Читать книгу My name is Vaselinetjie - Anoeschka von Meck - Страница 9

Vaselinetjie had never been on a train before. Meneer had taken Oupa and her to Upington in his smart motorcar. There they had bought their train tickets.

That dreadful Sunday when she learned she’d have to go away Vaselinetjie cried until Oupa was at his wit’s end. Finally he promised to buy her some brand-new clothes if she would just calm down. But back home she wasn’t allowed to wear the new shop clothes. Ouma let her try them on and admire herself in the mirror, but then they were neatly folded and packed into her suitcase. She could choose one outfit to wear on the train, so she selected a pink top and denim skirt.

The train rocked and clattered over the tracks. Oupa’s head began to nod and he dozed off, the newspaper open on his knees. He was dressed in his Sunday best, and his hat lay beside him on the seat. It was the first time in years that Oupa had been away from home. Vaselinetjie had heard him make arrangements for the dominee’s wife to come and stay over with Ouma. Ouma had started to protest, but when Oupa banged his kierie on the floor and said there would be no further argument, Ouma had had no choice but to let the matter rest.

Vaselinetjie was trying to keep Ouma’s voice inside her head. She knew it would be a very long time before she heard it again. In her Bible there was a note that Ouma had told her to read if she was feeling homesick and lonely at her new school.

“But not before the time, you hear?”

They travelled right through the night until the next morning. As they were approaching Johannesburg, the conductor came in and closed the window.

“There are people who’ll put their hands through the window and grab your things while the train is still moving,” he told them.

All morning Vaselinetjie had been feeling sorry for herself. Now she felt even sorrier for Oupa. His fingers kept fumbling with the rim of his hat. She sat down beside him and leaned against him, her head on his shoulder. Poor Dadda.

The station was very big and noisy, and all the people seemed cross and in a great hurry. The white lady who had questioned Vaselinetjie at school was on the platform to meet them. Vaselinetjie didn’t return her smile and held on to Oupa’s hand until the last minute. Oupa was breathing noisily and his eyes were watery.

When the time came for Oupa to say goodbye, he fumbled in his breast pocket and handed her a R50 note. She’d never had so much money before, except when she had won the school’s art competition and the dominee and the headmaster and Oupa had each given her R20.

Oupa put his arms around her and held her tightly until the welfare lady began to look at her watch.

“Mevrou, this child is the apple of our eye!” Oupa sobbed into his hanky and couldn’t say another word.

Vaselinetjie caught a last glimpse of her Dadda sitting on a bench in the big station building, staring straight ahead, his hat in his hand. He didn’t know she could still see him through the glass doors that led to the parking lot and she had to bite her lip to stop herself from shouting his name.

She refused to speak to the welfare lady. When the lady asked her a question, Vaselinetjie turned her face to the window and pretended to watch the scenery flashing by.

They drove for a long time and made only one stop – at a filling station, where Vaselinetjie had to find the toilet on her own. She wondered if everyone could see she was a child being forced to leave her family and her hometown without anyone telling her why. She felt as if the entire world knew a secret and she was the only idiot who didn’t have a clue. What did it matter that her complexion was lighter than everyone else’s? Ouma said she’d always looked like that.

The welfare lady bought her a pie, potato crisps and a Fanta. Vaselinetjie loved Fanta but she held the can in her lap without opening it. Still, she found it hard to be rude to a strange grown-up, for that wasn’t how Ouma had raised her. At church everyone always commented on her good manners. But today she didn’t care whether the lady thought she was rude or not.

In order to forget about the welfare lady she read the names on the signposts along the road. She wasn’t stupid. She knew Johannesburg was in Gauteng – a very long way from the Northern Cape where she lived with Oupa and Ouma.

She pretended to be studying for an exam and tried to memorise all the names along the way, for the day she’d have to find her way back.

I’ll find my way back home sooner than they think, she told herself.

But there were too many names, and they passed through too many places, and in the end she became confused. She cried soundlessly. At last she fell asleep, her face in the puddle formed by her tears on the vinyl upholstery of the car door.

The hostel was situated outside a town that looked as if its streets had grown so tired that they had collapsed sideways. A narrow tarred road snaked halfway up a hill till it reached a gate. A large sign read: RIGHT OF ADMISSION RESERVED.

In the gloom Vaselinetjie could make out a few buildings with broken windows, a parched lawn, and a tennis court with weeds pushing through the cracks. The gate hung on a single hinge and clanked eerily against a rusty post. The welfare lady parked in front of an H-shaped double-storey, in which only a few lights were showing.

No one came out to welcome them and Vaselinetjie struggled to lift her large suitcase out of the boot while the welfare lady knocked on the front door.

After a long wait they heard a click, a dim porch light came on and they heard someone sliding the bolts on the inside.

“Is it a new arrival?” a voice asked through a chink in the door. “If so, go round the back and knock on the first door you see.” The voice didn’t wait for a reply and without another word the door was shut in their faces.

“Come!” The welfare lady led the way on clicking heels. Vaselinetjie could hear that she was annoyed.

The lady knocked on a door behind a safety gate. It took quite a while before someone arrived to let them in. While the lady was completing forms, Vaselinetjie looked around. Through the window she could see a quad, and rooms leading off it. A small redheaded boy was sitting behind a curtain at a window on the first floor. It looked as if he was crying. When he saw her, he stopped and waved, wiping his nose on the curtain.

The welfare lady had finished completing the forms and turned to her. “Now don’t let me hear any bad things about you, all right?” She seemed in a hurry to leave and gave Vaselinetjie a brief pat on the back. The hostel lady opened a door that led into a passage and pushed the safety gate aside for Vaselinetjie to enter. She heard whispers in the dark.

“Lights out, lights out!” the lady called as they walked down the passage, Vaselinetjie lugging her heavy suitcase behind her. The lady had hair on her upper lip and chin – too creepy for words. Vaselinetjie noticed that her slippers were worn and shapeless and that her heels were rough and cracked. She was munching away at a toasted sandwich and licking her fingers, with Vaselinetjie’s admission forms clasped under one arm.

“There are several units in the building, but they all look alike. We call them houses and they all have different names. Each house has its own matron who looks after the children in that house. All the front doors open into a long passage at the centre of the building,” the lady explained over her shoulder, chewing on the last crust.

At the door of the fourth room she motioned for Vaselinetjie to enter. She remained in the doorway just long enough to make sure that Vaselinetjie found an empty bed.

“I said lights out!” She looked past Vaselinetjie at the inquisitive faces peeking out from under bedding everywhere.

Vaselinetjie wanted to shut her eyes tightly and scream and scream until she woke from the nightmare. Each bed stood a metre away from the next and had a locker and a tall, narrow clothes cupboard. Some of the cupboards had no doors.

The lady flicked off the light and her footsteps receded down the passage.

“Don’t worry about her. Actually you’re lucky to be in this house. She’s one of the nicest matrons,” a voice whispered from the neighbouring bed.

Vaselinetjie couldn’t make out the face of the speaker and she was too afraid to answer. Hurriedly she took her nightie from her suitcase and put it on under the duvet without making a sound.

Where was Ouma Kitta to tuck her in? Where was her own big, soft bed with the colourful bedspread and the springs that creaked when she flopped down on it? This mattress was so thin that she could feel the spaces between the wooden slats of the bed.

She wanted to pee and she wanted to cry but she was afraid to move and afraid that someone might hear her sniffling. She buried her head in her pillow and tried to hold back her fear and her sobs.