The Ghost-Eater and Other Stories Page 6
Waheed, my muscle-bound Muslim friend, spoke up: ‘We are all fifteen or older, sir. There are some under-seventeens here because there are not enough to make up a team.’
Mr Arendse hmphed but said nothing. Soon, the batsmen were ready and we started bowling at them. Most of us were fast- or medium-pacers, but I decided to try out some spin. Jeremy was our star bowler. He was a star at most athletic activities. He also played scrumhalf on the rugby team and striker on the soccer team. I once played a game of tennis with him when he picked up a racquet for the first time in his life and beat me in straight sets. He was just that kind of guy.
He was tall, something that was always good for a fast bowler, and delivered the ball from a height. He also put a lot of power into each delivery: the ball rocketed out of his hand and at the batsmen at a speed that must’ve been at around 130 kilometres per hour, if not more.
Our new coach stood alongside the nets and watched the batsmen for a while. One of them was Clinton, an under-seventeen who had the technique of a pro. He stood still and calm as he waited for the ball. When it arrived, he did not flinch, and moved like a panther to play it. He played shots that looked like they had been lifted straight out of a cricket textbook. The other two batsmen were just as competent.
This went on for about five or ten minutes, and then Mr Arendse put up a hand. ‘Well done, my sons,’ he told the batsmen. ‘It’s clear that you can play. Now I want to see some of the others: those who didn’t volunteer when I asked for batsmen. You two,’ he pointed. ‘And you, my son. What’s your name?’
He meant me. ‘Andrew,’ I said.
‘Come, Andrew. Pad up for us.’
I swallowed: I wasn’t renowned for my batting skills. In fact, I wasn’t renowned for much on the cricket field. I was the academically gifted one, the one everyone came to for help with their homework when they were too embarrassed to ask a teacher. I got my pads from Clinton, who looked pissed that his batting practice had been cut short. He also bowled spin, and he told me to watch out for his googly later.
I strapped the pads on, perhaps a little too tight. They were old, no longer white, and floppy. I hoped that they would protect my shins against Jeremy’s yorkers. I put on everything I could find: gloves, thigh pad, arm brace, ball box and a helmet in the navy blue of our school. Padding up always made me think of a knight dressing for battle. I took my bat in my hands, sweating inside the gloves already, and made my way into one of the nets. I didn’t look to see who else was batting on either side of me. I only looked ahead, at the bowler: at where that little leathery fireball would come from.
The first ball was flying at me before I knew it. I swung at it and missed. I heard the metal wicket fall behind me. I made to leave the net, but Mr Arendse shouted, ‘No, stay. This isn’t a match.’ He was standing where the umpire would usually be, his arms folded and one hand stroking his chin. I faced up to the next bowler: it was Jeremy. The ball hissed at me as the air moved over its seam. Like a snake, it went for my ankles. I managed to hold my bat out in front of me, but I think I closed my eyes, and I was struck on the pads. In a match, that would be out, too.
This went on for a while: one ball was aimed at my head and I managed to duck under it. Clinton’s promised googly came and it befuddled me, as expected. Once, as I was sure I was going to make contact with one of the deliveries, a second ball flew across my vision and I panicked. There were holes in the nets separating the batsmen, and a ball had found its way through one of them.
At last, Mr Arendse marched into my net and asked me, ‘What shots are you trying, my son?’ He said ‘my son’ in such a soothing way, as I imagined Jesus had when he’d spoken with his disciples. ‘You’ve got to walk before you can run. The forward defensive is one of the most underrated shots in cricket. But when you do it right, you will never lose your wicket playing it. Here, let me show you.’
I gave him my bat and he made me stand to one side. ‘Come, Jeremy,’ he called. ‘Give me your best one.’ There our new coach stood, still fresh from the classroom, with no protection whatsoever. He thumped the bat on the ground in anticipation.
‘Sir, I can’t,’ said Jeremy. ‘I mean, are you sure?’
‘Ja, I’m sure. Come on.’
Jeremy bowled. The delivery was a little slower, but he blocked it. ‘Again,’ he told Jeremy.
