Whitethorn (64 page)

Often I'd be given the piano department, the poshest place of all, to mind. It was separately located on the fourth floor where the musical behemoths rested in an atmosphere of splendid, highly polished calm. The three Steinway Baby Grands resting separately from the uprights on a platform decorated with potted palms planted in cut-down beer barrels with the hoops made of highly burnished brass, one of the many chores allocated to Union Jack.

I hated the piano department because, as you'd expect, it was never busy. People don't exactly walk off the street to buy a piano, or didn't in those days anyway. Instead, they made an appointment with Mr Farquarson who, in turn, ‘made a suitable appointment' and then put them through a long and often harrowing interrogation. Buying your piano from Polliack's added an extra dimension to its value and so you had to earn your piano-playing rights by establishing your credentials as the ‘the right kind of people' to own one from the largest musical emporium in all of Africa.

My dislike for the piano department extended to Mr Farquarson, a fat, effete Englishman who was a terrible snob and who referred to his forebears as ‘County', his pronunciation rich with such perfectly rounded vowels that he'd have left Smelly Jelly for dead. He was also a sometime–concert pianist, although nobody knew quite where his illustrious career had taken place. To his credit he could certainly tickle the ivories better than most, though of course always classical.

He wore striped grey pants without turn-ups, ending over black patent leather shoes fitted with white spats. His jacket was a black linen cutaway without lapels or buttons and slightly flared where the sleeves met the shoulders. It fell down to the back of his knees in the manner of an Oxford don. He always wore a highly starched white shirt topped by an Eton collar, and instead of a tie an exaggerated maroon bow frothed from under his several chins with the ends of the ribbon resting on his enormous stomach. If he'd worn a prep school cap he would have been a dead cert for Billy Bunter's father. He was known around the place as ‘The Ship of State', or by Graham as ‘That disgusting old queen upstairs!' Bobby Black had once picked up on Graham after he'd heard him expressing his sentiments concerning Mr Farquarson and said, ‘Look who's talking.'

Graham got very upset. ‘I'm
not
fat and I'm
not
disgusting, I'll have you know I'm a perfectly respectable and rather nice queer!' he replied indignantly.

Later he confided in me that jazz drummers are deeply into pain and habitually place their dicks on the kettledrum, which accounted for all that grimacing in jam sessions. ‘No names, no pack drill, Fitz,' he'd pouted, then, indicating Bobby's cubicle with a flick of his head, ‘That's the only way the prick can manage to get a free bang!'

I can tell you, I was moving further and further away from the Born-again Christian Missionary Society, even if it was a pretty feeble joke. I tried to imagine what sort of tract I'd have to write to bring Graham or Bobby to their knees, begging for salvation, but was forced to concede that I wouldn't know where to begin. ‘The drummer that banged for Jesus,' an unfortunate ambiguity. ‘The faggot that lit a spiritual bonfire!' I was definitely losing my touch.

At the end of that year, 1950, I sat for my matriculation exams and then it was school holidays once again. One lazy afternoon in January, with Christmas well and truly over and empty pockets prompting ‘sale' signs in almost every shop in town, my biggest break ever came seemingly out of the blue and into the piano department one lunchtime.

It appeared in the form of a large
boer
who looked decidedly awkward in his soiled moleskins, khaki open-neck shirt, scalloped under the armpits with sweat, scuffed working boots and wide-brimmed hat that had seen 10 000 sunrises and defied a hundred dust storms. In the pristine, softly glowing sheen of Polliack's piano department he looked as incongruous as a gorilla in a cathedral. I don't mean he looked like a large ape, because he didn't, it was just that he seemed completely out of context standing in front of the lift holding a string-handled brown-paper shopping bag.

