Spud

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  SPUD

  the madness

  continues…

  John van de Ruit was born in Durban, South Africa. He went to the University of Natal where he completed a Masters degree in Drama and Performance. Since 1998 he has been a professional actor, playwright and producer, winning numerous awards. His first novel, Spud, has become an international award-winning bestseller, and the fastest selling book in South Africa’s publishing history.

  Books by John van de Ruit

  Spud

  Spud – The Madness Continues…

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank,

  Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  penguin.com

  First published by Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd 2007

  Published in this edition 2009

  1

  Text copyright © John van de Ruit, 2007

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-0-14-194006-9

  For Barry Emberton, a man of mirth, who

  mastered the art of casting backwards

  and

  For Barbara Jean Ellis (my Wombat)

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks to all the wonderful Penguins, who march relentlessly. My thanks especially to my editor, Alison Lowry, who led me along the stony path like a chilled out honeyguide and made sure that the Madness didn’t continue forever. To Sue Clarence for her help on the London adventure. To Anthony Stonier for a classic Wombat story. To my family and friends – my deepest apologies for the times when I didn’t return your calls or respond to your emails. To Benny V for his friendship, support and creative energy. Thanks also to Patrick Bond, Mickey Moegoe and the gentlemen of the Pimp’s Paradise. Also the wildcats – Strangely Grey, Two-Tone and Godot – who allowed themselves to be gentled, and to Zog, Potato and family, who made me laugh and feel like a child again. Thanks to my old school – for seeing the funny side and to Dionne Redfern for her support. Once again, apologies to Guy Emberton, who continues to get menacing looks from old ladies in his home town, and to Richy (the royalties are in the post, china!). To Julia: thanks for your love and laughter and for reading The Madness… in nightly instalments.

  Finally, I would like to thank all of you who read and laughed and remembered. You reminded me that in this beautiful country nothing is impossible.

  1991

  TOWN HILL (THE BEGINNING…)

  Tuesday 15th January

  13:35 Dad sat back in the driver’s seat, surveyed the road in front of him, and then screamed so loudly that the keys fell out of the ignition. Once the screaming had died down a long and disturbing silence descended on the infamous lime green Milton station wagon.

  Dad had been playing his Carpenters tape at full blast and hadn’t felt the terrible shuddering as our un-trusty old Renault chugged up Town Hill towards school. Suddenly, halfway through the second chorus of I’m On Top of the World, an earthquake struck the green machine. The back right tyre was so flat that the rim was sticking through the rubber. Dad did his usual whistle, nodded at the shredded tyre, and announced that we had a puncture. He then grinned at me and said he’d been changing tyres since he was ‘knee high to a grasshopper’.

  With a skip and a whistle he popped open the boot with an unhealthy creak and lifted up the carpet cover. His eyes glazed over and his lips moved without making a sound. Sensing a nasty turn of events, I moved in to get a closer look. Instead of a spare tyre there was a crate of Castle Lager. On top of the beer crate was a faded handwritten note that read:

  Pete you old crab stick, hope you don’t mind but I needed the tyre. Here’s some jungle juice to keep the old engine purring. Frank.

  And then it said:

  PS Will return it by Monday

  Underneath the date was written:

  24/7/1988

  Dad cracked a Castle and reread the note. He didn’t seem at all concerned that Frank had borrowed the spare tyre for a weekend and hadn’t returned it for two and a half years. In fact he seemed to be far more impressed that the Castle Lager still tasted good after spending nearly three years in the station wagon. My father held out the beer can like it was the Cullinan Diamond and said, ‘The taste that stood the test of time.’ He then grabbed two six packs, returned to the driver’s seat, and switched on the Carpenters again.

  13:45 Dad drained his beer and crushed the empty can on his forehead (a skill he has perfected since New Year’s Eve, when the same stunt ended up with Mom rushing him to Addington Hospital for stitches). My father burped loudly, shouted, ‘Gesundheid!’ and immediately cracked open another beer. In a voice that could have grilled a steak, Mom instructed Dad to put his beer down and find help. Dad clearly wasn’t picking up Mom’s mood because he spread his arms out and said, ‘We must trust and believe that help will find us.’

  Mom then said that the only thing that would find Dad were divorce papers.

  Dad shook his head and grumbled to himself. He then grabbed a six pack and started striding up the emergency lane of the freeway. Mom jumped out the car and ordered my father to leave the beers behind because she said they made him look like a Cape coloured. (This wasn’t helped by the fact that Dad had been using Instant Tan over Christmas instead of sun block.)

  Dad returned to the car and offered Mom fifty bucks to go and find help. Mom was appalled that Dad thought so little of her that he would bribe her in an emergency. After more shouting and some serious haggling, a bribe of sixty-three bucks was agreed on.

  Mom strode out into the truck lane of the freeway, waving her arms above her head, and soon managed to flag down a PPC cement truck. After some lengthy discussions she drove off in the truck with a sweaty man in a white string vest called Larry. Dad looked at me, shook his head and muttered, ‘Women.’ He drained his Castle and began singing sadly along to We’ve Only Just Begun.

