The Innocence of Roast Chicken Page 18

  And the rest of that sun-flecked morning. I can remember scrambling over rocks and ledges after Kobus’s father, so large and sure-footed in his takkies and fishing tackle. I can remember how I needed to grab every vivid sensation – the stiff-fingered starfish picked off their rocks, the coral-red of the anemones which nibbled at tentative fingers lagging in rock pools.

  I remember reaching the long flat ledge of his fishing spot and the brown mushy smell of his bait. The whirring zwee-ee of his line, cast far into the heaving sea and his straddled stance as he held it firm. Calling the two boys – Kobus and Michael – he held each in turn in the hollow of his arms and bent chest to hold the rod. He held it firm for them while it whipped and tugged at their small hands, fighting the churning swell.

  The three boys acted tough with each other, each daring the others to leap over chasms, climb the cliff face or crawl into cramped crawl spaces and caves. Standing on the ledge, they wrestled awkwardly with each other. Kobus and Jonas chattered and moved together in a rough companionship of tangled Afrikaans and Xhosa. Michael, caught outside this tough farm brotherhood, tried to break in by posturing and challenging. The other boys crowed and responded in good-natured shoving acceptance. I was a girl and automatically excluded, brought into their games only as a foil to their toughness, as arm-twisted prisoner or rescued princess.

  But I treasured the shared exhilaration over the small octopus which brought us all together in the shallows of the jutting rock shelf. I remember the swelling joy of the boys’ acceptance and approval as I spotted it. And how we lay together at the lapping water’s edge, shouting and shrieking as we tried to reach it with the net and haul it up the rocks. Jonas, so tough and unflinching before, leapt away from the shifting creature with cackles of laughter. Oh, how inexpressibly brave I felt as I allowed its soft, sticky clutch on my wincing hand before releasing it to swirl away through the water.

  ‘Kom bietjie hier julle,’ said Kobus’s father, bending his rugged mouth into a half-smile as he reeled in his empty hook for the umpteenth time. ‘There’s a lekker bed of oysters just round this rock here. I know from last time.’

  There we squatted on the ledge with the sea spraying at our backs, stiff now with salt and sun. Kobus’s father held a screwdriver in his huge fingers, deftly flicking the top shells off the oysters. The first he savoured himself, the second he motioned me to scrape from its bed with my fingers. Washed off in the rock pool, that oyster tasted of the sea, of the fresh breeze and the swooping gulls.

  Replete with oysters, we trudged and scrambled back along the rocky edge of the sea to the shack. Thick smoke rose from the grass in front of the stoep, where an African tended a fire in a half-barrel braai.

  ‘Ja dankie ou Fred. Het jy pap gemaak?’

  ‘Ja, Baas. Dis klaar, Baas. Da-aar in die kombuis.’

  The farmer fetched a beer, which he slurped from the bottle as he took over tending the fire. Jonas disappeared, slinking around the side of the house to the small kaia, where he would eat with the chattering maids.

  Kobus’s father started another beer, throwing his first bottle on the lawn before drawing coils of boerewors from his cooler bag. We sprawled on the grass beside the braai, our stomachs working as the waft of meat sizzled through our nostrils.

  We sat lazily into the afternoon gorging ourselves on sausage and pap. Several more beer bottles joined the first as we wiped our dripping fingers on the grass and lay with our arms behind our heads, watching the clouds.

  ‘Oh look, loo-ook at them!’ Michael shrieked, his practised grown-up growl breaking into a squeal. And there they were: dolphins, dozens of leaping, carousing creatures of the wild sea, and of this magic place. Caught in the splash of sunlight, they gleamed in flying formation and danced for us in dazzling display.

  We sat on, as a soft mist wisped past the cliffs to envelop the afternoon, wrapping us in a delicious dampness that you could lick off your upper lip. Pulling on our shirts, we called Jonas and leapt for the beach. The wafting mistiness filled me with the dank energy of all moist afternoons. I wanted to cartwheel. I wanted to fly with the keening seagulls.

  ‘I c’n cartwheel further than you boys can,’ I yelled, and Michael spurted into a run to join me as I flew into leaping dives across the damp sand.

  ‘Ag nee,’ I heard Kobus complain behind me. ‘Ek wil dit nie doen nie. It’s for girls. My pa sê gimnastiek is sissy. Dis soos ballet.’

