That Touching Look
“When do you bring my reel back, do I always have to call behind your ass?” I screamed as I stared furiously at the vacant spot in my fishing box.
“But Dad, I don’t have time …, and Dad never catches anything at Paternoster. Why are you always going there? ” Andrew defends on the other side.
Without answering, I broke the connection and flung the phone on the car seat.
“Jeez, darling, why is your mouth drooping like that? You’re usually so excited when we go to Paternoster?
Come, come, I don’t want to pitch a tent in the dark,” Cheryl grumbled as she peered into her hand mirror for the last time.
“Oh, nothing. I chat to Andrew over my fishing reel and guess what his excuse is? “ I lean forward and slip Kris Kristofferson into the CD slot. “Me and Bobby McGee” fill the cabin
“Probably what we all know, my dear. That you catch very few fish on the West Coast anyway. “
I’m looking for a touch of sarcasm so that I can take her on, but there’s nothing. She fidgeted in her handbag and stuffed a sweet into my mouth.
As I waited for the gate to close behind us, I peered at her. That touching look in her brown eyes is visible. “Of course we’re taking the back road,” she whispered, caressing my thigh. I feel my face warm and automatically look around. She giggles frantically. “No, not that, there’s no opportunity, thanks for the slow way you drive your car.”
We have identified half a dozen or so pit stops on the back roads over the years. A pit stop is a pretty good description, considering that we have to jumble ourselves and correct our clothing in record time when an inquisitive farmer unexpectedly pops up. At this swamped CRV next to his dam or under a tree when the heat is on.
At Paternoster, I ignore the Tietiesbaai turn-off and aim for Strandloper Street.
Cheryl immediately recognises what he wants to do. “You’re attempting for nothing, it’s after five, so she’s probably home already.”
But Emma is still on her post.
Her face brightens as she recognises us. She jumps up, followed by her two apprentices.
We have known Emma since she was about five or six years old. She is undoubtedly the most competent resident of Paternoster and runs her business seven days a week. With a plastic bag in each hand, she and the youngsters gather shells every morning on the beaches between Mosselklip and Bek’s Bay.
The sidewalk in front of the Voorstrand Restaurant serves as her workplace. Flat on the ground, with only a nail and stone as her utensils, she carefully cut a hole in each shell and then threaded it in a piece of string or a wire configuration. Her working style is a true inspiration. She never scolds the little ones when their attention is not with the task. When a shell breaks with Emma, she wipes it aside and starts another. Every time a potential buyer steps in, she jumps up and offers her wares. Unlike the new-generation salespeople who are threatening to overwhelm her business, she does not urge reluctant customers at all.
“Hello, sir, hello, ma’am, where are Gabriella and Isabella?” She greeted kindly. The fact that our grandchildren, unlike her, moved on, does not count in her books. The glorious times when she boldly took them as temporary apprentices still etched into her heart.
“Hello, Emma, they are in Heilbron and send greetings,” explains Cheryl and switches to business. “How much do your shells cost today?”
“Thirty for the strings and fifty for the hearts, ma’am.”
I lean over to remind her that dust is gathering at home, but the pending look in the little ones’ eyes makes me stand against the onslaught.
“We’ll take two of each, thank you,” Cheryl decided, fumbling for her purse. She points to the restaurant: “Are Sharon and Adriaan here?”
“No, ma’am, they’re at the store.”
“How are your mother and your grandmother?” Cheryl asked as she counted the money out in the open hand.
But Emma is Emma. We keep her out of work.
“All right, ma’am, thank you, sir.” And she dragged the cash back into the pile of shells.
“One hundred and sixty rands. You know, of course, what that means, right? “I try to beat the weekend’s budget. But as usual, Cheryl is right with an answer. “Don’t fret, my husband, there is still enough cash for four lobsters. We have to watch out for the Mac twins. “
Her words were barely cold, so it was.
“Hey, mom, here. How many lobsters today? Special prize for mom and the gentleman. ” The young people in the village are scared of me. They realised a long time ago that I was the sullen, grumpy one.
I still want to say something, but Cheryl is in control. “Yeah, Mac, how’s your mom? Where are Neil and your two sisters? ”
Cheryl has long recognised the characteristics and needs of the Paternosters. Patience and recognition. Apply it, and you can walk miles with them. Mac put his bag down carefully, wiped the afternoon sweat from his forehead, and stuck his head into the open window. He says his mother’s health is going well. Still, that Neil’s prison sentence and the younger sister’s sexual atrocities in the Cape are exhausting.
It was dusk when we entered the gate at Tietiesbaai. Another plus for the place. You drive in, look for a stand, pitch the tent with the enthusiastic help of people you don’t know and sort the rental payment out the next day.
The next afternoon, we met Eddie Moreira at the hotel, had a look at the Voorstrand and dropped off some food and a bag of old clothes. From the twin’s mother, Sanet, we drove quietly back to Tietiesbaai.
On the way, we count one owl, one turtle and three field mice with the same enthusiasm as when wildlife visitors come across the Big Five.
Arriving at the tent, we pack a basket of wine, cheese, bread rolls and lobster roasting accessories and a packet of chips. And, oh yeah, a blanket. There is an over-abundance of pit stops between the rocks.
Three hours later, when the sunset was threatening to present a spectacle like never before, I pulled out the fishing rod as Cheryl packed up. The piece of lobster tail is untouched, but when I throw it into a patch of water between the rocks, a few small fish devour it there and then. I smile with sheer satisfaction.
Just past the Columbine Light Tower, I reach for my phone and call my son.
“Yes, Dad, and then, did Dad catch anything?”
I ignore the mutual sarcasm and decide it’s my turn now.
“Old boy, you won’t believe me when I tell you what I’ve already caught, but I want to tell you something else.”
“Yes, Dad, but I don’t have the time now …”
“Wa … wait,” I interrupted him sharply. “You just have to make time, old boy.”
“Okay, Dad, I’m listening.” I can hear the impatience in his voice and continue.
“You wanted to know last night why your mother and I always went to Paternoster … how did you put it again, play around? Sit on your ass and I’ll tell you exactly why. “
“But, Dad …”
“Quiet now! Here at Paternoster is a teenage girl who sits on a hard sidewalk seven days a week and sells shells to secure food on the table for her mother and grandmother. Then there is another mother who is struggling with a meagre pension to keep her children on the right track. But where do I go, jumping the story details?. Let’s start at the beginning. Your mother and me yesterday afternoon.
But then Cheryl grabs my arm.
I fold my hand around the mouthpiece and notice that that touching look in her eyes has turned into utter panic.
“Bobby, if you have to tell the child now, in God’s name, just leave the pit stop parts.”
Author: Mattheus Frederik
