THE RUDE AWAKENING
By
Sulette Gardiner
Published 2010 by Can Write Will Write at Smashwords
http://www.canwritewillwrite.com
Copyright © Sulette Gardiner 2010
Sulette Gardiner asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publisher.
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Contents
Chapter Three
Chapter Six
Chapter Nine
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Sixty
Epilogue
About the Author.
My Next Book.
THE RUDE AWAKENING
CHAPTER 1: HELEN
1983. July. Sunday
Helen and Little Phil are sitting in Helen’s lounge sharing a joint. They’re a strange looking couple: she tall and slim, he a dwarf. They have nothing in common except the wellbeing of a mutual friend and have just returned from Sterkfontein, a little town situated to the west of Johannesburg.
‘Whatever happened to her husband, Helen?’ asks Little Phil, passing the toke.
‘I don’t know. Why?’
‘Maybe he can snap her out of this hypnotic state.’
Helen takes a deep drag before replying. ‘I don’t think you’re going to find any joy there, my friend. She left him for another man, remember?’ She leans forward to return the joint.
Little Phil takes a last puff before putting it out. ‘Ten to one Rory gave her no choice. She never had options around him. He always manipulated her.’
Helen sits quietly for a long time, lost in thought. Then she smiles. ‘Maybe you’re right; we should find him. I’ll go with you; I used to visit them often. He’s a nice man, a genuine Prince Charming.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
She shakes her head. ‘I could look up the address. I think he owns an engineering company somewhere in Newtown.’
‘Do it now,’ he demands.
She gives an exasperated sigh before getting up to leave the room, returning with a telephone directory. She hands it to Little Phil before sitting down again.
‘What’s the name?’
‘Collins.’
He flips through the directory until he finds what he’s looking for then rips the whole page out, stuffing it into his jacket pocket.
She glares at him. ‘I might need to find a number on that page, you stupid idiot!’
He gets up, smiling mockingly, the same height as her now. ‘The book’s outdated, fool. Get a new one.’
‘I don’t have time to...’
He turns around to let himself out. ‘I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow morning.’
Monday.
Helen’s on her fifth cup of coffee by the time Little Phil arrives. He refuses when she offers him some, in a hurry to get going. She quickly drains her cup, rinsing it before they leave.
As they’re driving along she asks, ‘What will we say?’
He glances at her before shrugging. ‘I don’t know. Just ask him to visit her, I suppose.’
‘And what if he doesn’t want to?’
‘He must! She was his wife!’
‘Don’t get angry with me! She broke his heart, for God’s sake.’
He smiles apologetically before concentrating on the road again. ‘We could tell him the truth, tell him what Rory was really like; hold nothing back?’ he suggests.
Helen thinks for a while. ‘I do remember her being frightened of him...’
‘We don’t have a clue what that girl’s been through. The bit I’ve seen and heard...? I owe her for turning a blind eye.’
Helen looks down guiltily. ‘So do I.’
‘But they did care for each other in a strange way.’
‘If you say so.’
He glances at her, frowning. ‘He was besotted with her. She was his one and only soft spot, his downfall!’
‘I’m not disagreeing with you, Phil. I just never saw them together like you did.’
They drive along without talking for a while, each lost in their own thoughts; remembering. Finally, Helen breaks the silence, her tone sad.
‘And he was her downfall.’
Little Phil nods mutely.
After driving around, getting lost for more than an hour, they find the Collins Engineering Company and park outside in the street. Helen follows Little Phil up a staircase to the first floor. He knocks on the only door in the short passage before opening it. A young girl seated behind a reception counter smiles up in a friendly way.
‘Good morning, can I help you?’
‘We’re here to see Mr. Collins,’ Little Phil tells her.
‘I’ll see if he’s available.’
She gets up, going to a door situated behind her. Before opening it she looks over her shoulder. ‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘An old friend called Helen,’ says Little Phil with a smile. Helen nods anxiously.
The girl returns within a minute. ‘You can go through.’
She waits for them to enter before closing the door.
David Collins is talking on the phone and he gestures for them to sit down in the two chairs in front of his desk. They comply, waiting in silence while he finishes his conversation. ‘Sorry about that; business,’ he apologizes. Then he tells the girl at reception to hold all his calls; he is not to be disturbed.
He gives his visitors his undivided attention, looking at Helen first. ‘Nice to see you again,’ he smiles.
‘It’s good to see you too, David.’
She introduces him to Little Phil and they shake hands. David’s expression is puzzled. ‘So what can I do for you on this lovely morning?’
Helen looks down at her hands but before she can explain, Little Phil speaks. ‘I need to ask you two very personal questions before we state our case.’
David nods, looking intrigued. ‘Go ahead.’
‘First, are you presently involved with, or in love with anybody?’
David is clearly taken aback but responds evenly. ‘No.’
‘Second, how do you feel about your second wife? Or ex wife, if you divorced her.’
David goes pale. ‘She is still my wife.’
‘And why is that?’ asks Little Phil.
David looks out of the window, his face sad. ‘I just never got around to it.’
‘She needs help real fast!’ Helen suddenly interjects.
David looks at her, his eyes filled with pain. ‘So why come to me?’
‘Because maybe you can help her. You’re our last resource.’
He shifts uncomfortably before replying. ‘But she’s in love with that…uh… I can’t recall his name.’
Little Phil gets up and leans over the desk. ‘Was, David, was. That man is no longer...’
David interrupts angrily, leaning forward himself, his face close to Little Phil’s. ‘Don’t you dare tell me what was! I know what was! She walked out on our marriage for that bastard!’
Smiling coldly, Little Phil sits down. ‘David, I came all this way to tell you a story. It’s Suella’s story. Make up your mind afterwards, but first listen. You owe her that much.’
David shakes his head, his face turning red, eyes flashing. He’s clearly about to refuse when Helen leans forward, placing both her elbows on the desk, interlinking her fingers under her chin.