This time, Mr Arendse held his pose after striking the ball and showed me with one hand: ‘Front foot forward, bat straight against the pad, eyes over the ball. You can’t be bowled, caught or called LBW.’
Jeremy bowled again, faster this time. ‘Don’t be afraid of the bowler,’ my coach told me. ‘Make him afraid of you. Say to yourself: Come on, you cunt! Is that the best you’ve got?’ The other players turned to look. Had they really heard Mr Arendse swear? All doubt was removed when he drove the next ball back at the bowler. As he did so, he exhaled: ‘Play the poes!’ He said it with relish.
This time, half the team packed up laughing. He turned to me and said, ‘No matter what the bowler throws at you, you play him. Play the poes!’ He gave the bat back to me and returned to stand outside the nets. I blocked the next ball that Jeremy bowled at me. I thumped the bat as I’d seen Mr Arendse do, my feet moved on their own, and I played the ball with purpose. The bat reverberated in my hands when I made contact, but it gave me confidence. I did better after that, although I still missed one every now and then.
When I left the net, Mr A held me by the shoulder and said: ‘Your homework is to go home and play with yourself.’ The other guys guffawed and I blushed. Our new coach went on: ‘Close your bedroom door, stand in front of a long mirror, take your bat in your hand, and play! Keep playing that forward defensive until you’ve got it down to a tee. Will you do that for me, my son?’
I nodded and smiled, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘And that goes for the rest of you as well,’ he told the team. ‘Play with yourselves every evening, boys. It’s good for you.’
I decided that I was going to enjoy cricket that season.
The Writing Class
Daniel Berti
I’m busy on Wednesday nights. I have a calendar I write on my calendar. I write lists I hate mosquitoes speed bumps domestic animals especially cats. Have you ever been on my website here kitty dot see oh dot zed ay I chose the name nice hey. Mister Ardin says I’m good with computers mister Ardin gave me his extra computer. I know my superintendent doesn’t like me I pay the rent I pay the rent two days early every month I stay out of the way. I write it in my calendar I pay for my water lights phone my lights don’t work.
Mommy phones to see how I’m doing on Thursdays good mommy mister Ardin says he’s friends with mommy.
I’m a cat murglar I go undercover. Have you ever been on my website I murgle cats on my website. Just send me the address a photo I’ll be there to murgle your cat free of charge buses cost money. There is honour in the medals Tarantino the black cat had the shiniest medal dog medals are bigger I keep my medals in the draw I wash off the blood. I have money from the government it’s ok if you don’t pay me the government pays me to murgle your cats.
On Sunday I go to church mommy says go to church on Sunday stay out of trouble I don’t drink wine the doctor said I can’t drink wine wine tastes bad. On Sunday I go to church I wear my best suit I sit by myself I don’t drink wine mister Ardin says hello. Mommy goes to hospital church mommy told me on Thursday mommy phones me on Thursdays.
I sleep a lot I’m like a bear bears aren’t domestic animals. I read my bear book I like honey I’m like a bear I like to write answers in my bear book. I like my computer my computer works my lights don’t work there is light in my computer I read my bear book with my computer light.
On Monday I clean the house mommy says clean the house on Monday a house must be clean for visitors I clean all day. On Tuesday mister Ardin comes with bags he takes the old bags he puts the new bags in the fridge he says good Tommy the house is very clean. Mister Ardin goes home I have mail it
’s a new job my client in Sea Point wants me to murgle a fucking noisy dog the photo is a white dog with a medal I write it on my calendar.
On Wednesday the internet says a bus ride is fifteen rand I have enough my calendar has the address I’m good at the calendar the phone rings.
Hello.
Hello my love it’s mommy.
Mommy phones on Thursday today’s Wednesday.
Today’s a public holiday sweetheart, so I’m giving you a call a day early. How are you doing?
I look at my calendar the internet says my bus is leaving soon.
When’s mommy coming home I’m busy on Wednesday mommy calls on Thursday.
You’re busy? What are you doing today my love?
White dog.
What about a dog? Are you playing with a white dog?
Mommy says stay out of trouble I’m undercover I write on my calendar.
Write. Writing class on Wednesday I go to class every Wednesday I write.
