by John Hunt
“We’re listening to the A Programme.” His mother continued to add clarity and sense to the evening. She was keen to provide the necessary decorum in the hope that her husband would follow suit. He gave a protocol-correct smile. “It’s a lovely music hour. Why don’t you sit here?” She pointed to a cushion already placed on the carpet. It lay between his parents, close to the radiogram. “Later on, I’ll get you some Milo.” He hadn’t been offered Milo in two years. The last inch of it was now rock-solid in the bottom of the glass jar behind the packet of rusks. She would need a drill to dislodge it.
He sat down on the cushion as requested, although he’d have preferred a chair. Herr Grundig, on his bandy legs, seemed offended that his personal space had been interfered with. Phen opened his book and pretended to read. Everyone was pretending. No one could intelligently scan a page while Louis Jourdan was noticing that Gigi had breathlessly turned into a woman overnight. While he questioned whether he was a fool without a mind, or had merely been too blind to realise, Phen’s father feigned interest in a picture of Queen Elizabeth walking her corgis. By the time Louis questioned whether he’d been standing too close or back too far and wondered when Gigi’s sparkle had turned to fire and her warmth become desire, his mother gave up entirely. She closed her book and eyes at the same time, leaned back into her chair and tried to rest deeper in the song. Her husband watched her over the top of his glasses and allowed himself to smile. It was only after the compère had finished praising the lyrics of Alan Jay Lerner and music of Frederick Loewe that her eyes opened.
“We had a portable record player on the farm,” she said to Phen. “On the last Saturday of every month we’d hang paraffin lamps on the tree next to the kitchen and have a dance evening. I know you’ve heard this a hundred times before. Your father was quite the Fred Astaire.”
Phen felt guilty for nodding. He wanted her to go on but she’d run out of words anyway. Instead, she closed her eyes again. Now there was a bright golden haze on the meadow and the corn was as high as an elephant’s eye. All the cattle were standing like statues and the ol’ weeping willow was laughing. His father smacked his knee like a cowboy at a barn dance and tapped his brogues in time.
Oh, what a beautiful morning
Oh, what a beautiful day
I’ve got a beautiful feeling
Everything’s going my way.
The next musical pieces were all instrumentals. This period was therefore interpreted as intermission. His mother disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a swing of her hips he’d usually only seen on the roadhouse waitresses. She’d baked scones, famously known for not being as good as Mairead’s, and placed them on the coffee table with a sassy twirl. Although he was a little embarrassed by his mother’s playfulness, it also made him deeply happy in a way he could not describe.
“And for you, my handsome one.”
Although there was very little Milo in his milk, he thanked her all the same and placed it on the last chronicle of Narnia. When he lifted it again, a damp circle had formed around the horn of the unicorn on the cover. His mother was now pouring another cup of tea for the cowboy who eyed her somewhat mischievously.
“Why, thank you, ma’am.”
“You can call me Lil. I’ve seen you round these parts before.”
“They call me Dennis.”
“That’s a mighty fine name.” She hovered above his knees, pretending to want to sit on his lap. Phen turned a bright red. Dennis chewed on the edge of the sugar spoon as if it were a stalk of corn.
“Well, little lady Lil, you make a fine brew.”
“Thank you kindly, sir. You’ll let me know how else I can meet your needs.”
By the time his mother had returned to her seat, Phen’s ears were burning and his face was on fire. He had no idea why his father’s wink, although aimed at his mother, had hit him so squarely. He spilled some Milo down his chin, but wouldn’t let his mother near him to dab it with her serviette. The very proper voice on the radio apologetically stated that they would now play a piece of jazz. By way of seeking forgiveness, the voice explained it was written in E-flat minor and made use of the unusual quintuple time. Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” did little to change the awkward atmosphere surrounding Phen. The repetitive two-chord piano and scaling saxophone seemed to be looking for trouble rather than trying to avoid it.
