‘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?’
‘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.