  I opened my new shiny red diary.

  Year ............................ 1991

  name ............................Spud

  Comments ............................The Madness Continues…

  HOLIDAY REPORT

  HOME

  I guess overall my holiday gets a six out of ten which, although a bit disappointing by most standards, was still pretty decent
for a Milton. The first two weeks were a bit rough and I mostly slept and watched videos. Dad tried to get me out of the house to play some cricket in the garden but that was called off after he clobbered my first ball through the dining room window. Blacky (my deranged Labrador) had to have an emergency operation after he swallowed the hosepipe nozzle. Fatty called me once and asked if I wanted to go with him to the Stellawood cemetery at midnight to look for ghosts but I lied and told him I had diarrhoea. He said if I ate a kilogram of chocolate and drank three teaspoons of cooking oil, I’d be fine in a day or so.

  MERMAID & SPUD IN THE WILDERNESS

  The Wilderness is a splendid seaside holiday place near George on the Cape Garden Route. Unfortunately, Mermaid’s folks fought solidly for three days before her dad finally packed up and left. Mermaid got all depressed again, although we still managed to go to the beach every day and take a few romantic walks. We found the Groot Krokodil’s (former State President PW Botha) house called Die Anker. It has a huge wall, electric fence and a white security guard outside with a gun on his hip. We snooped around to check if we could get in but the Krokodil has a watertight lair. There must be lots of people who want to get him. Mermaid was wickedly brave and told the security guard we wanted to see the former state president. The security guy stubbed out his cigarette on the gate post and said it was a restricted area and that the Krokodil was sleeping (no doubt with one eye open). Mermaid giggled nervously and asked him if guarding the Krokodil’s house was dangerous. The security guard lit up another cigarette and said the hadedas were a problem.

  CHRISTMAS

  Wombat took us to lunch at the yacht club and soon caused chaos when she accused a four-year-old girl of stealing her Christmas cracker. Things were beginning to get a bit nasty so the waiter brought out two crackers for Wombat as a peace offering. My grandmother refused to accept them, thumped her fish fork into the table, and called the little girl a thug. Eventually, our table was moved outside onto the balcony, Wombat’s meal was on the house and we scored a free bottle of champagne.

  NEW YEAR’S

  Dad’s best friend Frank elected himself the DJ, got really drunk and jumped in the pool wearing a pair of underpants that said NUTCASE on the front. Unfortunately, as DJ, Frank was meant to be responsible for the countdown and we only realized at about 1am that his watch wasn’t waterproof. We all sang Auld Lang Syne at 1.03am and that’s when Dad tried to squash the beer can on his forehead. The guests left, Mom took Dad to the hospital, and I was ordered to clean up and search for Wombat. I discovered Wombat in the lounge reading to a very confused Innocence from a book called The Fundamentals of Contract Bridge (Advanced).

  Mermaid and I are in love and as soon as we leave school she wants us to get married. I hope my balls drop by then – still no sign of anything and I’m fifteen in three months! Worried people are going to think I’m a freak.

  Guess it’s another year of being a spud.

  BACK TO THE BEGINNING…

  17:10 The security guard saluted as the station wagon pulled up to the school gate. Dad, who by now was well into his second six pack, gave a dodgy Nazi salute out the window and shouted ‘Viva!’ The guard looked at him like he was a maniac and slowly closed the huge iron gates behind us.

  I lugged my bags over my shoulders and staggered through the archway into the main quad. Pissing Pete looked a little sorry for himself as he dribbled water out of his sword and down his leg. Suddenly there was a loud shout of ‘FORE!’ followed by the sound of metal scraping against concrete. A huge army trunk roared through the house doors, raced across the cloisters and came to rest in the gutter. I could hear the muffled sound of sobbing from inside the trunk. I approached cautiously and opened up the lid to discover a tiny boy with freckled skin and eyes red from crying. He looked utterly terrified. Then a gruesome face leered through the house door sniggering and guffawing. It was Pike. ‘Ahhhh, Spud,’ he said. ‘Check – I’ve found you another Gecko to play with!’ Pike sniggered again before forcing the new boy back into the trunk and resting his left foot on the lid. He didn’t seem at all concerned that the small boy was freaking out and banging desperately against the sides of the trunk. Pike looked me up and down and said, ‘Welcome back, faggot boy. Think you’re a bit of a rock dog now you’re in second year? Just remember I’m in matric and most probably a prefect.’ He spat a greeny on my cricket bag and strolled off back into the house.

  I trudged up the stairs, turned the corner, and stopped for a minute outside the second years’ dormitory. I paused and took a deep breath. Then I threw open the door and there they all were – the Crazy Eight. (Minus one, of course.)