My Fair Lady came to the rescue, although it was only in the second half of “I Could Have Danced All Night” that things started to return to normal. As Eliza explained that she could have spread her wings and done a thousand things, his father went back to the Queen’s corgis and his mother began wistfully to try to find the page she’d forgotten to bookmark. Phen no longer even pretended to read. He let the music go through him while watching the cloth in front of the speakers vibrate. He imagined his skin doing the same thing as the sound entered his chest then pounded out his back.
Somewhere in West Side Story, he drifted off. Neither awake nor asleep, he’d heard the compère’s request that they hold on tight, this was a modern American musical. It was a rumbustious affair yet entirely infectious.
By the time the animated Puerto Rican woman had explained that skyscrapers bloom and Cadillacs zoom in America, the room had returned to its old self. His father tried to remain dapper although was powerless to stop his padded shoulders from rising to meet his ears as he slid down the chair. The foot still tapped but with less rigour. It couldn’t keep up, anyway. His shoe twitched to its own beat while the hand on the knee, bruised a deep purple all the way to its fingers, was now motionless.
“Are they that bad?”
“What?”
“My scones. You haven’t tried one. If they’re tasteless, the jam will help.”
“No. Of course! Just f-f-forgot.” He reached for one and stuffed it in his mouth.
The voice on the radio said “cheerio” and “toodleloo”. It hoped to have our company at the same time next week and wished us all we wished ourselves until we met again. “And, as always, we sign off with ‘In the Blue of the Evening’. Take it away, Mr Sinatra.”
Heb Thirteen Two had been correct. The night had surprised with unexpected happiness. Phen knew it couldn’t last, though. Nor did he expect it to. Such lightness couldn’t be maintained; the heaviness had to return. Maybe he too was beginning to understand gravity. His father started to cough while battling to get out of his chair. His mother grabbed one elbow and Phen took the other. Slowly they lifted him up. He stood still for a moment, trying to get his balance and breath back. They could not move. His father had no waist and, although the belt was tightened to the maximum, his pants had now fallen to his thighs. He was standing on his turn-ups.
9
Apoplexy
/ap’o-pleks-i/ noun
The first day back at school was not as terrible as he had initially imagined it might be. To start with, he met a stray dog as he strolled out of Duchess Court. It sat on the pavement with one ear up and one ear down, as if waiting for him. After Phen had patted him a few times, the mutt decided to walk with him. Almost instantly, the empty feeling in his stomach was filled. He liked the fact that it didn’t just follow him the way most homeless dogs did. Instead it trotted next to him, peering up occasionally to ensure he was keeping pace. Phen smiled at the way the elongated body hovered over its short legs. The faster they walked, the more it bounced.
He remembered Mr Trentbridge talking about his SPCA special, before it had been run over, as a high-quality mixture, a pedigree mongrel. This seemed a good description for his hybrid. It was clearly made from spare parts yet displayed a street-smartness, an intelligence, Phen enjoyed talking to. The conversation became particularly animated at red traffic lights. The dog would patiently sit on his hind legs, cock his head and try hard to get both ears up. He was longer than he was high. This made him torpedo forward when the light changed to green.
They chatted and walked together pretty much the entire length of Kotze Street before t
urning right into Edith Cavell. Normally Phen would have worried about how the dog would get back home, or even if it had a home, but the thought never entered his mind. In a strange way it felt as if the dog was making sure he reached his destination. There was a purpose in the way his padded feet always stayed just in front of Phen, the way he’d look back after rounding each corner. By the time they arrived at the gates of Roseneath Primary, the over-sleek body and tail, broken and bent in the middle, was still with him. They sat down on the pavement and stared at each other.
“You can’t come inside.”
The dog appeared to understand. Nonchalantly it began to scratch under its jaw. Phen swung his haversack off his shoulder and reached for his lunchbox. He offered half a ham-and-tomato sandwich.
“I know the tomato makes the bread soggy. You should see what they’re like by second break.”
