Читать книгу The Complete Voorkamer Stories - Herman Charles Bosman - Страница 16

The preparations for the annual school concert were in full swing.

In the Marico these school concerts were held in the second part of June, when the nights were pleasantly cool. It was too hot, in December, for recitations and singing and reading the Joernaal that carried playful references to the activities and idiosyncrasies of individual members of the Dwarsberg population. On a midsummer’s night, in a little school building crowded to the doors with children and adults and with more adults leaning in through the windows and keeping out the air, the songs and the recitations sounded limp, somehow. Moreover, the personal references in the Joernaal did not sound quite as playful, then, as they were intended to be.

The institution of the Joernaal dated back to the time of the first Hollander schoolmaster in the Groot Marico. The Joernaal was a very popular feature of school concerts in Limburg, where he came from, the Hollander schoolmaster explained. For weeks beforehand the schoolmaster, assisted by some of the pupils in the upper class, would write down, in the funniest way they knew, odds and ends of things about people living in the neighbourhood. Why, they just about killed themselves laughing, while they were writing those things down in a classroom in old Limburg, the Hollander schoolmaster said, and then, at the concert, one of the pupils would read it all out. Oh, it was a real scream. You wouldn’t mention people’s names, of course, the Hollander schoolmaster went on to say. They would just hint at who they were. It was all done in a subtle sort of way, naturally, but it was also clear enough so that you couldn’t possibly miss the allusion. And you knew straight away who was meant.

That was what the first Hollander schoolmaster in the Marico explained, oh, long ago, before the reading, at a school concert, of the first Joernaal.

Today, in the Dwarsberge, they still talk about that concert.

It would appear, somehow, that in drawing up the Joernaal, the Hollander schoolmaster had not been quite subtle enough. Or, maybe, what they would split their sides laughing at in Limburg would raise quite different sorts of emotions north of the railway line to Ottoshoop. That’s the way it is with humour, of course. Anyway, while the head pupil was reading out the Joernaal – stuttering a bit now and again because he could sense what that silence on the part of a Bushveld audience meant – the Hollander schoolmaster had tears streaming down his cheeks, the way his laughter was convulsing him. Seated on the platform next to the pupil who was reading, the schoolmaster would reach into his pocket every so often for his handkerchief to wipe his eyes with. That made the audience freeze into a yet greater stillness.

A farmer’s wife said afterwards that she felt she could just choke, then.

“If what was in that Joernaal were jokes, now,” Koos Kirstein – who had been a prominent cattle-smuggler in his day – said, “well, I can laugh at a joke with the best of them. I read the page of jokes at the back of the Kerkbode regularly every month. But can anybody see anything to titter at in asking where I got the money from to buy that harmonium that my daughter plays hymns on? That came in the Joernaal.”

Koos Kirstein asked that question of a church elder a few days after the school concert, and the elder said, no, there was nothing funny in it. Everybody in the Marico knew where Koos Kirstein got his money from, the elder said.

“And saying I am so well in with the police,” Koos Kirstein continued. “Saying in the Joernaal that a policeman on border patrol went and hid behind my harmonium when a special plain-clothes inspector from Pretoria walked into my voorkamer unexpectedly. Why, the schoolmaster just about doubled up laughing, when that bit was being read out.”

Anyway, the reading of that first Joernaal at a Marico school concert never reached a proper end. When the proceedings terminated the head pupil still had a considerable number of unread foolscap sheets in his hand. And he was stuttering more than ever. For he had just finished the part about the Indian store at Ramoutsa refusing to give Giel Oosthuizen any more credit until he paid off something on last year’s account.

Before that he had read out something about a crateful of muscovy ducks at the Zeerust market that Faans Lemmer had loaded onto his own wagon by mistake, and that he afterwards, still making the same error, unloaded into his own chicken pen – not noticing at the time the difference between the muscovy ducks and his own Australorps, as he afterwards explained to the market master.