‘Please, please, David! If you don’t want to be involved once you know all the facts and details then I promise we’ll never trouble you or contact you again.’
He stares at her pleading expression, at the tears in her eyes. Then he relaxes back, folding his arms before sitting in silence for several minutes. Finally he sighs.
‘All right. Go ahead. But I’m not making any promises.’
CHAPTER 2: SUELLA
1969. October.
I glance at my wrist watch as I hear my dad leaving his bedroom, going to the bathroom. Spot on! ...he’s as regular as clockwork, six forty five am.
Tiptoeing across the passage to my parents’ room, I go to my dad’s side of the bed. Lifting the pillow to find his wallet, I quickly remove half of the small change before carefully replacing it. Then I quietly rush back to my own room, dropping the money into my school bag just as I hear my dad’s footsteps approaching down the passage. Just in time, not a moment too soon. Whew, that was close! Now for the regular breakfast routine.
‘Good morning,’ I say as I sit down at the kitchen table. My mom places a bowl of steaming oats in front of me. My two sisters, Patty and Janine, are already leaving for school. They’re the goody goodies, never in trouble, always obedient.
‘Suella, go and open the garage door for me,’ my dad calls down the passage. Being the eldest I always end up doing these effing menial jobs. Do this, do that; it totally freaks me out!
Of course I only think this. To openly refuse, or to cuss, would earn me a hiding and I’d be grounded for several weeks. I do use dirty words when hanging out with my friends, though. To do so is perceived to be totally “with it” in our crowd. And let me not forget our African maid! I love to shock her, just to see the absolutely disgusted look she gives me. Of course she never says a word because to do so would be disrespectful. I’m white after all.
I think that bad words are made so by our minds. I once swore at a Greek boy, new in our country, knowing for a fact that he couldn’t understand one word of English. To him the worst word I could spew forth meant nothing at all. I did this just to test my theory and wasn’t disappointed.
My dad passes me on the garden path as I return to the house. ‘You’re late. Would you like me to run you to school?’ he offers.
‘No thanks, I still have a few things to do.’ My heart pounds as I decline. I wait until his car pulls away before closing the door, returning to my bedroom where I sling my school bag over my shoulder. I do this just in case my mom unexpectedly appears. She has a habit of doing exactly that when I least expect it. Although I’ve outwitted her often, I’ve also failed regularly.
After making sure that nobody’s nearby, I return to the front door and open it. ‘Goodbye!’ I call out before closing it loudly. The trick is to let my mom think I’ve left while I’m still inside the house. Then I sneak back to my bedroom, hurriedly push my schoolbag under my bed, and slip in beside it. I pull the blankets down to hang over the side, hiding me. Rusty springs piercing the old mattress nearly touch my face. I wrinkle my nose in disgust because it smells of urine and illness. My grandmother died on this bed two years ago. I really miss her because she was always on my side, getting me out of trouble no matter what I did.
Evenly paced footsteps come down the passage and enter my room. An old pair of red slippers appear. One has a large hole in it from which a black toe peeps. I try changing to a more comfortable position, getting stabbed in the face by a spring... Ouch! Goddamn it!
I lie dead still, breathing shallowly and quietly. A few minutes later, more steps approach, fast and furious. I go through this whole rigmarole each time I bunk school so I know the regular steps well by now.
I get a glimpse of my mom’s smart leather court shoes as they appear next to my bed. ‘I want you to wash the kitchen curtains today, Betty. I also want all the bedding changed.’
The red slippers turn away from me, the feet doing a little curtsey. ‘Yes madam.’ Betty’s tone is humble and respectful. It has to be or she risks instant dismissal.
My mom’s voice drones on and on as the chores pile up and I get lost in my thoughts, as I tend to do when bored.
All white people in South Africa have servants, even the poorest of the poor. Black people are perceived to be lower than whites under the apartheid system. They’re slaves to be used, working for a pittance, and of course let me not forget goodwill. To fall out of favor is not a good thing. Betty clings to her job because she has six children. Her husband works at the mines and resides in a hostel built for workers such as him. I’ve heard that they’re all squashed into little rooms so the police can control them.
Betty and her husband rarely see each other or their family; they all reside in different locations. These are areas where the government has placed them, the black people or “kaffirs”. This is how we refer to them when talking about them. We never discuss them by name and especially not by their African names, which we can’t pronounce anyway... yet we call our pets by name?
This greatly confuses me because the church teaches that animals do not have a spirit. Does this mean the blacks are lower than animals? But they look like us except for their color, hair and noses. And of course their lips are thicker. “Tire lips”, as the whites joke, mocking them.
I tend to lose track in this confusion of mine. To get back to my story—some relative or neighbor is taking care of Betty’s children. Where we have identification cards, they have to carry a pass book at all times. An alarm goes off at a certain time each evening when all the blacks have to be off the streets. Husbands and children are not allowed to visit in white areas...it’s been whispered that some of them did so in the past; the police promptly removed the husbands straight to jail and the children were never seen again.
Betty has one week-end per month off, which can be cancelled without notice. This happens only if the madam, my mom, has to entertain unexpected visitors... how the hell Betty and her husband managed to conceive so many frigging children is beyond me. I mean, they hardly see each other!
We’re regular church goers where we are taught that God’s son, Jesus, was a white man. The Bible somewhere proclaims that people with darker skins are this way because they were born to be slaves, so what does not make sense to me is—why is their blood red like ours? Shouldn’t they have black blood? We have many pictures of Jesus. His skin is lily white, His hair auburn and He has beautiful blue eyes. I must admit that to me He looks like a pathetic, pale and very skinny little man. I cannot imagine a God looking this helpless!