Oh that’s wonderful sweetheart, I’m glad you’re getting out of the house. I worry that you’re spending far too much time on that computer of yours.
I’m going to miss the bus mommy it’s fifteen rand I don’t want to miss the white dog it’s Wednesday mommy calls me on Thursday.
Ok Tommy I’ll call you tomorrow. Enjoy your class sweetheart. Mommy’s always thinking of you. Don’t forget to stay out of trouble.
The white dog was a noisy dog it had a medal like Scooby Doo I’m busy on Wednesday.
On Thursday mommy phones phone rings.
Hello mommy.
Hello boy, how are you today?
I’m good I hurt my foot I fell I’m ok now.
You fell? What happened? Are you alright?
I’m undercover on Wednesday I go to writing class mommy says stay out of trouble.
I fell I’m all better now I fell at writing class.
Aw, sweetie. Did you at least have a good time?
Same as usual the bus was fifteen rand I got a medal.
You got a medal? That’s great my love, congratulations! I’m very proud of you.
Thanks mommy I got a medal when are you coming home?
As soon as I can sweetheart. I don’t know when yet, I have to wait for the doctors to tell me when it’s ok and then I’ll come home. Tell me more about this class, I want to hear all about it.
I write I’m good at writing in my calendar I can write in other places on Wednesday I went to the white– class I go on Wednesdays.
Well I’m very happy to hear that sweetheart. Keep it up! Have lots and lots of fun for mommy!
Thanks mommy I will try harder I will get more medals.
That’s the spirit! Ok sweetie I have to go, I’ll call you next Thursday. Stay out of trouble.
Ok mommy has to go goodbye mommy see you soon.
On Thursday mommy phones me mommy already phoned today today is Thursday I have nothing to do. I have nothing to do until Sunday I play computer my computer has mail I have a new job I’m busy on Wednesday nights. The address is close I can walk to the address buses cost money I write the address on my calendar. This attachment is slow on Wednesday I murgle cats just send me the address a photo I want to see the cat it’s free of charge. The photo is not a cat the photo is a blonde person people are domestic animals. The blonde person has a church medal mommy says I must try harder I should get more medals mommy is very proud of me.
Chain-smoking
Nadia Kamies
You made my mother so angry that she couldn’t even come when you called for her. She wouldn’t allow you to manipulate her for the last time. What was the harm, I thought; you were dying and then she could move on. But whatever happened between you two went deep, deeper than I will ever know. The bad feelings rubbed off on me too. There you were, like a queen, living up on the hill, refusing to walk anywhere and heaven forbid anyone suggest you use the bus! Wouldn’t learn to drive either, so you tried to bribe, bully or manoeuvre one of us into doing your bidding after Pa died. It must have pained you to have to ask outright for help. You know, we all saw right through those elaborate plans you sat hatching when you couldn’t sleep.
There was this grandmother in the book I was reading, a difficult matriarch, described with love and I wondered why I didn’t try that: to describe you. You know what? I kind of like you more now. Perhaps it was all that cigarette smoke which got between us. Do you have any idea how irritating that was? You lit up and left your wands of death to emit cancer into the air. There was smoke in every room, forgotten cigarettes burning holes in furniture from the front room, down the narrow passage and into the kitchen. Ha! You gave a new meaning to chain-smoking.
Remember when no one cared whether or not it was okay to sell cigarettes to eight- or nine-year-olds and you would bribe us to go up to Mr Allie’s shop for Cavalla Cork in the green packet? I only found out recently that you had been smoking them since you were fifteen when you worked for the factory in Woodstock and they paid you in kind. And then when Rembrandt bought the company long after you had left, you switched allegiance to their cigarettes in the yellow box with gold trim. You would hold the cigarette between red-tipped fingers and I would watch, mesmerised, as you’d take it to your red Elizabeth Arden lips, which left their mark on the filter.
Not as mesmerised, though, as my brothers who decided to see if they could smoke but instead of trying a real cigarette they rolled up the thin paper which lined the box, stuck it into their mouths and one of them lit up. It burned more quickly than expected, leaving the guinea pig minus eyebrows and with a scorched face. That cured them both of smoking.
