Blind Date at a Funeral

  Blind Date at a Funeral

  Blind Date at a Funeral

  Memories of growing up

  in South Africa

  Trevor Romain

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by Penguin Books

  an imprint of Penguin Random House South Africa (Pty) Ltd

  Reg. No. 1953/000441/07

  The Estuaries No. 4, Oxbow Crescent, Century Avenue, Century City, 7441

  PO Box 1144, Cape Town, 8000, South Africa

  www.penguinbooks.co.za

  First published 2015

  Publication © Penguin Random House 2015

  Text © Trevor Romain 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owners.

  ISBN 978 1 4152 0833 5 (print)

  ISBN 978 1 4152 0834 2 (ePub)

  ISBN 978 1 4152 0835 9 (PDF)

  Contents

  Blind Date at a Funeral

  Death for Dessert

  What Goes Around

  The Broom Dancer

  Found and Lost

  The Recce Box

  A Map of Heaven

  Catch of the Day

  Emotional Constipation

  Birthday Suit

  The Rain Fetcher’s Son

  The Sound of Silkworms

  An Eye for an Eye

  Hendrik and Megan

  South African Gigolo

  The Great Scotch Whisky Caper

  The Stalker

  Kindness Has No Colour

  Falling from Grace

  The Eye of the Beholder

  Pick Me Up

  When the Door Opens

  The Girl with No Name

  Sound of the Soul

  Apricot Brandy in a Jam Jar

  Now You See Him, Now You Don’t

  My Lonely Dancer

  Never My Idea

  Do You See What I See?

  Sweet Esther

  The Old Man and the Boy

  Granny on a Mission

  The Rather Pretty Lieutenant

  The Oxygen Thief

  The Nee Nee Man

  Grace Under Fire

  Nobody

  Yours, Mine and Ours

  Acknowledgements

  The stories in this book are based on real events.

  They may not have happened exactly the way I have described them.

  But that’s the way I like to remember them.

  Blind Date at a Funeral

  (Soundtrack: ‘Hold the Line’ by Toto)

  Her eyes were as blue as the sea around the Greek isles.

  I was in love with her.

  In my mind we were already married. The whole idea was quite absurd because I had not even met her yet.

  As a youngster, I did some pretty dumb things when it came to dating.

  I once went on the Breakfast Run on the back of a motorcycle driven by a girl I fancied. She dropped that bike so low on corners that I just about had a heart-a-fit. I clung to life for three hours, and I almost needed a crowbar to pry my fingers loose from the back of the seat when we finally stopped. Upon arrival she threw herself all over a huge Hells Angels dude who was crisscrossed in home-made prison tattoos. He was packing a smirk and a snarl that would have made a pit bull run away whimpering.

  I hitchhiked back to Johannesburg.

  I once helped a girl secretly move out of her boyfriend’s flat while he was at work. I had high hopes of being her future boyfriend. Not so. I got the old ‘I love you but I’m not in love with you’ story from her. I also almost got turned into a eunuch by her ex-boyfriend when she moved back in with him and told him I had helped her move out!

  No, I did not help her move back in.

  The one that really takes the cake happened when I was at Fourth Field Regiment in Potchefstroom during my army days. One of my tent-mates showed me a picture of his cousin and I fell in love. She was an Afrikaans girl studying at the teachers’ training college in Potch.

  I kept the picture of the girl in my wallet and almost convinced myself I was already dating her before we even met.

  My friend tried a few times to organise a chance meeting, without her knowing that it was all a set-up, but those opportunities never came to fruition.

  Finally, one afternoon, he came rushing into the tent and gave me the thumbs up.

  ‘My great-uncle died,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘I’m so sorry …’ I began.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ he said. ‘You can meet her at the funeral.’

  And that spelled the beginning of something very special.

  I honestly tried talking my way out of going to the service. I truly did. I told him I would stick out like a sore thumb. A Joburg joller in a Herman Charles Bosman story. An Orange Grove boy at nagmaal. But he would have nothing of it.

  ‘You’re going! Finished and klaar,’ he said.

  So, I put on my army step-outs. Polished my shoes. Made sure my beret sat nicely on my head (and didn’t look like a chef’s hat). And I went to the memorial service.

  And not surprisingly, my suspicion was validated. I did indeed step into a Herman Charles Bosman story. The memorial ceremony was actually a wake. It took place at a farmhouse outside Potch.

  I felt more out of place than Keith Richards at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting.

  I must say, I was welcomed with open arms, even though my Afrikaans wasn’t nearly good enough to understand most of what people were saying to me. (My Afrikaans did improve immensely during my stint in the army.)

  Within ten seconds of my arrival, a shot of witblits, home-made alcohol, was shoved into my hand. And we drank in the old man’s honour. The rest of the night was pretty much a blur.