Because I love reading, I frequent the library where I found a book on people of the world. If Jesus lived in Israel and He was a Jew, then how the hell could He have been milky white with blue eyes? This book clearly states that those people are very dark. They’d definitely be classed as non-whites here. I also think that because they had no electricity in those days, He as a carpenter should have been muscular and well built. He had to chop the trees down and work manually, for heaven’s sake!
When I questioned my mom about this, she smacked my face. I’m not to refer to Jesus as a kaffir, she told me. The black people also believe in Jesus and God, even though He’s white. Yet the word “kaffir” means unbeliever. I know because I made a point of looking it up in the dictionary. How they can believe in our white God is a complete mystery to me; if I was in their position, I would’ve been cursing Him!
Or maybe they only believe so as to not get into trouble ...or do they somehow know that He was a non-white, like them?
We are told that the blacks are slow and stupid, yet they can speak Afrikaans and English nearly fluently, although most of them are illiterate. And that’s not even counting their own languages, which we neither speak nor understand.
I’m extremely uncomfortable with this whole situation, feeling very sorry for these people. I thank Jesus daily for my white skin. I sometimes steal things for Betty to take home to her children. We have to be very careful because if caught, she could get into serious trouble. This is another question of mine—I steal yet she gets into trouble...?
At last my mom’s feet disappear, snapping me back to reality. She works in Johannesburg for the receiver of revenue and as she leaves for work, the front door closes softly behind her.
Betty starts making my bed and the red slippers are once again facing my way. I tickle her toe while at the same time hissing like a snake. Black people are petrified of reptiles and my mom says this is because they’re baboons. We saw a locally produced film where a monkey picked up a rock to find a snake curled up there. It dropped the rock back onto the snake and fainted from fright, only to wake up to do it again and again. I found this hilarious but somehow cannot see people like Betty as baboons. I find they are gentle and loving, and some I find awesomely beautiful. This I keep to myself because if I say it out loud, I’ll get my face smacked or worse!
‘Hau!’ shrieks Betty, jumping away from the bed.
I quickly crawl out. ‘Good morning, Betty,’ I say, giving her a naughty grin.
‘Suella, why are you not at school? I can lose job and we’ll get plenty trouble if madam finds out,’ she exclaims, her kind face creased with concern.
‘If you don’t tell, I won’t. What can school teach me that I don’t already know?’ I remove a packet of cigarettes from under my pillow and light one up. ‘I’m fifteen years old and passed standard eight.’ I exhale, blowing smoke into her face.
In South Africa, if you have white skin you’re guaranteed a good job with or without an education. But I’m going to try and finish high school even though I hate every second I spend there. How I’m going to achieve this I still have to think about, because I regularly bunk school. My grades are not good because I barely do enough to scrape through.
I place my smoke on the dressing table and slip out of my school uniform, twirling around in the nude, my long auburn hair flying wildly. ‘I have a nice body, a nice face and all the damn education I need,’ I sing mockingly. ‘And I’m white,’ I gleefully add.
Betty shakes her head while removing the cigarette to prevent a burn. This is another thing that I find mighty strange. I burn the furniture and she gets into trouble? She even gets into trouble when my mom smells my cigarette smoke. It’s her duty to prevent me from doing things I shouldn’t be doing... but this can’t be because I’m white and she’s a mere servant?
These double standards boggle my mind. I try my best to keep her out of trouble and don’t normally light up in the house. Even though my dad smokes, my mom always seems to know when I do it.
Opening my wardrobe, I pull out blue denim jeans, a pink midriff top and leather sandals from my stash of “naughty” attire hidden behind my “nice” clothes. I hold my breath while Betty zips me up. I wear my jeans very tight, ignoring the fact that I can’t sit down or breathe properly the entire time they’re on. When I know in advance that I’m going to be in them for an extra long time, I have the zipper sewn up by my friends. Of course I can’t then go to the toilet but at least I’m sexy, looking good! The secret is not to drink much before and during these episodes.
I only manage to buy these stunning outfits because when the church sends me home with forms to collect donations, I pinch a few extra when the minister’s not looking. I then go from door to door, day after day, making people feel guilty. I gently tell them that Jesus loves them, that they’re blessed with all they have; sincerely pleading for the poor and downtrodden... which is me, of course! This never fails.
And thank God, my mom’s not a housewife, so never looks inside my wardrobe... Betty does all that and she would never tell on me.
I quickly put on the rest, sitting uncomfortably at the dressing table to apply my make up thickly, eyelashes and all. Once this is done to my satisfaction, I retrieve the stolen loot from my school bag, counting it. Damn! Only two rand and twenty cents. I can’t steal much because my dad would notice. I’ve been doing this for a long time and have never been caught yet.
I toss it loosely into a little handbag, along with my cigarettes and cosmetics. Betty watches in morbid fascination. I sometimes wonder what she makes of us white people. I’ve questioned her but she won’t tell.
She retrieves my uniform from the floor and we leave the room together. She’s shaking her head, mumbling in her own language. She could get fired for what I’m doing but I won’t be late because I owe her big time.
My dad’s a week-end alcoholic and my parents regularly have violent fights at these times. Because I can’t handle this, I always go to sleep under Betty’s high bed. It’s elevated by several bricks to keep the “tokolosh” away. This is a very short evil spirit that the blacks staunchly believe in. Betty always offers to share her bed with me because she fears for my life. But I refuse, because while my parents wouldn’t be angry if I slept with the spirit, evil or not, sleeping with a black person is taboo. I don’t want to get her into trouble and much prefer sleeping with a quiet evil spirit than with all the effing arguments and fights taking place inside my house!
My parents also have the bad habit of making me pick sides and this makes me very uncomfortable because no matter how I choose, I’m in frigging trouble!
I close the front door softly behind me; quickly and nervously walking down the garden path. We have a very nosy neighbor, Mrs. Black, who always seems to know what’s happening in our street. Between us we’ve nicknamed her “the newspaper”. Even my mom calls her this.
