Whitethorn

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Scrum-half, eh?’ The headmaster was suddenly interested. ‘That says something for the lad. Nippy, agile, feisty, courageous, that’s the scrum-half for you. In my rugby football experience he is usually the boy who gives the team its character.’

  Miss Phillips seized on the word. ‘Character! Let me assure you, Headmaster, Tom Fitzsaxby has heaps and then some to spare.’

  The Reverend John Robertson smiled, no doubt accustomed to importunate parents and their like. ‘Very well, Miss Phillips, I can’t promise, but I’ll put it to the school council. I will point out to them the unique circumstances and ask that Master Tom Fitzsaxby gain entrance to the Bishop’s College at the tender age of eleven. I understand he will turn twelve at the beginning of the second term of 1945.’

  Now, you’re probably thinking that I’d be happy as anything when the Bishop’s College decided it was okay for me to start in the first term of 1945, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t tell anyone this because I knew they’d be disappointed in me and think I was letting them down. But you see I thought maybe I was going from the frying pan into the fire, and the devil you know is better than the one you don’t. I had read Tom Brown’s Schooldays before it was lost in that fire. Now maybe you haven’t personally read this book, so if you haven’t read it let me tell you something for nothing, it was almost a dead swap over for The Boys Farm. Talk about cruel and hard! That Tom Brown could have been me all over again, except it happened long before I was born, so it’s probably the other way around. I was him all over again. What’s more, it was even worse because there were no Afrikaners involved and the English didn’t put their own people in concentration camps to die. So why so cruel at this rugby school? I said to myself, if that’s how it was at an English boarding school, and they did cruelty for nothing, I was now going to the Bishop’s College which was an English boarding school, so what was the point? The point for me was that I couldn’t take Tinker. So now all of a sudden I’m going to Johannesburg without my little dog, just so I can have a hard time somewhere else.

  The thought of being parted from Tinker was unbearable. She was my every day, my first thought in the morning and my last at night. She wasn’t just my dog, she was my everything. Now, I know I shouldn’t also say that, because there were lots of kind and loving people in my life – Miss Phillips, Meneer Van Niekerk, Sergeant Van Niekerk, Doctor Van Heerden and Mevrou Booysens and, of course, the wonderful goosefeather-quilt-making Marie. While I don’t suppose kids can really comprehend something like death, although when Mattress was murdered I think I understood it well enough, I’m sure I would have been willing to lose my life to save Tinker. So you can see that I wasn’t very happy, but if any of these people were around I had to look as if I was.

  Doctor Van Heerden married Mevrou Booysens and they invited me to the wedding and what a to-do that turned out to be.

  ‘They only having a quiet wedding, you hear,’ Marie told me. ‘That’s because it’s second time around for them both. He’s a widower and my mum’s a widow, so no fuss please. Only a few guests and you’re going to be one, Tom.’

  It was hard to believe that they’d all be high-ups and then there’d be me.

  ‘Is it on a Sunday?’ I asked anxiously.

  ‘No, Saturday, why do you ask?’

  ‘I was only asking,’ I said lamely.

  ‘No you weren’t, you never only ask,’ Marie said sharply. ‘What is it, Tom?’

  ‘I can’t come if it’s on a Saturday.’

  ‘Why not, man? There’s no school.’

  I was trapped. ‘I still can’t come,’ I said.

  ‘For goodness sake, Tom, why ever not? You’re being silly and that’s not a bit like you, you hear?’

  ‘It’s my clothes,’ I said at last. ‘On a Saturday they’re always very dirty because I’ve worn them all week.’

  Marie laughed. ‘Ag, Tom, that’s nothing, you hear? The doctor will get Meneer Prinsloo to allow you to get your clean clothes. When do you always get them?’

  ‘Saturday night.’

  ‘Well, on this Saturday afternoon, they’ll already be there waiting for you, you just going to be wearing them a few hours early.’

  But she didn’t know The Boys Farm. ‘We not allowed to wear them until Sunday morning for church, so everybody will think we always nice and clean. It’s our good reputation at stake,’ I explained.

  ‘Another rule made by that hypocrite Pietrus Prinsloo!’ She put her arm around me and kissed me. ‘Just say you’ll come and we’ll sort out the clothes situation.’