But first a little background explanation. The Cold War between Russia and America was beginning to hot up. Korea, North and South, tucked in between China and Japan, was beginning to look like the place where a showdown between the Communists and the Free World was likely to take place. There was a great deal of sword-rattling going on between the two superpowers and the coming conflict was being touted as a peacekeeping mission under the aegis of the brand-new United Nations. North Korea was Communist and supported by Russia, while South Korea was a so-called democracy propped up by America. Communist China, the crouching dragon puffing smoke, looked on from across the Yalu River, all potential players waiting on the sideline. The world it seemed was returning to war. Gold and copper prices soared and so did the price of wool. Sheep farmers in the Karoo, the dry, flat desert country east of Cape Town, for generations barely eking out a living with their vast flocks on an unforgiving landscape, became overnight millionaires. The wool boom was on for one and all. Korea was a land where the winter temperatures fell to 30 degrees below zero and the American army, among others, had to rug up in anticipation of the big conflict in the cold.

I'd only just arrived to spend what might be anything up to three boring hours babysitting the pianos. Mr Farquarson was about to leave for an extended lunch hour to be spent, he unnecessarily informed me, ‘over lunch at the Carlton and a few glasses of excellent libation with the conductor of the Johannesburg Symphony Orchestra'. He was preparing to depart, arranging his large black felt hat at a jaunty slant, the brim on one side up and on the other down, when the
boer
walked in. The Afrikaner stood hesitantly at the entrance to the lift, holding the brown-paper shopping bag with both hands in front of him. Though the Ship of State must have seen him, he showed no reaction whatsoever. He took one finally admiring look at himself in the mirror and, turning to me, said, ‘Get rid of
that
, Boy!' Then he pontificated towards the lift, passing the
boer
as if he simply wasn't there. Thankfully the lift was still stationary and opened immediately to accept his corpulent prow.

‘
Goeie middag
, Meneer,' I said, bidding the
boer
good afternoon.

At first he didn't reply. A look of consternation appeared on his face as his eyes swept over the department. ‘
Here
, man, how is a man supposed to make a choice?' he said in Afrikaans.

I was about to ask if he had an appointment but then realised, of course, he didn't. ‘Do you wish to purchase a piano?' I asked.

‘
Ja
, of course,' he said, looking at me as if I was mad. ‘You think I come in a place like this to get out of the sun?'

My heart began to beat faster, and I thought for a moment to ask him to wait and then try to catch up with Mr Farquarson and bring him back, but quickly realised that all I would receive in return would be a stern rebuke.

‘How much is a piano?' the
boer
asked.

‘Various prices, Meneer,' I answered politely, ‘but first maybe a cup of coffee or a cool drink?'

He nodded, accepting the offer, and extended his large hand, the fingers blunt, nails broken, skin rough. ‘Odenaal, Johannes Odenaal.'

‘Tom Fitzsaxby.' My hand completely disappeared into his fist.

‘
Engelsman
?'

‘
Ja,
Meneer Odenaal,' I said, admitting to being English-speaking.

‘
Jy praat die taal goed,
Tom. You speak the language well, Tom.'

‘
My eerste taal,
Meneer. My first language, Sir.'

‘
Ja
, coffee,' he said, and then added, ‘should a person take his hat off in a place like this?'

I laughed. ‘It's only a shop, Meneer.'

He shook his head and then indicated the pianos with a sweep of his hand. ‘Tell me, how much polish do you use in the place?'

‘
Ja
, I never thought about it before, but you right, quite a lot, the Zulu is always polishing around the place, he's even got an electric floor polisher.'

‘You don't say? Electric floor polisher, hey? Why don't you use a
kaffir
woman like everyone else?'

‘Have you ever seen an electric floor polisher, Meneer Odenaal?'

‘No, man, I can't say I have, if I said so it would be a lie, you hear?'

To kill the boredom of babysitting the pianos I would often help Union Jack with the cleaning and polishing around the place, and so I was familiar with the workings of the floor polisher, in fact I had become quite an expert. ‘Let me show you,' I offered. I went to the broom cupboard and removed the floor polisher, plugged it in and turned it on, demonstrating it around where we were standing for a few moments before turning it off.

‘
Wragtig
! That is a contraption-and-a-half!' Meneer Odenaal exclaimed.

‘You want to have a go?' I asked.

He seemed reluctant. ‘It's not my line of work, Tom. Sheep I know, electric floor polishers, I'm not so sure, man.'