At the gate I peep around but see nobody, so quickly run to the house next door. My best friend Helen lives here and their doors are never locked.
Quietly slipping into her bedroom, I find her still asleep. I pull the pillow from under her head. ‘Come on lazybones, wake up.’ She groans before covering her head with the blanket.
I sit down next to her, gently rocking the bed.
‘Stop it, you stupid cow!’ she protests, peeping over the blanket’s edge.
‘Come on Helen, we have a lot to do today.’
She sits up, stretching and yawning. ‘Do you have any cigarettes?’ she asks, rubbing her eyes.
I light one and pass it to her.
‘I’ve only just fallen asleep. Did you have to come and cause a disturbance at this ungodly hour? My head feels like an effing parrot cage,’ she says.
‘Stop moaning. I don’t have every day free like you to mess around with. Get dressed, let’s go!’ I stand there impatiently while she yawns and stretches again. ‘First we’re going to Jimmy’s place. From there we’re off to see a movie. After that it’s Jan’s place. And then I have to move very fast to get into my uniform so I can “return from school on time.”’
‘Got any money?’ she enquires lazily.
‘Yeah, but not much.’
‘I did quite well last night, only two and I’m thirty bucks ahead,’ she brags, throwing the blanket back and jumping up. She’s naked; her voluptuous thirteen-year-old body passing for twenty. Bending down, she retrieves jeans and a see-through top from under the bed. Just then her dad walks into the room, his eyes jumping to her naked breasts.
‘Good morning,’ he says pleasantly.
‘Get the hell out of here!’ his daughter shrieks, struggling into her clothes, her face red.
‘Don’t speak to your father like that,’ he warns.
‘Well, what do you want?’
‘I need twenty bucks, fast!’ he demands, stepping closer.
‘I’ve no money and even if I had, you wouldn’t see a damn’ cent! Why don’t you ask your drunken gambling friends?’ she spits.
He slaps her, her head jerking back. ‘I heard them coming in last night! I heard the action! Where’s the money?’
My heart’s racing. ‘Please, Mr. Perone, don’t hit Helen.’
‘Shut your trap and get the hell out of my house!’ he orders before grabbing Helen by the arm, twisting it painfully behind her back.
‘In my left shoe under the bed!’ she gasps, one side of her face turning white, the other red where he hit her.
He lets go and retrieves what he came for. ‘Thank you, sweetheart, you’re still daddy’s favorite girl.’ He’s smiling broadly; no trace of the anger he displayed only seconds ago. Then he swings around, leaving the room without saying another word.
‘Damn him! I hope he dies a slow death where I can watch!’ Helen breathes out in frustration while rubbing her shoulder.
She goes to the window and removes a ten rand note stuck with tape to a corner hidden by the curtain. ‘Let’s get out of here before the rat smells my last ten bucks,’ she whispers, tiptoeing out of the room with me following close behind. She slams the front door loudly behind us, causing the whole frame to shake... noisy bitch!
This is a sure way to attract the attention of “the newspaper”! But then again, if I was in Helen’s position, I would’ve probably done the same. I just hope the nosy old bat is on the toilet or somewhere else…
Helen goes to the gate first to look around. ‘It’s clear,’ she calls softly over her shoulder. We run very fast to the corner of our street, where it connects with the main road. Then we slow down, walking at a relaxed pace.
‘Why don’t you report your old man to the authorities?’ I suggest.
She’s horrified. ‘Hell no, they’d send me away where I’d have to return to school!’
I look at her wistfully. ‘I’d give ten years of my life if I could be eighteen this very moment with my education complete. I want a job that takes me all over the world.’
Helen shrugs. ‘If you want to leave, why not just go? I have many friends in Hillbrow who would help you find a job. I mean, you’re nearly sixteen; what the hell’s the matter with you? If I was your age, my old man would never see me again!’
It sounds good but I’m frightened. Home might not be heaven but at least I have a plate of food and a bed.
Four blocks down we turn into a narrow back street, entering the yard of a dilapidated house. There are several rooms in the back yard, Jimmy and his mom sharing one. We quietly slip inside, finding our friends, Glen, Jeanette, Jan and Jimmy, in a stupor, relaxing on a large unmade bed.
‘They’re tripping out,’ whispers Helen.
I find a bottle of benzene next to the bed and look around for rags to soak, only finding two socks... yuck! I hope these are clean!
We join our friends, pushing and shoving, promptly soaking and sniffing. Nearby a dog’s barking, echoing repeatedly in my drug-soaked brain. I see five of Helen, her face changing shape. Suddenly there’s movement next to me... Jimmy’s laughing, jerking his right leg with each guffaw. I sniff deeply once again... slipping away, giggling at Helen’s funny face, the barking vibrating near and far...
How long I lie there, I don’t know. Suddenly the door shoots open and Jimmy’s mom appears, looking grossly deformed with many heads. I burst out laughing. ‘Get out! Get out!’ she screams. We all jump up and stumble through the door. Then she invites her gentleman friend in, slamming the door behind them.
‘We better sit here until we can see straight,’ Jimmy suggests, grinning lopsidedly. We collapse onto the lawn, waiting for the double vision and echoes to subside.
‘I believe benzene eats one’s brain cells away,’ I remark with a giggle.
‘Bullshit! Do I look brainless to you?’ says Jimmy.
Helen cocks her head at him. ‘Depends on how and when we look at you. While we’re tripping, you’re cool but right now, I don’t know...’
Everybody laughs and Jimmy throws a stone at her.
‘Shall we move on to my place?’ Jan suggests, at last finding her voice.
As we’re walking along Helen suddenly lurches. ‘My poor brainless head,’ she groans. We all follow suit, grabbing our heads before collapsing with laughter.
At our destination we wait while Jan goes inside to check whether the coast is clear. A few minutes later she re-appears on the veranda. ‘OK guys, nobody’s home, pile in.’