  ‘Can I bring Tinker? She’s never been to a wedding.’ I’d stopped counting Marie’s kisses because she did it all the time.

  ‘Ja, of course, but not in the church, hey.’

  ‘The Dominee says dogs haven’t got souls, they not even allowed in a church.’

  Which was a pretty worrying point also. If, according to the Dominee, animals didn’t have souls and didn’t go to heaven, how was I going to have Tinker in heaven with me and Mattress? I’d done some praying on this matter, although in my experience God doesn’t give you answers on stuff like that. He only answers you if you pray and ask, ‘Can I please pass my exams?’ Then when you do, you know He answered your prayers. What I said to God was, ‘Okay, I know about what the Dominee said about dogs not having souls, but could you make perhaps a special case? Because Tinker definitely has one, I can absolutely guarantee it.’ I couldn’t explain all of this to God, because you are not allowed to argue with Him. When God says something, there’s no ifs or buts. The last person who tried arguing with Him was Jonah and, all of a sudden, the next day he is swallowed up by a whale. But, frankly, if Tinker couldn’t come with me, I’d rather not go to heaven by myself. Not only because Tinker wouldn’t be coming, which was a big thing on its own, but also because all the people I’d ever met who said they were definitely going to heaven, because God had saved their soul, weren’t very nice to know. For instance, Meneer Prinsloo, Mevrou, the Dominee, to mention the main three.

  Can you imagine it? You arrive in heaven and there’s Mevrou in her white half-jack nightdress wearing wings sticking out the back. She’s holding a bunch of Gawie’s shit squares in one hand and a sjambok in the other. ‘So, we meet again, Voetsek. Drop your pants, touch your toes, we got Chinese angel’s writing for boys’ bums up here! Welcome to heaven, man!’ If heaven was full of such people I’d be better off just turning into rotten meat. But then I thought of Mattress being there, already waiting for me. Can you see how complicated things get in life?

  Anyway, here’s some good news. Gawie got his scholarship! And here’s the even better news. His name was put on the front page of the Zoutpansberg Nuus.

  BOYS FARM BOY

  WINS IMPORTANT

  SCHOLARSHIP!

  It was truly big news and even the Dominee brought it up in church. He said how it goes to show what a brainy people the Afrikaners are. ‘Look, this good Afrikaner boy has no help from a mother or a father or even brothers or sisters and still he is a young genius, which shows what high intelligence lurks in the blood of the volk.’ He said it was a true credit to Superintendent Pietrus Prinsloo from The Boys Farm, who must be like a true father to this boy, Gawie Grobler.

  Well, you should have seen Meneer Prinsloo after church! For once in his life his chest was almost sticking out as far as his stomach, and people were coming up and shaking his hand, and he was saying, ‘Ag, man, it is nothing, a man does his best to be a good father to them all.’ Then he called Gawie over to come and stand next to him so the people could come and also shake his hand. I could see Gawie was very happy because now they couldn’t call him a surrogaat any more, and he was back to being a ware Boer. Sometimes in life things that go wrong can come right again for a person, and we must never give up hope.

  That night, being Sunday, was supposed to be the Bible reading, but Meneer Prinsloo said we were going to give it a miss because he wanted to talk about brains for a change.

  ‘Now
, some of us have brains and some of us haven’t,’ he began. ‘That’s because, unfortunately, God doesn’t pack the same amount of brains in every skull he makes.’ Then he told us this stupid story called an analogy. How there is this big bucket of brains and heads going past ten to the dozen on a conveyer belt in heaven, and God is there scooping up brains with this special brain shovel made of solid gold with diamonds set in the handle. ‘And, you know when you shovelling dirt sometimes, more comes on the spade and sometimes less,’ Meneer Prinsloo explained. ‘So if the head passing is a more, you got brains, if a less, you stupid.’ He pointed to Gawie. ‘Now, Gawie Grobler here, he got a shovel that was piled so high there are even some bits dropping off the side of the spade. You see, there is much more there than he’s going to need in life. Praise the Lord such a boy is gifted, and when he grows up he can be anything he likes, even the President of the Republic when one day we get it back again. He will also be rich and famous,’ the superintendent concluded. I hadn’t realised that Meneer Prinsloo knew about Gawie one day owning a gold and diamond mine.

