Triomf Read online

  Pop takes out twenty cents and throws it into the man’s cap.

  ‘God bless you, sir,’ says the beggar.

  ‘You too,’ says Pop.

  When he looks up again, he sees the Ithuba stall. Lambert’s always reading from the papers how much money people win – widows, Post Office clerks, even tramps.

  He feels in his pocket for the five-rand note. Mol said bread and milk. It’s already become an expensive morning. What the hell, he thinks. He buys a ticket and puts it down on the counter so he can scratch. The black woman first has to explain to him where to scratch. She smiles a big smile at him. Never in Triomf has he seen a black woman smile at him like this. She smiles a lovely smile and then she says: ‘It’s all right, dearie, just go right ahead.’ And: ‘Maybe it’s your lucky day today.’ And: ‘Don’t worry, the others must wait their turn.’

  All those behind him in the queue are black men in suits. And would you believe it, he gets three fives! He buys another ticket. Three twenties! ‘Watch this old bugger, he’s on a roll,’ someone behind him says. As the woman counts out his money, he hooks his thumbs under his braces. ‘Come on, be a devil,’ she says to him. He wishes Treppie were here. Or Lambert. ‘Come on, one more time, you can’t lose now,’ she says. He buys one more ticket. My word, three fifties! ‘Now you must buy twenty-five tickets and carry on,’ someone in the queue says. But he’s finished. That was good enough. Three times lucky. He waits while the woman counts out his money, and then he adds it to the rest in his pocket. He’s not sure how much he’s got by now. ‘Have a nice day, sir,’ the woman says. And as he turns, a big black man takes him solidly by the shoulder and says: ‘Hey, well done, old man, now wish me luck.’

  ‘I wish you luck,’ Pop says, smiling at the man, and now the feeling in his flesh runs like warm syrup through his bones and into his marrow, right down to his feet.

  At first, he can’t get Molletjie started. His hand’s trembling, but then she takes, and he’s off, with all that noise around his ears. From close up it’s a lot of hooting and noise. He drives round the block, into Smit Street, and then under the bridge. He goes along Caroline Street until he hits Ontdekkers, towards the house.

  He won’t say anything. He’ll show them later. Tonight. You should never announce good luck. He’ll still think of something. Maybe the drive-in, or a decent bottle of brandy. Or maybe not. Don’t be in a hurry. It’ll come, like all things on a good day.

  He drives past Ponta do Sol and stops at Shoprite for bread and milk. As he walks up and down the shelves, everything feels different. He can buy anything he wants. He takes out the money and counts it. Seventy-four rand and a few cents. He puts it back in his pocket in a little roll and then closes his hand around the roll.

  A tin of ham? A few tins of bully beef? Sardines? He’s really very tired of polony and golden syrup. Or he can go next door to Roodt Brothers Forty Years Meat Tradition and buy biltong and dry wors.

  Pop smiles. No, he’ll just buy bread and milk.

  What he does with the money has to be more of a thing. He feels a thought coming from far off. It bothers him for a while before he works out what it is. Oh yes, Lambert. Lambert’s birthday. New pants for Lambert.

  No. Then it benefits only one of them. It must be something for everyone, all of them together. And it must be more than something you just buy, full-stop. It must be something that happens.

  At the house he sees Mol looking at him all the time. In earlier years she would have said: So, Pop, what’s with you, why you smiling so much?

  He just smiles straight back at her, right into her puzzled face.

  Just you wait and see, Mol, before this day’s out you’ll be smiling too.

  Pop walks round the back to fetch Lambert. His four hubcaps are lined up neatly in the sun, drying.

  Flossie stands here in the backyard, on bricks. When Pop finds Lambert, he’s taping up Flossie’s back window for spray-painting. Every day Lambert does some more taping. Pop’s always telling him to get finished and spray her so the job can come out nice and even, but Lambert says it works on his nerves; he needs time to think, inbetween.

  Lambert’s got big plans for Flossie. She must be their ‘long-distance vehicle’, he says, so Treppie can use Molletjie to drive himself up and down to the Chinese.

  Flossie’s seats, he says, must be covered in light blue mock leather, to go with the midnight blue he’s still going to spray-paint her. But now he’s busy on the undercoat, which is yellow. Very yellow. How it’s ever going to get blue, Pop doesn’t know. But he doesn’t say anything, even though he feels they should use Flossie for Molletjie’s spare parts. Lambert must just stay busy. As long as he’s busy, he’s okay.