Two brown eyes, first incredulous and then deeply sympathetic, peered back at Phen.
“Suit yourself.”
Phen repackaged the damp bread into the greaseproof paper and stood up. He patted the dog in farewell, yet found it difficult to move. His palms were beginning to sweat; he could feel the panic coursing through his body. His temporary source of refuge returned to scratching himself. The distant nightmare that had been school was now barely a yard away. The cold, deep fear he thought had disappeared had merely been biding its time. He wanted to run away. No one would notice him gone. Not on the first day. No one was waiting for him. No one wanted to know what he’d done on holiday. His parents didn’t have a place at the Vaal like Philip Denton or a holiday home in Margate like Hettie Hattingh, even if it really belonged to her grandmother. The dog stopped scratching and started staring. Clearly he was waiting for Phen to turn and disappear through the gate.
“I have to go,” he said as he put his cap back on in an act of mock courage.
The dog agreed by moving away, then stopping as Phen remained rooted to the spot.
“Hey, Spaz!” said Jimmy the Greek, rushing past. “You like late or you coming with me now?”
By the time they reached the assembly hall, Jimmy was still dragging him by the shoulder of his blazer. Phen twisted sideways and saw the dog imperiously moving in the direction of Hillbrow. The chin was held high and if a chest that low could be puffed out, then that’s what it was. He wanted to see it safely across the road, but the headmaster called them to order and demanded the doors be closed. The prefects obliged, slamming them shut as loudly as possible to underline their authority. Clutching his Dracula cloak in both hands, the head of the school commanded that they all sit and be silent.
The lawnmower and the white paint used to mark the soccer field seemed to be Mr Kock’s main concern. Both had been tampered with during the holiday break. The culprits will be found, he promised. He then asked the assembled masses how much a diesel lawnmower capable of mowing a sports field cost. No one had the courage to suggest a price. When he explained “over fifty rand” there was a chorus of amazement from the hall. Someone let out a long, low whistle, which was immediately choked by a firm sideways tug of the cloak. The headmaster theatrically held the black material wide to scoop up all the unnecessary noise.
The need for their rapt attention soon became clear. “Now, the matter of the theft and or use of the white paint.” On matters of extreme importance, Mr Kock tended to a more legalistic formation of words. He’d studied law for two years before changing to a teaching degree. Everyone knew of the sacrifices he’d made in order to contribute to the South African educational system. The older boys called him Counsellor Kock and drew pictures of him wearing a powdered wig. “The perpetrator or perpetrators of such action will be brought to book.” The less the audience understood the words and sentences, the more they realised the severity of the crime. “Theft and the wilful, illegal use of school property is one thing. However, to combine this act with profanity is quite another issue. It goes beyond the pale.”
“Say what, who?” said Jimmy the Greek, battling to follow. In frustration he slapped Phen on the back of the head.
“The lawnmower’s been messed with and the paint.”
“That,” the headmaster continued, “your expletives, your obscenities, can no longer be found on the embankment next to the change room is not the point. The purpose, the intention of this act, is clear. That this … this vulgarity de facto was meant to greet everyone on their first day back at school makes the crime all the more heinous. I thank our groundsman, Mr Swindon, for his timely action in this regard.”
At the mention of Mr Swindon’s name, the audience’s attention was temporarily returned. He’d never been referred to before from the lofty heights of the hall’s stage. He was a rural member of staff. Someone who lived in the country under his massive straw hat with its chewed brim. He worked on the outskirts of the fields and in the furthest corner under the bluegums where he made compost. He’d never actually been seen in the school corridors or classrooms. Irrespective of the weather, he wore a khaki shirt, pale blue shorts that shaded his knees, and brown boots that ended mid-shin.