‘
Ag
, it's dead easy,' I replied, pushing the polisher towards him. ‘Just grab the handles and lead it around, you don't even have to push, one brush goes round left and the other right, the handles are the same.' I switched it on and the floor polisher came to life with its usual whine, its floor brushes whirring. I kicked the button that lowered the brushes to the surface of the polished wooden floor. ‘Now just push it, Meneer,' I instructed above the noise of the machine.

The large man placed the brown-paper shopping bag down at his feet and began to push the floor polisher tentatively, but soon got the hang of it and before you knew it, he was doing circles and zig-zags and smiling broadly in the process, even at one stage doing a neat little circle around the shopping bag. After a while I turned it off.

‘Let me tell you, it's better than ten
kaffir
women!' he said admiringly, patting the machine as if it were a favourite canine.

‘Coffee, I nearly forgot,' I said suddenly. Mr Farquarson kept a Kona carafe of coffee constantly warming on a small hotplate in his office. It was usually remade by Union Jack in the afternoon, but with him going on one of his protracted lunch hours it probably hadn't been replaced. But I knew that
boer
farmers sit an enamel pot of coffee on the kitchen stove all day and prefer it to be bitter and black. The carafe was still about a third full, sufficient for two or three mugs. ‘How many sugars?' I called.

‘
Ja
, a lot, five!' Meneer Odenaal called back.

I handed him the mug of sweet black coffee and he took a sip. ‘
Ja, dit is goed
,' he said, smacking his lips, congratulating me on the coffee. I motioned him towards a small lounge setting reserved for important ‘appointment only' visitors and we sat down to drink our coffee.

‘A biscuit!' I cried, leaping to my feet, remembering that in the country coffee is never served without something to eat. The Ship of State kept a packet of Marie biscuits in the bottom drawer of his desk, and I'd occasionally help myself to one.

‘
Ja
, that would be
lekker,
Tom. Can a person smoke in here?'

‘
Ja
, of course, go ahead,' I invited, pointing to the ashtray on the coffee table.

By the time I returned with the packet of biscuits, the
boer
had lit up a large meerschaum pipe and a miasma of sweet-smelling smoke surrounded his great balding head.

‘Sorry, I couldn't find a plate, the Zulu must have taken them to wash up,' I apologised. I referred to Union Jack as ‘the Zulu' not so that he would appear to be inferior but because his name might have upset the
boer
. Union Jack is about the dirtiest word you can use in front of a
regte boer
. Besides, we were soon to get down to the nitty-gritty and I was becoming nervous, not wanting to put a foot wrong. If I could sell him the cheapest piano on the floor the commission alone would be at least twice what I would earn for the Christmas and January holiday period. I'd be able to go to university at the end of Febuary with money in my pocket. In the meantime, Meneer Odenaal was scoffing four Marie biscuits to every sip of coffee, his mouth too full to talk.

‘Another cup?' I asked, seeing him drain the last of the mug.

‘
Ja, dankie
, Tom,' he thanked me, placing the pipe, which seemed to have gone out, in the ashtray.

I drained the Kona, added sugar, stirred the bittersweet concoction and returned it to him, by which time he'd consumed almost the entire packet of biscuits. I only hoped I could replace them in time before the Ship of State returned from his claret-and-conductor luncheon.

‘
Ah, lekker jong
! You make good coffee,' he said, smacking his lips. ‘The coffee you get in the Transvaal, it's not like the Cape, it tastes like shit!'

‘You're not from the Transvaal, then?' I asked.

‘No, man, never! The Karoo.'

‘I've never been to the Cape,' I replied.

‘Really? You must come soon, you hear? It's a very civilised place, people greet you, not like here in Johannesburg.' He laughed suddenly. ‘Over here,
jong
, if a man takes his hat off for a lady in the street they think you mad and they want to call a policeman!' He looked at me seriously. ‘When you come to the Cape you must visit us, you hear? I got a nice little daughter, my little
skattebol,
only fifteen, she'll suit you down to the ground, Tom.'