Spud (17 page)

Dad has started a neighbourhood watch. He and his buddies cruise around the neighbourhood in the station wagon looking for criminals. Dad takes his gun along but hasn’t managed to shoot anyone yet.

18:00   Once Dad had driven off in his camouflaged army uniform with black shoe polish smeared on his face, Mom and I set about readying the house for the ladies. I’m glad they are only coming after nightfall so that the Mermaid won’t notice the pool’s turned into pea soup.

19:15   After a few moments of awkwardness (I attempted to shake the Mermaid’s hand while she tried to give me a hug at the same time and I only succeeded in jabbing her left breast) we headed out to the pool. The Mermaid was different this time, sort of… less mermaidish. She seemed sadder and a little scared of me. She was still as beautiful as she was in my dreams. After some small talk we slowly relaxed and soon we were lolling on the pool steps together, telling stories and cackling like hyenas.

She loved hearing stories about The Guv and Mad Dog and made me tell her every detail about the auditions. She predicted that I’d one day be a film star and we would go to the Oscars together and walk hand in hand down the crimson carpet with great flashbulbs
exploding in our faces. Before I knew it, she’d slipped her fingers through mine and she was looking longingly into my eyes. This was the moment!

I got scared. I panicked, and dived back into the water. Somewhere under the deep, cool, green water I let out a scream of agony – I’d just blown the chance of my first real kiss!

All hell broke loose when Mom casually mentioned to Dad that Wombat is joining us on our Namibian holiday adventure, which kicks off on Tuesday. My father flew into a manic rage and screeched off in the station wagon. I retired to my room with The Lord of the Rings to avoid the latest outbreak of hostilities.

Dad returned sometime in the middle of the night and I could hear Mom ordering him to sleep in the lounge. I then heard him stumble and crash into the telephone stool on his way down the passage. Welcome back to normality.

Dad’s convinced that Innocence is running her brothel again. Every half hour or so an African man walks up the driveway carrying a packet and then disappears into her room only to emerge about twenty minutes later. Mom’s wickedly scared of Innocence because she keeps threatening lawsuits against them.

Major embarrassment as I joined my mother on an underwear shopping expedition. With a loud voice she hollered to me (and to everybody else in the crowded shop) and held up a pair of leopard print scants and then erupted into shrill peels of laughter. I pretended to ignore her, but her hollering got louder so I decided to cut my losses and take the embarrassment on the chin.
Eventually, I escaped the shop carrying some ordinary white and blue underpants and sprinted towards the car.

Not sure if we’re leaving for our holiday tomorrow or not. Mom and Dad are still not speaking, although Dad has been seen tinkering on the station wagon, which is a positive sign.

I called the Mermaid and thankfully she answered the telephone. We talked for about an hour (although I’m not sure what we actually spoke about). I told her we would go out to movies when I got back.

06:00   My parents have had yet another furious argument about my grandmother (Wombat) joining us on our holiday. Dad says Wombat is a senile old fart, and Mom says that Dad’s brother Aubrey is a drunken maniac and a bad influence on me. So much for a happy family reunion in Namibia! Dad’s also worried that the country (that he calls ‘South West’) is now being run by blacks and will end up in chaos.

06:45   My parents have another argument about the amount of clothes my mother has packed. Two suitcases, a travel case and a vanity bag for a week long trip to a farm in the Namibian desert. My father orders her to repack.

Mom eliminates the travel bag but gains an overnight bag. My father shakes his head, jumps in the car, tries in vain to start the engine, and then orders me to start pushing. The old goat catches fire about a kilometre down the street. Dad claps his hands with delight and shouts, ‘Reliable as rain!’ as Mom and I jump in the car huffing and puffing like two TB patients.

07:00   Wombat ticks Dad off for being ten minutes
late. Dad does his nut when he sees Wombat’s luggage (three suitcases and an overnight bag). He piles them onto the roof of the station wagon under the watchful eye of Wombat, who keeps saying ‘Do be gentle, Roy’ and ‘David, help your father, he’s small of body and weak of mind.’ I won’t mention what Dad is muttering under his breath but I can assure you it isn’t pleasant.

07:15   We’re off! The Milton Easter adventure has begun!