He did, however, have one unique feature. He spoke with a posh accent. Vernon MacArthur knew for a fact that he’d been a soldier in the Korean War. There he hadn’t just stopped communism; he’d halted the Chinese kind. This was even worse than the type of communism you got in Russia. The Chinese did terrible things with sharpened bamboo while the Russians just packed you in snow and left you to die. For all these heroics, Mr Swindon had apparently caught a little shrapnel in the head. “It’s still there,” Vernon MacArthur promised. “The brain is a complex thing,” he explained. “You can’t just go in there with a pair of pliers. You hear how he speaks,” he concluded. “Could’ve been a millionaire, owned a bank.”
What added still more to Mr Swindon’s mystique was that he rarely spoke. And on the occasion he said something, he’d use long words wrapped in an accent normally reserved for English royalty. Three people heard what he said to Miss Ravensbrook, who took tennis on Tuesday afternoons. She’d arrived, and for some reason, the nets weren’t up yet. When he ambled from the storeroom, carrying them on his shoulders, she began to express her displeasure. In the middle of her sentence, Mr Swindon had put his hand up and cautioned her against apoplexy. The word had stunned Miss Ravensbrook into silence. For a full term thereafter it had become a playground favourite. It was used with particular effect by bowlers during the more competitive cricket games when opposing batsmen were in violent disagreement about their LBW decisions. Even Jimmy the Greek began to use it, although he turned the PS into BS and found the word more useful as a threat. “Fetch my ball or I aboblexy you.”
Besides Mr Swindon’s occasional effect on the school’s vocabulary, it was clear he enjoyed being invisible. His camouflage was made complete by the six black staff members he worked with. He was part of a group of shadows with no status that existed solely to carry, cut, paint and repair. The fact that he often spoke in Zulu or Xhosa wasn’t seen to highlight his linguistic skill, but merely confirmed his choice to be unimportant and inconspicuous. That a man of this nature was now being mentioned in complimentary terms from behind the lectern was big news. All the pupils had assumed his muddy boots and sweat-stained armpits would ensure he was never referenced.
There was not much other riveting news at assembly so Mr Kock’s legalese began to trail off. What did surprise the school was that Miss Tulip, who taught grade two, would not be returning. She had decided, for personal reasons, to move to Rustenburg. She would be replaced by Mrs Kramp, which was close enough to crap to make the hall titter. The headmaster once more spread his cloak wide to absorb the sound. A Tulip versus a Kramp is no contest, anyway. The fact that Miss Tulip had been young, blonde and beautiful made it even more of an unfair fight. Although Philip Denton claimed he’d had a long look up Miss Tulip’s skirt at sports day and seen nothing special. Philip had been held back a year and, as the oldest in the class, was therefore qualified as an expert in these
matters.
The news of Miss Tulip’s departure was followed by the telling of “the dramatic story of Wolraad Woltemade”. The story might have been dramatic but the telling of it was not. Mr Kock rattled it off as if reading out a new timetable. Maybe he’d told the tale too often.
“Wolraad was a Cape Dutch dairy farmer. He died rescuing imperilled soldiers on the ship De Jonge Thomas. The ship was in Table Bay. The year was 1775. It was midwinter. Many were lost to the storm; however, a number of survivors clung to the hull. Wolraad Woltemade drove his horse ‘Vonk’, which in English means ‘Spark’, into the waves and asked two sailors at a time to jump into the sea and join him. He then ferried them to shore. He did this seven times, bringing back fourteen men.”
Headmaster Kock paused briefly to straighten and stretch, as if the weight of those men had somehow also affected his back.
“Exhausted, he tried this one more time. The waves were big. The wind howled. The ship began to list – which means topple over. The men on the ship panicked. They thought this was the last chance for them to be saved. The desperation amongst those remaining was tremendous. Six men plunged into the sea, grabbing at the horse. The weight was too much for the tired steed.”
The highly strung Hettie Hattingh bit down on what little remained of her thumbnail while Carlos de Sousa began picking his nose. His foraging expedition was brought to an abrupt halt when the supremely beautiful Margaret Wallace, who was sitting next to him, looked his way. Encouraged, he angled his knee an inch closer to hers and waited in vain for her to do the same.
