Saturday 30th March

11:00 The entire choir, assembled in our naffy robes and cassocks, marched down the aisle of the St Martin’s in the Veld Anglican Church singing:

And did those feet in ancient time

Walk upon England’s mountains green...

I sang with all my heart. The choir sounded beautiful. Poor Julian was dripping with sweat and looked like a lamb being led to the slaughter. Wombat and Mom were sitting in the front row and waved at me as I walked past. I kept singing and didn’t look up from my hymn book. We performed ten songs and two solos. (My solo’s tomorrow at the Johannesburg Cathedral.) After the final number (a fiery rendition of the school hymn), two old ladies in the second row started to applaud. Wombat looked horrified that somebody should clap in a church. She turned around to face the illegal clappers and let rip with a loud Ssssssssssh! The two old ladies stopped clapping immediately and sat down looking embarrassed. Wombat shook her head and looked appalled.

Our evening concert was at a special home for disabled children. Julian told us to sing like nightingales and not to laugh at them.

I felt so sorry for the disabled children, most of whom were in wheelchairs. They loved our singing and afterwards we gave them chocolates and posed for photographs. I couldn’t help noticing that the mentally handicapped kids share a similar demented expression to that of my cubicle mate.

Thankfully, Mom and Wombat didn’t come along to the concert because Wombat says she finds retarded people very disturbing.

Sunday 31st March

EASTER SUNDAY

Johannesburg Cathedral is huge and magnificent. I was really nervous during the warm-up and I could hear my voice shaking on my solo. Mom and Wombat arrived an hour early and watched the entire warm-up from their spots in the front row. Wombat applauded loudly after my trial run.

08:45 We were ordered to the vestry to get into our party clothes. People were piling into the cathedral and outside the traffic had come to a standstill because of all the cars waiting to park. The old bongo drum in my chest was banging away and I could taste that dry salty taste in my mouth that I always get before singing or acting.

Suddenly a powerful arm yanked me out the door of the vestry into a little rose garden outside. I was face to face with a wild looking Julian. ‘Listen to me, Spud,’ he said, looking intensely into my eyes. ‘Today is probably the last time I will perform publicly in this choir. This cathedral is as good as it gets.’ He breathed deeply and looked to be fighting off tears. ‘Spud, I want you to know that yours is the finest schoolboy soprano voice I have ever heard. In a month it will be gone – forever. This is your last chance.’ He looked at me sadly and placed his hands on my shoulders. ‘You’ve done this before. It’s just a bigger cathedral. But have you heard those acoustics?’ Julian gripped my shoulders tightly and said, ‘I want you to sing like you have never sung before. This is your last five minutes of glory, so go out there and be glorious!’

I marched down the aisle feeling like I was ready to chew metal. Thank God my solo was the last song of the service so I had time to calm myself and make sure my voice was well warmed up. The cathedral was packed and the choir sounded brilliant. Julian was right. The acoustics were the best I’ve ever heard. The dean of the cathedral gave a long sermon about the Ten Commandments and then made us pray in silence for ages. I don’t feel that confident about praying anymore because I’m not sure God has much time for me and my little life. Anyway, because I was feeling terrified and had nothing to lose, I asked God to keep me calm and make my last solo as a spud absolutely perfect. The prayers ended and then Julian sang I’ll Walk With God while the congregation received communion. He sang with such passion that his voice was cracking with emotion on the high notes.

The end of the service approached. The dean of the cathedral blessed the congregation and said, ‘Our final hymn is Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring and will be sung solo by John Milton.’ I stepped forward as the organ began quietly. I took a deep breath, opened my mouth and my high-pitched girl’s voice poured out. There was no shaking this time. It sounded better than ever. Halfway through the solo the choir started processing out around me. Julian had planned the final procession out to the exact moment. His plan was to leave me alone at the altar as the choir disappeared out through the back of the cathedral. It worked brilliantly because the atmosphere as I sang the final lines alone at the altar was magnificent. And then it was finished. There was dead silence in the cathedral. Hundreds of pairs of eyes stared at me. I closed my hymn book and walked slowly down the aisle. The congregation remained standing in utter silence. It felt weird and wonderful at the same time. I walked into the vestry and there was a loud cheer from the choir and a huge hug from a tearful Julian.

