Spud (32 page)

09:00   Wombat went under the knife. The (white) surgeon said everything was fine and that there were no complications. Mom (who has forgiven her mother for accusing her of theft) was hugely relieved, burst into tears and gave me a hug and a sloppy kiss in front of a number of people in the waiting room. Some other people waiting for news were less lucky – the doctor took them aside and spoke to them in a hushed whisper. After he’d finished, one lady burst into tears and ran into the toilet with her spindly little husband trailing helplessly behind – not sure whether to follow her in. I was tempted to ask them what had happened but thought it might be a bit callous, so instead I hid behind a big flowerpot and tried to eavesdrop. Unfortunately, they were speaking in Afrikaans so I gave up and read the Getaway magazine instead.

Mandela’s birthday. There was a huge dedication to him on television, showing his cell on Robben Island and how he had to hammer away at limestone in a quarry for fifteen years. I cannot believe that he doesn’t want to wipe out every white person in sight. To celebrate I religiously slogged away at A Dry White Season but kept losing my concentration. At one stage I went through seven pages without reading a word. I wonder if this brings my standing as a young freedom fighter into question? Maybe the point is that these struggle books are meant to be a struggle to read.

Wombat was in fine form, perched up on her pillows in her hospital bed. With her eye patch she looked a dead ringer for Captain Hook. She verbally abused the nurses and threatened to sue the pants off the hospital if they didn’t install a television in her ward. The surgeon reckons she can go home tomorrow. Mom has decided to skip the fishing trip to Lake St Lucia and stay at Wombat’s for the weekend.

The Great Fishing Expedition (our first since 1986)

06:00   We hurtle down the driveway and screech into the road hooting like a mad bunch of hooligans. The neighbours’ remaining dog gallops after us for about half a kilometre before giving up its heated chase and slashing on the tyre of a stationary vehicle.

06:02   Dad cracks his first lager.

06:12   Return home because Dad has left the bait and the meat in the freezer.

06:14   Dad and Mom have a furious argument because Dad is reeking of beer before sunrise (an unwritten rule in our family).

06:16   Dad loses his temper and tries to run over the neighbours’ dog, mounting the kerb by mistake.

06:17   Station wagon making a terrible clunking noise after mounting the kerb.

06:19   Dad downs his second lager.

06:42   Station wagon limps into a mechanic’s garage in a small town called Ballito.

06:48   Mechanic tells Dad the piston shafts (or something like that) need replacing. He says it will cost R300.

06:49   Dad drains his third lager of the morning.

06:55   While we wait, Dad (smelling like a brewery) conducts a casting clinic for me behind the workshop.

07:20   Back on the road.

07:23   Dad stops to slash in a sugar-cane field.

07:25   Dad begins telling me fishing stories.

07:40   Dad stops to slash on the side of the road.

08:04   Dad’s fishing stories are sounding familiar. I realise that they’re the same fishing stories that Uncle
Aubrey told me on his farm at Easter. It seems that only the names and places have been changed. I politely listen to the stories again, while I make doodles in my diary.

09:30   Hook up with one of Dad’s old cronies at the Eshowe Sports Club. After a huge breakfast of eggs and sausages, and some more stories, Dad’s crony hitches a massive ski boat onto the back of the station wagon and bids us tight lines!

09:35   Dad sips at his fourth lager of the morning (just to settle his stomach) and begins a lecture on fishing strategy.

09:48   Stop for another slash on the side of the road. This time a police car pulls up and the cop threatens to prosecute Dad for stopping on a freeway and urinating in public. Dad eventually talks him out of it after it is discovered that they both share common ground (fishing, rugby and a deep hatred of the ‘new’ South Africa). Amazingly, the policeman doesn’t seem to smell the overpowering stench of lager pouring out of my father’s mouth. He probably thought it impossible that a motorist could be drunk before ten in the morning.

09:57   To celebrate his narrow escape from the law, Dad cracks his fifth lager of the morning.

12:50   Arrive at the St Lucia estuary. Dad honks the horn all the way down the main street until a pedestrian tells him to fe%∗# off!

13:05   Check into our lodgings called the Drift Sands Holiday Apartments. The owner, a red-faced, paunchy man called Frik de Wet, tells us that they are ‘murdering fish near the river mouth’. Dad gets so excited that he throws our bags into the cupboard, grabs the bait and
tackle, and sprints to the car.

13:13   Dad reverses the boat and trailer down the slipway and into the water. We then untie the various ropes and chains that connect the boat to the trailer. Next we try to push the boat off the trailer and into the cool green water. The boat doesn’t move an inch. I offer to find help, but Dad refuses with an ‘over my dead body!’

13:25   After more pushing, Dad decides that we should take the trailer off the tow hitch and lift the trailer hitch into the air. This will propel the boat off the trailer and into the water. Slowly we pull the hitch up and like clockwork the boat slides into the water. Unfortunately, this launches the trailer upwards and forwards and with a giant crash it lands on the roof of the station wagon. In slow motion the trailer slides down the roof and with an enormous explosion crashes through the car’s back windscreen. Silence. Shocked silence. More shocked silence.

13:37   A crowd of laughing onlookers watch Dad and I pull the trailer hitch from the back seat of the car. As we regain control and some of our composure an ironic applause ripples through the crowd. Dad calls them something vile under his breath, and orders me into the boat. We set off towards the mouth.

13:40   Once out of sight, Dad downs his first lager of the afternoon and cheers up instantly.

17:00   Despite a few small bream, we have nothing to show for our eventful first day.

