her flat bulldog snout. “You’re beautiful,” I whisper. I wonder what she’s seen in her time. Did she belong to a surfer? A family with children and dogs? Perhaps she was the bus for a retirement village, ferrying old people to town for the Wednesday pensioner specials.

  Dewald interrupts my daydreaming. “Hey, slave driver. Hope we’re early enough for you?”

  I spin around in fright. He and Shaun have just arrived, armed with measuring tapes, exam pads and a Tupperware container full of cupcakes.

  “Where are we working today, my lovelies?” If anyone is going to be a slave driver, it is Shaun. Once his creative juices start flowing, we’ll all have to work ourselves to a standstill.

  “My dad says we can use the shipping container out back if it’s not too cold in there,” Edwin suggests.

  “Perfect,” says Shaun. “But let’s first get a few measurements and decide where we’re going to put everything. We also have to vote on the colour and make a final decision about the truck’s name. Then we have to set up a duty roster with deadlines.”

  If any of us were planning a Netflix binge these holidays, we’ve just realised that’s not going to happen.

  We carefully measure the cabin interior and use our phones to take a couple of ‘before’ photos of the
old Kombi. We chat to Oom Simon about the mechanism of the serving hatch and counter for a few minutes. He shows us the generator he’s lending us.

  Then he gives us an estimate of what it’s going to cost for a new paint job. We immediately agree that the old bus is going to remain canary yellow. We’re relying largely on donations for our project, and there’s simply no money for extras.

  With practical matters attended to in the workshop, it’s time to move to the shipping container where we’re going to brainstorm.

  “Follow me.” Edwin sets off with his streetwise strut, complete with an oil rag bouncing cheekily from the back pocket of his overalls.

  “Will you be brainstorming with us?” Dewald asks Edwin as he unlocks the steel room for us.

  “Nope. I’m going to work on the Kombi. But I wouldn’t mind a cupcake.” He nods at the Tupperware container in Dineo’s hands.

  “Sure, bro, have one.” She pulls back one corner of the big square lid. With its lip curled up, it looks a little like Elvis. The heavenly aroma of granadilla escapes from it.

  Edwin’s hands are rough and greasy. The cupcake looks like a miniature muffin in his huge palm. Dineo sees it too. “Take two,” she suggests.

  Once we are all seated on anything from old car seats to tyres and petrol cannisters, Shaun opens his exam pad to the page listing the agenda for our meeting.

  “Right, guys, let’s get started.”

  “It’s the first day of the rest of our lives,” Ilana announces dramatically.

  “Hear, hear,” agrees Dineo.

  “My mom thinks I’m ill, because I didn’t touch my Xbox all weekend,” Shaun laughs.

  “I want you to know how grateful I am for what you’re doing for me, dudes. You’ll never know how much.” Dewald is suddenly emotional.