  I do remember a few pertinent details though:

  The first and most sobering one was that the girl was indeed stunning. She was gorgeous. But she arrived with a date. I do believe his name was Rampie and he was a genuine farm-raised provincial rugby player. The guy’s paws were enormous. He shook my hand so firmly that my eyes almost popped out of my head and I think my tongue popped out too. But that may have been because she was so beautiful.

  The second thing was the incredible story her other great-uncle, the one who hadn’t died, told me. And, not surprisingly, it was a Herman Charles Bosman story.

  The old oom looked like one of the characters in a Bosman book, with booze-flushed cheeks, a magnificent white moustache, a freshly pressed safari suit and long socks with veldskoene, topped off with a felt hat with a leopard-skin band around it. He took a long swig of what looked like peach brandy and recited the first paragraph of the Bosman story, verbatim.

  ‘Leopards?

  ‘… Oh yes, there are two varieties on this side of the Limpopo. The chief difference between them is that the one kind of leopard has got a few more spots on it than the other kind. But when you meet a leopard in the veld, unexpectedly, you seldom trouble to count his spots to find out what kind he belongs to. That is unnecessary. Because, whatever kind of leopard it is that you come across in this way, you only do one kind of running. And that is the fastest kind.’

  I must say, I really wanted to run away from that gathering when I first arrived and saw the burly rugby player between me and my future with the pretty girl. There would be no connecting with her – no dating, and no enduring romance.

  But I’m glad I stayed around and settled into a long drunken night, happily sitting on a riempie stoel on the veranda, listening with fascination and awe to the old uncle who shared story after story by Herman Charles Bosman.

  The style
of storytelling swirled through my brain that night and made an everlasting impression.

  When we got back to the army base I handed the picture of the girl back to my friend.

  ‘Ag sorry, man,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘That guy was big, hey.’

  I smiled.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I found a new love tonight.’

  ‘Who?’ he said.

  ‘It’s a secret,’ I replied.

  ‘Oh okay,’ he said. ‘Lekker.’

  And so began my life-long love affair with short stories.

  Death for Dessert

  (Soundtrack: ‘Wanted Dead or Alive’ by Bon Jovi)

  During a romantic candlelit dinner, a scantily clad woman, drinking brandy straight from the bottle, usually foreshadows some sort of trouble.

  And trouble there was. Big trouble.

  We were in her little flat in Turffontein. She had invited me for dinner and we were sitting at the table after eating our meal.

  She was a very good-looking woman. The room was dark except for the candles on the table. The flickering light twinkled in her lovely green eyes.

  She looked at me and pointed the bottle in my direction.

  ‘Why do you like me?’ she asked, slurring a little.

  Thank God I never had to answer that question. Truth be told, I liked her because she was a bona fide nymphomaniac and I was in my early twenties and, like most boys, I had a one-track mind.

  She was a jilted divorcee who was looking for love in all the wrong places and I just wanted a friend with benefits. I was certainly way too immature to fully understand the nuances of her emotional neediness, let alone provide her with the stability she needed to rebuild her postdivorce life.

  She took another swig from the bottle and played with the wax on the candle. She dipped her finger in the hot liquid on top of the candle and grimaced slightly.

  ‘So?’ she said, looking up at me with a sexy smile.

  I chuckled, trying to buy time before I got myself into deep water with my reply.

  My mind darted around, looking for an answer in the swirling wineinduced fog that was clouding my brain. All that was working exceptionally well inside my head was the childish little voice that was telling me to hurry up and say something that would get her naked as soon as possible.

  She was a little older than me. A lot more rough around the edges and far more experienced in many things, especially in the art of hanky-panky. I met her through my brother. He went out with her first and she fell for him much too quickly. Her self-medication with liquor created all sorts of drama. He assessed the situation and wisely extricated himself post-haste.

  She phoned me for comfort and poured her heart out about how my brother had dropped her.

  I’m no fool. All it took was a sympathetic ear and lots of tissues, and before I knew it, I had replaced my brother.

  I should have read more into his raised eyebrows and wry smile when I told him what was happening. But she was exceptionally pretty and he had shared stories about his visits to her boudoir, which had got my attention.

  The physical part of my short-lived relationship with her was great and I was in hog heaven while it lasted. But when she got insecure and the bottle came out, things went south very quickly.

  And so, there we were, having a candlelit soiree in her flat.

  I wanted nothing more than to head to the bedroom for dessert. She, with bottle in hand, wanted answers that I could not readily provide.

  She asked me again. ‘Seriously. Why do you like me?’

  Before I could answer, all hell broke loose.

  There was a violent hammering on the door and a man’s voice yelled, ‘Open the door!’

  To say that I got the fright of my life is an understatement.

  Her eyes widened and panic spread across her face. She stood up quickly, knocking plates in every direction, not quite sure what to do.

  ‘Wha—’ I began.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ she interrupted, putting her finger to her lips.

  I held my breath.

  The silence was deafening.

  Then the hammering started again.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said, covering her face in her hands. ‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.’

  She looked through the peephole in the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ I whispered.

  ‘He’s going to kill you,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s going to kill you,’ she whispered urgently.