  Michael stopped, his eyes following me for a moment. ‘Ag, no, I don’t think I really want to. I can beat you any time I like anyway. That’s really pikkie stuff.’

  He turned to join Kobus as Jonas leapt from the last step and raced raggedly across the sand waving a ‘catty’ in the air. I stopped and watched the three head off behind a rock, throwing themselves flat and leopard-crawling around it. Taking turns with the ‘catty’, they ducked and raised themselves, pinging pebbles off a rock with crack crack whee-oo sound effects.

  I wandered away to play an intense solitary game, leaping from rock to lumbering rock, the queen of the creatures and the magic waters at my feet. In the cooling damp I watched the rushing suck of the tide-change, and shivered at the menacing flotillas of bluebottles languidly floating to shore.

  I laid myself full length on a flattened rock, like a fish on a plate, to yearn and daydream. The mist was beginning to obscure the village, which from my rock looked like a pugnacious lower jaw, thrust forward to show its row of discoloured teeth.

  And then, as suddenly, the sun thrust through and the mist snaked away, leaving the late afternoon sunlight to glimmer over the very tip of the green hills. I sat cross-legged on my rock as the day lowered itself around me. To one side of me the village and sea were a lifeless grey. In the other direction, the sun’s last flaming sparks lit sudden flares on the tips of luminous, white-crested waves. Serene and unhurried, the sun began to slip away behind the misty, blackened rocks. There was nothing dramatic about the sky. For a moment or two it was delicately pinked and pastelled, the sea still alive with a thousand splashes of light, and then it was dark in the shadow of the leaning cliffs.

  The murkiness clenched a sudden band of anxiety around my stomach. ‘Michael, Michael, where are you? Michael, we have to go home. We’re going to get into terrible trouble. Look how dark it is.’

  ‘It’s OK, stupid. We’re with Mr Van Rensburg. We can’t help it if they leave here late.’ The boys were all laughing at me, but I didn’t care. I wanted the day to end right. Nothing else should happen. No more anger, please God, no more anger! I was climbing over the rocks to the sand where I could now make out their three dim faces.

  ‘Anyway, sissy, it’s not so very late – these cliffs make it dark early here. We’ll leave just now, hey, Kobus?’

  ‘Ja, just now. But my pa, he … hy drink nog. Don’t say anything. He’ll go when he’s ready.’

  ‘Michael, you know it won’t matter that it isn’t our fault. We’ll still get into trouble. You know how angry they get. They’ll say we should’ve told him we have to be in before dark.’

  ‘Well we can’t say anything. Kobus says he gets really cross if they rush him when he’s still drinking. Anyway, Kati, it’s OK. Don’t be such a sissy I’ll tell them it wasn’t your fault. I’ll say we did tell him, but he left when he wanted anyway.’

  Subdued now, we climbed to the top of the steps where we crouched with Kobus, listening for the clink of the last bottle to join the pile on the lawn. I could just make out Jonas, squatting silently alongside the back tyre of the bakkie.

  ‘Nou ja, ek voel nou lus vir my kos. Kom julle, is julle gereed om te waai?’

  ‘Ja, Pa. Ons is almal hier, Pa. Ons wag net vir Pa.’

  ‘Goed,’ he said, affectionately cuffing Kobus on the side of the head as he passed him. ‘Dis mos ’n kind se plig om vir sy beters te wag.’

  The bakkie careered and sputtered and slid up the gravel hill
road, while the four of us crouched in the back. No one yelled this time, and not even the two farmboys stood up to lean against the cab. At the top of the hill we looked down to see a pool of darkness drowning the village. But ahead, out of the valley, a second sunset lit our journey

  ‘Isn’t this a different way, Kobus?’ I broke the silence in the back. ‘I don’t remember this road.’

  ‘Ja, my pa always likes to take this way when we go home. It’s where his maats go sometimes in the night.’

  We hit the outskirts of the small village at speed, roaring past the silent old houses and the new squat buildings in the main street. Some of the old houses still had their dignity intact in their wooden sash windows and broekie-lace verandas, while others were wrested from distinction by curlicued burglar bars and brand-new steel windows. We slid to a halt outside a small square hotel, where the farmer slammed from the cab.

  ‘Wag hier ’n bietjie,’ he growled. None of us said a word.

  He stumbled slightly on the bottom step leading into the men’s bar. ‘Fok die donderse …’ just reached us before he ducked to miss the doorway and disappeared inside. We waited without speaking as the darkness became profound and lapped closely around us in the bakkie. It seemed a long time to us then, but maybe it wasn’t. How can a child without a watch tell how slowly time passes in the anxious darkness?

