for others, but I couldn’t find anything, not a single pretty thing, no mysterious corners or dancing shadows, only empty walls, rooms and children. And The Smell. There was an inescapable smell that would not budge for even a moment – not the smell of the cleaning products that are still so popular in shiny corridors, nor that of chicken pie baking in big ovens, nor that of coffee escaping from a staffroom; it was a dead smell, a grim grey smell. Mother was terribly upset when I once began sniffing a slice of bread in front of the other children, I couldn’t help it, I was certain The Smell hid in the thick slices of death’s bread that were slapped down each day in front of everyone. No butter or jam could disguise those dreary sponges.
Maybe it was the recipes of those years, or the fact that not every town had someone like my grandmother, but only tiredness and drabness ever came out of that big kitchen. I wanted to scream, Where are the rusks, where are the scones, where are our biscuits, we are little children! That was where I first had The Horrors, when trays with plastic containers filled with quicksand and funeral sludge were carried into the dining hall. I would wait until my mother looked away and then disappear down the corridor.
It was during one of these furious I-have-the-horrors-and-I-am-hungry strolls that I saw the door to a boy’s room was wide open. He was sitting on his bed and paging through a book. His feet were off the ground. I never knew his name, in my thoughts I called him Prentjie. He was the oldest child in the dormitory, but also the smallest; he was quiet and very beautiful, it looked as though he’d been drawn, his clothes were never dirty or wrinkled, not a single blond hair was ever out of place, he never looked for trouble and only spoke when someone asked him a question. All the children in the world should be like him. I liked him a lot.
I stood and looked at Prentjie in his barren room, not for so long that he would notice, but long enough to see there was nothing beautiful, not a rug, not a chair, only a bed and a wardrobe with a suitcase on top; the walls were empty, the only picture was Prentjie. Why wasn’t he with the others in the dining hall? Was he also escaping from The Smell? And where would he go? He only had his ugly room, I felt so sorry for him, for days I wondered what I would do if I had to live in a room without any of my things.
It was a weekday afternoon, warm, a few children played listlessly next to the dormitory, the rest sat staring at their books in the dining hall. I was in the corridor. Prentjie’s bedroom door was open. I walked closer to see. He and his book were not on the bed. But the Yellow Juffrou was on her knees next to the bed. She was one of the teachers who lived in the dormitory, youngish with short, light-yellow hair and an unusually broad face, with a dimple in each cheek that made her look like she was constantly smiling. She was the Standard Two teacher and wore a yellow cardigan every day.
In her hand was a pencil. She drew a thin horizontal line on the wall, then another one directly below the first, and connected the two at both ends. Then she drew two thin lines from the left-hand corner to the floor, and the same on the right-hand side: a table!
My mother appeared in the corridor.
Are you coming? she asked.
Her handbag hung from one arm, my brother from the other. He recognised me and laughed with an open mouth, he bent his knees and jumped up and down with his short little legs. Go home, play noisily until dinner, bath until the whole floor was under water, that’s what he waited for on dormitory days. But I didn’t feel like playing. Something was happening. What was the Yellow Juffrou doing? I knew sleep helped children grow, but I was awake the whole night.
The next day school took hours, just finish now! I stormed down the stairs, past the tennis courts, in through the dormitory’s front door, came to a stop in the entrance hall and panted, waiting for all the children to disappear into the dining hall for lunch and The Smell. I prayed Prentjie’s door would be open.
Finally. The corridor was empty. Prentjie’s door was open. Next to his bed, exactly where it had been drawn, was a table. I gasped. That was why he had his own room! That was why he was so small! That was why he didn’t speak! There was magic happening here, it was a chosen room!
But why only the table? Why not a chair? Was the Yellow Juffrou worried she would get caught? I opened my school case, I grabbed a pencil. The children didn’t eat for long, afterwards they went to their rooms to change and play before homework. Whatever was going on here, I was still sorry for Prentjie. Next to the table I drew him a chair, I drew quickly and the feet were skew, but the magic would fix them. I also drew him paintings against the wall, storybooks in a row, an extra window that overlooked a river with fish and small boats, a big potplant with finger leaves like the one on our porch, a tin of biscuits, another tin of rusks, a radio, a standing lamp, two fat cats and a bicycle. It would be a glorious room; after this Prentjie would be my friend.
Your mother is going to kill you, a voice said.
I jerked around. One of the kitchen ladies was standing in the doorway. She was the one who always sliced and stacked the smelly bread.
Who scribbles on a wall? she asked.
The Yellow Juffrou, I said.
Your mother will kill you twice, you can’t say the Yellow Juffrou!
She drew the table, and then the room made it real! I’m only drawing little things, he has nothing!
She only marked where the table should go, as an example, so the workers would know where, all the older children are getting desks next to their beds!
No!
I sobbed out loud. The kitchen lady twitched her nose.
Don’t cry, she said, They’ll hear you. We’ll get a cloth and quickly clean this up.
She turned around and disappeared.
I cried from fright and because there weren’t any miracles and because of being killed twice. And because of Prentjie who only had a table. Two kitchen ladies appeared. Each with a big cloth and a spray bottle. The first one put her hand on my head.
Go wash your face, we won’t tell a soul, she said.
I walked down the hall. I could hear them talk.
What happened here? asked the one.
The funny one wanted to do magic, said the other. His poor, poor mother.
Church Camp, Beef Mince, Nero
I sit in the back of the car. Next to me is my baby brother in his car seat, a primitive contraption of metal, canvas and leather, a grotesque garden chair minus the feet. My mother sits in front with a basket on her lap. At the back of the car my father is putting the last of the set of blue suitcases in the boot. He gets in the car and turns the key. We reverse into the street, my father pulls the hand brake, it goes kkrrr! like when the dog bites through a bone. My father gets out, closes the gate and gets back in the car. We drive past the small vineyard, up the hill, past The Stoepsusters’ house, and turn right. My stomach feels hollow, the anxiety mouse starts gnawing at me. For nice things – Grandmother’s Wellington, shopping trips, Johannesburg’s Cape (that’s what Grandfather called Paarl) – we always turn left.
Where are we going? I ask.
We’re on our way to the church camp, says my mother.
Where is it? I ask.
A little bit further, says my father.
What are we going to do there? I ask.
We’re going to visit, says my father.
And sing, says my mother. We’re going to read the Bible, tell you children stories, we’re going to hold hands and dance in circles. And we are going to pray a lot.
But we can pray at home too, I say.
Sometimes a person needs to go away for a little while, says my mother. You need to be with people who think and believe like you do, you need silence so you can concentrate.
Krst, krst, gnaws the mouse.
But we can concentrate at home, I say.
Sometimes