Whitethorn (61 page)

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Mr Jacobs was expecting me around four o'clock and I had no time to waste. I walked straight over to Park Station where Tinky was very excited to see me, yelping and leaping up so that I caught him and held him as he planted a series of welcoming kisses all over my face. Frikkie was waving his stump so I knew he'd seen me.

‘Frikkie, you've got to help me!' I cried, squatting down and explaining the situation as quickly as I could. ‘You've got to come and sign the affidavit, you've known me since I was four years old.'

Frikkie rose slowly from his box and reached for his walking stick, and I fixed Tinky's lead to his collar. Then I took Frikkie's advertising sign from around his neck and lifted it over the hood, taking it together with the box to Stompie to keep in the kiosk. Then we set off directly for Market Street. Such was my anxiety that it never occurred to me that Frikkie Botha, hood or hoodless, must have been a strange and bizarre sight. The beggar and the schoolboy, wearing the blazer and tie from one of the poshest schools in the country, being led by a fox terrier along the street. Yet, in truth, Frikkie came closer to being my guardian than most of the people in my life. He'd watched me growing up and I'd spent more actual time in his presence than any other adult, except perhaps for Mevrou. Had I chosen Frikkie in the first instance, I would have seen to it that he was suitably cleaned up. With me away at school he had neglected himself badly and his once white and now filthy woollen vest, old suit coat and baggy cotton trousers were in a frightful condition. His garments were splattered with grease and every other kind of food stain, besides he stank to high heaven.

We finally reached our destination and I pressed the buzzer bell and we sat down, Tinky panting at Frikkie's feet. We waited for what seemed quite a long time before the door to Mr Jacobs' office opened and he stepped out. ‘Good God! What is this?' he demanded in an alarmed voice. His glasses began to wobble as his nose, twitching, searched for the nasty smell that pervaded the reception area.

I stood up and indicated the seated Frikkie. ‘This is my guardian, Mr Frikkie Botha, Sir,' I announced.

‘Have you gone quite mad, Boy! Who is this . . .' he seemed momentarily lost for words, then added distastefully, ‘creature?'

‘My guardian, Sir,' I repeated. ‘He's not a creature, Sir. He's here to verify that I am who I say I am and to sign the affidavit and take possession of the deeds to the flat.'

Mr Jacobs drew further back into the doorway to his office. I could see he was about to protest or dismiss us with a sweeping sausage-like backhand when, all of a sudden, Frikkie reached up and removed his hood. I had never before heard a grown man scream. Ten pink sausages were clasped to his breast in terror, his eyes popping out of his head as he reeled backwards into the interior of his office. The door slammed behind him with such ferocity that a small portion of greyish-coloured plaster fell to the floor from the wall directly above the lintel.

Frikkie reached out and with his left hand held my arm above the elbow making the glottal sounds that passed for laughter. I reached out and replaced his hood and had a bit of a giggle myself. What now? I thought. I decided, then and there, I wasn't going to budge. Frikkie might be dirty and smelly but he had the same rights as anyone else. Who says a person's guardian has to wear clean clothes or smell nice? He'd come to sign an affidavit and get the deeds, and that's exactly what we were going to do.

I walked over to the door, knocked and opened it slightly so Mr Jacobs could see my face. ‘Don't come in or I'm calling the police,' he said in a frightened voice.

‘Sir, Mr Botha is quite competent to sign the affidavit. It's just that he once had a bad accident, he can't help the condition of his face.'

‘Go away, both of you!' Mr Jacobs shouted.

‘No, Sir, we're going to stay here until the affidavit is signed.' I closed the door. Then an idea occurred to me and I opened the door again. ‘Sir, why don't you prepare a statement and slip it under the door and Mr Botha will sign it?'

Mr Jacobs seemed relieved at this suggestion. ‘Very well, but he's not to come in or I'm calling the police.'

