Ouma’s gardenia bushes spread a heady smell. She’s sitting on the stoep of her house in Parow. The daybed has a soft cotton spread with a crocheted edge and a frill that falls to the floor. Pink flowers grow in paraffin tins. Oupa comes out of the house puffing on his pipe and plonks himself down beside Ouma. Desiree starts reciting:
Oupa en Ouma sit op die stoep,
Oupa gee ’n harde poep,
Ouma sê, wat makeer?
I join in …
Oupa sê my poephol is seer.
Clutching our tummies, we fall about giggling. Mommy pulls at Desiree’s arm crossly.
“Behave yourselves!”
Desiree just ignores her. “I’ll race you!” she shouts to me.
The pink light is fading in the west as we race up the path. Desiree always wins. As we step inside the house the smell changes from gardenia to paraffin from the Beatrice stove. It makes Gabriel feel funny and I hope he won’t get sick at the dinner table. In the passage is the mirrored hallstand with Oupa’s familiar brown felt hat and fishing bags and the big straw sun hats they wear when they work in their vegetable patch. The striped umbrellas stand in the round pans that catch the raindrops. If we open an umbrella in the house, we will get a good smack because that brings bad luck.
“Come and have coffee,” says Ouma.
She puts a heaped tablespoon of coffee grounds into the calico bag, fills the blue enamel coffeepot with water and drops the bag into it. Then she lights the wide wick of the Beatrice stove. Soon the coffee pot starts dancing on the stove.
“Moer coffee on a Beatrice stove is the best coffee in the whole wide world. Come, children,” she says, “sit down and eat.”
My ouma knows children suffer hunger pangs and we love her boer bread with grape jam. We crack the nutty pips between our teeth and we think we’re in heaven. There are no posh serviettes like the ones Grandma has for her boarders, but Ouma puts a jammerlap, made from an old flour bag, on the table for our sticky fingers. When we leave Ouma’s table we have crisscross patterns on our legs from the riempie chairs.
There are no grand statues crowding the lounge and no electric stove, only a coal one in the kitchen. If you touch the stove the black comes off on your hands. There’s a cupboard with wire mesh in the sides to keep the flies out and there’s a smaller one hooked up in a tree in the back yard. When the wind blows, it spins round and round and the flies get dizzy.
The lavatory is at the end of the garden. The wooden plank door doesn’t quite reach the floor and in the middle there’s a diamond-shaped hole for letting the smells out. The lavatory walls are made of tin. They shimmer in the heat and the walls seem to wobble. The newspaper to wipe your bum is cut into neat squares and hooked onto a wire hook next to the balie. Ouma and Oupa are hard-up, so they even save the church newsletter. If you aren’t careful, you might wipe your bum on holy pictures from the Bible. The squares from the Afrikaans newspaper Die Burger have pictures of a baboon called Adoons. I sometimes try to put the pieces together, but there’s only an arm or a head or part of a leg. We can never find the end of the stories. When my daddy goes to the lavatory he stays in there for a long time. Then the queue winds down the path and if anyone asks why, he says he sits there and thinks of days gone by, when he was a boy learning lessons at his mother’s knee. His sister, Aunty Gertruida, says full moon makes him mad in the head and he has regrets, and that’s why he sits there and thinks.
Aunty Gertruida is married to a Greek man named Uncle Costa who likes to dance and sing and keep the whole world happy. He says everyone needs to be a bit mad and she must not worry herself about someone else’s life even if it’s her own brother. We like him.
When we visit, Oupa lets us pull vegetables from his garden and he washes them under the big brass tap in the yard. We sit on the back step with him and he peels the vegetables with his black pocketknife. He explains the pointy bit is for taking stones out of horses’ hooves and for taking knots out of ropes on big ships in the docks. There are sweet potatoes, peas and bitter-tasting purple turnips. Nobody likes the lettuce because no matter how well you wash the leaves bits of soil stay behind and grind between your teeth.
When Ouma calls us for lunch we wash our hands with red Lifebuoy soap at the blue speckled basin in the iron stand by the back door. Ouma has bony fingers and her wedding band has worn thin. It’s because she works hard and does everything herself. She even makes boerseep in the big soap pot on the back stoep.