We scramble up the steps, straight to Jan’s bedroom. She lifts the mattress, retrieving a plastic bag of dagga, the common name for marijuana in South Africa. ‘My brother reckons this is straight from Zululand,’ she informs us, handing it to Jimmy.
He opens the bag and sniffs. ‘Yes it’s good stuff,’ he says, sitting down to roll joints. He lights up, dragging deeply before passing it to me. They never give up, I don’t do this!
‘No thanks,’ I decline, passing it to Helen.
‘Come on, don’t be a wet,’ urges Tony. I pull a face at him while passing a second joint to Jan.
The reason I don’t smoke dagga is because it’s highly addictive, or so I’ve been told by my parents. There’s no way I’m becoming a drug addict! Of course they don’t know about the benzene, but I’ve never had a craving for that. I only use it because the whole gang does.
‘Are we still going to see a movie?’ I ask. It’s been a long while and I’m getting impatient.
‘Count us out,’ says Tony, getting up and pulling Helen to her feet. They leave the room, my friend giggling loudly down the passage before a door slams, cutting off all sound. The rest of us sit quietly for a while before Glen and Jan leave the room as well.
Then Jimmy and Jeanette lie down. He kisses her passionately, breaking off to place what’s left of a joint in the ashtray next to the bed before slipping his hands under her blouse. I sigh deeply before getting up, leaving the room and the house.
I slowly walk home. Damn them to hell! Another wasted day! Totally unreliable!
CHAPTER 4.
November.
I’m relaxing in the bath when my sister bangs loudly on the door. ‘Sharon’s here!’ she calls.
‘Tell her to join me.’
The door swings open and an attractive girl with short curly blonde hair enters. She sits down on the closed toilet seat, her face a picture of distress. ‘Miss Claasen was enquiring about you today. I told her that you had another bout of tonsillitis; that you’re very ill,’ she tells me.
‘Did she believe you?’
She shrugs. ‘For your sake, I hope so.’
This calls for another letter from my parents, explaining my absence. My friends and I get several parents’ signatures on a blank sheet of paper, in pencil, up to a certain point. Then I ask one of my parents to sign it. Before approaching them I break the point off the pencil, carefully re-inserting it. I of course have a pen handy for just such an emergency. I spin a yarn about a lucky draw or having one’s personality explained through your signature and so forth. Of course the pencil point breaks when they sign, so I quickly pull out my magic pen and another day is saved.
After this I go to my bedroom, rubbing out all the other signatures and carefully writing a letter to my teacher. I can forge my parents’ handwriting perfectly, but a signature would be pushing it. My friends and I stick to the story of the moment, never using the same strategy twice. I’m proud to say that I’m the one thinking up all these winning tall tales. I’m very creative when it comes to planning and living my life. This is a clever trick which has never failed me yet.
My friend pulls me back from my thoughts. ‘Are you going to the opening of the new club tonight?’
I frown. ‘If you can convince my mom that it’s a decent youth centre.’
‘Don’t stress, let me do the asking,’ she suggests, getting up, her blue eyes wide with innocence. She winks at me before leaving. With that look, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. She’s a good girl, or so my parents think; she often helps me get out of the house when I fail to do so on my own.
I clench my fists while waiting, closing my eyes tightly, praying softly and urgently to Jesus... please let me go!
It’s not long before the bathroom door swings open again. Sharon’s head pops around. ‘You can go but you must be home by eleven sharp,’ she excitedly informs me.
I jump out of the bath with a loud splash, softly whooping. She follows me down the passage to my bedroom, closing the door behind her. I drop the towel and open my wardrobe. ‘What shall I wear?’ I ponder.
Together we pull my “nice” clothes aside to find my hidden stash. My friend pulls out a tiny stretch top, together with bright pink bell bottoms, the very latest craze. I retrieve my pink dolly rockers, a modern flat shoe, after which I pull out a short tent dress. I look at Sharon questioningly. She shakes her head. This is high fashion of the moment. Thanks to Mary Quant and Twiggy as role models, we all strive to be beautiful and skinny, obeying and following like slaves. It’s the getting thin part that’s very hard for me. I love my food! Returning from school, I sometimes have to finish the oats I left at breakfast because my parents don’t believe in wasting food. It’s not nice, but when my stomach screams, I obey.
On Sundays we eat like royalty; three red meats, chicken and every single vegetable in season. Plus roast potatoes, rice and gravy. And let me not forget the salads! After that we have canned fruit, jelly and custard, or ice-cream. Wonderful!
What on earth am I thinking about? ...thin is in!
‘See you at my place,’ my friend says over her shoulder as she leaves, my clothes clutched tightly under her arm.
I quickly put on a “nice” pale blue dress with matching sandals, tying my long hair up into a neat ponytail. Then I go to the kitchen where my mom’s busy preparing dinner. ‘Is it OK if I leave now? Sharon’s invited me to dine with them,’ I say, chancing my luck.
‘Ok, but be home at eleven sharp,’ she sternly agrees. I run to fetch my handbag from my bedroom.
Once outside, I stop in front of Helen’s house, whistling loudly. My friend appears on the veranda and looks at me mockingly. ‘Rock me gently, it’s off to the Sunday School picnic, I see!’
I ignore the barb. ‘Are you coming to the opening of the new club?’
‘Do birds fly? I’ll meet you in the parking lot.’
I walk briskly to Sharon’s home, which is situated in a “better” area. The main road in our suburb separates the “better” part from the “bad” section... like the wrong side of the tracks I read about in American novels.
I find her dad reading the newspaper in the lounge when I arrive. He peeps over the pages at me. ‘Where are the beauties off to tonight? I see many broken hearts,’ he teases. I smile at him, shrugging my shoulders, my face turning red. Then I swing around to go to my friend’s bedroom. I think her dad’s great but he makes me uncomfortable. I’m not familiar with a loving dad. No, let me rephrase that, I’m not familiar with a dad who loves his children all the time. I’m sure my dad loves me, just as I know that he hates me at times. It’s a see-saw situation but it’s familiar and I have this balancing act under control.