  ‘Who’s going to kill me?’ I said.

  ‘Vick!’ she mouthed, pointing to the door.

  ‘Vick, like THE Vick?’ I said in shock.

  ‘Yes, THE Vick. Shhhh,’ she urged.

  Vick was her former husband. From the pictures I had seen and the stories she had shared with both my brother and myself, I was indeed going to be killed.

  Vick was a rough and tough and renowned hooligan in the south of Johannesburg. He was a barroom brawler, a ruffian, and he was rugby-player big and brawny.

  Probably because of my ego, I may have neglected to mention that I am not the biggest guy around and not particularly strong or brave. I may even go as far as to say a bit wimpy. The fact that she found me attractive and desired a physical connection with me was a miracle and one of the main reasons I endured her crazy side.

  ‘You have to go!’

  ‘Go where?’ I whispered.

  ‘Out,’ she whispered, loudly. ‘Out!’

  Her flat was on the first floor. There was no ‘out’, unless I was to head through the front door and into the lion’s den, which meant a good chance of permanent injury.

  ‘He still loves me,’ she said, half smiling. ‘But he is so jealous. We may get back together.’

  I did not have a chance to process what she had just said, because Vick started kicking the door.

  Her eyes widened even more.

  ‘Go,’ she yelled, propelling me towards the balcony.

  She opened the balcony door and pushed me out. I looked over the railing at the flower bed below.

  ‘Jump,’ she urged, pushing me.

  I climbed over the railing and dangled above the hydrangeas. It was only one storey up, but one storey is not as low as one might imagine.

  She rushed back inside and I heard her yelling.

  ‘Don’t break my bloody door again, Vick. I’m coming, for God’s sake. Sissie was here for supper and she went home upset. I was just speaking to her on the phone in my room.’

  The banging stopped.

  ‘My God, Vick, have you been drinking again?’

  ‘Errr, ja,’ said a very deep, sheepish voice.

  I heard the front door opening and I let go, dropping into the bushes.

  The flowers broke my fall and I only received minor cuts and scrapes during my escape, mainly from trying to climb over the fence to get to the street.

  I only saw her once again, at a club in Hillbrow. She was with a brawny, rough-looking guy, who was rugby-player big. It may have been Vick.

  He did not notice me glancing in her direction. As she walked past, without breaking her stride, she slipped me the slightest of smiles.

  What Goes Around

  (Soundtrack: ‘Rocky Mountain High’ by John Denver)

  It happened a long time ago. A time when people actually did what they said they were going to do.

  I was driving along a dirt road in the Drakensberg in South Africa with my girlfriend.

  In the distance, I noticed a speck on the horizon. A speck that would teach me about something that, until then, I did not know even existed.

  Integrity.

  I know it’s a big word and hard to explain, but I will try nonetheless.

  You see, that speck on the horizon was a very old, toothless, African man with a white beard, riding an old bicycle.

  I slowed down so that I didn’t spew dust all over the poor old guy.

  I waved at him and he waved back as we passed. His smile was
wonderfully warm and friendly. He looked about eighty and way too old to be riding a bicycle.

  I watched him in my rear view and then looked up to see a bakkie coming towards me at full speed. It was moving very quickly. There was a dust cloud billowing behind it.

  As the truck passed me, I saw three young guys in the front seat. One of them had a Lion Lager in his hand. I’m embarrassed to say that I could spot a Lion Lager beer from a mile away. That’s something I learned in the army.

  I glanced at my rear view and my heart almost stopped. The driver of the bakkie was heading straight for the old man on the bicycle. I saw the old guy look nervously over his shoulder as the vehicle came up from behind.

  I closed my eyes because I knew that they were going to try to dislodge him from his bicycle.

  I opened my eyes and saw them swerving towards him and missing him by inches. I could also see them gesticulating and shouting at the man as they drove past.

  The old man wobbled on that bike and I saw him drive off the road and crash down a little ditch.

  I slowed down and turned the car around.

  I got to the old man and he was sitting down in the veld, rubbing his knee. The front wheel of his bike was buckled and bent.

  The old man looked so sad. ‘Haai eh-eh,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘What is wrong with those kids?’

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked.

  ‘Ja, basie,’ he replied. ‘It is just my heart that is sore.’

  He told us he was a gardener at the Champagne Castle Hotel and was on his way to work.

  I put his bicycle in the boot of the car and we took him to the hotel, which was about five or six kilometres away. Apparently he rode his rattletrap bike to work every day, rain or shine.

  As we were leaving, I gave the man about forty rand in cash from my wallet and a few rands from my girlfriend’s purse. ‘It’s to fix your bike,’ I said.

  ‘Sorry, my kleinbaas,’ he said, ‘I can’t take your money.’

  My girlfriend told him to take the money because I was just going to use it to buy drinks and get drunk anyway.

  The old man chuckled and told me I had a wise girlfriend. ‘I will pay you back, my basie,’ he said.