“I’ve seen a pot like that in the Boys’ Own,” says Gabriel. “It looks like the one they boil the missionaries in.”
Big ball jars of canned fruit and vegetables stand in neat rows on the shelf in the pantry: mixed pickles with cauliflower and carrots, yellow cling peaches and guavas.
“They’ll last a long time, because there’s no air inside,” says Ouma.
Oupa takes my face in his big hands.
“My kind,” he says, “you look just like your ouma.”
I don’t understand how he can say that because I’m only little and she’s old and her skin doesn’t fit her any more. Mommy says it’s because we both have high cheekbones, wild curly hair and identical hazel eyes.
“Jacoba, come sit,” calls Oupa.
I seldom hear my ouma’s name, because Oupa always calls her Skattebol, his treasure. Daddy calls her Ma and so does Mommy.
“Why is Grandma called Jacoba?”
“That’s just her name. Your father is named after her.”
“I think I want to do a number two.”
Mommy comes with me to the lavatory, and waits outside.
“Who am I named after?” I ask when I’m settled on the seat. “And what about Desiree?”
“Now those are both long stories. When Desiree was born, your grandma wanted Desiree to be named after her, but I read the name Desiree in a book and I loved it so much I couldn’t help using it. When you came along I was supposed to name you Katarina, but your father took things out of my hands. He named you Jacoba after your ouma.”
“Then why’s my name Colleen?”
“Well, I didn’t want you named Jacoba either, so as soon as I could I sent away for a change-of-name certificate. Your grandma and your ouma didn’t speak to me for weeks.”
“Why has Aunty Katarina got the same name as Grandma?”
“Because she named Aunty Katarina after herself. Aunty Catherine-Jean is just another version, I suppose … So she already had two children named after her and still she wanted the next generation too!”
Aunty Gertruida has come to use the lavatory but my number two is taking a long time.
“What’s wrong?” I hear Mommy ask her. “You look upset.”
“What’s wrong? My family. That’s what’s wrong. They all act holier than thou … But what about the history? There’s Pa, happy as can be. Do you know, May, he chopped my pet meerkat into little bits in front of me. And all because the poor thing gave him a fright. And what about Jacob? It’s no wonder he’s so bedonnerd, mad and moody. You ever hear the story of how my father chased him with a loaded shotgun? He chased him for miles, taking pot shots at him all the way.”
“I’ve heard the story, but it’s hard to believe.” I imagine my Mommy rolling her eyes.
“Dis waar. It’s true, I was there. Why would I lie? He was such a bright boy, so eager to learn.”
I pull my broeks up and burst out of the lavatory.
“I’ve forgotten about Gabriel’s name.”
“He has your grandfather’s name,” mutters Aunty Gertruida. “They named him after his gun-toting grandfather.”
We are sitting in the lounge with full tummies. The room is hot and the flies are buzzing around us. Oupa sits in his big Paul Kruger armchair and his trusty fly swatter flashes and before they know what’s hit them they’re dead. I take my chance and slip into Oupa and Ouma’s darkened bedroom, where the floral curtains are always drawn. I love the tolletjies table made from used wooden cotton reels and the photographs on the walls of old sour-looking people. Above Ouma’s bed hangs a big flowery text from the Bible. God is liefde, God is love. But most of all I love the skin kaross that Oupa made with his own hands. Sitting on the bed is not allowed so I lay my cheek on the kaross and close my eyes, but I’m careful not to fall asleep. But I also don’t want to get into trouble, so I stay just long enough to feel the softness of Oupa’s kaross and breathe in its smell, a mix of moth balls and Ouma’s talcum powder, and then I tiptoe back to the lounge where the grown-ups are still talking.
Ouma is telling stories of the olden days when she was a little girl on the farm. Her hands are still in the folds of her striped apron, and I can see round brown marks on the back of her hands from hours of toiling in the sun. We ask her to tell us the story of how the snake came to visit Daddy when he was asleep in his pram.