The head pupil had also read out something about why Frikkie Snyman’s grandfather had to stay behind in the tent on the kerkplein when the rest of the family went to the Nagmaal. It wasn’t the rheumatics that kept Frikkie Snyman’s grandfather away from the Communion service, the Joernaal said, but he stayed behind in the tent because he didn’t have an extra pair of laced-up shop boots. It was when Frikkie Snyman’s wife, Hanna, knelt in church at the end of a pew and her long skirt that had all flowers on came up over one ankle – the Joernaal said that you realised how Frikkie Snyman’s grandfather was sitting barefooted in the tent on the kerkplein.

That was about as far as the head pupil got with the reading of the Joernaal … And to this day they can still show you, in an old Marico schoolroom, the burnt corner of a blackboard from where the lamp fell on it when the audience turned the platform upside down on the Hollander schoolmaster. Nothing happened to the head pupil, however. He sensed what was coming and got away, in time, into the rafters. Unlike most head pupils, he had a quick mind.

All that happened very long ago, of course, as we were saying to each other in Jurie Steyn’s post office. Today, the Marico was very different, we said to one another. Those old farmers didn’t have the advantages that we enjoyed today, we said. There was no Afrikander Cattle Breeders’ Society in those days, or even the Dwarsberge Hog Breeders’ Society, and you would never see a front garden with irises in it – or a front garden at all, for that matter. And you couldn’t order clothes from Johannesburg, just filling in your measurements, so that all your wife had to do was …

But it was when Jurie Steyn’s wife explained what she had to do to the last serge suit that Jurie Steyn ordered by post, just giving his size, that we saw that this example that we mentioned did not perhaps reflect progress in the Marico in its best light.

From the way Jurie Steyn’s wife spoke, it would seem that the easiest part of the alterations she had to make was cutting off the trouser turn-ups and inserting the material in the neck part of the jacket. “And then the suit still hung on Jurie like a sack,” she concluded.

But Gysbert van Tonder said that she must not blame the Johannesburg store for it too much. There was something about the way Jurie Steyn was built, Gysbert van Tonder said. And we could not help noticing a certain nasty undertone in his voice, then, when he said that.

Johnny Coen smoothed the matter over very quickly, however. He had also had difficulties, ordering suits by post, he said. But he found it helped the Johannesburg store a lot if you sent a full-length photograph of yourself along with the order. They always returned the photograph. No, Johnny Coen said in reply to a question from At Naudé, he didn’t know why that Johannesburg store sent the photographs back so promptly, under registered cover and all. And then, when he saw that At Naudé was laughing, Johnny Coen said that that firm could, perhaps, if it wanted to, keep all those photographs and frame them. But, all the same, he added, it would help the shop a lot if, next time Jurie Steyn ordered a suit by post, he also put in a full-length photograph of himself.

But all this talk was getting us away from what we had been saying about how more broad-minded the Groot Marico had become since the old days, due to progress. It was then that Koos Nienaber brought us back to what we were discussing.

“Where our forefathers in the Marico were different from the way we are today,” Koos Nienaber said, “is because they hadn’t learnt to laugh at themselves, yet. They took themselves much too seriously. Although they had to, I suppose, since it was all going to be put into history books. Or at least as much of it as could be put into history books. But we today are different. We wouldn’t carry on in an undignified manner if, at the next concert, there should be something in the Joernaal to show up our little human weaknesses. We would laugh, I mean. Take Jurie Steyn and his serge suit, now. Well, we’ve got a sense of humour, today. I mean, Jurie Steyn would be the first to laugh at how funny he looks in that serge suit –”

“How do you mean I look funny in my new suit?” Jurie Steyn demanded.

At Naudé came in between the two of them, then, and made it clear to Jurie Steyn that Koos Nienaber had been saying those things merely by way of argument, and to prove his point. Koos Nienaber didn’t mean that Jurie Steyn actually looked funny in his new suit, At Naudé explained.

“If he doesn’t mean it, what does he want to say it for?” Jurie Steyn said, sounding only half convinced. “And, anyway, Koos Nienaber needn’t talk. When he came round with the collection plate at the last Nagmaal, and he was wearing his new manel, I thought Koos Nienaber was an ourang-outang.”

Nevertheless, we all acknowledged at the end that we were looking forward to the school concert. And there should be quite a lot of fun in having the Joernaal, we said. Seeing how today we had a sense of humour.

