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| The Case of the Missing Lightbulb |
Luky;
A FRIEND of mine had two children, and was a very hardworking woman.
Every day she took off the children's school clothes, washed and pressed the boy's flannels and the daughter's gym slip, sponged down their blazers and treated them for stains, shone their shoes till you could see your face in them, changed their home-knitted cardigans, ironed her daughter's ribbons till they looked like butterflies, bleached, starched and pressed their school shirts, and then sat with the wearers until every bit of their homework was finished.
Bouquet
The children responded well to this treatment, and belonged to the top scholars in their classes. One teacher told my friend that it was a pleasure to teach her children, because not only was their homework impeccably done, but they were also the cleanest children at the school.
My self-effacing friend was pleased to receive some recognition for her services and told me about it shyly, her cheeks pink.
Resolutely silencing that vinegary little voice in my heart which always speaks up when others manage better than I do, I congratulated my friend and admitted handsomely that she worked a lot harder with her two than I did with my six, who looked all right when school started but rather different by the end of term.
Once I got back home, I thought about the compliment paid to my friend and remembered getting a similar one years ago.
We were travelling overseas on a Dutch passenger ship with our two eldest children. For the sake of expense we had settled for tourist class, but soon found out why it was cheaper.
The tourist class was overflowing with people and first class was pretty well deserted, so that its few passengers were being treated like royalty. In comparison, we of the plebeian class were herded together like cattle, or so it seemed to me.
Step up
But things were to look up for us. On the second day at sea, the ship's purser came over to me. With the air of one bestowing a great privilege, he informed me that because of the dearth of children in first class, my two were allowed to join the ships crèche.
I dislike being patronized, so my thanks were not as effusive as they might have been.
"Do you realise", the purser insisted, "that your children will now be free to play with those of the First Class?"
"The honour leaves me speechless", I said coolly.
When I brought my children to the crèche I met the two Dutch nurses in attendance. They were charming, and took me to their hearts because I spoke their language. They introduced me to the mother of the four first-class children, and then she and I went back to our separate departments - I to wash, bleach, starch, press and polish my children's belongings, and she to go and play deck tennis. All I remember of that boat trip is working to keep my children looking as trim as possible.
Badly dressed
But the other mother had no such qualms; her kids frankly looked a mess. Regardless of gender, they wore the same denim shorts throughout the journey, with the same shabby tops . . . I could bet those kids didn't even wear vests!
The day before we docked, the elder nurse spoke to me. "You've restored my faith in the Dutch mother", she said. "Your children looked spotless throughout. As for those other poor kids . . ." Her voice trailed off as their mother breezed in, looking tanned and relaxed.
"Hello, luv", the mother said to me. "Did you enjoy your journey?"
"It wasn't bad", I said doubtfully. "And you?"
"My dear, I had a ball!" she beamed. "I told my husband: 'Let's go by boat. I'm tired of working my life away. We'll travel first class, dress in things that don't show stains, and put our feet up for two solid weeks.' Excuse me, there's the purser. I wonder if he's developed those photos of us at the captain's farewell dinner" - and off she ran.
That woman has taught me a thing or two about life, I thought, watching her retreating back. I got the compliments, but she had the fun.
Catherine Nicolette;
Ah yes, the boat. Was I four years old? I remember it well. Going over the Equator, being approached by people dressed as King Neptune and a mermaid (I must have been very small; I remember things and people at that time as being very big). Going up and down the slide in the crèche. I vaguely remember being told at the crèche what a lucky little boy and girl my brother and I were, being allowed to play with the other children. I was also told to be on my best behaviour, because our family had not paid as much to be on the cruise and we didn't want to smack one of the children who had paid more and cause problems, did we? With all my sunny disposition of four years, I looked dispassionately over at the other kids, and thought; they're the lucky ones, being allowed to play with my brother and me. And I proceeded to have the best time of my life.
Mom did her best
Well. All I can ever remember is Mom cooking, scrubbing, cleaning, tidying, driving, walking, making appointments, taking us to the dentist, doctor or to school. She never stopped, neither did Dad. And Mom really did try to make us look our best. However, Mom had to make do with a girl with the soul of a tomboy. We would stand while she checked us going to school. At school some of the girls in my class would end the day with long smooth hair daintily tied with a pink ruffled ribbon. Perfectly ironed pleats in the old fashioned convent schoolgirl uniform would be tidily matched with a spotless white blouse, perfectly groomed tie, immaculate knee high socks turned back at the exact edge of the three black stripes at the top of the sock. Dolly style shoes would gleam on their feet. One or two daring souls had beautifully matched eyebrows and eyelashes, and soft pink colour on their lips. This was due to the highly illicit and much sought after mascara and lip gloss forbade by the nuns who taught us, and smuggled in by some of the schoolgirls.
Hockey Match
And then you came to me. I remember one day in particular. I had led a rousing hockey match in the classroom during a break between exams. We all had our hockey sticks out
(I was the captain of one team) and five to a side, we belted around the classroom (our desks having been pushed to the walls), hammering the living daylights out of a stout and sturdy Welkom orange which we were using as a hockey ball. The illicit game only came to an end when a particularly good shot by myself went upwards instead of forwards and broke the hanging lightbulb from the classroom ceiling. An Awful Silence fell upon the room, and we gazed upon the shards littering the floor in front of us. I quickly cleaned up the glass, two of us guiltily hid the evidence in a wrapped up piece of feint lined writing paper and we buried them as deep as you could get in the Sisters Cloister Garden bin next to the compost heap. While my other partners in crime heaved the desks back to their allotted places, we readied ourselves for the afternoon exam.
Pained look
When the nun in charge of the afternoon Biology exam came in, she gave me a pained look. Afterwards, I saw why. After the mêlée I never got the chance to do my usual quick check up to see if I was tidy. As I stood with the others (we used to stand up in respect when our teachers came in), my hair was rumpled and my newly growing pony tail was sticking to the side like a paintbrush on the left side of my head. I had a couple of orange splashes on my rather grubby white schoolshirt where the orange had obligingly spattered on me when I scored a goal through the opposing team's goal post (a desk lying on its side). My skirt was unevenly rucked, the hem trailing where my lacklustre repair stitching had given way. My baggy socks were wrinkled around my ankles, and my boy's oxford shoes (a size too small and pinched from my younger brother's cupboard that morning because he had buried my dolly shoes in the yard during our treasure hunt and then unfortunately lost the map) were scuffed and the left rubber sole flapped loosely from the bottom of the shoe. (Did I mention that they were old shoes which were destined to be thrown out before my rescue?)
And on my right forefinger was my trademark black ink and paint colours which used to stain my fingers during my enthusiastic art classes for many years.
Poor mom. She really did try.
Respectable citizen
Anyhow. There is an ending to this story. Many years later, I had become a most respectable citizen of society and was working in ecclesiastical garb. We were always perfectly turned out, and took pride in the same. I was due to go home to visit my parents, and the night before the flight decided to dye my new pair of shoes a sober black.
Tip; never dye without gloves. The top of the dye bottle, newly purchased, gave way as I twisted it and splashed over the flooring and my hands. The dye on the flooring came off with repeated cleaning; the dye on my fingers did not. A few days later I happened to bump into one of the highly groomed young women I had spent my schooldays with. She had become a model in the interim, and looked glamorous. I was delighted with myself, as I looked groomed and polished and my new shoes gleamed in the sun. After I greeted her, she looked down at my hands, picked them up, looked at the black splatters on the forefingers and nails and said, "Tsk, tsk. Some things never change."
Sigh.
Oh, and by the way; Sister Infantia, I'm really sorry about your lightbulb . . .
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