  ‘Stand up, Gawie,’ Meneer Prinsloo ordered. ‘Let everyone see what a good brain looks like.’ Gawie stood up. ‘No, on the bench, man. Stand on the bench.’ Gawie stepped up on the bench. ‘See how he stands tall with his head above everyone else? Wragtig, daar staan ‘n mens met ‘n hoer verstand! Truly, there stands a man with a higher understanding.’

  Then Gawie did something really brave. ‘Can I ask a question, Meneer?’ he said.

  ‘Ja, of course, ask away,’ Meneer Prinsloo said, beaming.

  ‘When a genius speaks we all got to listen, hey.’

  ‘Does this now mean I am no longer a surrogaat Engelsman, Meneer?’ Gawie asked.

  ‘Surrogaat Engelsman? Who said this?’ Meneer Prinsloo looked puzzled, then puffed his cheeks out and wagged his forefinger at all of us. ‘You show me the person who called you that and he’ll have to deal with me personally, you hear? You are a ware Boer with a superior Afrikaner brain. Nothing but the best!’ He turned to look over all the tables. ‘So now we going to show our appreciation.’ Then he walked to the wall behind the platform table and carefully removed the Adolf Hitler alias Winston Churchill Rand Easter Show third-place rooster ribbon. With the ribbon draped over both hands and his arms held out in front of him, about two feet apart, he walked over to where Gawie was standing. Even with Gawie standing on the bench Meneer Prinsloo was still taller. He lifted the ribbon over Gawie’s head so it draped over both his shoulders, like one of those long scarves Tom Brown wore after he invented rugby. On the ribbon it read, ‘Third, Class 20A, Two-year-old Rooster’. But now some of the words were at the back and some on the front. On his right shoulder, it read ‘Third Class’ and on the left it read ‘Rooster’. At long last he was no longer a surrogaat but a Third Class Rooster.

  You could see some people were starting to giggle. Meneer Prinsloo puffed out his chest and announced, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, as the chief judge and government-appointed father of all the boys at The Boys Farm, those who have some brains and also those who are stupid.’ He stopped to take a deep breath. ‘It gives me great pleasure to announce Gawie Grobler the Best Brain at the Show!’ He turned around, beaming. ‘Clap and cheer, everybody!’ he shouted. So we clapped and cheered and some of the boys even whistled, and Gawie went very red in the face and stepped off the bench again. I’m telling you, man, in that place Gawie was all of a sudden a hero and a half! His surrogaat slate wiped completely clean.

  Now, I don’t want to be nasty or anything, but kids don’t like a person to be too clever around the place. From then on sometimes, like when we were watering the oranges and Gawie would be walking towards a group of us boys filling up our paraffin-tin buckets at the water pump, you’d hear someone say, ‘Look, man, here comes that fucking third-class rooster again!’ And when he got close they’d all go ‘Cock-a-doodle-do!’ For a good brain he was having a hard time all over again. Sometimes in life it’s best to leave things alone. Now I have to tell you about the wedding. Remember Marie said a small private affair at the church first and then a reception at the Impala Café, where she also said on the big day a person could have all the ice-cream they want.

  First, the business of the clean clothes. Doctor Van Heerden phoned Meneer Prinsloo and asked if I could attend the wedding and also get my clean clothes early. Meneer Prinsloo told him yes, but that was not the end of the affair by a long shot.

  After supper that night he stood up to give us the usual messages and read out the punishment names. He said, ‘In this place are sixty boys, fifty-nine Afrikaners and one Engelsman.’ He paused to let this point sink in and I felt the old jolt in my stomach because I knew I was about to be up to my eyebrows in the deep shit, but didn’t know what for.

