“Then I applied for this night watchman’s job and was lucky enough to get it. Any more of those delicious biscuits?”
She pushed the packet across to him, downed her tea, and stood up to begin work. “And are you happy here, my brother?” she said.
“Not really, Patience,” he replied through a mouthful of biscuit. The English aren’t very friendly, are they?”
“No, not very. They can be sarcastic. They look down on me because I’m black.”
“Even your husband?”
“He’s the worst, Umqobompunzi, the very worst.”
“Mr Grommet?”
“He is a pig, that one.”
“Ingulube.”
“Yebo!” She laughed, and her entire body responded. You still remember the words I taught you when you were a little boy?”
“Of course I do Pay... Nothando. You taught me the names of the animals, all the totems, and you taught me the greetings...”
“Uvuke njani, Duiker?”
“Ngivukile, Mama. Ngingabuza wena?”
“Ngivukile.” She laughed again and took Duiker’s face in her hands which smelt faintly, and pleasantly, of camphor cream. “What the hell are we doing here Duiker? Let’s go home.”
Their long-term plan was to return home; their short-term plan was to give notice at the factory - a week was sufficient - and then go on a cycling tour of England and the flatter countries of Europe.
What about Fred Grommet Esquire? Nothando didn’t think he’d even notice her absence. In recent months he’d been getting his own beers from the fridge, and his own tins of Ambrosia rice pudding from the grocery cupboard. Baked beans on toast was too much of an effort for Fred; besides, it made him fart like a pony. Duiker suggested that they put a curse on the Englishman. Nothando wasn’t so sure. Curses had a habit of rebounding. They discussed the matter over a cup of tea and a Cape apple each - Granny Smiths - which Duiker had purchased, on his way to work, from a Pakistani vendor. They settled for a mild curse, one that would torment but not kill Mr Grommet.
The next time he passed the Pakistani vendor, Duiker bought two Cape apples - Golden Delicious - and an Israeli tomato. While they crunched their apples, the two collaborators stuck pins and splinters of chicken bone into the tomato and said, “We curse you, Fred Grommet.” Then Nothando took the tomato home and left it weeping onto Fred’s pillow. The curse took effect almost immediately. Fred’s television went on the blink, and with it, his whole purpose for existence. Beer without TV was nothing, Ambrosia rice pudding was nothing, life was nothing. He took himself upstairs to bed and there on his pillow was the spiked tomato. “I’ve been cursed,” he gasped. “Knotty!” he screamed, “is dis your doing?”
But Nothando wasn’t there to respond. She’d made off with the milk money and those worldly possessions of hers that could reasonably be lugged around England on a squeaking bicycle.
“It’s voodoo, dat’s what it is,” muttered Fred, “flaming bloody voodoo.” He threw the tomato out of the bedroom window and it landed on the hat of a diplomat from a non-aligned country who took the matter up with the Home Office, and Fred was in for the high jump! However he did manage to get in a few days bed rest before the men in trench coats came to question him.
The two adventurers rendezvoused on the road they both knew well, outside the Alperton factory, underneath the saggy baggy window of the security guard’s room. They leant their bikes against the factory wall and sat down on the narrow pavement to discuss strategy. It was a cool but sunny morning in April. The ringing of countless burglar alarms that had been activated by the wind, reminded them that it was a Sunday. They thought they were the only people in the vicinity until the tell-tale reek of frying kippers began to defenestrate above them. Mr Major was on duty in the guardroom.
They moved upwind of the kippers and discussed their holiday in earnest. Their pooled resources were meagre. They certainly wouldn’t be able to afford accommodation in hotels or guesthouses, or even camping sites too often. What they needed was a light, durable two-person tent, sleeping bags, a Gaz stove, cooking and eating utensils, a powerful torch, lashings of cheap alcohol, and some oil for Nothando’s bicycle. While they were in London - Nothando would be moving in with Duiker till the end of the month - Duiker must arrange visas for Holland and Germany (the flattish parts), since he was travelling on a Zimbabwean passport. Nothando had a British passport which required no visas. Presumably Britons are more trustworthy than Zimbabweans.
Duiker saw Mr Major’s face for the first and last time when the latter poked it out of the window and accused the two foreign looking geezers of loitering with intent. Whereupon Nothando accused Mr Major of fouling the atmosphere with intent. Mr Major’s pallor went from strongish milky tea to weak milky tea. He then accused Nothando, somewhat obscurely, of affirmative action. She called him a fool in IsiNdebele: "Isiphukuphuku": which delighted Duiker who capped it with "Indwangu" (baboon). The chums gathered their things, mounted their bicycles, and rode off to the diminishing sounds of Mr Major’s voice: "Bleedin’ foreigners...lowering the value of property...proud to be English...fought against ’itler...pay my taxes...Queen Elizabeth...kippers.”
Duiker led the way. Out of consideration for Nothando’s age, he decided to try a shorter route to Earl’s Court. According to his London map, if they took the fat blue road called Westway A40 (M), it would lead them directly to Holland Road, thus reducing the distance by two or three miles. Duiker was proud of his bright blue Raleigh Roadster with Sturmey Archer gears and built-in dynamo. He’d bought it new with money earned from the Buckingham Palace curios. Nothando rode an ancient Rudge with no gears and with clip-on, battery charged lights. It had belonged to Fred’s late father, Shirley, who had kept it, if not himself, rust-free.
The feeder road that took them on to the A40 was rather steep and they were both pretty breathless by the time they reached the motorway. They got off their bikes and pushed for a while. They were surprised by the density of the traffic which prevented them for many minutes from crossing over the road. Duiker reasoned that since they would eventually have to turn right, the sooner they got onto the right hand side of the road the better. It seemed to be windier at that elevation and Nothando was compelled to tighten the doek on her head. Duiker’s thinning grey hair flapped free.
They re-mounted, Duiker still in front, and pedaled off. A concrete parapet was all that separated the westward bound traffic from the eastward bound traffic. So, the two cyclists, on the extreme right (the fast lane) of the westward bound traffic, were also on the extreme right (the fast lane) of the eastward bound traffic. The sensation was terrific. Juggernauts roared past them in both directions.
The cyclists began to relax a little when the hooting, then the shouting, started. They waved and beamed at the truckers