It was not only schoolchildren and their parents that came to attend the concert in that little school building of which the middle partition had been taken away to make it into one hall. For instance, there was Hendrik Prinsloo, who had come all the way from Vleispoort by Cape-cart, and had not meant to attend the concert at all, since he was on his way to Zeerust and was just passing that way, when some of the parents persuaded him, for the sake of his horses, to outspan under the thorn-trees on the school grounds by the side of the Government Road.

It was observed that Hendrik Prinsloo had a red face and that he mistook one of the swingle-bars for the step when he alighted from the Cape-cart. So – after they had looked to see what was under the seat of the Cape-cart – several of the farmers present counselled Hendrik Prinsloo to rest awhile by the roadside, seeing it was already getting on towards evening. They also sent a native over to At Naudé’s house for glasses, instructing him to be as quick as he liked. And if At Naudé didn’t have glasses, cups would do, one of the farmers added, thoughtfully. By the look of things it was going to be a good children’s concert, they said.

Meanwhile the schoolroom was filling up quite nicely. There had been some talk, during the past few days, that a scientist from the Agricultural Research Institute, who was known to be in the neighbourhood, would distribute the school prizes at the concert and also give a little lecture on his favourite subject, which was correct winter grazing. Even that rumour did not keep people away, however. They had the good sense to guess that it was only a rumour, anyhow. Afterwards it was found out that it had been started by Chris Welman, because the schoolmaster had turned down Chris Welman’s offer to sing “Boere-seun”, with actions, at the concert.

There was loud applause when young Vermaak, the schoolmaster, came onto the platform. His black hair was neatly parted in the middle and his city suit of blue serge looked very smart in the lamplight. You could hardly notice those darker patches on the jacket to which Jurie Steyn’s wife drew attention, when she said that you could see where Alida van Niekerk had again been trying to clean the schoolmaster’s suit with paraffin. Vermaak was boarding at the Van Niekerks’, and Alida was their eldest daughter.

The schoolmaster said he was glad to see that there was such a considerable crowd there, tonight, including quite a number of fathers, whom he knew personally, who were looking in at the windows. There were still a few vacant seats for them inside, he said, if they would care to come in. But Gysbert van Tonder, speaking on behalf of those fathers, said no, they did not mind being self-sacrificing in that way. It was not right that the schoolroom should be cluttered up with a lot of fat, healthy men, over whose heads the smaller children would not be able to see properly. There was also a neighbour of theirs, from Vleispoort, Hendrik Prinsloo, who was resting a little. And they wanted to keep an eye on his Cape-cart, which was standing there all by itself in the dark. If the schoolmaster looked out of that nearest window he would be able to see that lonely Cape-cart, Gysbert van Tonder said.

Young Vermaak, who didn’t know what was going on, seemed touched at this display of solicitude for a neighbour by just simple-hearted Bushveld farmers. Several of the wives of those farmers sniffed, however.

Three little boys carrying little riding whips and wearing little red jackets came onto the platform and the schoolmaster explained that they would sing a hunting song called “Jan Pohl”, which had been translated from English by the great Afrikaans poet, Van Blerk Willemse. Everybody agreed that the translation was a far superior cultural work to the original, the schoolmaster said. In fact you wouldn’t recognise that it was the same song, even, if it wasn’t for the tune. But that would also be put right shortly, the schoolmaster added. The celebrated Afrikaans composer, Frik Dinkelman, was going to get to work on it.

At Naudé said to the other fathers standing at the window that that man in the song, Jan Pohl, must be a bit queer in the head. “Wearing a red jacket and with a riding whip and a bugle to go and shoot a ribbok in the rante,” At Naudé said.

Another father pointed out that that Jan Pohl didn’t even have such a thing as a native walking along in front, through the tamboekie grass, where there was always a likelihood of mambas.

The next item on the programme was a group of boys and girls, in pairs, pirouetting about the platform to the music of “Pollie, Ons Gaan Pêrel Toe”. Since many of the parents were Doppers, the schoolmaster took the trouble first to explain that what the children were doing wasn’t really dancing at all. They were stepping about, quickly, sort of, in couples, kind of, to the measure of a polka in a manner of speaking. It was Volkspele, and had the approval of the Synod, the schoolmaster said. All the same, a few of the more earnest members of the audience kept their eyes down on the floor, while that was going on. They also refrained, in a quite stern manner, from beating time to the music with their feet.

