RANDOM NOTES
I’ve always been a stickler for being on time. I would have been horrified if I had ever been late for school so my staff had to be at work on time or face a tongue lashing from me. I could not however enforce my rules on our customers, especially not the principal of the biggest school in the area, who seemed to delight in walking in with his higgledy piggledy deposit, as we were about the close the doors. He was NEVER on time, even after I had asked him quite reasonably, if he would mind coming in just ten minutes earlier so that I could get my tellers away before they went into overtime. Then came the day when I had had enough. At 3.15 I told Jeremiah to shut the doors, at the same time moving the office clock 15 minutes ahead. Sure as can be, at 3.29, as the tellers’ trolleys were being moved to the strongroom, the front door rattled. I went to speak to the old chap and he was staring suspiciously at our clock which by now was showing five minutes past closing time. I said nothing – just pointed at the clock and shrugged my shoulders. I recall him shouting, “It’s not fair Mr Lyle. Your clock is wrong” but I was not about to give in. For a while after that, he arrived in good time, always pointing at the clock but he was a good sport and never reported me.
At Christmas time, I would strip our Tea Club of surplus funds and buy a couple of cases of beer and some bottles of brandy and after work one afternoon would “throw” a Christmas party. The manager and I would retire to his office with our own spots and leave the guys to get smashed. Getting completely out of their skulls was all that was aimed for. No quenching of thirst, no savouring the brandy – just down the hatch as quickly as possible. Jeremiah, the cleaner had been given a bottle of his favourite tipple – a harsh, potent brew called Brandyale which was a mixture of brandy and wine. He had popped in just to say goodbye and when I asked him why he wasn’t joining us he said he preferred to drink at home. I insisted he get a glass and have a quick one with us and to my horror, he spun the cap off the bottle, put it to his lips and downed the ENTIRE BOTTLE! He went a little glassy eyed, walked unsteadily to an outside room and without any further ado, hit the deck like a sack of potatoes.
I was sure he’d die of alcohol poisoning and went out several times during the night from my flat to check on him. He was snoring lustily by the midnight hours and at last around 5 AM I heard him stirring outside. That man looked like hell but he was frantic with worry about what his wife would say and do, so I bundled him into the car and took him home. When we got there I didn’t drive off immediately after dropping him off and waited as he went into his house. Then a storm of angry female noises started and rose to an amazing crescendo. Next thing Jeremiah stumbled out, got back in the car and asked if I’d take him to work, as he’d get no peace at home that day. After plying him with Guronsan, Prohep and aspirin, I told him to sleep it off for the day, which he did. He was ill for days and I doubt if he ever touched Brandyale again.
Shoes! An odd area in which to feel culture shock you might say but that it was. I’ve never been a clothes horse and I could really care less if an item of clothing is in fashion or not so smart shoes were never in my shopping basket. Edworks were still going then and for a mere R2.99 one could buy an adequate pair of “vellies” from them. The best shoes I ever bought were John Drakes and they cost around R60. Imagine my surprise when in Charlie Mather’s shop in Sterkspruit, I spotted hellishly expensive Crockett Jones and several obviously Italian shoe brands, selling for hundreds of Rands. Those darn shoes were at the high end of high end! I questioned the wisdom of stocking such expensive shoes in a poverty stricken town and to my amazement he said that he could barely keep up with demand. Black people he said spent most of their days on their feet and as a result, demanded the very best shoes money could buy. Sort of, “look after your feet and they’ll look after you”! No vellies for those guys, no way. While I follow the logic there is no way that I’ll follow suit. I’ll never pay thousands for shoes.
The infamous immorality act was still in force back then and while there was a distinct dearth of nubile lasses, none of the young men in town stepped over the colour line. They were too busy drinking I guess. But one married guy with grown-up kids was carted off to gaol for cavorting with black maidens out in the district somewhere. He was a little shrimp of a man with an especially waspish wife so there was some understanding and sympathy for his behavior. He spent 12 months locked up; a severe punishment for merely being human.
There was a coloured family in a shop at the edge of town. The old patriarch had served his country during WW2 as a white man and when the Nats came to power in 1948, he was reclassified coloured. That must have been a singularly bitter pill to swallow and yet he did not seem resentful. His son had daughters who were away at school and one day, the older girl came into the bank for something. I had no idea who she was but she was one of the most stunning girls I have ever encountered. She was as pretty as a picture and man oh man, did she have a pair of legs, which were well displayed under her miniskirt. ANY testosterone-laden man would have gawked at her and instantly have been her slave and I was no different. If she had just crooked her little finger …….. I would have probably thrown caution to the winds and thumbed my nose at that ridiculous law and got myself arrested!
Elsewhere I have written about the brand of English I encountered at Sterkspruit but I just have to sneak one more amusing example in at this late stage. Barry Greyling, my manager and I were interviewing a bright young applicant for a possible job. The chap, who shall call Joe, was rather nervous so I thought to try and put him at his ease. I noticed from his birth certificate, that he was born in Kroonstad, which is where I too was born. Casually I remarked, "Hey Joe, did you know I was also born in Kroonstad?" Joel looked at me sadly, shook his head and said, "No I didn't know". I don't know how Barry and I managed not to laugh but I didn't dare look at him thereafter. Oh and yes, he got the job. It was just casual English in which he was not all that fluent!
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