  The darkness was filled at last by the strident yells and riotous laughter of large, blundering men. In their loud bulk and sweating faces, they were utterly scary to me.

  And so alien to everything I knew to be right about life and the way things should be. Kobus put his head down silently, while Jonas shrank into the corner, almost disappearing into his own still darkness.

  ‘Nou ja, Ouens, ons het ’n paar fancy-pantsy English saam. Hierdie klein buggers dink hulle is baie refined, weet julle. Hulle het daar op my dak gestaan en “Afrikaner vrot banana” geshout. So, wat dink julle? They must be very tough, nê?’

  They moved around the bakkie, their breathy laughter and heaving stomachs crowding in on us. Michael put his arm around my shoulders, but his eyes were huge.

  ‘You’re scaring my sister,’ he said tremulously, his voice squeaking over the rough growls around us. ‘Leave us alone. We should be at home, anyway. I’ll tell my dad if you don’t take us home.’

  The men roared with laughter, bumping and shuffling among themselves.

  ‘O fok, hier’s tough klein bugger,’ one of them yelled. ‘You’re a fighter, hey? How ’bout standing up to an Afrikaner – let’s see who’s tougher.’

  ‘Kobus,’ his father roared. ‘Opstaan, laat sien hoe lyk jy teen die klein Engelsman.’

  Kobus remained seated, his eyes on his sandy feet.

  ‘Leave us alone,’ yelled Michael. The men laughed more raucously as his father leant in and yanked Kobus upright by the arm.

  ‘Staan, kind. Stand and fight. Are you a girl or what? Is jy bang? If you’re scared then you’re not my son.’

  Kobus, his eyes watering and his mouth set firmly, swung an ineffectual fist at Michael, who was now also standing. Michael made no move to defend himself. He pushed the flat of his palms out in front of his chest and shook his head.

  ‘No, no, Kobus, this is stupid. Tell him we can’t do this. I can’t fight you for nothing. And we haven’t got gloves or anything. We can’t box like this.’

  Kobus’s fist slid past Michael’s chin. All the men were yelling and I crouched, terrified, alongside the silent Jonas. Kobus was snivelling now, smearing tears and snot from his face with his fists, which then dropped to his sides. The men lost interest suddenly.

  ‘Ag fok, ek het mos’n old woman for a son,’ Kobus’s father said as they straggled away, mumbling about their suppers. He made a lunging movement at Kobus. ‘As ek sê jy moet veg, dan veg jy!’

  But, as the slammed doors of trucks and station wagons swallowed the other men, he lost his impetus and, muttering to himself, stumbled into the cab of the bakkie. The gravel spattered wildly through the darkened veld, sliding us around bends and bouncing us into the air as we flew over humps in the road. As the bakkie skidded to a revving halt outside their farmhouse, Michael and I leapt over the back and began running.

  ‘Bai’dank Meneer Van Rensburg,’ we both gasped as we ran for the fence. At a sprint, we headed for the gentle yellow lights we could see glowing from our farm. We could smell the soup and mealies as we reached the stoep. Ouma opened the door as our feet touched the step. She stood, serene and backlit, watching our heaving bodies for a moment before she smiled.

  ‘Well, you’re a little late, but you were with the Van Rensburgs so I suppose you were safe. I expect you couldn’t tell the family when to leave. Kom nou binne, kinders. Your supper is waiting for you.’

  1966 … Five days to Christmas

  ‘Dora, Dora, there’s someone out here wanting you.’

  The woman squatted in the kitchen courtyard, silently drawing a small tin of snuff from her bosom and placing a lump of the grey powder, with delicate thumb and forefinger, behind her yellowed teeth.

  Dora heaved her body upright from the blue kitchen chair as I raced inside, the skree-bang of the screen door echoing my entrance. With instant garrulous chatter, Dora called to the woman from behind the mesh of the screen door, inviting her to enter. The woman unhurriedly rose, brushing at her long skirt and gathering her blanket around her waist. She brought with her the smell of the outdoors and of wood fires as she sat at the kitchen table, her calm hands lying serene in her lap.

  Dora clicked on in her fast Xhosa, shelling peas and rising occasionally to check the pots on the stove. I sat quietly alongside them, resting my chin and temple on my two hands. I was savouring the familiar rattle of their speech, enjoying the smell of the huts – that little touch of the wild outside in the ordinariness of the kitchen.