13:08   Wombat hasn’t stopped prattling on since we left Durban. Her worsening senility means she’s told us every story many times before. Mom doesn’t allow us to tell her about the constant repetitions because it makes Wombat confused and anxious. In hushed tones, Wombat told us for the fourth time this morning that she suspects that Buster Cracknell is now stealing her yoghurt. She reckons he’s using the spare key to break into her flat and then gorges himself on her Woolworths strawberry delight. We all nodded and shook our heads. Mom promised Wombat that she’d investigate the situation. (Wombat apparently phones the police every morning to report the matter – they have threatened to prosecute her for crank calls.)

After passing Bethlehem (a small town in the Orange Free State, and definitely not the place of Jesus’ birth) my father burst into operatic song in the middle of the fifth repeat of the yoghurt story. Wombat told my father he was rude and unpleasant and that he should try to be more like David (me?). Mom shook her head at him and dug her nails into his leg. Dad stopped singing.

After eleven hours of sheer madness we finally arrived at the Holiday Inn in Kimberley in the Northern Cape Province. Wombat told us that her father made an immense fortune in diamond mining at the Great Hole of Kimberley. (Unfortunately, the mine was last
used in 1908 when her father would have been just fourteen years old.) Mom reminded Wombat that her father collapsed and died after a sneezing attack and that he worked for an insurance company. Wombat wept bitterly and said she remembered the sneezing tragedy like it was yesterday.

Yet another family argument erupted after Wombat refused to share a room with me. She said she wouldn’t have people thinking that she’s ‘shacking up with a toy boy’ My mother reminded her that I’m her grandson and just a boy of thirteen. Wombat replied that sleeping with an underage grandson was in poor taste, and that she didn’t care whether my balls had dropped or not, she wanted her own room. I felt my cheeks flush and a pressing desire to hit Wombat on the head with the hotel fire extinguisher.

19:45   I joined Dad in the lounge for a drink before dinner. He asked the waiter if there was anywhere he could get some rat poison after hours. The waiter said he would check the hotel storeroom. Dad then looked me squarely in the eyes and warned me never to get married, and if I had to, then I should marry an orphan.

Mom joined us in a panic and said that Wombat had disappeared. Dad cheered loudly and ordered a double whiskey to celebrate.

Twenty minutes later Wombat was found in the honeymoon suite watching television in bed. She refused to budge when the hotel staff asked her to return to her room and burst into floods of tears when the manager arrived and ordered her to vacate the suite. She then rummaged around in her handbag and showed the hotel manager a picture of her late husband and told him that this was where they had spent the first night of their honeymoon. The manager told her that the hotel was only five years old. Wombat pretended not to hear
him and told him the yoghurt story. The manager soon realised he was dealing with a nutcase, cut his losses and let her stay in the suite at no extra cost.

Dad’s convinced that Wombat’s feigning madness to get her own way and tried to persuade my mother to leave her behind in Kimberley and pick her up on the way home. My parents then had yet another ripsnorting argument in front of everybody in the dining room. I cast my mind back to school and wondered how all the other boys were enjoying their holidays. Surely they had to be having more fun than the folks, Wombat and me.

08:15   Dad has been refused entry into Namibia because the border control computer says he has a criminal record. (He doesn’t – yet – but he’s still meant to be under psychological evaluation.) Dad, having driven for two days through blazing heat and endless repetitions of the yoghurt saga, completely snapped and threatened to drive the car off the bridge and into the river. Wombat, who didn’t know about Dad’s run in with the law, told my mother to file for divorce immediately. She went on to say that she’d always suspected that he was a criminal and that he had ‘mixed blood in his veins and close together eyes like a monkey’. Mom told Wombat to shut up and ordered her back to the car.

08:36   Suddenly the border post was open and a smiling official waved us through. My father returned to the car, whooped loudly and merrily drove us into Namibia. After a long pause, he said, ‘Since I’m a criminal I thought I’d act like one and try a little bribery’ Wombat was outraged and said her Walter (my deceased grandfather) would turn in his grave were he to witness such horror. Dad retorted by saying that it would be no worse than the poor man’s horror of living with Wombat
for forty-two years. Luckily Wombat didn’t hear him.