They don’t have a car. When they need to go out, Ouma uses the bus and Oupa has his help-my-trap.
“Why does he call his bicycle that funny name?”
“That’s because the engine helps Oupa to pedal,” laughs Gabriel. “The real name is Soloped.”
Back in the room we’re sharing, Gabriel likes to fill us in on what he calls vital information. “You know Oupa was a soldier? He was in a place in Darkest Africa called Dar-es-Salaam. He did his bit for volk and fatherland, that’s what Daddy says. He helped look after people who were shot.”
There’s a candlestick and matches on the doily-covered table beside our bed.
“Versigtig! Be careful! Don’t burn your fingers,” Ouma warns.
Ouma doesn’t know it, but as soon as her back is turned Gabriel lights the candle. We dare one another to flash our fingers through the flame. In the morning we’ll wake up with singed eyelashes.
At bedtime Ouma gives us medicine called Behoedmiddel vir Kinders. She says it keeps sickness at bay, especially fits. It tastes bitter on my tongue and makes me want to vomit. Mommy doesn’t believe in it, but she tells us to listen to Ouma, because she is a good woman and means well. So after I swallow down the bitterness, I climb into the big bed with Gabriel and Desiree. Ouma tucks the blanket tightly around my body. Her bony fingers stroke me through the blanket. She sings Afrikaans lullabies in the sweetest voice and I wish I could stay forever. The best is that Daddy has behaved himself. Not a drop passed his lips.
There’s Saturday matinee at the Kritz Bioscope in Lansdowne. It will be a miracle if we ever get there. Gabriel says we have to be ace negotiators, just like the world statesmen on African Mirror, to obtain the eight pence for the entrance and sixpence for the train fare.
“It’s the last episode of The Durango Kid.”
“I promise I’ll clean the yard and study extra hard.”
“Alice is going.”
Because Desiree is Daddy’s favourite, his oogappel, we push her. She almost falls into his lap, but rights her balance in front of his chair. “Please can we go?”
“Ask your mother.”
“Please, Mommy, can we go?”
“Ask your father.”
We never know how long it will take. We don’t like being late and getting there all out of breath, our hearts pounding in our chests. Besides which, it’s nice to be in the front of the queue; then you can choose the best seat instead of getting jammed in the middle where other children push and shove and stand on your toes. Desiree tries one last time. “Please, please, can we go to the bioscope?”
There’s silence.
“Okay,” says Daddy finally, digging in his tickey pocket for loose change.
If we walk, we can save our sixpence for sweets, but if we’re late we’ll miss the first part of the story.
“We’ll have to take the train.”
With his long legs, Gabriel sets a cracking pace, and Desiree and I run like hell to keep up with him. Desiree is out of breath but she still manages to sing one of Gene Autrey’s songs. Desiree thinks she can sing like Shirley Temple or Carmen Miranda or anyone.
We’re old hands at crooking the railways.
“Who do you think gets the m-money from the m-m-miniature t-train on Cape Town station? Lots of children put their p-p-pennies in to see the engine driver wave and their grannies too. The Railways m-m-make at least eight pounds a day!”
Daddy says that Gabriel has a head on him. He says he’s going to be a mathematician when he grows up. The train pulls into the station and the conductor jumps onto the platform. We pile into the furthest carriage. He blows a single, sharp, shrill blast on his silver whistle. With a bit of luck he won’t reach us before we get to Lansdowne station. But he’s seen us and he’s walking towards us, trying to keep his balance. I pretend to look out of the window but I can see his shiny black shoes and long legs. I look up to his face. He pushes his hat to the back of his head and puts his hands on his hips. He wants to tick us off, but he has to give us the benefit of the doubt. The Railways have trained him that way. He looks right at me and I blush. I lie about my age. Desiree smiles her dazzling innocent smile. He takes his ticket book out of his pocket and licks the tip of his indelible pencil. The point makes a little round purple dot on the end of his tongue.
“Single or return?”
“Single,” I croak round the frog stuck in my throat.
“That will be a tickey.”
