2. Pretoria, 1975 — Wild
Meet Eleanor. She loves thunderstorms and vinegar.
There’s a wild mad party in the sky Eleanor wants to join. Meanwhile she is combed, dried and brushed to smooth perfection. 
Part Two — South Africa, 1975 — 1995
Pretoria, 1975 — Wild
Eleanor
Boom!
The noise is deafening. The crack thunders through my body, shakes the whole house.
Boom!
Louder, closer. The window rattles. Everything in my room turns white in a blinding instant.
BOOM!
I’m sure this one has blown the roof off the house.
Mummy comes into my room, sits on the side of my bed, reaches out and caresses my face.
“Scared?” she asks.
I shake my head no.
Another crash pounds through the house. But it’s a little further away now. I imagine the giants hurling thunderbolts at each other. A wild mad party in the sky. Safe in my bed, safe in our house, I wriggle under the covers, feeling my heart race with the wild energy outside. I want to be out there, feeling the crash and boom through my body. I want to ride the storm like a wild horse, crashing through the air, galloping and leaping over hills and cities and valleys.
Instead I hug Teddy Bear and wriggle in bed with delight while the wild summer Highveld thunderstorm unleashes its fury all around.
“My funny little kookaburra who loves a storm,” Mummy says as she leans over and kisses me on the forehead. “Go to sleep now. It’s passing over.”
I drift off to the rumbles receding into the distance, and the rain pattering on the roof, a steady reassuring lullaby.
I sit in front of the dresser on the little stool, looking at myself in the mirror. Mummy sits behind me on a dining room chair. It is the weekly Sunday night ritual: washing and drying my hair. Mummy holds the hairdryer and gently combs while I squirm impatiently, frustrated at the whole boring process.
“My hair doesn’t need drying. It can dry by itself,“ I protest, as usual.
“You’ll catch a cold,” Mummy replies, as usual.
“Won’t!” I pout back. But I sit like I am supposed to.
“Never use a brush on wet hair,” is another of Mummy’s sayings. “It will break your hair,” she states.
I’ve tried it. It doesn’t.
It tugs and hurts as Mummy runs the comb through my long, thick, dark hair. I fidget again.
Washing my hair is a procedure. She lathers my hair in the avocado green bathtub, then I hold my nose and lean back. For a moment I see her all blurry and trembly through the water before I close my eyes and she rinses out the shampoo. Then I sit up, shivery, while she fills the jug under the tap and pours warm water over me. Mummy is adamant that clean hair is not rinsed in dirty bath water.
Or sometimes, like tonight, we don’t use the bath at all. Mummy gets a stool and I bend over the basin while she washes my hair. On the conditioning rinse I inhale the pungent smell of the vinegar in the water as Mummy dips and scoops and pours.
“Stop fidgeting,” says Mummy now as she dries my hair. I sniff to catch the last wafts of the vinegar’s astringent cleanness.
When she’s done, my hair gleams like ebony, combed, dried and brushed to smooth perfection.
Bonus Materials
Young Eleanor: photos
Experience a Highveld Thunderstorm—while safe and snug at home! Thor himself would be proud of these.