Sharon’s sitting at the dressing table, already applying her make-up. I put a record on the turntable in the corner; changing my outfit to the loud music of the Beatles telling me “It’s a hard day’s night”. I hold my breath while my friend zips me up. Fortunately the bell bottoms have a little more space and do not call for any sewing. Then I slip the tiny top over my head and it clings to my body like a second skin. Lastly I slide into my dolly rockers.
Sharon moves over on the small stool, sharing the mirror with me. Once my make up’s done, I scoop up several bangles lying around, slipping them onto my arms where they jingle with each movement. We both spray a ridiculous amount of perfume in all the right spots.
My friend gets up, watching enviously when I swing around to loosen my ponytail. I lean forward, brushing my hair from the base of my scalp, downwards.
‘It’s not fair,’ she mutters when I straighten up, flicking it all back to hang thick and wild, nearly touching my bottom. She believes that her hair’s too curly, that it takes ages to grow. My opinion? She has no patience!
I get up and critically study my reflection in the mirror. What I see is not too bad but nothing close to Twiggy... Damn, I’ll have to watch my diet!
‘I’m ready,’ I say at last.
Her dad whistles appreciatively when we enter the lounge. ‘Going my way?’ Her mom’s smiling proudly at us. She thinks Sharon is the most beautiful thing in the world and frequently tells her so. She also likes the modern clothes that she allows her daughter to wear. I can’t recall my mom ever telling me I’m beautiful. Rather the opposite. Her comment is: if a baboon wears a golden ring, it still remains an ugly thing. She doesn’t mean harm because when she says it, her eyes are soft and smiling. It’s at times like these that I know she loves me. That’s the way things are said and done on the other side of the track.
Sharon’s dad hands her a ten rand note, humorously reminding her that her curfew is twelve-midnight. He always says it like this, twice, making sure she gets the message.
It’s already dusk when we leave, walking slowly to our suburb’s only shopping centre. The club is situated on the first floor. We go to the parking lot where crowds of teenagers are hanging around, talking and laughing. Jimmy whistles loudly to attract our attention. We join him and Helen.
‘How much is the entrance fee?’ Sharon wants to know.
‘Three whole rand,’ he says.
Shortly Jan and Tony join us. ‘Well, let’s go on in,’ Helen suggests, turning towards the steps leading up to the club. One of my friends will cover for me and I will repay them after my next trip to my dad’s wallet. I don’t often get pocket money and when I do, it’s very little.
At the door an attractive man with long dark hair is leaning against the wall. He’s staring intently at me while we wait our turn in the queue. When it’s our turn to pay, he smiles. ‘Welcome to Luke’s. No charge tonight.’
My friends file through the security gate which is opened by the cashier pushing a button. I’m the last one to enter. Suddenly the gate’s swinging shut and I’m still on the outside. The man’s grabbing my arm, pulling me towards him... My nose nearly touches his chin when I look up at him. ‘My name’s Rory,’ he says.
I jerk my arm free, my face turning red. ‘I’m here with my friends!’ I snap, stepping back.
He smiles at me. ‘I like you and I always get what I like.’
He signals the cashier to open up and I can feel his eyes burning into my back as I walk away. My heart’s jumping nervously because I’m secretly very shy. I don’t make new friends easily.
Once inside, I decide to stay in one spot until my eyes adjust to the dim lighting. After a while I see my friends sitting at a table cluttered with beer bottles, on the far side of the club. I pass the dance floor, situated in the centre of the large warehouse. A huge mirror ball is hanging from the ceiling, reflecting colors from strategically placed light fittings. To the left, there’s a small stage where a rock band is performing live; to the right, a long bar. There are couches and coffee tables strewn throughout the place. I have to sit on Tony’s lap because there are no more seats available.
‘Who was that at the door? He’s panting hot for you,’ Helen teases.
I feel my face burn, grateful for the lack of light. ‘Some Rory or other.’
She doesn’t let it go. ‘What’re you saving it for? Do you think Prince Charming is going to come along and treat you like a princess just because you’re a virgin? Wake up and smell the coffee, girlfriend! We’re heading towards the seventies.’ She’s using what I call her voice of wisdom; thirteen years old and she thinks she knows it all? I hate that tone of hers, talking down at me like I’m stupid!
‘Let her be, let her dream. We’ll stick around to pick up the pieces,’ says Jan, winking at me.
There’s no malice or false wisdom here, so I wink back.
Tony pushes me off his lap, pulling me towards the dance floor. ‘Don’t listen to them. They’re jealous. Let’s dance,’ he says.
The guys are always nice to me, all of them. It’s the girls who freak me out at times!
The next number is a slow love ballad. Someone taps Tony on the shoulder just as he’s pulling me closer. It’s Rory, the guy from the door. ‘Please?’ he requests politely. My friend steps back and bows mockingly, then leaves the dance floor.
Rory immediately pulls me into his body, dropping his hands to cover my buttocks. I struggle against him. ‘Relax,’ he orders. I nervously glance up at him when he brushes his lips across my forehead. My heart’s thumping, my hands clammy. I’m way out of my league here; this is no schoolboy who I can control.
‘I lost my heart the minute I saw you in the parking lot. What’s your name?’ he murmurs, mouth close to my ear.
I nervously clear my throat. ‘Suella; now let me go or else I’ll complain to management.’
He throws back his head, laughing loudly. Once he catches his breath he says, ‘I am the management, this club belongs to me. Any problems you have with me, I can sort out immediately.’
He’s still holding me way too tight and close. ‘That doesn’t give you the right to paw me,’ I snap, at last losing my temper.
Immediately he lets go, taking my hand instead. ‘Ok I won’t, let me buy you a drink.’
