Lambert wants to start the lawn-mower, but the cord’s slack. ‘Grrr!’ He pulls. ‘Grrr, grrr!’ Once more: ‘Grrr!’ ‘Fuck,’ he says. ‘Fuck this piece of rubbish!’ He kicks the lawn-mower.
Treppie walks past in the passage, looking into the lounge.
‘I told you, you should pull your wire rather than pull that silly little string — then at least you’ll have something to pull.’
Lambert picks up a spanner and throws it in Treppie’s direction. Treppie ducks. The spanner hits the wall and falls on to the blocks. One of the blocks goes ‘click’ as the spanner bounces it loose. A big, thick piece of plaster goes ‘poff’ as it falls on to the floor and shatters into small pieces. Now there’s a big hole in the wall, with hairline cracks all around it. Lambert looks at the hole. He can see powdery red brick where the plaster came loose. Big cracks running in all directions.
He bends over and rips the cord. ‘Puff-ta-puff-ta-puff-ta-puff-ta-puff’ goes the engine, and then it takes. He sets the petrol further open. There’s a lot of oil in the petrol. Spot-on. The lounge fills up with blue smoke.
‘Ma!’ he shouts after Mol, who’s gone back to the kitchen with the dirty rag. ‘Come!’ he shouts. ‘Come, come, come!’
He pushes the lawn-mower towards the front door. Clouds of blue smoke rise from the machine and start pouring out of the door. He works the mower down the two steps. There’s a sharp noise as the blades catch the edge of the stoep. Sparks fly. Mol follows him.
‘It’s night, Lambert. I can’t see anything,’ she shouts above the noise of the machine.
He lets go of the mower. Then he turns his mother so she faces the moon.
‘There!’ he shouts, pointing up. ‘There! Can you see it? There’s your light, Ma! It’s a fucken heavenly spotlight! What more do you want? You start this side and then you go right around, hey.’ He pushes the mower to the strip between the house and the prefab wall, where the grass has grown long.
Pop comes out the front door. ‘Hey, Lambert,’ he shouts, but the noise is so loud he can’t hear himself speaking. He taps on his wrist where his watch used to be. It’s a long time since he had a watch.
He motions with his arms to the moon. It’s late, he shows with large movements. People are sleeping, he signals, folding up his arms next to his head.
Lambert signals back to Pop he must shuddup. He, Lambert, finishes what he starts. Everything’s going nicely now. He pushes past Pop, who’s standing there in the front door. Then he sits down in front of the TV, lighting up a cigarette.
Pop walks up and down between the front door and the lounge. He’d better just sit down now and stop walking in and out, in and out like a dog looking for a bone. He must close the front door now. Lambert hears his mother pushing the lawn-mower through the long grass on the side. ‘Choof-choof-choof-choof’ goes the mower’s engine as it slowly runs down. Then it cuts out. Dead. Now he’ll have to drag himself all the way back outside to his mother, ’cause the dumb cunt won’t be able to get the thing going again.
He’s up like lightning and out of the door before Mol even makes a move.
‘Ja!’ he shouts at her. ‘What’s your problem, hey?’
She points to the dead mower. God in heaven, surely he can see what’s wrong?
‘So, you let the thing die, did you?’ he shouts. ‘What you do that for, hey, what you do that for, hey? Hey?’
He bumps her out of the way, bends over and grabs the cord’s handle. His shorts are almost right off his backside, but he doesn’t pull them up. Let her look if she wants to. When he was a baby, his nappy also used to slip down like that. It’s ’cause his bum is too high. That’s what she always says. Stuff her. He can’t help it if his bum is so high.
He pulls the cord so hard the mower lifts right off the ground.
‘Put your foot on it so I can pull!’ he shouts. Mol walks round to the front side so she can do what he says. The engine takes after the third yank.
‘Right!’ Lambert shouts. ‘When she slacks off, you lift the nose up into the air, like this, and then you move the machine back, just a bit. Then you let it down again. Come, let’s get going. Move, move, move!’
He watches her as she pushes the mower back up the strip next to the house, where the grass is longest. ‘Choof!’ The machine chokes again. He waits for her at the stoep as she drags it back. He’s not going to let her off, no way.
‘Can’t you get it into your head, Ma, that you have to press the fucken thing down on your side so the fucken nose lifts into the air, so it can get some fucken air, so it can fucken run again, hey? Hey!’
He rips the mower out of her hands, steps on it himself, and starts it up again with one mighty heave. He shoves the machine back in his mother’s direction. Then he points at her. Stupid fucken old woman. How could she let it die a second time? Pop’s standing in the doorway, waving his arms like he’s trying to kill flies. Lambert pushes him out of his way.
‘Go sit!’ he says to Pop. ‘Go sit down so you can stop walking up and down all the time.’
Pop lights up a cigarette. He says nothing. They listen as Mol finishes cutting on the side, and they hear how she keeps saving the machine from dying at the last moment. She lifts the machine up on number ninety-nine, gets it up to speed again, and then brings it down for more cutting.
Treppie walks into the lounge with a bottle of Klipdrift and a litre of Coke under one arm, and three glasses in the fingers of the other hand. Then he steadies the glasses on to the sideboard.
‘So!’ he says. ‘Busy, busy tonight at the Benades, hey, Lambert. Sow the seed, oh sow the seed!
‘Sow the seed of the watermelon,’ sings Treppie. He does a few dance steps, holding the bottle above his head.
‘His mommy’s arse’s in the grass, his dad is dinkum telly-mad, his uncle’s dandy with the brandy, so let’s sow the watermelon!’
Treppie switches off the TV. Pop’s holding his head at an angle so he can hear how Mol’s doing outside. She’s almost finished on the one side. Now she must do the back, where the grass is also long.
‘A double for me,’ says Lambert.
‘But of course, Bertie old boy. Always double for the single man!’ says Treppie, first pouring the Klipdrift and then the Coke, ‘ghloob-ghloobghloob’.
‘Doubles are forever, doubles are for always, doubles to clink on, for double fuck’s sake, oh for double fuck’s sake,’ he sings to the tune of ‘He’s A Jolly Good Fellow’.
‘Doesn’t Mol get any?’ asks Pop.
‘Leave her be so she can cut the grass once and for all,’ says Lambert. He takes his glass.
‘The shit’s still going to fly here tonight. Here’s your drink, Pop,’ says Treppie, handing Pop his glass. ‘Drink up before it happens, ’cause when it does it’s really going to fly in a big way.’
They drink in silence. Behind the house they hear Mol lift the mower again. But she doesn’t put it down. The engine starts running fast and loud.
‘What the fuck!’ says Lambert. But he doesn’t get up. He waits. He knows what he’s waiting for. Then he hears the noise coming from next door. Two men start shouting over the Fort Knox wall.
‘Shuddup with that noise! Shuddup! It’s fuckenwell eleven o’clock at night! What the hell do you people think you’re doing!’
‘That’s it,’ says Lambert. He slams his hands down on his legs as he gets up. ‘They’re looking for trouble again. Think they’re big shots. Think they can stick their noses in our business. Stuff them too!’
He hears his mother let the machine down again. ‘Choof! Choof!’ It cuts out. Here she comes now, round the other side. She doesn’t want trouble with the neighbours. She parks the mower in front and stamps her feet to get the grass off. Then she fingers the bun at the back of her head. ‘Enough,’ she says. She pushes past him.