Читать книгу Dandelion Diary - Marguerite Black - Страница 6

Inside, the house was a strange mixture of stylistic elements – an eclectic goulash, I now realise. There were kelims from Istanbul, Delft porcelain from Holland, yellowwood furniture from second-hand shops and Indian sari’s used as throws on the sofas and for a table cloth on the dining room table. I could see a cuckoo peeking out of its Austrian clock in one of the rooms and Belgian beer jugs aligned on a shelf in the kitchen. A dresser housed an entire extended family of babushkas. There were so many, in fact, that each one’s alter ego or imaginary playmate probably accompanied it. And a whole array of African masks from the Ivory Coast adorned the walls. The concept of minimalism wasn’t very high on our list of priorities.

That afternoon there were freshly picked flowers on the windowsills, but there was also an acrid smell of burnt dough in the house. My mother flurried out onto the porch in a flowing dress. She looked startled at the Jerusalem thorn tree enshrouded by the darkening dusk in the front garden and said: “When did the night gobble up the day? Was I in never-never land? Sweets, your mother is losing it … I can’t seem to bake biscuits for my own children! What will become of you, my dear Gita?”

Sharing a joke with my mom

Both my parents had an array of nicknames for me. This one made me feel glowing and special.

We went into the kitchen. My mother had been baking sugar biscuits. She had cut the dough into funny flower shapes, moon shapes in various lunar phases and terrifying sun shapes and had decorated the biscuits with pink, yellow and baby blue icing, covering them with little silver balls and colourful sprinkles. As we walked past, she exclaimed: “Sherbet! These biscuits are just for looking at!”

The next moment, a bunch of keys was clattering noisily in the door and my dad, with his untidy beard and ethnic beads dangling round his neck, was making his way towards the table, a whiff of pencil shavings and sweat coming from his clothes. He hurriedly put his faded leather briefcase down – it was unzipped and inside I could see various yellowed pieces of paper in a state of perpetual disarray. His tweed jacket was much too big for him and his unpolished shoes were coming undone. Although he was a respected academic at the university, he played drums for a Caribbean steel band in his spare time, and on this evening he whisked me into his arms and started trying out a new drumbeat on my back, rhythmically chanting: “I don’t drink coffee, I only drink tea.”

My dad was a stirrer and continued illustrating his drumbeat – with me as his makeshift drum set – till I shrieked with laughter. He quickly said: “Jolie, hang in there, don’t move, I think I’ve just started to get the hang of it.” I froze on the spot, desperately trying to control my laughter.

Reading with my dad

My dad could also play guitar and did the most convincing Elvis impersonations in the southern hemisphere. I shared his love of music and together we improvised silly tunes on the piano or played dramatic duets. We were a potent combination! I liked my father’s favourite nickname for me, “Jolie”. It made me feel like a gypsy, without a care in the world. Occasionally, though, he called me “Smorgasbord”. It was way too eccentric for me. Whenever he called me that I would say, indignantly: “It’s much too dramatic and it doesn’t suit me. No thank you!”

Frances

I was six when my sister, Frances, was born. On the day of her birth, the air was bustling with energy. The pink blooms of the doll’s powder-puff had a gossamer feel about them. When I turned my head, I could see the cobalt blue wing of a malachite kingfisher making its descent over the dam on the hill. We went to visit my mom in the Settlers Hospital; my first time in a hospital. When we got to her room, my mom gave me a bewildered look: “Gita, why do you have those puffed cheeks?”

Through clenched teeth, I managed to utter a few barely audible words: “I don’t breathe in hospitals. I’m scared of catching germs …!”

A few days after our visit, my personal porcelain doll, Frances, had arrived home. Miriam Kolosa and I launched into bathing, powdering and holding her tightly.

Miriam had been part of our family for aeons. One Sunday, just before my eighth birthday, I went outside: The early morning air was filled with the rasping sound of cicadas and grasshoppers. Miriam called to me from the far side of the house and her syncopated voice bounced off the maze of walls which formed part of our house: “Sisi, come here to the loquat tree to clean the copper.”