He puts his pencil back behind his ear and tears off the slip. It’s hard to hand over the tickey. There go half my sweets, but today I have back-up because I found my Wrigley’s chewing gum. It was lost under the bed for weeks, pushed under the skirting board and full of dust devils. I can it feel tucked into the cuff of my elasticized broeks.
At Lansdowne we sprint as fast as our legs can carry us but still we have to jostle with the other children in the line for tickets.
“This way!” says Pottie when we eventually snake our way into the darkened bioscope.
Pottie’s real name is Mr Potgieter and he keeps order in the Kritz. We stumble down the aisle, eager to find a seat.
“No fighting, no smoking and no smooching! I’ve got new batteries in my torch. If I catch you little buggers, I’ll chuck you out in the street. Not like last week when you got away with blerrie murder!”
Pottie uses jawbreakers like ‘perpetrator’ and ‘misdemeanor’. We think he’s swallowed a dictionary whole. We don’t call him Pottie to his face, because that’s rude, but we would like to pee on his head. He sweeps his beam across the upstairs balcony and shines it on the face of a small coloured boy.
“Hey, you, I can see you. Spitting on white people’s heads! And chucking peanut shells! You better blerrie stop, or I’ll come up there and donner you!”
Pottie is hard on the coloured children. They are only allowed to sit in the balcony and they don’t mix with us. I’ve never seen a coloured child in the lavatory. I wonder where they pee.
At last the dust and the smoke swirls in the tunnel of light from the square box in the wall. We scream until we’re hoarse and stomp our feet until they’re sore. For an hour or so I can escape into the play-play dangers of my heroes, but sometimes my mind wanders from the film, because I’m wondering what’s going on at home.
“Watch out! Behind you!”
“Ride! Faster, faster!”
“Don’t fall off your horse!”
“He’s got a gun!”
“Get him, punch him!”
The pretty lady named Sally saves the Durango Kid. She smashes a big vase over the crook’s head and gets more cheers than the Durango Kid himself. He stumbles to his feet and gives her a long kiss. The older boys shift in their seats and give long, slow wolf whistles. And then the Durango Kid passes out.
At interval, our cheeks are red and we blink in the harsh lights. Children swarm into the foyer to swap comics. The big boys, like Gabriel’s friend Ben, go to the lavatory to practise inhaling cigarette smoke into their lungs. Leonore sits beside me, wearing a dress fit for a princess; she has clean knees with not a scab in sight. The Kritz has never seen the likes of it. Some children even come barefoot. Leonore gives me a piece of chocolate with bits of delicious coconut. To share my chewing gum will nearly kill me, but I want to brag. I lay my gum on my lap.
“Where did you get that?”
“From an American sailor.”
“You lie!”
“It’s true. Have some, but if you swallow the gum it will stick in your insides and even Doctor West won’t be able to get it out.”
Soon we hear Pottie’s voice above the chatter and laughter.
“Take your seats. No cool drink bottles in the auditorium.”
“What does auditorium mean?”
“Bughouse.”
The main feature is Roy Rogers with his clever horse named Trigger. We all want to own a horse like Trigger and ride down Third Avenue with Stetsons on our heads, chaps on our legs and revolvers by our sides. Then one night it really happens. A horse comes down the street like a ghost in the pale moonlight. We are so happy, sure the horse came straight from Roy Rogers himself.
“Finders, keepers!”
Spencer keeps the horse on his field and we feed it sweet grass from our outstretched open palms. This clever horse, with lots of ribs, can count like Trigger in the bioscope. The horse stamps its hoof once, twice, thrice.
“That’s three!” we shriek with glee. “Come, Gabriel, come and see!”
“Don’t be daft! It’s shooing away flies!”
It turns out that Trigger is only a poor old thin horse from Mossienes. Aunty Dolly lets us keep Trigger for a day or two before she phones the SPCA and they take our Trigger away.
“Don’t worry,” she says, “Trigger will be grazing in greener pastures.”
Back at the Kritz, Roy Rogers rides off into the sunset on his clever horse, and we tumble out of the bioscope with our heads full of pictures.