He leads me towards the bar, making it hard for me to refuse without causing a scene.
CHAPTER 5
‘What’ll it be?’ he asks once we’re seated.
I order the first thing that comes to mind. ‘Martini.’ Not that I know what an effing martini is; it’s just what a girl in the latest James Bond movie ordered.
We sit in silence, sipping at our drinks, watching people rotate on the dance floor. Three drinks later he takes my hand and kisses it. ‘Suella, I like you. You’re one sexy lady.’
I’m feeling relaxed and silly/happy, so at last I smile at him.
‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
None of your damn business! ‘I’m much too young to even consider something like that. I aim to travel, see the world before I settle down,’ I tell him.
He smiles. ‘So you’re an ambitious girl?’
I nod in agreement. After this we dance a few more times and he does not pull me too close.
Time flies by and before I know it, I have to leave. It’s curfew time! He frowns at me, disappointed. ‘Aw, come on, you’re kidding? The night’s young and I wanted to treat you to another club once I’m off duty.’
‘I really should go but if I can find a phone I might, and I mean just might, be able to stay a little longer,’ I say, in my newly discovered, brave and very alcoholic daze. Wow! No wonder my dad took to alcohol!
Rory leads me through the dim noisy club to his office. Once inside he points to a phone and pretends to be busy with something else on the other side of the room, but he’s very obviously listening to the conversation I’m having with my now half-cut father.
‘Hi Dad, we’re still at the youth centre. Sharon and I are assisting with the cashing up. Can I sleep over at her place tonight?’
The lie slips out easily while I watch Rory move papers around on his desk. My dad agrees but drunkenly cautions me to be home before ten the following morning. I can hear my mom disagreeing in the background. This happens on a regular basis when my dad drinks. To spite my mom, he always does the opposite of what she wants. Another reason for a damn fight and I’m very glad I don’t have to go home tonight. I replace the receiver and smile victoriously at Rory. ‘OK buster, I’ll take you up on that invitation!’
He comes over, pulling me close to hug me. ‘How old are you?’
‘Nearly sixteen, and you?’ I shoot back, the drink making me brave.
‘Ouch! I’m a young twenty eight. And what did you mean by youth club? This is a nightclub where the big bad wolf can eat you,’ he teases.
‘I certainly couldn’t tell my dad that. He would’ve been here to pick me up in a flash,’ I explain with a giggle.
We leave the office, returning to the bar to drink and talk.
Shortly before Sharon has to leave, I pull her off the dance floor and whisper in her ear. ‘I’m sleeping over at your place tonight.’ She nods before swinging back round. ‘And I’m going somewhere else with Rory after this. I should be back around three, so leave the window open,’ I add.
She freezes before retracing her steps. ‘You better be careful! That guy’s older and tough. There will be nobody to look out for you,’ she warns.
I try to put her at ease. ‘Don’t worry. We had a long chat. He’s actually very sweet, I’ll be fine.’
She regards me with a concerned expression for a while before returning to the dance floor, leaving me feeling unsure and apprehensive. I quickly shrug this aside before returning to Rory.
After the club closes I help Rory cash up, lining bank bags along the bar counter. Once all the money has been counted, checked and packed, he leans back into his bar stool. ‘You deserve a drink. I’ll mix you a special, my very own recipe,’ he says, smiling lazily. I nod, smiling back at him.
He slips through swinging doors to the other side of the bar counter and mixes a concoction with his back towards me. Shortly he hands me a medium sized glass filled with a thick purple liquid called Lamoure something or other. I don’t quite catch the full name. My dad drinks brandy and coke. That’s it. No fancy drinks like this for him.
I pretend to know what it is, smiling when I accept my strange looking drink. Taking a small sip I find that I like it. It’s surprisingly tasty.
I go to the closest couch, lazily stretching out and sipping my drink. ‘This is absolutely divine,’ I say dreamily. I feel light headed and good, like I’ve become a feather, like I’m floating...
I feel more than see him sit down. His sudden weight on the couch makes me “the feather” bounce, gently lifting off. Oops, I nearly dropped my glass! He takes it from me, steadying me. I giggle. ‘I feel wonderful,’ I breathe softly...
I “the feather” gently return to the couch, opening my eyes with great difficulty, looking into his. He has black eyes… Suddenly he’s on top of me, pinning me down. His lips are parting mine, his tongue probing. I want to put my arms around him...
Now I’m heavy, a dead weight. What happened to I “the feather”? He’s kissing my nipples…where’s my top? I try lifting my arms to push him away. ‘No, don’t do this!’ I cry. But he doesn’t stop and I try rolling off the couch… Can’t move… can’t breathe… his hands are everywhere! What’s happening to me?
I’m naked…? He’s lying on top of me, his bare skin sweaty against mine. He moves back, cool air playing over my skin. I scream out in agony when a sudden, sharp burning pain tears through my abdomen. Even though I’m a dead weight, this sudden agony helps me nearly dislodge him.
‘It’s OK, it’s over now,’ he soothes in a whisper, as if from a distance, moving above me, invading my body and soul...
Relief floods through me, it’s over, he’s moving back. Tears run down my face… Roughly he turns me over...
I wake up with a jerk, my eyes shooting open. I’m in a large room judging by a ceiling high up. The lighting is dim, close to dark... I’m feeling weird...like I’m distanced from myself...my mouth’s dry, my tongue thick…
I’m pinned down, I can’t move!
My heartbeat increases with fear. Where the hell am I?
I hold my breath to listen... somebody’s breathing next to me!
I lift my head slowly and carefully, having to re-focus my eyes several times before all becomes clear. I’ve been sleeping with my head on Rory’s chest. His arms are wrapped around me, one of his legs draped over mine. He’s fast asleep; his black hair swept off his face with just a loose curl here and there resting on his forehead. He has well shaped eyebrows and long black eyelashes that nearly touch his cheeks. His nose is Roman shaped, nearly too big but suits his face. He has a full moustache and generous lips. A dimple in his chin, his lower face covered with dark stubble. His shoulders are muscular, his skin dark.