  ‘Come,’ says Pop, ‘let’s first fix that postbox of yours.’

  ‘Right,’ says Lambert. ‘I’ve drawn up a plan.’ He pulls a piece of paper out of his back pocket. It’s a drawing, a thing that looks like a tent with ropes above and below the ground, and around as well. As if a big storm’s coming, above and below the ground.

  Lambert explains. They must weld the plate solidly on to the pipe. Then they take little arms of scrap iron, cut them at an angle on both sides, and weld them on to the pole on the one end, and on to the underside of the plate on the other. Then they can weld the postbox on to the top of the plate, also with arms.

  ‘We’ll show them what real welding looks like …’ says Pop. He doesn’t say anything else. It’s Lambert’s idea and when Lambert’s got an idea you don’t mess around with him. He’ll help with the welding. On a good day he’ll help with welding, any time.

  All afternoon long they work. They find enough arms among the scrap in Lambert’s den for struts, cutting them to length with a little metal saw. On one end they make a downward angle, with an upward angle at the other, to make the welding easier.

  Then they go outside. Pop with a pair of welding goggles and Lambert with his big welding helmet and the welding box. They put the little struts down in a heap next to the gate.

  There’s a storm building, a thundercloud in one corner of the sky with a white head that looks like it’s boiling over in big white clouds of steam.

  ‘Watch us beat that cloud,’ Lambert says, pointing up with his thumb. Then he sits down on his crate, with his back to the cloud.

  ‘Right, let’s go,’ he says, and Pop hands him the first strut, for underneath. They shift it around until it fits.

  Each time Pop bends down to pick up another strut from the little heap, he can feel the big cloud above him. Like when someone stands next to you and you can’t see him but you can feel his size and his warmth.

  That cloud’s tanking up, Pop thinks. He smiles.

  He looks at Lambert’s gloved hands. Sparks shoot in an arc around the gate. Everything in front of him looks dark blue, with bright points of light and glowing white smoke. It feels like being underwater, like the Blue Grotto of Capri they once saw on television.

  Without taking off the welding goggles, Pop turns around and looks at the cloud behind his back. Short, white lines flash from the cloud’s belly.

  It’s welding, he thinks. He smiles.

  Mol walks out the front door. The tips of her housecoat flap in the wind like fins. She comes and stands next to them, nodding her head slightly. The plate’s already fixed to the lower arms.

  Would they like some Coke? she asks.

  That’ll be nice. Pop smiles at Mol from behind his goggles.

  The goggles make him feel stronger. When he’s wearing them, he feels he can smile more broadly. He can see Mol looking at him. She knows something’s going on. Pop can see the sparks reflecting in her eyes. He wants to say something more, but he doesn’t know what.

  She goes inside and comes back with three glasses and a litre of Coke on the half-tray.

  Lambert drops his helmet and Pop shifts the goggles back on to his head. Everything’s clear again. They take big sips of Coke.

  ‘The rain’s coming,’ Mol says, fastenin
g her middle button. It’s the only one left. She takes the glasses back inside.

  ‘We’ll be finished before the rain comes,’ says Lambert, lifting the helmet to his face again.

  Everything’s working out, Pop thinks. Today everything’s working out just fine. The welding head isn’t clogging, the box hasn’t blown, they’ve got a plan and the plan’s working. Lambert’s okay and Mol’s recovered a bit from yesterday. And any minute now Treppie will come home too.

  Then they’ll take the dogs to the open ground behind the Spar in Thornton.

  And then he, Pop, is going to treat them. Yes, that’s what he’ll do. He still doesn’t know how. But he’ll know when the time comes.

  ‘Hey!’ says Treppie, suddenly right here next to him. ‘What’s that spider you’re welding there?’

  ‘Good afternoon!’ says Pop. ‘It’s Lambert’s idea. Bladdy good idea, if you ask me.’

  ‘Looks more like a spider doing push-ups on a mirror,’ says Treppie.

  ‘Just you shuddup and hang on to this for me,’ says Lambert, giving Treppie the welding head.

  Treppie pushes the button and watches the welding flame against the dark sky. ‘Big storm on the way,’ he says.

  ‘We’ll be finished in a minute,’ says Pop. ‘Then we’ll go out with the dogs. You coming?’

  ‘No, I’m tired. You go,’ says Treppie.

