Kitchen Boy (25 page)

– P
AT
B
ARKER
, interview on the
BBC
’s
Hardtalk Extra
, 2007

It wasn’t all saluting and marching, the former WAAF air corporal in the Moth pew muses. There were so many young men passing through Durban and looking for a good time. They just stood by the roadside and people picked them up and took them home for a square meal, happy to be contributing to the war effort. Her mother often brought soldiers home, ever hopeful her daughter would land a good catch – perhaps a lawyer or an engineer – on his way Up North, or to the Far East to fight the Japs.

‘You don’t want a man whose career is the military,’ she’d instruct. ‘There’s a steely core and they’re dangerous. They only trust other men and don’t much like women.’

‘But I’m meeting so many lovely blokes.’

‘Don’t do anything stupid, you hear? Men try to talk you into things.’

Flaunting her new independence, she said, ‘I can look after myself, Ma.’

Air corporals could also do a hundred other things mothers never dreamed of. The WAAFs had sent her to 77 Air School in Pretoria for a year to train as an artisan. Posted back to Durban, she could calibrate compasses, wind armatures, install electrical wiring, time camshafts and crankshafts and pistons, even dismantle and reassemble aero engines. Towards the end of the war she was working on a team that could put together a plane in five days, proud of the fact that they were crucial to the war effort. General Smuts said that every woman who worked at home freed two men for Up North.

And then she made her big mistake: let his lordship talk her into bed.

She shifts in the pew and glances sideways at the former major with gravy stains on his tie and a nasty glint in his eye that means he’s going to try it again – talk her into a bed in a home full of rickety old people. Reckons I’m going gaga and he can manage without me, she thinks. Ha! He’s got a shock coming to him.

She tucks stray bits of hair back into her untidy bun. Kitchen Boy would have appreciated her. She’s the one with the steely core.

Handwritten letter from ‘Ouma’ Smuts, which was copied and distributed to homecoming servicemen at the end of the war:

Irene, Transvaal

We are all very glad that you will soon be coming home to your own dear land & we want you to know that our thoughts are constantly with you & our hearts are filled with gratitude & joy at the thought of seeing you ere long. You have had a hard time and faced many dangers and made great sacrifices in order that we might live in peace & security & enjoy our accustomed freedom. For all this we are truly grateful & South Africa is proud of you all who responded so loyally when she called for volunteers to help to beat back the enemy from our borders.

It will be a great & glorious day for you & all of us when, with our other brave Boys and Girls, you will return home & receive the biggest & most joyful welcome that awaits you here. But just now we send you our heartfelt thanks & best wishes & we hope you will spend a happy time until that great day of return & reunion. God bless you!

Isie K Smuts (Ouma)

T
HE FINAL BLESSING, AT LAST
: ‘T
HE GRACE OF OUR
Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost be with us evermore. Amen.’

The bishop makes the sign of the cross as the usher swings open both doors to the Friday afternoon rush-hour traffic: hooting, parping, revving, buzzing two-strokes, the diesel throb of trucks and buses, weaving motorbikes and a buffalo stampede of minibus taxis. The hectic present invades the sanctuary where, for more than an hour, people have been communing with the past and the dead.

‘Can we duck out now?’ the Sharks lock mutters to his captain.

‘No. Wouldn’t look good.’

‘Come on, man. I’ve got a cramp from sitting so long. It’ll be another half an hour if we have to wait for all those old guys to dodder out.’

‘Forget it. We’re representing our province and the press is here. We’ve got to show respect.’

The player sits back, flexing his beefy neck and looking around him.

Skilled at exiting ceremonies, the journalists and most of the businessmen have melted into the side aisles. Several elderly Moths shuffle after them, desperate for the Gents. The nursing sister who looks after Retief Alberts leaves her pew to confer with him in a whisper, then gestures at Purkey on the other side of the church, indicating that Mr Alberts doesn’t feel up to walking.

Purkey nods. His next job is to release the trolley brake. Since there’ll be one less pall-bearer, the daughter can take her place with the men. It’s irregular, but women are getting so insistent about their rights that you’ve got to be careful. And she’s not the only oddball in the Kitching family. He scans the front pew. The boy is off with the fairies, the son’s married to a black, the sister’s looking daggers at the wife – and
she
looks hopping mad. It’s always the same at funerals; tensions burst out like loose springs. He’s seen men come to blows at gravesides and people throw things on top of descending coffins: letters, toys, framed photos, CDs, once even a guitar (someone reached down into the grave and fished it out).