06:00   The intrepid Miltons braved the freezing pre-
dawn wind and sat ready and waiting at the mouth for the tide to start pushing in. Suddenly all hell broke loose as a long bony fish launched itself out of the water like a torpedo. My reel screamed in warning, Dad screamed with excitement and I screamed with fright. The fish (later identified as a skipjack) kept launching itself out of the water until it finally succeeded in wrapping itself around the anchor rope, the motor propeller and three other fishing lines. It launched itself again and there was a loud snap as the line broke. In truth I was actually quite relieved that the skipjack had escaped. It would have been a shame to kill such a beautiful fish after it had put up such a brilliant performance.

Our luck seemed to be running this morning. Dad caught a spotted grunter and a bream and I landed a prehistoric looking dude called a sand shark. (Despite its name it had no teeth and looked more scared of us than we of it.)

Unfortunately, the wind picked up at around nine and our good fishing was over. We returned to our holiday flat for a hearty breakfast. It started raining so we spent the rest of the day in a bar, playing dominoes and cards with some old local guys (called salt dogs). We heard many tales about St Lucia, most of them dating back to before I was born. The wind continued to howl and the rain to beat against the windows. The barman served more ale and my dad began to slip into a sorry sort of melancholy. Sometime in the afternoon he began to weep about somebody called Webster. The salt dogs looked at each other and then bade us farewell, saying it was time for home. I didn’t have the heart to tell Dad that I could see them piling into the pub across the street.

06:00   Our early morning fishing was a waste of time.
Because of the heavy rain, there was so much debris in the water that our bait was soon covered in seaweed and other siff-looking gunk. Dad looked a little hung over and resorted to casting over his shoulder in the opposite direction to which he was facing to try and save his energy. This seemed to work rather well until a seagull caught his bait in mid-air and set off towards its nest on the far bank of the estuary. Dad thought he had hooked a whopper and screamed with delight, striking viciously and cackling to himself like a maniac. The poor seagull plummeted into the water with a screech and must have wondered what this nasty slice of sardine was all about.

Dad reeled the seagull in slowly, pretending not to enjoy the tussle. Once aboard, the seagull played dead. Dad removed the hook and released the bird. The seagull opened its eyes, pecked Dad’s hand and flew off squawking. Dad swore at the bird and tried to hit it with a lead sinker. His hand was spurting blood, his mood had soured and he called the fishing off. I lifted the anchor and we headed back towards the jetty.

After lunch we hitched the boat onto the trailer (with the help of a few lurking salt dogs) and made our way home. The journey was freezing, thanks to the great big gaping hole where the station wagon’s back window used to be.

Mom has taken Dad to the doctor as his hand has turned blue. The doctor gave him a tetanus shot and told him to lay off the booze.

Tomorrow it’s back to school again. I can’t wait to get back into Oliver rehearsals. When I think about the opening night my stomach tightens into a knot. The only way to ease the panic is to take a bath and work through the entire play from top to bottom, saying every line and
singing every song. After the bath I felt exhausted and drifted into a long and troubled sleep.

Have been reading back over my diary and realise that my personal life is a mess. My relationship with the Mermaid is on the rocks (mainly because she has turned into a nutcase). I dream about Amanda all the time despite the fact that she’s made it obvious that she has no interest in me whatsoever. Mom reckons the Mermaid is a lost cause and that I should consider our relationship over. (My mother has no respect for people who are unstable – she believes they’re hiding something.)

For once, the bus trip back to school isn’t fraught with two and a half hours of feeling homesick. I’ve kind of missed the old dog eats dog world of the dorm. And hell, there’s nothing like the Crazy Eight for sheer entertainment value.

Holiday scorecard:

The Glock stalked into assembly wearing his savage face. He said the third term is traditionally known as the ‘silly season’. He went on to say that for the last five years at least one boy has been expelled during the dreaded third term. According to the experts (Boggo and Rambo), this is because there is no rugby and cricket, and no exams, which leads to dodgy behaviour.

First rehearsal was a complete dog show. Everybody
seems to have taken a giant leap backwards. Viking and Kojak took turns at screaming at us. As always, the more they screamed the worse we all got.

The Guv has turned over a new leaf. He’s shaved his beard, stopped drinking and his wife has returned. His old sparkle and wit are back and his abuse during our first English class was out of the top drawer.

Earthworm’s beginning to stress about his final exams (which only begin in November). He’s chewed the ends off all his stationery and regularly drools on his pillow (at least I hope it’s drool).

22:00   Fatty lit the candles and called the rest of us into his cubicle for the first ‘gathering’ of the term. After he had completed his traditional rituals (which get longer every time) he addressed us in his usual formal way. The gathering was ruined by a foul smell that somebody had brought along with them. Rambo accused Roger, Boggo accused Vern and Simon accused Mad Dog. Eventually, everyone just blamed Gecko, who was viciously doused in Fatty’s antiperspirant deodorant.

A highlights package:

Geoff Lawson confronted his parents who reluctantly told him everything. However, their knowledge of the actual events of that fateful day are sketchy and rely more on newspapers than any definite proof of what actually went on in the chapel minutes before Macarthur’s death. Geoff’s parents are convinced that it was suicide (he had no enemies), but they also said that Macarthur wasn’t depressive, weak-willed or easily
swayed and enjoyed his life at the school to the full. Neither was he impulsive or spontaneous and therefore it seems unlikely that he would have reacted to anything in the heat of the moment. Geoff’s folks had intended to tell him about his great-grandfather only once he had left the school.