For that reason it came as something of a relief when, at the end of the Volkspele, a number of children with wide blue collars trooped onto the stage. They were going to sing “Die Vaal se Bootman”. It was really a Russian song, the schoolmaster explained. But the way the great Afrikaans poet Van Blerk Willemse had handled it, you wouldn’t think it, at all. Maybe why it was such an outstanding translation, the schoolmaster said, was because Van Blerk Willemse didn’t know any Russian, and didn’t want to, either.

The song was a great success. The audience was still humming “Yo-ho-yo” to themselves a good way into the next item on the programme.

Meanwhile, the fathers outside the school building had deserted their places by the windows and had drifted in the direction of the Cape-cart to make sure that everything was still in order there. And they sat down on the ground as close as they could get to the Cape-cart, to make sure that things stayed in order. One of the fathers, still singing “Yo-ho-yo” even went and sat right on top of Hendrik Prinsloo’s face, without noticing anything wrong. Hendrik Prinsloo didn’t notice anything, either, at first, but when he did he made such a fuss, shouting “Elephants” and such-like, that At Naudé, who had remained at the schoolroom window, came running up to the Cape-cart, fearing the worst.

“Is that all?” At Naudé asked, when it was explained to him what had happened. “From the way Hendrik Prinsloo was carrying on, I thought some clumsy –––” he used a strong word, “some clumsy ––– had kicked over the jar.”

In the meantime Hendrik Prinsloo had risen to a half-sitting posture, with his hand up to his face. “Feel here, kêrels,” he said. “The middle part of my face has suddenly gone all flat, and my jaw is all sideways. Just feel here.”

The farmers around the Cape-cart were fortunately able – in between singing “Yo-ho-yo” – to set Hendrik Prinsloo’s mind at rest. He was worrying about nothing at all, they assured him. His face had always been that way.

Nevertheless, Hendrik Prinsloo did not appear to be as grateful as he should have been for that explanation. He said quite a lot of things that we felt did not fit in with a school concert.

“The schoolmaster says the Joernaal is going to be read out shortly,” At Naudé announced. “Well, I hope there is going to be nothing in it like the sort of things Hendrik Prinsloo is saying now. All the same, I wonder what there is going to be in the Joernaal – you know what I mean – funny stories about people we all know.”

Gysbert van Tonder started telling us about a Joernaal he had once heard read out at a Nagelspruit school concert. A deputation of farmers saw the schoolmaster onto the Government lorry immediately afterwards, Gysbert van Tonder said. The schoolmaster’s clothes and books they sent after him, carriage forward, next day.

“I wonder, though,” At Naudé said, “will young Vermaak mention in the Joernaal about himself and – and – you know who I mean – that will be a laugh.”

As it turned out, however, there was no mention of that in the Joernaal. Nor was there any reference, direct or indirect, to anybody else in the Marico, either. In compiling the Joernaal, all that the schoolmaster had done was to cut a whole lot of jokes out of back numbers of magazines and to include also some funny stories that had been popular in the Marico for many years, and for generations, even. And because there was nothing that you enjoy as much as hearing an old joke for the hundredth time, the Joernaal got the audience into a state of uproarious good humour.

It was all so jolly that Jurie Steyn’s wife did not even say anything sarcastic when Alida van Niekerk went and picked up the schoolmaster’s programme, that had dropped onto the floor, for him.

The concert in the schoolroom went on until quite late, and everybody said how successful it was. The concert at the Cape-cart, which nearly all the fathers joined in, afterwards, was perhaps even more successful, and lasted a good deal longer. And Chris Welman did get his chance, there, to sing “Boereseun”, with actions.

And when Hendrik Prinsloo drove off eventually, in his Cape-cart, into the night, there was handshaking all round, and they cheered him, and everybody asked him to be sure and come round again to the next school concert, also.

Next day there was only the locked door of the old school building to show that it was the end of term.

And at the side of a footpath that a solitary child walked along to and from school lay fragments of a torn-up quarterly report.