Monday 1st April

THE HIP HIGHVELD CHOIR COMPETITION (HHCC)

Julian was outraged when we only came second out of a total of twenty school choirs and called it a hometown decision. (Clearly our head of choir didn’t study geography because the winning school was from Upington.) The choir sang the school song on the pavement next to the bus and then the great choir tour of 1991 was over and the boys scattered in different directions to begin their Easter holidays.

Wombat slept the entire way home. Mom wouldn’t say if she had drugged her mother or not, but Wombat passed out exactly ten minutes after finishing a bottle of soda water. It was a relief to be able to sit in silence and watch the flat, golden scenery as it shot by.

Tuesday 2nd April

Returned home to find a list of kitchen regulations stuck on the fridge with Prestik, which Mom had obviously left for Dad while she was on the choir tour.

MOM’S KITCHEN REGULATIONS

Switch off stove after making toasted cheese.

The tins in the cupboard above the kettle are Blacky’s food. (NOT TUNA!)

The food in the fridge is your food. (NOT BLACKY’S!)

Cooked meals in Tupperware inside fridge. (One per day.)

Make sure water in kettle before boiling.

No more than three cups of coffee a day.

Blacky’s dish must be kept outside. (Flies)

Blacky must be kept outside. (Fleas)

If my mother calls please don’t try and confuse her with funny voices.

Frank not allowed on the property. (Even in an emergency)

By the looks of things Dad hadn’t obeyed many of the kitchen regulations. Mom found dog hair on her side of the bed and Frank’s jacket hanging over a rose bush in the garden. Mom said we all needed a nourishing meal and cooked up some chicken breasts and vegetables which came out the oven looking grey and tasting revolting.

Dad stuck the cooking course envelope on the fridge before setting off with Blacky to find a pizza takeaway.

Saturday 6th April

It’s been great to relax and do nothing for almost a whole week. I still wake up every day at 06:15. It takes my brain at least ten minutes before it registers that a rising siren hasn’t gone off and that I’m not sleeping next to a lunatic. I then drift back into a deep sleep and usually dream about the Mermaid until ten o’clock. Then it’s breakfast, shower and play with Blacky. After lunch I read a play, although I usually start having fantasies about playing the leading role and end up acting out monologues to Blacky who whimpers and looks guilty. Mom brings sweet milky tea in the afternoon and we chat about school and my dreams about being a famous actor and writer. She loves the school stuff but doesn’t seem too happy about my chosen career. Every day she finishes her tea, takes my cup and tells me that I’ll make a great lawyer before heading to the kitchen to try and cook supper. It’s about this time that a dark and heavy cloud enters my head and marinades my brain with uncontrollable thoughts.

I have to concentrate on my breathing to stop myself gasping or sobbing. It’s a completely weird feeling, much worse than homesickness.

And then I find myself on my bike, thundering down the road.

