But Mol climbed into the hole herself and stamped her feet to test how strong the earth was. She was listening for hollow spots. She even lay down to see if the lie was right, with her cheek on those pieces of raw brick. It was an eerie feeling, but she had to know. Toby also jumped into the hole out of sheer panic. He was trying to pull her out by the flaps of her housecoat.
Then she went and fetched Gerty’s half-finished jersey and put it in the grave with her. She also fetched what was left of the ball of yellow wool. It won’t be needed next year for ribbing. And then it was time to close up the grave.
Suddenly, Toby began to bark terribly. Pop had to give him bread so he’d shuddup. They were scared next door would come out and see what they were doing. It was against the law, Pop said.
She doesn’t mind. She’s glad they didn’t hand Gerty over to strange people.
She gets her angle right. Then she aims for a spot between the two upright poles of the prefab wall. The ground on the grave is soft under her feet and the light spilling over from the streetlamp is very faint.
Here lies Gerty Benade, she writes. The paint sprays on to her fingers. She stands back. The writing runs skew down the wall, but you can still read it. Now for the next line:
Mother of Toby Benade
and sweetheart dog of Mol ditto.
‘What about the date?’ Lambert suddenly says, behind her. He passes her another tin. She sprays into the air. It sprays much better.
Here come Pop and Treppie now. Treppie’s got a torch. She asks him to shine it so she can see. What else?
‘Rip,’ says Pop.
No, she’s got an idea.
Now she’s in dog’s heaven, she writes underneath. Yes, that sounds good.
‘The date,’ says Lambert.
‘No, wait, Mol. Wait.’ It’s Treppie. She turns round. She can’t see what’s going on ’cause the torch is shining in her face. Treppie’s voice sounds different.
‘Wait for what?’
‘That’s very nice, Mol, about dog’s heaven. I like it. But it’s not finished. Write this underneath: “where the dogs are seven eleven”.’
Treppie sounds like he wants to cry. Did he really have a soft spot for Gerty all this time? She looks at Pop.
‘Write!’ says Pop.
She has to bend down low. There isn’t much space left.
… where the dogs are seven eleven, she writes, smaller and smaller, ’cause the ground runs upward to the one side. She remembers seven eleven, the lucky numbers in dice, from the stories Treppie told them about gambling with the Chinese.
She stands back. Treppie shines the torch on the words. He reads everything from the beginning. Pop puts his hand on her shoulder.
‘That’s better,’ says Treppie. ‘Death deserves an ending that rhymes well, even if it isn’t the truth.’
She looks up, at Pop. Is Treppie mocking her again or what? But Pop’s face is dead serious.
‘Much better,’ he says. ‘How about a nice stiff brandy?’
Treppie says, yes, he agrees. Four fingers for each of them, ’cause that’s what you deserve if you bury a dog with so much love and respect.
She can’t believe her ears, but he really isn’t playing the fool with her. She takes the torch and shines it into his face. Treppie’s eyes are shining and there’s moisture in the hollows around his mouth.
‘What you looking at, hey? Switch that light off,’ is all he says. And then he bends over and rubs Toby’s head, hard.
13. LUCKY FINDS
It’s the Wednesday before Guy Fawkes. Things here at the Benades are going to have to be shipshape for when that girl of his comes. Everyone will just have to put their best foot forward. Treppie will have to behave himself and watch that dirty mouth of his. And his mother must learn to keep her legs together and leave that tooth of hers where it belongs. And Pop, Pop must just stay cool. He must lift his head off his knees and wipe his nose and make some conversation. Then he, Lambert, will be satisfied. As for himself … Well, that’s something he doesn’t even want to think about. There’s so much about himself he’d like to fix up: his hair, his fat belly, his backside. He needs some clothes, and some underpants so his dick won’t hang out of his shorts all the time. Women don’t like it. That’s what his mother says, but what does she know? Bugger her anyway.
If only things would work. Cars, fridges, the lawn-mower. If everything was nice and tidy; if all the rubbish got cleared up; then, he reckons, maybe his girl will want to come back again.
He’s just going to have to make a start, today. Things must start getting fixed-up around here, so it’ll be a helluva pleasure to visit their house. It must be so shipshape around here that his girl will stay longer and longer, until she doesn’t want to go back to her own place any more, until she just wants to stay on and on, maybe forever. And if the shit really starts flying after the election, then he’ll tell her she must come with, to the North, ’cause it’ll be her only chance. She might even say yes. Maybe.
His head starts zinging. He sits down on his bed. Just the thought that his girl will stay forever, or go with them to the North, makes him feel dizzy.
And if the shit doesn’t fly, he’ll take her for a spin in Flossie every night when it’s late. On those new light blue seats with romantic, late-nite music from Radio Orion in their ears. Flossie will get a sound system second to none. Not even a policeman in a hot-rod will have a better one.
Right. Now he must start thinking nicely about what needs to be done. So he can begin, now, at the beginning.
The most important is that they must be ready when the shit starts flying. They must have enough petrol. Enough to get to the border. He figures one full tank, plus another one-and-a-half, maybe two, in bags. That should be enough. Those bags take five litres each, so he’ll need about sixteen to eighteen of them. He’s already got about eleven, but when he filled one with water, it started leaking. This stuff mustn’t start leaking on him now. So, he must take all the bags he’s already got, fill them up with water and then pack them into the hole under the den. On top of each other. That’s the way they’ll get stacked on the roof-rack. And then, after a day or two, he must check them all for leaks. That means he still needs about seven bags, make it ten for the ones that leak. That hole under his den will have to get a bit bigger. The bags can’t just lie here all over his room. The day before his birthday he’ll go fill them up with petrol. Then they’ll be ready.
So, that’s number one. Petrol. No, number one is Flossie. He must get Flossie going again. Pop says all she’s good for is spares, but he’ll show Pop a thing or two.
Of course, if Pop’s right, there’s always Molletjie to fall back on. So, petrol’s still number one. Let the cars sort themselves out. Cars are like that. Take what you can from them and forget the rest. Cars won’t let you push them around.
But lawn-mowers are a different story. All he has to do is weld a new lever where the old one broke off. Then he can clean the carburettor and check the petrol pipe for dirt. He thinks the petrol’s not coming through so nicely. That’s why it cuts out all the time. So, that’s number two, the lawn-mower, ’cause the grass will have to be cut to a T, in beautiful straight lines, one way up, one way down. Not the way his mother does it, in crooked strips, skipping patches and ripping out big chunks of grass.