“My bladder is bursting and I’m wetting my broeks.”
“You’re going to smell again and Grandma will get cross.”
Sometimes I pee in my broeks and then they lie in the drawer for days where they can’t worry anyone. I don’t tell because Mommy has worries of her own. I can’t throw them away because they cost money. When I have pee broeks on, I can’t stand close to the teacher or Aunty Martha when she helps mommy take measurements for our new dresses because I smell. When I go back to Grandma’s house I push my smelly broeks into the corner of my suitcase, but Grandma always finds them.
“Whose broeks are these?” Her grey eyes look right into mine and her jaw hangs open while she waits for the answer. I never know what to say, so I just keep quiet, but she knows those broeks are mine and I’m ashamed. I’m scared of her. What if she never lets me stay with her again? I will never be able to visit the hothouse and the museum.
And now, desperate to pee, we know it’s a long walk home. Desiree holds her hands between her legs, jiggling up and down.
“Let’s pee standing up, like boys.”
We pull the gussets of our broeks aside and we stand with our legs wide and our skinny hips thrust forward like boys. It’s a glorious sight to see the dark yellow pee shooting out from between our legs, landing at our feet and making a puddle in the white Cape Flats sand.
“Boys are lucky,” says Desiree.
By now my gum tastes of nothing, but I’m not ready to throw it away. I’ve kept the paper from Leonore’s chocolate. When I get home, I will smooth the silver paper with my thumbnail and keep it in a book until I see my cousins from Tiervlei. They will pass it on to the man who makes the pictures to hang in your lounge. He sticks the silver paper behind roses painted on glass and the words ask Wat is ’n huis sonder ’n vader? What is a house without a father? It makes me wonder.
Finally, after what feels like the long walk of Moses and his people out of Egypt, we round the last corner. My face falls. Mommy is standing in the yard beside the back door. Her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. Daddy is flinging pots and pans over the stable door. Everything that is dear to my mommy is flying through the air. Plates and dishes are crashing to the ground. The knives and forks ting-ting as they bounce off the steps. Next is the table with only two legs. Then he throws the other two like Red Indian tomahawks in the bioscope. We duck to keep from being hit. Here comes the sewing machine. Please, not the Singer! If the Singer is out of action, we won’t have new dresses for the Sunday School Anniversary. Once a year we look grander than all the other children. Mommy has had the whirr of the sewing machine in her ears since birth. She lets us turn the handle when she winds the cotton onto the bobbin. When we walk into the Gospel Hall heads turn and Mommy sits in the front row, proud of us in our newly stitched finery.
But now Daddy’s standing in the kitchen with a Globe chair held above his head and his eyes are wild. He smashes the chair to the floor, and then his mad eyes light on the kettle. He flings it through the door. Mommy shouts at him, “Jacob, please … please stop!” But he just carries on because the brandy makes him strong, just like Popeye in the cartoons. He drags the gram radio from the lounge, the gram radio Mommy bought as a big surprise, so we could give up the wind-up one. What about our favourite records inside the cabinet and what about the ornaments? There are Dutch windmills, Delft shoes, and sugar ornaments from weddings. There’s a miniature Bible and a Toby jug that looks like Mr Punch. Our best ornament is a blue teapot in the shape of a lady with a long dress and curls on either side of her head. But the gram radio is too heavy for Daddy and he gives up. We’re already standing outside, so he doesn’t shout uit and loop. He grinds his teeth and slams the door. Mommy’s body is shaking and there are tears in her eyes.
I don’t know how long we stand there, but it’s a long time. Gabriel is the first to move.
“Look, the h-h-handle still turns!”
Mommy sighs.
Gabriel carries the sewing machine into the hokkie in case it rains.
Aunty Dolly takes us in. She makes Mommy a cup of sweet tea and force feeds me hot milk and brandy and I stop shaking and my teeth stop chattering. I feel the hot-water bottle at my feet and drift off to sleep knowing we are all safe and snuggled up warm. When the sun comes up we’ll face a new day. What will tomorrow bring? We’re tired of never knowing, of no one ever telling us what is going on with anything.