Spud Page 9

  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. T
he 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.

  Saturday 13th April

  MILTON CARAVANNING TRIP TO PARK RYNIE

  My father nearly killed us three times before we made it to Park Rynie. The first near death experience happened near the airport when Dad got a bit carried away with watching a plane coming in to land. He was so busy trying to keep up with the SAA Boeing 737 that he nearly ran over three hitch-hikers standing in the emergency lane. Mom told Dad he was a ‘bloody fool’.

  The second near death experience occurred under the Umgababa bridge. Dad reckons that the Umgababa bridge is a death trap because ‘the bastards’ throw bricks off the top and try and kill you. By the time we reached the dreaded bridge Dad had scared the clappers out of himself and was as highly strung as Wombat in a bank queue. In a high-pitched voice he ordered me to lie flat on the back seat and place the fishing tackle box on my head. As we approached the bridge, Dad swung the car wildly from the left to the right to try and out-fool any possible brick throwers. Unfortunately, Dad was so worried about the trouble from above that he didn’t notice the gigantic sugar truck bearing down on us from the fast lane of oncoming traffic. As Dad turned around to give me a high five, Mom screamed and pulled wildly on the steering wheel. The station wagon slid back across to the left. The caravan tried its best to jackknife but Dad was too quick and he straightened us up again. Dad shook his head and told us the country was becoming more dangerous by the day. Mom stared out at the passing banana plantations without saying a word.

  The third balls-up happened right near Park Rynie. Dad was so eager to see the surf conditions and check which direction the wind was blowing that he didn’t stop at a railway crossing and nearly had us written off by a train. After Dad had finished swearing at the train driver he winked at me and said, ‘Light north-easter… Johnny, let’s go catch ourselves a hundred pounder!’

  I took a stroll around the campsite. In site 18 across the road there was a bunch of surfers and their girlfriends sitting in deckchairs drinking Lion Lager. One of the girls was rather delicious. She smiled at me as I walked by. I tried to smile back but my mouth wouldn’t open, so instead I ignored her and slipped into the ablution block. I sat down on a closed toilet seat and thought about my possible options. Then I realized that if I took too long the girl would think I was releasing a prisoner. Simon says beautiful girls never fart or release prisoners, so just in case she was wondering what I was up to in the toilets, I scuttled out and strolled back past campsite 18 looking as cool as a cat. This time the girl was facing away from the road and a surfer with long blonde hair had his arms around her and was kissing her neck. I’m beginning to develop a deep hatred for blonde surfers! When I got back to our caravan, Dad was waiting for me in his fishing kit. He clapped his hands like a loon and shouted, ‘Come come come come…’ as if I had been wasting his time. He then announced that the shad were running amok in the bay, thrust a fishing rod into my hands and marched off towards the beach.

  We staggered across rocks and jumped over rock pools for about a kilometre before Dad pointed at a gully and said, ‘X marks the spot.’ We set about rigging up our tackle. Suddenly Dad gave a loud agonised scream and hurled down his pyramid sinker. He had left the bait in the caravan freezer. He then sat down on a rock and stared out at the sea like a psychopath considering murder. Then he said, ‘I bloody give up, I just bloody give up! Everything a Milton does is a bloody balls-up. I mean what’s the bloody point?’ I wasn’t sure if Dad was becoming suicidal so I told him I’d just seen a huge fish jump out of the water in the gully in front of us. I turned back to my father but he was already halfway back to the caravan park, jumping from rock to rock like a klipspringer.

  To say the shad were running amok in the bay wasn’t quite true. By five o’clock we hadn’t had a bite. Dad was lo
oking edgy and kept trying different baits but without any luck. He then told me that SAPPI, the nearby paper factory, was to blame for the poor fishing. He took a sip of seawater and told me it tasted oily. Suddenly my line went completely slack. Dad’s eyes lit up and he started shouting, ‘It’s a shad! It’s a shad! Reel! Reel! REEL!’ I reeled like a maniac and then the line went tight. Dad shouted, ‘Hit the guts out of it!’ I jerked the rod back violently and the fight was on.

  17:04 I landed my biggest shad ever! Dad reckoned it was two and a half pounds. I took the hook out of its mouth as Dad sprinted back to our bags to get his camera. I took some time to get a good grip on my slippery fish and then I held it up with a big grin. But my father didn’t take a photograph. Instead he stuck a hook through the top of the shad’s head and another just below the dorsal fin and said, ‘Live bait, Johnny!’

  Dad lobbed my beautiful fish into the bay, handed me his rod with a wink and said, ‘Now catch a garrick!’ After my initial disappointment at my record fish being relegated to bait status, I began imagining a tussle with the finest sport fish in Natal. Dad cracked a beer and burped loudly before kicking into a raucous version of I’m On Top Of The World. Thankfully there weren’t any bystanders.

  After about twenty minutes of holding Dad’s huge rod and staring out at the horizon and feeling manly, there was a sharp knock on the line. Dad stood behind me and whispered in a weird voice, ‘Stay calm, boy. He’s just checking it out. Give him time to swallow. Nice and easy…’

  Unfortunately, the knock was all I got and when I reeled up I discovered that all that was left of my beautiful shad was its head and a few bloody tendrils of guts and gore. Dad studied the shad head, took a swig of his beer and said, ‘Shark.’