‘Wow!’ was all I could manage again, still savoring and storing away ‘the love of my life’.
‘Finally, this country has entered the modern era. You’ll be able to see things that are happening in other parts of the world as though they’re happening before your eyes. Will you watch the news with me, Kate? Learn about the world?’
‘Really? Are you really getting a television set? Mom’ll be so happy!’ I fell into my role of Mom’s champion as inevitably as a baby poops its pants, and it felt just as uncomfortable, even humiliating.
‘Humph. I’m sure she won’t be watching the news!’
I hated myself then; why hadn’t I agreed? ‘Yes! I’ll watch the news with you! Yes! I want to know what’s going on in the world! I want to be smart like my mum, so you’ll be proud of me!’ I racked my brains for some way to draw him back to me, to stop him from shutting me out and wanting to be alone.
‘Go to bed, Kate, or you’ll be tired in the morning.’
‘Yes, Daddy.’ But my legs wouldn’t work; sitting cross-legged on the cool tiles had given me pins and needles. I reached for the chair Dad was sitting on, and he reflexively grabbed my arm to steady me. A touch, his touch, big strong hairy hands that could make everything all right—I didn’t want him to let go. I thought about pretending I couldn’t walk, anything to make him have to care about me, hold me, touch me more. I did that a lot in those days—pretend, act, dramatize—because I had to; Dad just didn’t seem to notice me otherwise. Neither of us enjoyed those moments, so fake and pathetic, but I had no idea how to reach him otherwise. I didn’t want to ruin things further that night, though, so I let him press me away.
‘Go on, now.’
‘Good night, Daddy—Dad.’
My heavy heart made for leaden feet that didn’t want to take me back to bed. There were no tears for all the withdrawn arms and unspoken words, but a burning, a great desire for revenge against the one who was to blame for all the loneliness. Mom!
Instead of going down the passageway and back to bed, I slipped through the ‘formal lounge’, which was a shortcut through to the dining room, and on into the kitchen and the pantry cupboard, my place of solace. The formal lounge was ‘out of bounds’ for the family, reserved only for guests, and it held all of Mom’s prized possessions: antique tables; silk cushions; paintings; and hundreds of silver ornaments. The drawers of an antique chest were stuffed with silverware wrapped in newspaper, which Mom unpacked once a month to admire and for Evelyn to polish and shine. I usually helped Evelyn with the shining—a tedious job, and I never figured out how to prevent my fingerprints from smudging all over the very thing I was trying to leave blemish-free, but this was one of the jobs I had to do because of the troublesome me that I was. Punishment.
Passing the chest that night, I got an idea, a most delicious secret revenge idea. There were so many pieces of silver jammed together and never used in there, I decided to select a newspaper-wrapped parcel and very carefully hide it among the rest of the rubbish in the garbage bin. My heart beat ten times faster as I inched the drawer open and felt around for a parcel that was small enough not to leave an obvious gap. I felt sick, but assured myself that no-one would ever know except myself, and that Mom might never miss it. As the plastic swing lid of the bin fell shut, a wave of triumph cascaded through my body. I felt invincible and deserving of a reward—something delicious! I had in mind to eat a few buttermilk rusks, Ouma’s buttermilk rusks, one of my favorite treats. I liked to dip them in hot water, which made them all soft, comfortingly sweet and delicious. I only ever had them when I could sneak one without being spotted, as all the treats in the house were for the boys. Food was for the boys. They could have whatever they wanted whenever they wanted, but I had to ask first or just take what I got, which was very little. I didn’t dare ask for more, so I just took things when Mom wasn’t looking. Mom hated that. She once found me reaching for a piece of fruit without asking; her punishment was a bunch of rotten bananas bought just for me, which were kept until I’d eaten every last one. But that night I was in the pantry on my own, and not only were there rusks, but a box of Romany Creams lay tantalizingly within reach too, sadly unopened! Damn! I had to have one, immediately, so I carefully opened a hole in the bottom of the box before successfully nabbing a couple of chocolaty treats. I put the box back where I’d found it, on its bottom, hoping that when Mom opened it from the top, she’d never know. That was how I compensated myself for the yuck life thrown at me. It was a fifty-fifty gamble, though; I got caught as many times as my thievery went unnoticed. But whether I got caught or not was a minor detail in comparison to the wonderful feeling of having something sweet in my mouth, sweetness that went down into my belly, little interior hugs to myself.
I tiptoed back to bed. The French doors were shut, the moonlight shining down on an empty glass on the patio table.
When my head found my pillow, I rehearsed the adventure I’d just had, reveling in my good fortune for my special secret time alone with Dad. He’d mentioned my mum, said she was the love of his life. A television, too. And he’d touched me. I’d thrown away one of her precious pieces of silver and eaten her Romany Creams. And Mom would never know any of it. All mine!
Chapter Seven
I felt heavenly, seated high on a red plastic stool too high for my feet to touch the floor, wearing my going-out dress, and leaning on a shiny yellow counter-top peering through clear plastic windows that revealed rows of flavored ice-creams I’d never dreamed existed. Simon and Steven were bargaining with Dad: ‘Why can’t we have a cone and a shake? They’re not the same thing! Mom, tell him they’re not the same thing!’ I could understand the dilemma; what to choose was on my mind, too.
‘That’s it: chocolate milkshakes for everyone. That’s five chocolate milkshakes. No, wait, four chocolate milkshakes and a pineapple milkshake, please.’ Mom chose a pineapple milkshake because ‘pineapples are slimming’.
We were a happy family, out for a Saturday treat, sucking up every last drop of the deliciously cooling drink. Even Dad.
‘Stop slurping! That’s such a “common” thing to do,’—from Mom. This was the worst sort of crime, according to Mom, who’d rather have died than be considered ‘common’. Walking barefoot in public, open displays of affection between couples, and men in sleeveless tops—these were examples of common behavior to be avoided at all costs. Basically, anything that let the world know someone was relaxed, at ease and without a care was ‘common’. ‘Decent’ folk walked with their backs straight, sat with their backs straight, and never relaxed for a second in public. That was why we were always so dressed up.
‘It’s just Welkom, for God’s sake!’ Dad had said, countering Mom’s instructions that we wear our best outfits, put aside for special occasions.
‘You may care nothing about first impressions, Ian, but anyone with an iota of class knows how important they are.’
‘Who the hell is going to give a damn who we are? Do you think you’re royalty or something?’
But we’d all dressed up anyway, even Dad.
Mom’s comment left us all staring at our glasses, wishing for more, or at least access to the very last drop we still had in the bottom of the glass. Simon broke the silence with another slurp followed by a burp, wiping his mouth with the seam of