Whitethorn (56 page)

‘Then I can't take the job, Sir,' I heard myself saying, and turned to walk to the door just a few steps away, my heart beating like billyo. I knew I must escape quickly as I could feel tears begin to well. I was about to make a fool of myself. The last time I'd wept was for several days when I'd been truly heartbroken and I'd promised myself that the next time I did so it would be for something or someone as important to me as Tinker.

I had reached the top of the rickety stairs when I heard him shout, ‘Wait, boy! Wait, wait!' I turned and waited as Jellicoe Smellie, leaning diagonally across the doorframe of the bookshop, ordered, ‘Come back at once, boy! At once, at once!' I sensed a hint of panic in his voice.

‘It's not boy, Sir! It's Tom, Tom Fitzsaxby!' I said somewhat petulantly. It was the first time in my life that I'd contradicted an adult and I could feel my face burning.

‘Fitz? Fitz-Saxby, royal bastard,' he said. ‘Most curious, most curious.'

I was astonished that he knew I was a bastard, as for the royal I had no idea what he was on about, but I told myself that if he'd already found my weak spot there wasn't much point in hanging around. So I ran down the stairs, which visibly shook and trembled with each step I took.

‘Come back! Come back, come back, can you write tracts? An extra ten shillings a week if you can
and
a free fountain pen, free fountain pen!' he shouted down to me from the edge of the balcony.

I looked up and saw that his large papery-coloured hands now gripped the edge of the wrought-iron balcony but failed to pull him into an upright position. The railing began to sway under his weight, and he appeared as if he was about to hurl himself to his death below. His right-angled big toe, protruding from under the bottom rail, pointed directly at me, wriggling accusingly as if it was telling me his death would be my fault.

‘What's a tract?' I called up to him.

‘Definitely can, definitely can! Come up, come!' He gestured with his right hand.

It was by now quite clear that Jellicoe Smellie was completely bonkers. But then, he was no worse than Meneer Prinsloo with his chickens and windmilling arms or Mevrou in praise of shit squares and her lopsided logic or the
Dominee
with his well-rounded sermons and preposterous dogma. So I returned up the shaky stairs. I thought, however, that I should establish my identity once and for all, though this time avoiding my surname. ‘My name is Tom, Sir,' I announced as I entered.

‘Jellicoe Smellie,' he said, bowing sideways as if we were starting from scratch.

I followed him into the small office just as a customer walked in, this time a man. ‘You have a customer, Sir,' I said to Jellicoe Smellie's back.

‘Definitely not, definitely not! Can't, can't!' He turned around, almost losing his balance, but upon seeing the customer he suddenly cried out, ‘Praise the Lord, can I help you, my dear brother in Christ?'

‘Amen, praise His precious name, Pastor!' the thickset man called back in a heavy Afrikaans accent, respectfully removing his battered felt hat in the presence of the preacher.

Confronted by a born-again Christian who appeared deferential, Jellicoe Smellie relaxed and smiled for the first time, and I saw that he had large yellow teeth. Pink eyes, purple nose and yellow teeth in what was otherwise a bloodless paper-coloured face. ‘Give and thou shalt receive,' he called out to the
boer
. ‘Praise the Lord, I am at your service, my precious brother in Christ.'

‘
Ja
, thank you, Brother . . . ?'

‘Jellicoe.'

‘Brother Jelly,' the Afrikaner repeated. Smelly Jelly! The name just leapt into my head and seemed perfect, although I wasn't conscious of any particular smell, it was just that some sort of smell must emanate from so strange a creature. Musty came to mind.

‘Now listen, man,' the
boer
said, abandoning the religious cant, ‘we got a big problem, hey! This tract is a very nice one.' He dug into his coat pocket and produced a rectangular piece of paper about eight inches long and two inches wide, and held it up. ‘Unfortunately it is in English and we from the Apostolic Faith Mission and where we come from English is not a big-time language, you hear?' He pointed to the bottom of what I now knew was a tract. ‘It says here, printed by the Born-again Christian Missionary Society and —'

‘Praise the Lord, praise His precious name!' Jellicoe Smellie interjected.