Frikkie and I sat waiting for a further twenty minutes before a sheet of paper appeared under the office door. I read it quickly and handed it to Frikkie who appeared to be reading. It was in English so I knew he didn't have a clue. ‘Do you want me to read it to you, Frikkie?' I asked in Afrikaans. He shook his head and then produced his little pad and wrote,
Show me where
. I handed him the Waterman fountain pen Smelly Jelly had given me the previous year for Christmas and showed him where and what to fill in the blanks. Frikkie signed his name, the period he'd known me at The Boys Farm and accepted the role as my guardian and custodian of the title to Smelly Jelly's flat until I came of age.

I tapped on the door of Mr Jacobs' office. ‘May I come in, Sir?'

‘Alone!' Mr Jacobs called out fearfully. I opened the door and the stale cigarette smoke pervading the office seemed to slap me in the face. Two half-smoked cigarettes burned in the overflowing ashtray, twin curls of pale smoke rising to the ceiling. He was obviously still not entirely in command of his senses. I placed the affidavit in front of him. He read it quickly and witnessed it.

‘May I have the deeds of my flat, Sir?' I said, putting down the two guineas for stamp duty he'd instructed me to bring along.

‘You must first bring me a dead ginger cat,' he said quickly.

‘Bring you a dead cat? A dead cat in here?' I exclaimed.

‘No, of course not! The RSPCA! We must see a certificate of euthanasia. The will requires it.'

I walked to the door and opened it slightly. ‘Frikkie, will you come in please? Take off your hood,' I called in a louder-than-necessary voice.

‘No, no, please!'

I turned to see that Mr Jacobs looked truly terrified. I remained, deliberately waiting at the slightly open door as if to let Frikkie in. ‘You shall have the deeds, Fitzsaxby!' the lawyer called out in alarm. ‘Let me affix the stamps and hand you the deeds and the keys at once!' He reached for a packet of Craven A cork-tips.

I pointed to the ashtray. ‘You have two alight, Mr Jacobs.' It was the first time I hadn't referred to him as Sir.

‘Quite right,' he apologised, and reached over and murdered the two half-smoked fags, squashing them deeply into the pile of brown and white butts, bending them double at the cork-tip in the familiar manner of the others, then he handed the deeds to me.

‘Thank you, Mr Jacobs,' I said, extending my hand. He reached over and took it, his grip flaccid, the fat little fingers feeling as boneless as their sausage-like appearance.

It was nearly half past five when I dropped Frikkie and Tinky at Mr Naidoo's Indian eatery and caught the bus back to the northern suburbs, and then walked the short distance to the Bishop's College to arrive just in time for supper.

On the way in the bus I kept fidgeting with the two keys to Flat 22, Parkington Gardens, 18 Cross Street, Hillbrow. The deeds to the flat felt secure within my inside blazer pocket and fitted snugly against my chest and armpit. At the age of fifteen, nearly sixteen, Tom Fitzsaxby now owned his very own palace. Perhaps, I thought to myself, now that you're the owner of property, it's time to stop hiding from the front.

C
HAPTER
FOUR
TEE
N

Let Music Be the Wings of Love

THE LATE JELLICOE JAMES Wilberforce Smellie's flat was a small, dark two-room affair with bathroom and toilet and a cupboard that opened up to reveal a small fridge and hotplate and a few assorted dishes, two pots, an electric kettle and a frying pan. A single overstuffed club chair in the sitting room faced a small table on which a bullnose bakelite wireless and a gramophone of the wind-up variety sat. On the floor to each side of the table were two 2-foot stacks of 78rpm records, one jazz and the other classical. The remaining floor space was covered with a tired grey carpet, much in need of cleaning, and the walls, floor to ceiling, were fitted with bookshelves crammed with books on every subject imaginable, except religion.

The bedroom was so tiny that it could be better described as a monk's cell. It contained a narrow single iron cot and a small chest of drawers. Above this a rod protruded from the wall, and from it hung half a dozen tired-looking white shirts, three ties, two black and one maroon, frayed at the edges, another of his Gospel-gobbling Goose stained linen suits and a bright-red woollen dressing-gown. On top of the chest of drawers sat a monogrammed silver brush-and-comb set, in every appearance unused, which accounted for Smelly Jelly's Einstein hair. A window, blackened with grime and from all appearances never opened, cut through the wall above the bed, its sill acting as a bookshelf containing leatherbound copies of the works of Charles Dickens and Sir Walter Scott. Between the outer covers of each book, apparently to prevent them rubbing or becoming damaged, Jellicoe had placed an unfolded tract. These makeshift book-savers were the only reference to religion I found in the entire flat.