‘You live and learn in our trade,’ Purkey mutters to Clyde.

‘Not mine. I’m out of here. Like, now.’ Clyde has been exchanging eye signals with the chick in the second pew, suggesting they meet outside.

‘You can’t go now! I’ll be on my own. Mr Digby –’

‘Fuck Mr Digby Senior,’ says Clyde. ‘I’ll drop his Dracula number off at the mortuary next week.’ He begins to edge backwards.

‘Don’t go. I can’t do this alone,’ Purkey moans. ‘It’s an important service. Please.’

‘I can’t do it neither. I’m gone.’ With a final rattle of his tongue stud, Clyde joins the early leavers ghosting up the side aisle.

Purkey panics. How’m I going to get the casket into the hearse, let alone get it out at the other end? The limo drivers will refuse to help; union rules. I’ll lose my job. Got to call the office,
now
.

He hurries into the vestry and hits a speed dial number on his cellphone. His own voice answers: ‘This is Digby & Smith, your superior interment service. The office is closed. For after-hours call-outs, please phone –’ and gives his name and contact details.

He can hardly believe it. Charmaine and the mortuary staff must have slipped off early. Mr Digby Senior is at a funeral directors’ conference in Cape Town. Mr Digby Junior is climbing in the ’Berg. He has been abandoned. He’s working for an inferior interment service. This is no way to handle – to
serve
– a hero on his last journey.

As he hurries back into the emptying church, the bishop’s triumphant ‘Amen’ still echoes.

At this point Purkey should be on the alert to assist Reverend George and the pall-bearers, but instead he’s trying to attract the son’s attention. Without success. Hugh has his head down and doesn’t see Purkey’s agitated signals.

But Theodora does. She’s sitting behind them, next to Mtshali, and leans forward to whisper, ‘What is wrong?’

Purkey bends down to her level, chins quivering. ‘It’s an emergency. My assistant has pushed off. I can’t handle the next part on my own.’

‘That boy with things in his ears? He’s gone?’

‘Just walked out. I don’t know what to do.’

‘You must call for help.’

‘I have. There’s nobody in the office. It’s Friday afternoon. This is terrible. A big funeral with TV cameras and all these people. Plus Mr Kitching was a Springbok. I don’t know how I’ll face the family. The shame of it.’

This gibbering undertaker had called her ‘ousie’, but he looks so distressed that she says, ‘Maybe I can help?’

‘You would?’

Close up, her skin is finely pleated brown silk and her ear is a perfect whorl like his favourite nut-centred Milk Tray chocolates. She’s smartly dressed: hat, handbag, stockings, shoes like his wife wears when they go to church.

She nods. ‘Mr Mtshali will surely help too. He’s a pall-bearer.’

Gilingwe Mtshali confirms his willingness, adding, ‘Must I go over there now?’

‘Any minute. Thanks, eh?’ Purkey says again. ‘It’s very nice of you both.’

‘We have respect for Mr Kitching,’ she says. ‘What should we do?’

Good Samaritans have been few in Purkey’s life, as have his contacts with black people other than mortuary assistants. The relief of being saved from humiliation triggers a rush of gratitude. He repeats, ‘Thanks, eh? It’s not difficult. Whilst the pall-bearers walk the casket up the centre aisle, I go up the side here with my assistant and meet them at the top of the steps to guide it down the ramp. Could you come with me –’ He is unsure what to call her.

‘I’m Mrs Ngcobo. Theodora, nè?’

‘Ah. Yes. Thanks. I’ll signal like this when we need to go.’ He raises a forefinger, looking so comical that she struggles to keep a straight face.

‘We’ll be ready, Mr –?’

‘Purkey. Wendell Purkey. Thanks. Greatly appreciated. I’ll give the signal when everything’s in order.’ He straightens up as Reverend George comes down the altar steps. It’s time for him to move forward, release the trolley brake and help with the turn so J J Kitching doesn’t leave his funeral feet first.

The organ starts to burble again as Reverend George beckons the pallbearers. Lin is making her way to the back of the group when he tugs at her sleeve. ‘Excuse me, miss. You’re to walk opposite your brother, in place of Mr Alberts.’

She says with heavy irony, ‘I’ve been promoted to the front rank?’