Cleaning the copper pots was not really the primary objective of this excursion to the loquat tree. The real motive was to exchange giggles and a few profound thoughts. The loquats that the tree carried were devilishly sour, and every year a lot of them ended up fermenting prematurely. At the time I was convinced that the secrets that passed between Miriam and me, as well as our (sometimes gory) stories, were absorbed by them in some inexplicable way and abruptly spoiled them. The loquat tree was where our community – consisting of myself, Miriam and a whole array of garden creatures – would seek counsel and connect. Miriam was innately a social being, but had, over the years, learnt to keep to herself. The suburbs of the white people, where she had worked all her life, never had much of a village life.

The loquat tree was neatly planted right there in the middle of the back garden beside the washing line, and the garden was spread out before me like an island, with poinsettias and petunias which my mom continued to plant, claiming that she was entitled to some succour in the dry climate of the Eastern Cape. Miriam had told me that the loquat tree had, even before my birth, always been the point around which everything and everyone associated with our house orbited.

I scuttled across the lawn and Miriam proclaimed loudly (for the umpteenth time): “Lovey, you are much too thin. One of these days, you will disappear into thin air. More mealie porridge for you to fill out those stick limbs of yours!”

I wasn’t that exceptionally scrawny. The thing was that Miriam had ample flesh on her bones and anyone who dared not resemble her was the odd one out. I gave her an obstinate look and grabbed her podgy hand which pulled me down next to her.

It was turning into a late-summer scorcher that Sunday morning and I knew to soak up the light and peace and quiet before the pre-week blues would get hold of me later in the afternoon.

I said chirpily: “Miriam, give me the white stuff and I’ll rub it in.”

It was always nice to cloud the pots with the milky substance only to reveal the warm glow later on. Miriam was also shiny from tip to toe – her face was always glistening from the Pond’s cold cream that she smoothed into her skin every morning after washing herself thoroughly with emerald green Sunlight soap.

From as far back as I could remember, Sunlight soap was my pet hate. Firstly, I detested the smell and secondly, when I was a toddler, Miriam religiously and vigorously washed me with it every morning after my spoonful of cod-liver oil, something else that wasn’t particularly popular in my world of Barbie dolls and Lego. Of course, since I was a baby, the loquat tree had also played a role in this daily washing extravaganza – providing shade during mid-summer mornings while I was being washed against my will in the stainless steel tub.

We spread ourselves out beneath the blue sky, soaking in the hazy heat. I had brought along my mother’s pewter jewellery box. The jewellery box was a box of wisdom, containing both my grandmothers’ and my mother’s dearest writings. Hopefully, one day, I would be able to add to it.

After cleaning the copper pots, Miriam would disappear to her cottage at the side of our house. It was a niche where she could put up pictures of the Queen and princess Margaret and her personal cult figure, Bessie Smith, the blues queen of the American South. With the years, the pictures faded, but she merely replaced them with the latest magazine shots. There was never even a vague sign of stagnation in Miriam’s room. every time I went in the place was spick ’n span with not even a speck of dust to be seen, an old transistor radio in the corner blurting out the news in Xhosa. She also had a vase in the corner, on the dark wooden chest, which she religiously filled with fresh flowers every second day.

The sun passed its zenith and the afternoon melted into a brooding limbo. A heavy silence settled on the garden and even the cicadas momentarily ceased their screeching. We hadn’t managed to get very far with the copper pots, we had been pondering over the past week, busy with our own thoughts. For a moment, our attention was diverted by a sugarbird that fluttered in the still air. Flickers of light reflected off its shiny wings. I moved my hand towards the jewellery box. These moments were reserved for very special occasions and I felt an urgent need to read something in the magic container, since Miriam and I had chatted half the day away. We loved this dawdling on a Sunday. I took a little crinkled piece of paper from the box. It was like drawing a prize at a fête. “Eeny, meeny, miny mo.” Miriam’s curiosity got the better of her and she stretched over to see. I was unfolding a poem addressed to me, written by my mother:

My belly is round.

All beauty is bound up inside me.

I walk on a powder veil,

on the surface of the moon.

Little one,

are you there?

Can you feel the earth’s pull?

Or do you float unawares

with the man on the moon?