Maybe he’s tarred by the brush? This is how we refer to children conceived by a white and someone of a different color. But of course this cannot be; he owns a club in a white area.
His waist tapers down to... what on earth are we doing, both naked, on a couch? I try to recall the evening before, the last thing I remember is cashing up. What in God’s name happened?
I look around in panic; we’re still in the club!
Slowly, I lift his arm off my chest, carefully placing it on the couch beside him. Sitting up, I stifle a gasp as a sharp pain shoots through my vagina and abdomen... something’s terribly wrong with me! I hyperventilate in panic before carefully lifting his leg and crawling away. Fingers close around my wrist, pulling me back, and I fall down on top of him.
‘Where are you going?’ he wants to know, his eyes twinkling up into mine.
‘Let me go!’ I hiss.
‘Never,’ he replies firmly, his eyes now serious.
I feel my body break out in cold sweat. ‘Please let me go,’ I beg, a sob in my voice.
Then he does just that. I grab my handbag and clothes, running to the toilet where I quickly clean up. I’ve been raped! Me, the careful one who’s been saving it for marriage! I sit down on a rubbish bin, softly weeping into my hands.
This is how he finds me. He squats next to me. ‘I’m sorry. You’re a beautiful woman, I had too much to drink,’ he apologizes softly.
Then he leaves me alone.
After I pull myself together, he drives me to a corner near Sharon’s home. It’s close to dawn because the birds are already chirping. When I open the car door to get out, he grabs my wrist. ‘I want to see you at the club tonight,’ he orders. I jerk my arm free, jump out and run.
I knock on Sharon’s window. She opens immediately, pulling me up, assisting me through. ‘What the hell happened to you? I waited all night! I was worried sick! You could’ve been raped or worse!’
‘Aw come on, Sharon. You sound like my damn mother. Nothing happened to me, OK?’ I lie glibly, thinking: if only you knew!
She stares at me in silence for a while before hugging me. ‘Well I’m glad you’re home safe,’ she whispers softly before getting into bed.
So am I!
I manage to return home barely in time, once again dressed in my innocent blue outfit. Of course, I’m not the same. Everything’s the same but all has changed.
Is it obvious from the outside, I wonder? Will Betty and my mom notice a difference?
I need to forget, pretend this never happened. But each movement causes discomfort, reminding me all over again. He wants to see me at the club tonight? There’s no damn way I’m ever setting foot in that place again!
Oh my God! I could be pregnant! No! I can’t think about this now.
Later Sharon pops in so we can rehash the previous evening like we usually do. ‘I dig this new club. The band’s fantastic! I can’t wait to return tonight,’ she gushes.
‘It’s not bad but not what I like. I won’t be joining you,’ I tell her firmly.
She gapes at me in astonishment. ‘But the whole gang likes it. What the hell’s the matter with you? What happened between you and that Rory?’
‘It’s not him, I’m just sick of messing around. I think I’ll concentrate on my studies from now on.’ I’ve been too flippant; now she’s staring at me in horror.
After this, the conversation suddenly dries up, so my friend goes home. Then my mom pops into my room, wanting to know all about the new “youth centre”. I tell her it was very nice... If she only knew!
Once she leaves I drift into an uneasy slumber.
When I wake up Helen’s sitting on the chair next to my bed, staring down at me. ‘About damn time!’ she exclaims. ‘What crap is this? Sharon reckons you’re going to study now? No more clubbing?’
‘I’ve decided to do something with my life. No use talking the talk if I can’t walk the walk. I’m going to travel,’ I try to explain.
‘So you’re too good for us now?’ she says sarcastically.
I laugh. ‘You know that’s not true. You’ll always be my friend.’
‘It’s a sudden change of mind; what happened?’ she asks, scrutinizing me suspiciously.
I feel my face grow hot as I blush. Suddenly her face clears with understanding. ‘That guy fell for you like a ton of bricks. The first time is the worst. Just make sure you’re not pregnant,’ she advises.
‘You have a mind like an effing sewer; not everybody has hot pants like you!’ I burst out.
She gets up to leave, saying, ‘See you tonight,’ over her shoulder.
‘I’m not going out tonight!’ I hiss at her retreating back.
She swings round. ‘Don’t be so melodramatic. Sex is part of life. Relax and enjoy.’ She gives me a naughty grin before closing the door quietly behind her.
I bury my face in the pillow to cry, when my mom unexpectedly walks in. She looks concerned and sits down next to me. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’m not feeling well; my head’s aching,’ I fib through my tears.
She places her hand on my forehead. ‘No fever but I’ll fetch you a painkiller,’ she offers, getting up.
Shortly she’s back with two tablets and a glass of water. I sit up to down my medication while my mom efficiently tidies my bed.
‘Try and sleep now. I’m sure you’ll feel better when you wake up,’ she says before leaving. I stare up at the ceiling through my tears. I still can’t believe what happened to me. I can’t recall a thing that took place after we finished cashing up. How could such a very important piece of my life disappear like that?
I’m very confused as to why I only blacked out after Rory’s special drink. I was OK until then . Did he purposefully cause me to pass out...?
I wake up, finding to my surprise that it’s already morning. Midway through stretching, I freeze, remembering. I jump up, rushing to the bathroom where I take a long leisurely bath. Physically I feel better, but my mind is like a racetrack, flying around at an alarming pace.
After lunch I force myself to play a game of Monopoly with my dad and sisters to escape my thoughts. Halfway through the game Sharon walks in. She greets everybody pleasantly before staring expectantly at me.
‘Do you mind if I leave the game?’ I request politely. My dad takes this game seriously and he’s always the bank.