I'd taken possession of the flat on the last day of school on 5 December 1949, a year after the Nationalists came to power. The Afrikaners were back in control under Dr Malan, the new prime minister, and the
volk
were on the long march back to the past. If the
Dominee
hadn't already died of a heart attack, the beard-munching beetle, with no more vitriol to feed on, would have been out of a job. God's chosen people were back in business. The ‘Bitter Enders', the true believers, were overjoyed and the cliffs and canyons in the high mountains around Duiwelskrans would have echoed with their triumphant cheering. What a mighty well-rounded sermon the
Dominee
would have delivered on the Sunday following election day, had he lived to see the ‘Lost Tribe of Africa' find their way back home. Not that I was too fussed about politics at the time, my dealings with the Apartheid Government would come much later.

In retrospect, the Hillbrow flat may have been described as small, dark and dingy, but to my mind I wouldn't have swapped it for Buckingham Palace. I counted the early December day I moved into Smelly Jelly's flat as one of the happiest of my life. The single exception was perhaps the first visit to the great waterfall with Sergeant Van Niekerk, Marie, Doctor and Mevrou Van Heerden, and Meneer Van Niekerk the headmaster and his wife.

Now, you may be thinking that the day I found Tinker would be my happiest. But, of course, it wasn't. At the time I was filled with anxiety about how to keep her and the severe punishment I would receive from Mevrou if a puppy was to be found in my possession. Mattress Malokoane had saved my bacon on that day and still, nearly ten years later, hardly a day passed when I didn't think of the big, generous-hearted Zulu with the world-champion platform feet who had been my friend when no-one else could afford to be. How inextricably linked we'd all become. Mattress's death continued to plague me, and Frikkie Botha, who claimed he knew the circumstances of the Zulu's murder, was increasingly coming to depend on me as his physical condition continued to deteriorate.

Almost my first task every school holiday was to cart him to Johannesburg General where, because of his numerous operations and terribly scarred condition, he'd become an object of medical curiosity. The senior medical staff always seemed anxious to put him on display for their interns. There was hardly a branch of the medical profession that didn't find something of interest to them in Frikkie's face or poor broken body, with the result that I could obtain the sort of expert medical attention for him that a run-of-the-mill down-and-out was unlikely to receive. I also used these connections with the various top doctors to get due attention for the brotherhood and, as a result, by comparison to some of the other small communities of alcoholics in Johannesburg, the Joubert Park lot were, medically speaking, reasonably well looked after.

Frikkie's breathing was becoming increasingly laboured and we were making frequent stops on the way to Mr Naidoo's eatery for him to catch his breath. He was complaining of chest pains as well. Shortly after I'd moved into the Hillbrow flat I took him in for a complete medical examination. A cardiac specialist took X-rays and some soundings, and diagnosed a slightly enlarged heart. Professor Mustafa, the chief medical officer who had taken it upon himself to be the doctor in charge of Frikkie's medical, took me aside. He told me that the drinking and life of a derelict was taking its toll on Frikkie and that his tests showed he was a diabetic, probably from the sugar contained in the dozen bottles of Pepsi-Cola that Frikkie consumed each day.

‘Along with his heart condition, in my opinion Mr Botha will be fortunate to make it through the next winter at the steam pipes, Tom,' he advised, then added, ‘How he's survived this long sleeping rough is almost a medical miracle.' Then he invited me to sit down for what he described as ‘a bit of a serious chat'.

‘Tom, you've been bringing these alcoholics to us for three years, tell me, why do you do it, son?' Before I could reply he said, ‘You know they all trust and love you, don't you?'

I shrugged. ‘Drunks don't love or trust, Professor. I understand them, that's all.'

‘You mean you don't judge them? Was your father an alcoholic?'