  Fatty sat on his locker eating a large packet of salt and vinegar chips. Simon was perched on his footlocker knocking in his cricket bat with a mallet. Rambo was lying on his bed and obviously in the middle of telling Boggo a war story from the holidays. Boggo was listening to Rambo’s story while popping a zit in the mirror. Mad Dog was halfway through engraving his name on the newly varnished windowpane with his hunting and filleting knife and had already made a spelling mistake. And finally, there was Vern, sitting on his bed having an in-depth conversation with Roger the cat. When Vern saw me, he began jumping up and down and pointing at the other bed in his cubicle. He then introduced me to his teddy bear called Potato. I shook Potato’s paw and started unpacking. It seems that for the second year in a row I’m sharing a cubicle with Rain Man. A bed in the far corner of Fatty’s cubicle stood empty. It doesn’t feel quite right without Gecko – I’m not sure it ever will.

  HOLIDAY SCORECARD

  RAMBO Went to Europe with his dad and his new stepmom. Rambo says his stepmom is hot and only 27 years old. Rambo’s dad is 46! Rambo reckons he wouldn’t mind shagging his stepmom.

  FATTY Has put on 5 kilograms since last year which he says isn’t bad since he’s only keeping up with inflation.

  BOGGO Worked at his mom’s boyfriend’s betting tote. He also says he has a girlfriend, but didn’t seem to know what her name was or anything else about her. He just said that ‘a girl can’t talk with her mouth full!’ Unfortunately for Boggo, nobody believed his story and Rambo threw his alarm clock out the window.

  SIMON Went to America and made Fatty jealous by going on for ages about how delicious Mc-Donalds burgers are. He went to Disneyland and the Grand Canyon but said Washington was freezing and boring.

  MAD DOG Had to go to extra maths, English and Afrikaans lessons because he failed all his exams despite being on standard grade. Apparently he’s dyslexic which according to Mad Dog means he reads words backwards like the Chinese. The Glock has said he could enter second year as long as he dropped to functional grade.

  VERN (RAIN MAN) It’s unclear what Vern did in the holidays. All we could get out of him was that he and his mom knitted a jersey for Roger. Rain Man said it’s Roger’s birthday on the 7th March and he’ll wear his new bright orange jersey then. Bad news is that Vern looks even crazier than last year.

  Our new dormitory is far brighter and less spooky than the old first year dormitory. There are no rafters and the walls are painted cream. I took a stroll around the deserted first year dorm before lights out and sat on my old window ledge for a few minutes. I then started feeling sad so I returned to the new dorm and watched Mad Dog slicing off the ear of Potato the teddy bear while Vern groaned and cried on his bed.

  Luthuli dropped by to switch off the lights and say hello. With his head boy’s blazer and tie, he looked very smart and impressive. He welcomed us back and said he was thrilled that he was no longer responsible for the Crazy Eight.

  I lay awake late into the night listening to Pissing Pete and thinking about the Mermaid. She left a pressed purple flower on the back page of my diary. It smells beautiful and mysterious – like her.

  Wednesday 16th January

  06:15 Bad news. The bloody rising siren hooter is right outside my window! Poor old Roger screeched and leapt up in fright. Unfortunately, he must have forgotten that he was sleep
ing in Vern’s locker, and he knocked himself out cold and ended up face down in Vern’s stokies.

  After breakfast, Sparerib called the Crazy Eight (minus Vern) into his office. He glared at us with his wonky eye and welcomed us back to school before threatening us with barbaric punishment should we get up to anything as dodgy this year as last year. He also said we must accept the fact that Vern is a complete nutcase and that we must be prepared to give him some rope. (I would have thought rope is the worst thing you could give to a nutcase.)

  Sparerib then licked his thin lips and winked at us (it could have been a wonky eye twitch) and said, ‘I’m not sure if you are all aware of this, but the so-called Crazy Eight seems to have achieved some sort of notoriety around the school.’ Rambo looked immensely chuffed and nodded like a proud father. Sparerib glared back at him and spoke in a menacing voice. ‘You so much as try another illegal caper, Mr Black, and you’ll feel my wrath, and believe me I’ve been playing a lot of squash lately.’ Sparerib lifted the short sleeve of his shirt and showed us his veiny bicep. Mad Dog then pulled up his sleeve and showed Sparerib his bicep. Sparerib glared at Mad Dog with his wonky eye until Mad Dog put his bicep away.

  ‘Twenty-four boys from other houses have requested a move into your dormitory because obviously… Henry… Gecko – no longer… er… due to… certain circumstances… we now have a vacancy there.’ Sparerib sniffed and looked sour. ‘Now you may think that notoriety is something to be proud of, but in my book that’s a direct insult to me and the proud discipline of this house. You’re here to get educated, not horse around looking for ghosts and terrorizing people.’ This time Sparerib glared at Fatty who stopped chewing his elastic band and looked mildly ill. ‘So I have decided that your new dormitory mate won’t be a joyriding thrill seeker from another house but a boy who will hopefully instil some good old fashioned normality to proceedings.’ We all leant forward in anticipation but nothing more was said about who the new boy in our dormitory is going to be.