  The radio blared African music. I know my mother couldn’t bear its repetitive beat. To me it was alien, yet so familiar – a part of every kitchen and maid’s room of my childhood.

  I couldn’t begin to follow the rat-a-tat of their frenzied conversation, so I sighed in the fly-buzzing heat, swinging backward in my chair and kicking the table legs.

  ‘Can I see your True Africa please, Dora?’ I asked, swinging the chair back on to four legs and cutting into Dora’s speech. She pushed the comic across the table to me, without looking at me or pausing in her breathless talk. Michael and I, forbidden to read comics – except for the British Bunter variety – found True Africa, the African photo comic for adults, utterly fascinating and exotic. My mother was repelled by its alien stories of love and violence in a world entirely composed of black people. For us, it embodied forbidden Thursday afternoons couched over comics in paraffin-scented maids’ rooms, while drinks were passed around and boyfriends visited.

  I settled now at the table to read Chunky Charlie, hearing in the background the skree-bang as another maid entered to place an unplucked chicken on the table. I looked around when I heard a scuffle and saw the dogs, reaching well up her thighs, push past her through the door, buckling her knees as they panted and pawed their way to the cool of the kitchen floor.

  ‘Hau, Do-ra,’ said the woman, her voice rising on Dora’s name. ‘Hai hai, Bambinja.’

  She half rose from her chair, shuffling clumsily to keep herself between the kitchen chair and table, shaking her hands ineffectually before her face. Dora, a placating hand motioning her down again, heaved her chest into a cackle of laughter.

  ‘She very scared of the dogs,’ she said, looking at me. ‘She say there’s no big dogs like this on her farm.’ I laughed with Dora.

  ‘You mustn’t worry,’ I said to the woman. ‘They’re fine. They never bite anyone. They’re friendly dogs.’

  ‘Never mind, Missie,’ Dora said. ‘She no understand English. She just a raw girl from the Transkei. You want some samp and beans?’
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  ‘Oh ja, Dora. You know I love your samp and beans.’

  Dora dished the steaming sticky food for the three of us. For me, she used a porridge bowl from the pantry. For herself and her friend she reached under the sink for two enamel dishes.

  ‘Go ask now if your brothers they want some.’

  ‘OK.’ I was unwilling to drag myself from the comfortable kitchen, from Chunky Charlie and the bright yellow spot of melting butter slipping down a small, glutinous heap of samp.

  ‘M-i-i-chael.’ The lounge was empty and silent, the Christmas balls glinting from the tree in the mote-freckled sunlight from the window. Oupa sat in his library, a stream of smoke trailing past his squinted eyes. Intent on a ledger before him on the table, he didn’t look up.

  ‘Oupa, have you seen Michael and Neil?’

  ‘Michael I haven’t seen all morning. Neil I think is on the stoep. And your mom and dad, I think they’re outside somewhere. I know your ouma is out supervising something to do with the new pigs. Why, don’t you want me? Looks like I’m the only one available. What do you want them for?’

  ‘Samp ’n beans.’

  ‘Ugh, no, I’m certainly not available for that. Well, go and ask Neil then. I think he’s still there.’ He was smiling his soft smile, the look suffused with love and the gentleness of his character.

  Neil lay full length on a towel just beyond the stoep. He had stretched out his Brylcreemed body in the full glare of the sun. As I stepped from the stoep, I could smell the heated hair oil which all the big kids cadged from their dads to speed a kif tan. Neil’s head was buried in his pillowed arms. I wasn’t sure, for a moment, what I should do. If he was sleeping he’d be furious at being woken. But he might be more furious at missing samp and beans, which wasn’t made every day, after all.

  My eye was caught by my strolling mom and dad, wandering through the flowers at the far end of the lawn near the wild fig. I could see he was leading her gently along the paths, his hands on her shoulders. And she, like the defensive buds around her, was unfurling her delicate petals for him, as she did at home. She was laughing and leaning on him, resting her head briefly on his shoulder. Sometimes he reminded me of that reaching wild fig, stretching its thick branches there above their heads. Rooted and raised so firmly in the dry soil of the region, he was all-enveloping in his protective warmth. He loved us to be flowers, his girls, and he sheltered us from the harsh facts and glaring details of our lives. I watched them as he took her hand, brushed it gently and walked off with it clutched firmly inside his own.