  ‘Ag no, man, it’s no fun without you,’ says Pop, smiling broadly from behind his goggles. Treppie’s so surprised, he first looks this way, then that way, before looking back at Pop.

  What’s going on? he asks with his eyes and shoulders.

  Pop signals with his eyes that ‘something’ is going on, but he doesn’t say anything. All he says is: ‘Go tell Mol to get ready so we can go.’

  Treppie plays along. He’s curious, thinks Pop. Toby and Gerty come running out too. They know it’s time to go now.

  Lambert finishes welding the last of his little arms.

  ‘Right,’ he says, ‘now she’s sitting nice and tight. Now it can rain or blow. She’ll stay up. Even if you knock this pole out of the ground, the postbox will sit tight.’

  Lambert gives the postbox a shove.

  ‘Careful,’ says Pop. ‘Let the welding settle first.’ Lambert bends over and picks up the tools. The flat spanner lies in a spot of long grass next to the fence. He almost doesn’t see it. He kicks the spanner out of the patch of grass. ‘Grass needs cutting,’ he says.

  ‘Let the rain come first,’ says Pop. ‘Then we cut.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Lambert, ‘when the grass has dried off from the rain. Not a minute later.’

  ‘Right,’ says Pop, ‘it’s a deal. Take Molletjie out then.’ He gives Lambert the car keys. Then he walks to the front door to put away the tools.

  ’Cause of his fits, taking the car out of the carport is all Lambert’s allowed to do. He won’t ever get a licence. He’s not allowed to drive, even if he does remember to take his pills, and even if they do help. Pop knows Lambert drives around at night sometimes, but he says nothing. Lambert steals the keys from his pockets when he’s sleeping. Treppie encourages him, but Pop says nothing. He’s learnt his lesson.

  Then they’re on their way. The sky’s dark already, but Pop smiles as he drives up Martha, across Victoria and right into Thornton. Lambert feels good – his postbox is sitting pretty again. He reads everything aloud along the way. He sees a small, black notice on a wire fence in front of the Congregation of Christ church: ALL RUBBISH AND JUNK REMOVED FROM YOUR PROPERTY R42 A BAKKIE LOAD. PHONE SMITTIE 684473.

  ‘That’s it, old Smittie,’ says Lambert. ‘Rubbish is rubbish.’

  Then he reads the Congregation’s text for the week, on a big, red board mounted on poles. THE GREAT DAY OF THE LORD IS NEAR, IT IS NEAR, AND HASTETH GREATLY. THE MIGHTY MAN SHALL CRY THERE BITTERLY.

  Lambert cries like the mighty man. Toby barks. Treppie sniggers.

  ‘Lambert,’ says Mol, ‘control yourself.’

  Lambert reads the list of continuous light blue writing on the gable of TRG Engineers. The place has been standing empty for more than a year now, but they still work in the yard at the back.

  CRANKSHAFT GRINDING CYLINDER HEAD RECONDITIONING CONROD RESIZING MOTOR OVERHAULS STRIPPING SPRAYING UPHOLSTERING, he reads.

  ‘What do they know,’ he says, snorting.

  When they pass Ponta do Sol, the dogs push their noses out of the windows. The smell of food and oil reaches right into the street.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ says Lambert. ‘Nice and hungry.’

  Before they can turn in at the Spar, they have to wait for a long line of cars to pass along Thornton. All the cars have their lights on.

  ‘There’s a helluva storm coming,’ says Treppie.

  The dogs jump out of the windows and run to the open veld before they even come to a stop.

  Treppie finds the pink Day-Glo tennis ball in the back of the car. Then they all get out, except Pop, who stays in his seat. He says all the standing today has worn him out. He rubs his eyes. It’s from looking at the welding.

  When he opens his eyes again, he sees his family out there in the distance. They’re standing in a loose triangle in the middle of the veld. Lambert, Treppie and Mol. They look small as they throw the pink tennis ball to each other. Treppie to Lambert, Lambert to Mol, Mol to Treppie. The dogs chase the ball like mad as it flies from the one to the other. Lambert keeps throwing the ball too high and too hard for Mol. She misses it. Miss, miss, miss. Then the dogs chase after the ball. If it’s Gerty, she brings it back to Mol. Mol smiles each time she bends over to take the ball from Gerty.

  She can’t help smiling, Pop thinks. He said she was going to smile today. And she doesn’t know how much more she’s still going to smile. He feels in his pocket to make sure the money’s still there.

