We audited Evander branch sometime in the early 80’s where the accountant Cor Kaan, arranged with the fellow managing the Winkelhaak Mine single quarters, to make a couple of rooms available to us. It was a fairly Spartan, boys hostel sort of place but clean and providing food which would put many hotels to shame, available 24 hours a day to cater for mine shifts – all for R75 a month, all found. That was top value even then.
The room had a single bed, a table and chair and wardrobe – nothing else and a huge communal bathroom. Staying there seemed to trigger some memory in Bush – whether he felt he was back in the air force or whatever, I never found out but he really lost a lot of his reticence there. As there was no pub we each bought bottles of our favourite tipple – I liked Red Heart rum and Bush, whiskey. I was already abed one night when Bush knocked on my door with a tin mug in his one hand and his bottle of whisky in the other – he wanted me to join him for a “nightcap”. He was, shall we say, a bit squiffy, drinking his whisky from the tin mug.
I was a bit miffed but dutifully hauled out my own bottle and joined him for the nightcap. As might quite naturally have been expected, it didn’t stay at one nightcap but became a whole hatbox full instead. As the night drew on, I was desperate for some sleep and kept trying to get the boss to go but he just wouldn’t. Next thing he started singing the old song Harry McClintock had recorded in 1928, “Hallelujah I’m a bum”. (Do I need to point out that “Bum” in this case was a tramp, not a rear end ?)
Here is the final verse from the song : (Anyone interested in hearing the original, I have a MP3 copy)
I don't like work and work don't like me
And that is the reason I am so hungry
Hallelujah, I'm a bum, Hallelujah, bum again
Hallelujah, give us a handout to revive us again
So intent was he on singing the sad little song that he didn’t notice me surreptitiously recording him on my cassette player. He eventually took the hint and toddled off to his bedroom, considerably annoyed with me for terminating his jolly little party. I felt dreadful the next day but Bush just sat down and quietly carried on with the audit without a complaint – never a mention of the previous night.
A footnote to this story came when next I went off to Ladybrand to see my Mom. I decided to play her the tape, not saying who it was singing. After listening for a while she said, “Sounds like a drunken tramp to me – where did you record this?” She was quite annoyed with me for having her on, when I told her that she had been listening to Mr Morley, a Senior Internal Auditor and my boss.
For those who laboured under the illusion that Auditors were special people, paragons of virtue, masters of many skills, several steps above normal bank clerks, people to be feared and revered, I hope I have popped your bubble. We were just normal chaps with all the frailties and habits of normal naughty boys and by golly, we were naughty when we had a chance. (And no, I no longer have that cassette – damn!)
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