We finally arrived at Uncle Aubrey’s farm. Uncle Aubrey, Aunt Peggy, a dog called Lion and a pet sheep (called Baa) met us at the gate. Uncle Aubrey and Dad got stuck into some violent punching, wrestling, hugging and backslapping. My mother and Wombat remained in the car. I got out and hugged my relatives. Lion jumped up and knocked me over. As always they told me I’d grown and am looking more like my dad every day. Aubrey gave me a few friendly punches, and by mistake I landed a good one right in his stomach. I felt wickedly guilty as Dad and Aunt Peggy tried to revive Uncle Aubrey who was doubled over on the fence. Once we were at the house, Mom got out the car and shook hands with Aubrey and Peggy. Aubrey grabbed her hand and planted a big kiss on her lips and then smacked her bum. Mom blushed and quickly commented on the flowers. Wombat refused to get out of the car until the dog and the sheep had been locked away.

After a long drinking competition, Dad and Uncle Aubrey started a savage arm-wrestling bout. The arm wrestling became horseplay, horseplay turned into a wrestle, the wrestling soon became a shadow-boxing match, which then lost its shadow and turned into a boxing match, which at last became a full-on fight. Dad punched Aubrey in the nose and Aubrey pushed Dad over the couch, smashing a lamp in the process. I tried to break it up by turning off the lights but this just made things worse when Dad ran into the glass sliding door and knocked himself out cold. Mom ran in and shouted at both of them like they were school boys. After my father had regained consciousness, the two brothers shook hands, hugged and went to bed.

Could swear I heard hyenas whooping and cackling in the night. Decided to sleep with my head under the blankets for safety.

05:00   Uncle Aubrey woke me up with strong coffee and told me to get ready for ‘the hunt’. I think Uncle Aubrey must have been a Mad Dog in his day.

Armed with a shotgun, Uncle Aubrey ushered Dad and me into his weather-beaten old Toyota bakkie and drove us into the bush. As the older brother, Uncle Aubrey inherited the family game farm, which extends for miles across the dry semi-desert of southern Namibia. (My father, as younger brother, inherited his father’s old clothes and the station wagon.) The alcohol fumes from the two brothers nearly knocked me out so I braved the chilly morning air and opened the window. Uncle Aubrey passed around a bottle of headache tablets. Dad swallowed four.

After no more than five minutes Uncle Aubrey brought the bakkie to a screeching halt, jumped out and took a shot at a springbok, which was grazing under a big camel-thorn tree. He missed the entire tree by metres. We then drove for ages without seeing anything. Dad complained that his bum had gone numb so we stopped to stretch. I was then given a shooting lesson by my uncle, who showed me how to aim and use my shoulder as a shock absorber against the kick of the shotgun. I blasted an anthill with my first shot. Uncle Aubrey applauded and reckoned I have potential and was most probably already a better shot than my father. Dad bit his lip and gave a funny false laugh. Unfortunately, I missed most of what my uncle was saying because my ears were ringing and my shoulder felt like it had just been shot off!

A few minutes later we spotted a large herd of springbok. Dad sneaked out of the bakkie with the gun and whispered to us to follow. He announced to us that he would demonstrate how a real hunter goes about
shooting a springbok.

After leading us in a broad circle, Dad pointed to the herd of springbok across the ridge and told us he was moving downwind of them so that they wouldn’t smell us. When I pointed out that there was no wind, he hissed at me and called me a cocky bastard. Keeping close to the ground and stalking through the dry thorn trees I felt like a real hunter. I could hear my heart thumping in my chest. Dad took the lead and communicated by strange hand signals which neither Uncle Aubrey nor I could understand. After what seemed like ages, we crouched not more than fifty yards from the buck. Dad pointed out a male with big horns at the front of the herd and whispered, ‘His horns will be on my bedroom door.’ Then he said, ‘Now watch and learn,’ took aim and fired. There was a huge explosion, and the springbok herd galloped away in a cloud of dust. My father sprinted after them, whooping and shouting with joy.

The three of us stood staring. My father grunted. Uncle Aubrey clicked his tongue. I whistled. Around us the African morning was full of birdsong.

Dad had succeeded in firing a hail of bullets through the bakkie’s windscreen. We drove silently back to the farmhouse.