Actually, you didn’t pass that addiction on to any of us. But then none of us needed a crutch to cope with being sent to District Six after both our parents had died, clutching a bag with all we owned, and three younger siblings in tow, to be taken in by an aunt we had never seen. And we didn’t have to go out to work in a dimly-lit factory to earn a pittance and the rest in cigarette off-cuts. Or lose a baby during the war because of contaminated milk and watch an epileptic brother taken to a mental home because that’s what they did in those days. And later it was a husband to cancer.
No one believed you when you said you were sick. She’s at it again, they thought. It was the smoke that took you away.
Mnemosyne
Conrad Kemp
I was cycling home, along the canal and I noticed that the water seemed an odd colour, so I stopped to take a closer look. When I got near to the water, I noticed a reflection of something waving in the tree above me. I looked up. That’s when I saw the trousers, little trousers, hanging in the tree. They looked clean. Like they had just been unpacked and hung out to freshen. They were green pants. A child’s pants. That was the first thing I saw. Later I saw more clothes.
Ms Burkhardt started planning in 1990. The unfamiliar sound of glasnost had woken her from a decade of barely remembered sound bites delivered weekly into the scruffy microphones of community radio. It had not come a moment too soon. Thank God for Gorbachev and the price of grain. Without them, she might never have lifted her head from the damp bedsit of self-doubt. In her hot youth, necking sherry with shiny comrades, eyes still stinging from tear gas, she had never conceived that commitment could be so lonely and so unheroic as it had been these last years. Enduring the awful food and the smug newspapers was hardly the same as standing against a baton charge, yet its tepid, obscure cruelty had stretched her to tissue paper. Now perestroika and glasnost had handed her the bottle again. Change was coming to the world, perhaps even to her allotment. She bought new clothes for the first time in years and stationery with a personal letterhead that read ‘From the Office of Ms Fraus Burkhardt’. She began to trace her old friends from the Struggle, friends who had slowly receded into their own hollows, slipping, as she had, into the haze of voluntary exile.
She discovered that some of them had died. They were anonymous clerks at pharmacies or call centres whose families back home could not afford repatriati
on. They were drinking, fighting, social-grant poets hoping for posthumous recognition. They wished they had never left or been forced to leave. They wished they had been imprisoned.
Others she saw every day in the papers. These were the ones achieving success in exile as musicians and writers and artists with political pedigrees, the voices of the struggle who were invited to places and who could afford cabs in the rain. There were also the high-profile representatives of the struggle abroad who met with the money-men and decision-makers of Europe. Some even wore suits and tailored coats as they were interviewed by the BBC.
But most were just dry scalp on the struggle’s shoulders, shuffling along to the tube each morning. She wanted to escape this half-lived destiny, to breathe in the change and rediscover the distinction she had once felt, photographed in her prime by the state police. She wanted to be painted purple again. She wanted to demonstrate her usefulness and her vision to those who deployed. She had, after years of diminishing, regained inclination, and was well on her way to finding full-blown direction.
The first thing I thought was that it must be some kind of art, some kind of artist’s project or something like that. All these clothes and blankets and things. There is a guy who wraps things in plastic, huge things, and I thought maybe it was something like that. So I wanted to take some photographs.
The travel agency where she worked was called Canterbury Travel, although everyone referred to it as Cant Travel. It was one of the major players in the market, delivering some four million holidays each year. Its slogan was ‘Cant Travel Can’, which Ms Burkhardt found difficult to say on the phone. She had become the Edgware Road branch specialist in affordable charter tours. She knew every aging, mid-sized plane in the south-east, where they were willing to fly and how many souls they were prepared to hoist. She knew which planes were exaggerating their range and which were fudging their maintenance records. She knew those planes to avoid in the European winter months, and which planes couldn’t hold their liquor. And she could structure the costs. Your average Fokker F-28, with a capacity of seventy-odd passengers, would ordinarily go for about £1,700 per hour, excluding permits, overnighting, catering, airport taxes and so on. She could bang it down to £1,600 all inclusive. She knew an Embaer 145 that could take fifty people to North Africa or the Middle East for under £1,100 per hour. You would battle to find better in London.