  Suddenly, lightning flashes in three different places at the same time – long white arteries with side-branches shooting all over the sky. Thunder breaks through the sky so hard that Pop hears the Spar’s roof go ‘kaboof!’

  Mol gives a funny little jump, smothering a scream. Then she breaks into a run, making for the car with the dogs hard on her heels. Treppie and Lambert laugh so hard they slap their legs with their hands. They light up cigarettes and then stroll back to the car.

  When everyone’s back inside – when the dogs with their wet tongues have come to rest on the back seat, and the Volksie’s tipping over to one side from Lambert’s weight, and the first big drops of rain go ‘plock, plock’ on the roof – Pop asks: ‘So who feels like fish and chips, or Russians, or hamburgers? How’d you like some take-aways, with tomato sauce and Coke?’

  No, he doesn’t ask. He says: ‘So, who’s hungry!’

  ‘And what do we eat at the end of the month?’ asks Mol.

  ‘This is extra money I’ve got, old girl. Extra. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Extra what?’ asks Lambert.

  ‘Money,’ says Pop.

  ‘That you got where?’ asks Treppie.

  ‘Let’s go and get some food. I’ll explain on the way,’ says Pop. He turns Molletjie’s nose carefully back on to Thornton, towards Ponta do Sol.

  ‘How does a person get extra?’ asks Lambert.

  ‘Yes, how?’ asks Mol.

  ‘Must be charity,’ says Treppie.

  ‘Yes,’ says Pop, ‘pure charity, just like that. First I ate this mango …’

  ‘Then you bit into gold, right?’ says Treppie.

  ‘No, man, listen now. Just after I dropped you off this morning. I went to Braamfontein. Then I ate a mango.’

  ‘A mango?’ asks Mol. ‘Mangos are messy.’

  ‘Ja, but I wiped my hands on my pants and then someone wanted money for the blind. In a tin.’

  ‘And then?’ asks Lambert.

  ‘Then I gave him some money.’

  ‘How much?’ asks Treppie.

  ‘Twenty cents.’

  ‘Jeez!’ says Lambert, ‘I bet he gave you his whole tin, right?�
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  ‘No, then a one-legged kaffir asked me for money. In his cap.’

  ‘And then?’ asks Mol.

  ‘Then I gave him some.’

  ‘How much?’ asks Treppie.

  ‘Also twenty cents. “God bless your soul, sir,” the kaffir said to me.’

  ‘Sir, I say,’ says Treppie.

  ‘Then you grabbed his tin?’ asks Lambert.

  ‘No, then I said: “And yours too!”’

  ‘What?’ asks Mol.

  ‘“Bless your soul too,” I said to the kaffir.’

  ‘Pop, now you’re having us on,’ says Lambert.

  ‘No, I swear, it’s true,’ says Pop, pulling up outside Ponta do Sol.

  Everyone’s looking at him. He smiles back at them, one by one. At Lambert, with his thin beard growing in patches under his chin. Lambert’s eyes are wide open. Light blue, like the rest of theirs. At Mol, who’s playing with her false tooth in her mouth. Every now and again she pushes the tooth right out. She always does that when she’s thinking hard. And then Pop looks at Treppie. There’s an Elastoplast on his forehead and stubble all over his hollow cheeks. You can never make out his expression, he’s so full of wrinkles.

  Pop sticks his hand in his pocket and takes out all the money. ‘Seventyfour rand!’ he says.

  ‘Jeez,’ says Lambert.

  ‘Good Lord,’ says Treppie.

  ‘Hmph,’ says Mol.

  ‘Yes,’ says Pop. ‘It was my lucky day: a mango, a blind man, and a one-legged kaffir. And then I played scratch-cards and I won. Seventyfour rand.’

  Pop opens his door. ‘So, what’ll it be, my friends? Lambert?’ he asks.

  ‘No, hell, Pop. Wait, we’re coming with,’ says Lambert.

  They all pour out of the Volksie and run to the other side of the road with their heads down, out of the rain and into the warm, oily air of the shop. They stand there, trying to make up their minds. What’ll it be?

  ‘Four packets of chips, for a start,’ says Lambert.

  ‘Three’s enough,’ says Mol.

  ‘No, four, five, even six if you want,’ says Pop.

  ‘And a piece of fish for me,’ says Lambert.