  ‘In this town there is only one doctor and one café, and now the doctor is going to marry the café,’ he announced. ‘Now, I’m not against this, you hear? If a wife dies then a man can marry again and that’s nobody’s business because it isn’t a divorce. Both parties in this wedding are Afrikaner and well known around the place as you all know. So you’d think they’d show some respect and invite the important people in the dorp to come and celebrate the big event, wouldn’t you? It’s not every day a widower marries a widow, and one is nearly fifty-five years old and the other is forty-five. Understand this is no spring-chicken affair, believe you me! So why are children involved, hey? Tell me that, please?’ Meneer Prinsloo’s lips curled into a sneer. ‘But now the good doctor calls me on the telephone and he says, “Pietrus, we only having a small wedding, just a few close friends at the reception.” So I say, “Thank you, Doctor, I am honoured. Mevrou Prinsloo will be very excited.” Then he says, “No, no, you get me wrong, man, not you, I want to invite Tom Fitzsaxby!” “Say again?” I say, because maybe I didn’t wash out my ears this morning. “You want to invite the Engelsman?” “Ja, he is our personal friend,” the doctor says.’

  Meneer Prinsloo stopped talking and looked around. ‘So now Master Tom Fitzsaxby is going tippy-toes and sneaking off behind our back, and making friends with a person who spends Sunday stitching up black bobbejane and never comes to church, and also a café owner who sells sweets, cool drinks, cigarettes and pipe tobacco on a Sunday. They invite a snotnose Engelsman who is turning soon into a Roman Catholic! Here, man, is it strange times? Has the sun fallen into the sea? Has the weather changed outside? What was hot is now freezing cold? Maybe Armageddon is coming soon? Or are we all going mad or something?’

  The superintendent, now all red in the face, and arms and hands whirling, paused to catch his breath. ‘Also, the doctor asks me, “Can this boy get his clean clothes early in time for the wedding?” I tell him, “Excuse me! I’m not the dirty clothes man around the place, you know. You can telephone Mevrou Van Schalkwyk if you like, but we not savages you know, Doctor.” ’

  At this remark Mevrou, seated with her arms crossed over her huge breasts, jerked her head backwards and sniffed, and I knew instantly that the clean-clothes business was far from over.

  Meneer Prinsloo went on. ‘Now, as you can see, I am not a small man, but in this 450-pound body is not hidden one single jealous bone.’ He held up his fist with the small finger extended. ‘Not even one the size of my pinkie.’ Which, when you think about it, on him would have been quite a big bone. His hands started to whirl around again. ‘But what we talking about is respect. Respect for other people who have to represent other people in this dorp. Government-appointed fathers and mothers that are churchgoers and have a good standing place in this town. But now you see what happens? Respect is thrown out the window like piss in a chamber-pot! Tom Fitzsaxby is going to this so-called wedding and the people who, out of common respect, should be invited have to stay home and feed the chickens and read about it in next week’s Zoutpansberg Nuus!’

  Saturday, the wedding morning came, and still Mevrou hadn’t called me. After breakfast I summoned up the courage and went to the sick room and knock
ed at the door.

  ‘Ja, come!’ she called.

  I turned the big brass door handle we sometimes had to shine and went in. Mevrou was sitting at her table doing her embroidery and she looked up. ‘What do you want, Voetsek?’

  ‘I came about getting my clothes early, Mevrou. Can I have them please and also have a hot shower with some soap?’

  ‘Oh, so now we going all hoity-toity, hey. It’s a good thing all your hair is cut off or next thing you’ll be asking me for some Vaseline Hair Tonic and a comb.’ She smiled, but it was her crocodile smile. ‘Now we the wedding boy?’ Her lips turned down. ‘I don’t think so, we can’t go around making special clean-clothes rules just because someone has been going tippy-toes around our backs!’

  ‘I didn’t go tippy-toes, Mevrou. I just got asked all of a sudden. It was a big surprise.’

  ‘We can’t have you making friendships all over the place without permission, next thing you speaking to kaffirs again, like the last time,’ she said, referring to Mattress.

  ‘They not kaffirs, Mevrou,’ I said quietly. I’d never realised that you were supposed to ask permission to make a friend.

  ‘Of course not, I didn’t say they were, but we are responsible to the Government. What do you think that high-up inspector who doesn’t get his leg of ham this year is going to think when he knows one of our boys is making friends with people who are non-churchgoers, like a certain doctor and a certain police sergeant? Or even people who open their café and sell tobacco on the Lord’s Day?’