But the
boer
wasn't to be put off. ‘
Ja
, okay, us too, but what we want to know is can you translate this tract into Afrikaans? We'll take 1000, you see, we got a tent revival coming up in Bronkhorstspruit already next month.'

Jellicoe Smellie drew back in horror. ‘Definitely not, definitely not! Can't, can't!' he exclaimed.

‘
Ja, nee, met plesier, Meneer. Ons doen dit vir u met graagte
. Certainly, Sir, it's our pleasure to do it for you,' I called out in Afrikaans.

The
boer
looked at Jellicoe Smellie and then back to me, obviously confused. ‘
Here
, man, what's going on here, hey?' he asked.

Speaking to him in Afrikaans I reassured him that while we were very busy with orders from all over the Christian world, I would personally see to it that his tracts would be translated and done in time for the revival.

Observing that I was only a boy and judging from my perfect Afrikaans accent, he took me for one of his own and decided it was no longer necessary to be polite to me. ‘How much?' he demanded.

‘You'll have to ask the
Dominee
,' I replied, pointing to Jellicoe Smellie.

‘
You
ask him!' he said in a peremptory manner, again in Afrikaans.

‘The gentleman wants to know how much?' I asked Jellicoe Smellie.

‘It's for the Apostolic Faith Mission, we all born-again, you hear?' the
boer
said in English, addressing Jellicoe Smellie directly. He hesitated, clearing his throat. ‘We always get a discount for God's work.'

‘We already rushing your job through, it's costing us money, Meneer,' I replied sharply. ‘This is also God's work!' The new Tom Fitzsaxby with the quick mouth was emerging in front of my very eyes.

Jellicoe Smellie looked anxiously from me to the
boer
and back again, obviously not understanding Afrikaans. He grabbed a small pad and began working out a price. ‘Fifteen shillings,' he announced after a few moments, ‘and we'll include the run-ons.'

‘Plus two and sixpence for the translation and 10 per cent tithe, that's another one and sixpence. It goes to the missionaries in the Congo,' I explained. The
Dominee
always said that members of the congregation should give 10 per cent of their income back for God's work, and that it was a definite instruction from the Bible or else you'd go to hell.

Jellicoe Smellie looked at me in amazement, but only took a moment to recover. ‘That comes to nineteen shillings,' he announced in an almost-happy voice.

‘
Here
, man, it's a lot of money,
Dominee
,' the
boer
said in English, clucking his tongue and shaking his head in dismay.

However, old Jellicoe knew an extra bob earned when he saw one and he jumped feet-first into action. ‘Hallelujah! Praise His precious name! Nineteen shillings is not much to pay to save a damned soul! To bring just one sinner to Jesus! To give just one poor wretch life everlasting! A thousand tracts may save a host of sinners. A revival tent overflowing with sinners down on their knees demanding to repent!' He turned to me. ‘Tom, here, is the Poet of Salvation! The Poet of Salvation translated into Afrikaans! How can you count the cost of this blessed harvest of sinners for the Lord in sixpences and shillings?'

There was not a single twinned word in the entire diatribe and the
boer
, now totally bewildered, knew he was beaten. He turned to me and said truculently, ‘Okay, nineteen shillings, it's a lot but we'll pay it. But I don't want the tithe to go to the
kaffirs
in the Congo, you hear?' He was speaking in Afrikaans to prevent the Englishman from hearing.

‘I'll see what I can do,' I said rather high-handedly. ‘What about the starving children in India?'

‘No
Charras
!' he shot back, alarmed. ‘Definitely not, man! They heathen and they come here to get rich and go back to India to worship their gods, not one God like decent people, they got lots of them, some with ten arms and two heads and worshipping monkeys, they can't be born-again, it's a waste of money. When must I come back?'

‘Day after tomorrow, after four o'clock,' I said, hoping this could be done. ‘How about Cape Coloureds?'