Durban North is beautiful in the afternoon light. The trees are evergreen and shine golden green yellow. Kids play on the streets. Some of them wave as I go by while others just scowl or ignore me altogether. It’s almost as if my bike knows the way to Mermaid’s house. I get the feeling it might go there every afternoon whether I ride it or not. The bike stops next to the coral tree in the park around the corner from her house. There is so much bush and tree cover on the verges that it’s easy to stay hidden, although I dread Marge spotting me one day and telling my mom. Most days I don’t see Mermaid. Some days I see the Volkswagen Golf parked in the front yard. It doesn’t really matter either way. Even on the odd occasion that she does slip out into the garden I have to duck away like a criminal. She can never know that I’m there. Seeing her still gives me a sharp pang in the ribs although I’m not sure if that’s love or adrenaline. Around 17:30 Marge switches on the lights inside the house. That’s my cue to leave. I return to the park, unchain my bike and cycle as fast as I can back home. When I arrive home I always make out that I’m totally exhausted. Dad thumps me on the back and goes on about me winning the Tour de France cycle race one day. Mom runs me a bath and fusses about me catching a chill. Then it’s supper, an old Matlock rerun on TV, the news, weather, and then one by one the Miltons begin yawning and drifting off to bed. I try and read at night but my mind swirls with a million thoughts and I find myself staring at the ceiling. I dunno why but most nights I fall asleep with the light on.

Sunday 7th April

Because we missed Easter Sunday, Mom insisted on us going to church today. There was a guest preacher at the service. He had silver hair and a bright red face and his name is Archdeacon Simons. Our local priest seemed hugely excited that the archdeacon had chosen our church to deliver his sermon.

The archdeacon bowed rather nobly at the altar and stepped up to the lectern. He then stared at us for a few seconds and said: ‘Easter time is about reflection. It’s a time when we Christians have to take a good look at ourselves and ask, are we living the sort of life that Jesus wants us to live?’

Dad shuffled uneasily next to me. The archdeacon paused again and said: ‘I don’t think we are. Because inside each and every one of us there is a cancer that eats away at every little fibre of our spiritual souls. We can turn our heads away in denial, but every single one of us is guilty. Every single one of us is afflicted with the cancer of racism!’

Dad’s body jerked like a puppet on a string. A bizarre whine squeaked out of his throat. His hands fumbled awkwardly in his pockets and I could see his eyes darting from side to side like a crazy man. Mom scowled at him. Dad looked angrily back at Mom and then both of them looked at the archdeacon again. There was uncomfortable wriggling all around us and quite a few nervous coughs and urgent whispers.

The archdeacon continued. ‘But in every moment of darkness God gives us a trail of light to follow. He offers us the path of redemption that his son Jesus Christ left us whilst nailed to the cross. In every age there are leaders of light that follow in God’s path. In this benighted land we are led by a powerful and courageous torch. That man is our very own Archbishop Desmond Tutu.’

I gritted my teeth and waited for an explosion. Dad thinks Tutu’s the Devil because he told the world to give us sanctions and made sure we didn’t play international sport. To quote my father, ‘He put Pollock out of business!’ Dad also says Tutu looks exactly how Satan looks in his brain so therefore the Anglican archbishop is most certainly Satan and possibly worse.

Dad stormed out of the church and slammed the door with a bang. Mom went white and refused to look up from her prayer book. I pretended the man who had just left wasn’t my father, so I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head in disgust.

After communion Mom pushed me out of the back door of the church and we found Dad sitting in the car talking to himself. Mom didn’t say a word. I couldn’t tell if she was angry with Dad or with the archdeacon but either way she was as mad as a snake. In fact from my position in the middle of the back seat it looked like her lips had disappeared completely. We reached the big turning circle at the bottom of the road. Still not a word had been spoken. We sped around the circle and completely missed our turn-off. Dad sped around the circle again, and again… and again. I was starting to feel terribly carsick.

I wonder if my father’s madness is inheritable – Fatty reckons it can skip a generation. In that case I may have a psychotic son one day!

After countless laps of the turning circle with Dad making his crazy whining sound and Mom with her head buried in her hands, Dad suddenly hit the anchors and headed the station wagon back in the direction of the church.

Back at the church, Dad jumped out of the car, slammed the door and disappeared into God’s house. Mom let out a long sigh and then ran after him. I briefly considered taking the car and never coming back – Holden Caulfield with wheels… Unfortunately, I can’t drive so I sprinted after my parents into the church as well.

The action was all going down in the vestry.

