She’s always said to Pop she doesn’t want to be rich. Pop says him neither, all his life he’s just wanted to help Treppie, and now her. He says as long as he can keep himself busy and have enough to eat, he couldn’t care about money. Not that he needed to care all that much. The fridge business was a helluva flop.
The roses were also not such a great success. All in all, they just managed to break even, once you counted the little Austin’s petrol and the Cellophane and the ribbons and everything. But at least it was fun and it kept them jolly.
She used to leave Lambert with Treppie at night and then Pop would drive her around. First they looked in the paper to see what was on that night and then she used to put on her smart yellow linen dress, the one with the black piping, which she used for selling roses. After she put on some rouge and stepped into her high-heels, she’d put on her housecoat over her nice clothes so they wouldn’t get wet when she and Pop loaded the buckets of flowers into the Austin. That housecoat only came off when they were right in front of the city hall.
She’d put fifteen Red Alecs and five yellows and five pinks into the cane basket and she’d say to Pop: ‘How do I look, Pop?’ And he’d say: ‘Like the yellow rose of Texas, Molletjie.’ Then she was ready.
Pop used to park the Austin around the corner so it wouldn’t chase away their business there in the middle of all the smart cars, and she’d go stand in front of the city hall’s great wooden doors, about five minutes before all the people came out, so she could first get herself ready.
She used to sing ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’, to clear her head. Clear out the yard with all its broken fridges and the child who was so difficult.
She sang so she could forget how she closed her eyes and opened them and closed them again when she saw the deep, red burns on his little legs.
She sang so she could forget Treppie’s high voice when he made all his excuses. ‘No man, I was busy welding in the back and the next thing he was holding a red-hot piece of metal here against his leg.’
She sang so she could forget how Treppie began stuffing her the moment Pop turned his back, and how he fucked her while Lambert screamed his head off in his walking ring in the backyard.
She sang two or three verses of ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’, until she began to feel better, until she herself began to feel like a rose, a yellow one, just beginning to open, so you could see it was almost orange on the inside. A beautifully scented rose on a long stem, wrapped up in shiny Cellophane, giving off little sparks in the stoep-lights of the city hall. Then she was ready. Then, when she offered someone a yellow rose — which didn’t happen a lot, ’cause most of the time they wanted the red ones — it was almost as if she was offering herself, her best self to the gentlemen in their white collars and the fancy women on their arms. The self she could look upon and say: It’s okay! It’s okay! It’s okay! So loud that she wouldn’t hear that other voice, the one she hears most of the time when things start getting so rough. The voice of Old Moclass="underline" Bad! Bad! You lot are bad! And you’re getting worse by the day!
But she doesn’t tell the other three this part of the story. She just stops at the part where Pop drives the Austin round the block; where she stands, with her basket, in front of the great wooden doors. She just keeps quiet, swallowing down her Klipdrift and Coke.
She picks up the story again where the people came pouring out of those doors, and she had to talk English, ’cause not many Afrikaners could afford roses in those days. Ja, she leaves out that part about her becoming a rose. Drink that part down, ’cause it would just start trouble again. For bladdy sure. She’s almost forgotten it in any case, that business about feeling like a rose and everything.
‘And so, what did you say to those people, Molletjie,’ Pop always asks, to get her going again.
Then she says: ‘Good evening, sir, would you like to buy a rose for the charming lady at your side?’
At that, Lambert almost falls off his chair from laughing, and then he repeats, ‘The charming lady at your side’, and Pop smiles, too.
‘We have here a Red Alec, a pink Prima Ballerina and a yellow Whisky Mac,’ she says next.
‘We,’ Treppie says. ‘We! What rubbish.’ And he storms off to go drink outside on the grass.
Treppie always says he’s got enough misery as it is. Why bother with yesterday’s misery? He says he wanted to get rich with the fridges, but how can anyone get rich on fucken anything in Vrededorp or Triomf when other people go spend your money on roses?
That’s what he always used to say, in Vrededorp too. ‘Mol, you’re wasting our money. I work my fingers to the bone and what do you do? Spend it on rubbish. What do you actually bring in? Bugger all! Red Alec my foot! You’re just wasting time. We need food and clothes and a car that works. Not roses. And now you’ve got this child as well. Madam Butterfly! Why don’t you go char for the rich people in Parktown. Or let them teach you to sell stamps at the Post Office. Then at least you’ll be doing something useful. We’re working at home in any case. We’ll look after Lambert for you. At least the little bugger listens to me.’
And Pop always says: ‘Ag, Treppie, leave Mol alone. It’s her only real pleasure in life.’
That’s what Pop says still, to this day, when she tells her story.
‘Leave Mol alone, Treppie, leave her alone, man, it’s the only nice thing she’s got left to remember.’
Then Treppie says: ‘All right, all right,’ and he looks as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. ‘All right, old Mol, tell us again about when we became a republic, old girl.’
When we became a republic. That’s another story. Too difficult to tell, actually. But Treppie wants what he wants, so she tells the story.
Pop said they should make a day out of it. 31 May 1961. It was just after they’d moved here, to Triomf. The grass hadn’t even been planted yet. There was just dust everywhere. But there was no stopping Pop. Poor old Pop, he’s always been a sucker for the big occasion.
And that was now a palaver for you. It wasn’t just a picnic in Pretoria, it had to be business, too. That was also Pop’s idea. At least to start with. She’s sure Pop’s got a much better eye for business than Treppie. He just lacks the will. But those were the days when Pop was still young. Lambert was just seven. And Pop said Lambert could stay out of school for two days to help them get ready. At school they’d just be waving a lot of flags around anyway. In the end all hell broke loose ’cause Lambert didn’t get his Republic Day medal at school that day. Gold medals with Dr Verwoerd’s face on. Pop had to go ask Lambert’s teacher afterwards to please order an extra one. Anyway, Pop’s plan was to sell roses on Republic Day. Not reds. No, they went to the market the day before and bought orange roses. Four gross. Forty bunches. Las Vegas Supreme, that was their name. She’ll never forget that. A fancy orange rose with no scent at all. But the colour made up for it. It was bright, like an orange sucker. They bought ten bunches of Baby’s Breath, and ten bushes of display fern, a whole spool of blue ribbon and a spool of white. So they could make oranje-blanje-blou corsages. They bought small golden pins and a roll of green florist’s tape. And rolls of cotton wool to moisten and then pack the flowers in so they’d stay fresh. In flat peach trays.
All Pop’s idea, and a bladdy good one too. They worked right through the night. After a few hours she was squinting from all the work. She’d take an orange rose, cut the stem, add a spray of Baby’s Breath, a twig of fern and a piece of green tape to keep it all together. Then a piece of white ribbon and a piece of blue ribbon, right around, push the pin through and it was done. Put to one side. They sat outside in the backyard in a circle, on crates, under a light on an extension that Treppie hooked on to the gutter.