‘
Ja
, okay, as long as they born-again Christians, you hear?

Lots of Cape Coloureds they just hopeless drunks.'

I thought at once of Auntie and her good-for-nothing black-and-blue husband lying on the front
stoep
, while Dippie and Stoffie stepped over him as they moved her furniture into the army truck. ‘Isn't that the sort of person who needs to be born-again?' I asked, a trifle sarcastically.

‘
Ja
, it's all God's work, you hear? But we leave them, the Cape Coloureds, to the Assembly of God, they not so fussy who they save,' he explained.

Jellicoe Smellie could barely contain his delight as he ushered the
boer
to the door, spouting a further half-dozen God-bothering imprecations. The
boer
shook his hand and after the sound of the last of his footsteps on the wonky stairs had faded, Smellie turned back to me. ‘Excellent! Excellent! Praise the Lord! Praise His precious name! The Lord has rewarded me with your second coming, Tom.'

I took my second coming to mean my return up the rickety stairs. In the meantime, he seemed to have completely forgotten all his previous ‘Definitely nots' and ‘Can't, can'ts', and now extended his hand and shook mine vigorously. ‘Welcome to the “Come in and browse for Christ” bookshop, the Born-again Christian Missionary Society, the Evangelical Mechanical Printing Press, and my accounting arm, Heavenly Prophets. We will proceed henceforth to gain riches for the Lord while keeping a small portion for ourselves.' I was to learn that the only time Jellicoe Smellie twinned words was when he was nervous or agitated.

‘Does that mean I have a job, Sir?' I asked.

‘A job? Why, Tom, we are to form an entirely new arm of the business, you are to become the Poet of Salvation in Translation!' he said gleefully, yellow teeth now dominating his purple nose and pink eyes. ‘Two pounds a week and free penning, that's the very best I can do,' he said, his pink eyes narrowing in case I should argue.

My time spent at The Boys Farm had taught me very little to use in life but one of the more important lessons I learned was to press home any advantage I might momentarily hold. ‘That ten extra shillings was for writing tracts, Sir. I am now the Poet of Salvation in Translation?' I said, my eyes downcast so as not to sound too opportunistic. I must admit my new title had a certain ring to it, but on the other hand you couldn't go around the place saying ‘Guess what? I am the Poet of Salvation in Translation in the Born-again Christian Missionary Society.' So, practically speaking, it wasn't going to do much for my ego or my future salary.

‘Ah, yes! But I am
the
Poet of Salvation! That is the senior position!' Jellicoe Smellie said pointedly. ‘May I remind you it is I who write the tracts and you who
merely
translate them into that abominable gutter language.'

This was true enough, and I told myself I needed this job which now satisfied my saving requirements with even a little over. But I also knew that he who hesitates is lost, another sound lesson learned from Mevrou's
sjambok
. For instance, Gawie's exclusive job sitting on his arse, tearing up shit squares had come from grabbing a single rare opportunity and turning it into easy work, while the rest of us laboured in the vegetable garden, chopped wood and worked in the orchards.

‘How many tracts have you written, Sir?'

‘Oh, dozens and dozens, hundred and hundreds, some very, very good ones too.' The twinning of words was back.

‘And how many have you sold?'

‘Ah, grains of sand on the seashore, thousands and thousands, grains of sand, grains of sand.'

‘At fifteen shillings a thousand?'

Jellicoe Smellie hesitated, then said, ‘Well, no, I cannot tell a lie, the normal charge is twelve and sixpence, but, after all, that dreadful man
was
the enemy and so I was forced to add a small surcharge.'

I ignored this racist remark. ‘Do people get tired of tracts, you know, want new ones?'

‘Ah, my dear fellow, I regret to say, fashion prevails in the business of Jesus Christ like any other.' He was beginning to relax.

‘So you're always having to write new ones?'

‘A burden I willingly bear for the Lord,' he said sanctimoniously.

‘And you said you've written hundreds?'

‘Scattered far and wide.'