‘Mr Alberts is indisposed.’

‘Expedience, then. My mother won’t like it.’

Lin doesn’t understand why her mother is so angry. She had borne J J’s long illness well, yet today she was grumpy when they left the house and seems to have whipped herself into a rage. What’s worrying her? It can’t be money. J J had seen to his affairs in his last months, arranging with his accountant and lawyer to set up a family trust which makes generous provision for Shirley and Lin and Hugh and Sam, with a lifetime monthly grant for Barbara. His SAB Miller shares have done him proud. So why is she in such a state?

Lin puts her hand on her father’s flag-draped coffin and looks directly at her mother: I’m doing this for him, not to upset you. Please don’t be cross.

Shirley tightens her mouth. It’s not rage, it’s furious indecision. Ever since John’s illness was diagnosed as fatal, she’s been trying to make up her mind whether or not to tell her children about their half-brother. It would be a terrible shock to them, and she could always pretend she’s going overseas on a tour when she wants to visit him. But she’s tired of pretence; tired of playing second fiddle. She wants them to see what a fine son she’s kept hidden all these years out of respect for their hero. Surely there’s no harm in coming clean, now he’s gone? She scowls at Lin and Hugh standing on either side of his coffin, ready to head the procession up the red carpet. They’ve had their time. She needn’t feel guilty.

Kenneth says to Lofty as he gets up to join the other pall-bearers, ‘Are you coming to the cemetery?’

‘Haven’t been invited. No transport anyway.’

‘Come with me. I’ll drop you off at home after the wake. J J deserves to have friends with him.’

‘Were you ever a friend?’ Lofty has a right to ask, because he’d tried to get them talking to each other all those years ago at Twiggie’s.

‘No. But I’ve made my peace now. Stupid to let things fester.’

‘Too late for J J. He never got over causing your punishment.’

‘We all have to pay for our mistakes. And he had his compensations. Lucky to have a wife and kids too.’ Kenneth moves away to take his place with the other pall-bearers, raising his chin to hide the sudden shine in his eyes. His medals are identical to those at the head of the coffin.

Definitely jealousy, Lofty thinks. Poor bugger.

From the far side of the coffin, Sam scans the pews of rugby players who still sit wedged together, some with folded arms. They’re waiting until Grampa’s gone out. So if he hangs around he can ask for autographs. He looks down at his Order of Service with the old man’s photo on the front. It’ll be awesome if he can get some of the Sharks and Springboks to sign it.

He forgets about the girls he’d heard whispering behind him about French kissing and incest. One of them has vanished up the side aisle, telling her mother she needs the toilet, like,
now
.

The only disappointing aspect of being liberated was that when at long last we had access to plentiful food … we got the squitters … It took many months for the tummies of some men to settle down to the sort of fare over which they had salivated in their dreams for three years.

– G
UNNER
A
LAN
G
ARDINER
, quoted in
Captives Courageous
,
by M
AXWELL
L
EIGH

The war ended at midnight on 7 May, when the POWs at Moosburg were still being assessed and treated by American army medics and introduced to proper food in slow stages. Kenneth was among the wounded and seriously ill who were flown at once to hospitals in England for specialist treatment.

Major Irving reported, ‘The quacks say his privates are damaged, but they think they can save them and the fingers. They’re using M&B to control the infection and leeches to reduce the swelling. The medicine’s working, but he may never be able to straighten the fingers. Anyone know if he’s left-handed?’

Nobody had seen him write – there hadn’t been any letters from home to answer. J J said, ‘I didn’t notice, sorry, sir,’ and left the hut in another fit of shivering and sweating. Shell-shock, the medics had labelled his persistent nightmares and flashbacks to the burning plane, and he was grateful for the diagnosis that gave his debility a less shameful cause. He didn’t tell them about the other flashback: the guard hurrying towards him holding out a gold coin which he took and stuffed in his pocket.

It was his fault Kenneth had been punished. The words ‘my fault, my fault’ were like hammers in his head numbing and blurring everything: the taste of food, voices, thoughts, feelings. All he wanted to do was sleep, but he couldn’t. The hammers kept him awake and made him furious with everyone celebrating the end of the war. Instead of laughter and orgies of planning post-demob lives, he had to sit in a queue for the psychologist next to nutters with nervous tics or blank faces, some speechless, some gone far round the bend.