There was the archdeacon still dressed in his black shirt and dog collar, but with his pants off. Dad had his fists raised and was hurling abuse at the poor preacher. Mom was shouting at Dad and trying to hand the archdeacon his black pants. The archdeacon looked perfectly calm and stood facing Dad in his starched white underpants with his palms outstretched. Dad accused the archdeacon of ruining his holidays and said if he ever mentioned Tutu’s name in the pulpit again, he’d thrash him within an inch of his life. The archdeacon told Dad he wasn’t scared of dying and that at the end of the day we all have to answer before God.

Dad didn’t know quite what to make of the archdeacon’s reply but he still kept his fists raised and let out a scary whimper. The archdeacon said, ‘Perhaps one day when we lay down our fists and stop fearing, we’ll discover that the people we call terrorists just want to live each day like we do, raise their children and live in peace.’

Dad now looked terribly confused and his eyes darted around like a wild animal’s (possibly with rabies). He dropped his fists but still looked crazy. The archdeacon took a step towards my father and said, ‘We don’t deserve to live in fear, and neither does your boy.’

At that moment fear walked through the door.

Standing before us was Mrs Shingle. The largest woman in the world. (Wider than Fatty.) Mrs Shingle was my standard four Sunday school teacher and she still terrifies me to this day. Barry van Rensburg, who used to be in my standard four Sunday school class, reckons she put on over 75 kilograms in the year after her husband died. A coincidence? I think not.

Mrs Shingle didn’t ask questions. She grabbed Dad by the shirt and hurled him out the side door and into the graveyard. She told him he wasn’t welcome at the church anymore and accused him of having airs and graces because he had sent his son to a snobby school. Dad tried to say something but Mrs Shingle wouldn’t let him even so much as utter a word. Dad then called Mrs Shingle a dyke and sprinted towards the station wagon like his life depended on it.

Mom got in the car and told Dad that she wanted to talk in a civilized manner without fighting.

They fought all the way to Wombat’s flat.

YACHT CLUB LUNCH (with Wombat)

Highlights

My steak and garlic butter was delicious.

Dad drank Coke throughout the entire meal. (Although his last three were laced with double brandies.)

Mom was in a far better mood and seemed to have forgiven Dad for his earlier madness.

The weather was perfect and there was a yacht race in the harbour, which gave me something to watch while Wombat crapped on about the standard of television in the country.

Lowlights

Wombat choked on a fish bone and then coughed it back onto her plate.

Mom drank more than usual and knocked over the salad dressing.

Wombat kept asking whose birthday we were celebrating.

Dad and Wombat accused the Indian waiter of cheating us on the bill. The bill turned out to be correct. Dad apologized, Wombat didn’t.

Friday 12th April

Dad hasn’t been himself since his fight with the archdeacon. He’s only tried to thrash Blacky once this week and that was because he (Blacky) dug up the same rose bush twice in one day.

I saw Mermaid with her boyfriend in the garden. Marge wasn’t there and they both lit up cigarettes. It felt weird to watch the Mermaid smoking. It didn’t look right – a bit like a power line running through a perfect field of beautiful trees.

The Miltons are going on a caravanning weekend tomorrow to Park Rynie on the Natal South Coast. Dad is borrowing the caravan from Frank who has in turn borrowed it from Les Wright. Frank reckons he’s had it for so long that Les Wright seems to have forgotten that he ever had a caravan in the first place. Mom’s not happy about the caravan and called Frank a criminal.

Dad said it doesn’t count as theft if you steal from your friends.

My father has been preparing his fishing tackle since Tuesday and we spent the whole night preparing fishing traces, telling stories and giving each other pulls on the fishing rod. Dad is extra excited because Wombat isn’t coming. She refused to come along because she says caravanning is beneath her.

More good news is that I will be celebrating my fifteenth birthday at home this year which means no bog washing, fountain dunking or ball polishing this time round.

I now have twelve ball hairs, although still waiting for the big ball drop.

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 607