at the rose garden but went straight ahead, you would walk past the small haunted house, a miniature house with boarded-up windows and a closed-off porch right on the road. There was nobody here. And nobody talked about it. Then you could turn right again, just after the tennis court and the parking place for the farmers with farms that for now were located in another world; then you were in the high street, even though the street you had just been in was called High Street.
But we carry straight on. On the next corner was a garage. Here my father worked, he was one of the town’s mechanics and could fix anything, if anything moved in town it was because of my father, everyone said he was the best in the district. What was a district? Where did a district fit in the Whole World? I never asked, it was enough that Father was the best.
Here the untarred road began, and also the hill, church, school, dormitory, all in a row. Then downhill again, then a side street to the right. Here everyone turned without looking to the left for even a moment; just before you turned, just after the empty piece of ground next to the dormitory, lived The Vuurhoutjies. Whoever thought up the word boskasie must have gone past there first. Trees like you wouldn’t see anywhere else grew there, twisted and bent in all directions, like crazy ballerinas they formed a circle around a hut of clay, stone, cement, wood and corrugated iron, not a squatter’s shack, a crooked magician’s cocoon with an appeal no one could withstand, once you looked you stopped, you were transfixed. The dirtiest family in the Whole World lived there, they were called The Vuurhoutjies because their faces were all black as soot. They did have water, also electricity, also clothes, they just didn’t feel like it. Food simmered in a pot over a fire, a goat bleated, a sheep wailed, chickens scratched, a pack of children wandered about, wrapped in blankets or tied up in towels, all with long, shaggy hair, not young children, teenagers, lovely, muscled, dirty teenagers who went to school when they felt like it, sometimes came to stand in the door during a church service, slunk around late at night, never did any harm, only prowled and growled like wolves.
Turn right, quickly turn right. Twenty steps from The Vuurhoutjies there was a big erf we often visited, here Uncle Sam and Aunt Stienie lived. Aunt Stienie was Grandmother’s sister, a tiny, sweet woman whose face I could never remember, every time my mother had to introduce her to me again. Uncle Sam was big and busy in the yard, everywhere there were piles of raw material, countless projects patiently awaited their completion. There was also gardening, rows of vegetables flourished in the sun, and chickens were slaughtered, yes, the first time I unsuspectingly stood closer when a hen was laid down on a tree stump. Here comes a trick, I thought. Long after the head was gone and the feet stopped jerking, I stood by the pile of tarred poles, throwing up and sobbing in turn.
What I do remember with pleasure is the darkness of the house, a big house with a long passage. It was a good darkness, Aunt Stienie’s victory over the heat, she could darken a room so completely with long curtains – were there shutters or blinds as well? – that I couldn’t believe the coolness. I remember one time when the house was completely silent, there was a corpse in the corner room, the hearse had to come from far away, from a place that only existed when a hearse was needed, and this was the coolest house imaginable. Was it a family member? Or just an acquaintance with nowhere else to wait? I do not know, but I do remember the peaceful occasion, calm and full of acceptance; to me it was entirely new and I liked it. It was like factory custard nowadays, deadly and delicious and nobody talks about it.
A year after my memory found me, I still don’t know how many questions each person is allowed, these conclusions are thus my own:
It doesn’t take long to explore our town,
only occasionally surprising,
pretty enough,
bedtime feels a little too early,
at the moment everyone has enough to eat.
Thank you.
So it was in the two worlds on either side of the neatest unfinished fence in history.
Boys
No idea where they came from, but they were often there. To play under the big tree next to the garage. There the soil wasn’t like in the sandpit, we could build houses and dig trenches.
Like most first-borns, my bedroom was filled with toys, everything parents could think of was there in crates and cupboards. I myself could think of many other things, much better objects with which to entertain and educate myself, but for the moment I had to be satisfied with those things suitable for little boys. And as far as toys for boys went, I was only interested in the packaging.
Cars were my father’s entire being and at some stage miniature automobiles, colourful, with a shiny finish and completely true to life, began appearing on shops’ shelves. Fathers and sons lost their minds and spinning tops, catapults, rubber animals and wooden trucks were cast aside. My father had to lose his mind without me, but he still carted a fleet into my bedroom.
I wasn’t ungrateful – every small thing with wheels was packaged in a colourful cardboard box with a see-through plastic window. These new boxes smelled of the factory, they were brand new with sharp corners and printed scenes and designs. I was very impressed with these offerings from a tiny world of glamour, I set them out in formations and held exhibitions lit with my bedside lamp and my flashlight. All of these automobiles, sports cars, bakkies, buses, bulldozers or lorries were called cars.
Go get your cars! Your friends are here!
What friends?
Each time I wanted to explain to my parents that my friends were already around me, couldn’t they see anything, but then the house angel would appear from somewhere and whisper in my ear: They aren’t ready yet.
Perhaps my mother wanted to start an after-school centre, perhaps my father paid their parents, but the boys were there, under the tree, two, three times a week. We had our cars, shovels, buckets of water, scraps of wood from the storeroom and bottles of cooldrink with blue paper straws. We graded roads, mixed mud, built houses, riverbanks and shops. I built the church. Every time. With a bell and a small verger in front of the door.
Next to me a boy pushes a red thing with a red trailer past the row of houses.
Gggrrrooooommmm, he goes.
Are you a lion? I ask.
My pistons are broken, he says.
I am going to tell my mother you swore.
This lorry really pulls, he says.
You are going to break the path, I say. Don’t drive so close to the houses, play neatly!
Wwhhrrr! growls another child.
Shh! I say. They are praying in church!
I need rope, says the child with the golden head. He has short, rock-hard golden-yellow hair, each strand leaning forward like a little soldier bowing before a king.
We don’t have rope, I say.
If I tie my straw to this lorry, it’s a cannon, he says.
A cannon is for war, I say.
War is coming, says the golden head, They want to take our things.
Who?
The people in the location, he says.
We have to build a wall, says the one with the red trailer, High, high, high!
We can smash everything before they come! another one yells, very excited.
What is a location? I ask.
Every town has a location, says the golden head, They want our things, my dad says.
You aren’t playing right, I say, You can’t make cannons! And you can’t smash things!
We can play how we like!
You can’t! I say, And you have to polish your cars! Yours are always dirty and dusty!
You’re stupid, says the golden head.
You’re stupid!