5. Pretoria, 1978 - Brake through

In which Eleanor discovers freedom at full speed, brakes pending.

A downhill ride to glory... and straight into chaos. Some lessons are best learned the hard way.

Eleanor

“Brake!”

“Brake!”

“Brake!!!!!!”

Daddy and Tig are yelling at me, gesticulating wildly. I’m flying. I’m doing it. 

I’m DOING it! 

I’m actually riding my bike for the first time. I’m ecstatic. I have a huge grin on my face as I fly down the field. Weaving erratically. Pedaling with abandon. Hair flying out behind me. 

We’ve come down to the park a block away from the house. It lies next to the little murky stream—which Tig and I have been admonished never to wade in given the risk of bilharzia¹. Which we ignore. Who cares about stupid bilharzia—whatever that is. 

It’s winter and the stream is a trickle anyway. For my seventh birthday I got my big girl bike. No training wheels. But I’m struggling to get the whole balance thing, so Daddy and I came down to the park for him to teach me. Tig, of course, tagged along, in turns teasing and encouraging his little sister. 

At one end of the field, sitting on its own rise, is a huge old jacaranda tree. Its purple blooms are magnificent in the spring, but now its stately boughs lie bare against the flat blue sky. 

We start on the flat field below the jacaranda. Daddy holds the back of the seat and runs along beside me, helping me to balance as I pedal. The brown grass crackles under the tires, the ground rock hard and dry. Tig shouts encouragement from the rise. He’s not big enough to hold my seat and run beside me, so he watches as Daddy steadies me. He’s got it already of course. Two years older than me, he’s always a bit ahead of me. He grins as he watches his sister flail and flop like an idiot. I focus and redouble my efforts.

I. Am. Going. To. Get. This. 

We do this for a while, until I start to get the hang of it, and Daddy is out of breath.

“Ready to try on your own?” Daddy asks. I nod. I hop on and try to get going. But without Daddy pushing me at the beginning, starting from a dead stop and trying to both get enough forward power from pedaling and balancing at the same time, is too much for me. 

I look at Daddy, dejected. 

“I have an idea,” he says. “If you start next to the jacaranda, you’ve got that little bit of a downhill—that will help you get going without having to pedal too hard. And then you’ll have enough momentum to start pedaling properly at the bottom and balance. Want to try it?” 

I nod. 

I walk my bike over. Daddy steadies it as I get on. “Ready?” he asks. I nod again. “I’ll give you a little push to get you going. Then you take it from there.” 

Daddy gives a small push and I’m going. The slope isn’t steep, but it’s just enough to give me the speed I need. I pedal lightly, focusing on my balance. I start to feel the bike slow at the bottom. I pedal harder. Wobbly at first. But the momentum is helping. I stay up. I keep pedaling. 

I’m doing it. 

I’m doing it!!!! 

“Brake! Brake! Brake!!!!” I hear Daddy and Tig yell. 

But I don’t know where the brakes are. We haven’t got to that bit yet. I haven’t needed it. 

I look up. The big tree at the other end of the field is getting closer. And closer. The roots of the tree radiate out, gnarling the ground. It’s impossible for me to maintain control. I tumble off the bike, missing the tree. I think I’ve got some grazes but I don’t care. I don’t feel anything but glee. I did it! 

Daddy and Tig come running up. “You alright?” Dad asks, concern in his voice. 

I grin. “Did you see that?” Of course they did. “I did it. I did it. I did it,” I bounce up and down. 

Daddy pulls me into a hug and tousles my hair. “Yes, you did kookaburra. Now let's teach you how to brake before we let you loose on the world.” 

Now that I can ride my bike, I go out whenever Mummy will let me. She’s sick again and I’m bored with just being in my room while she rests. I’ve drawn and drawn and drawn and drawn. Elizabeth Ann has had tea until she’s bursting. She’s changed before tea. And she’s changed after tea. And I’ve done her hair three ways. Barbie just looks on, amused. I can bend her and pose her and I’ve put her in the weirdest positions, but Elizabeth Ann is much better for fussing over. Mummy says she’s very special. She went to the dolly hospital before she came to me. She’s been Mummy’s dolly. And Granny’s too. So she’s ancient. Her dresses are full of ruffles and lace. She has hats and gloves. Granny says she’s making Elizabeth Ann a new winter wardrobe too. That she’s bringing it the next time they come to visit. And Teddy Bear has been on adventures and seen the whole world already. But I’ve told all his stories a hundred times over, so he’s no good. And Paddington is like Teddy. He’s come from London—London!—and has a suitcase and everything. But I still like Elizabeth Ann best. 

Becca is in her room, taking her afternoon rest too. I can bother her later when she comes in to start making supper. Why do adults need so many rests? I don’t understand it. 

Tig isn’t home from school yet. 

So I ride my bike. I pedal hard along our street, round the corner, then fly down the hill to the park. The stream beckons. I kick my sandals off to cool my feet and splash around. Mummy says I mustn't. She always goes on about bilharzia. But she never notices that I’ve been in the stream when I come home. We haven’t had much rain this summer, so the stream is just a trickle today. 

The new townhouses at the end of our road were completed a few months ago. I’ve ridden around them curiously, hoping to see other kids. But the brick walls just stare back at me. Doors closed. Each townhouse has a little pocket garden at the back and I peer through the small gates. No children. It’s still and quiet. 

This afternoon as I ride back up the hill I see someone. An actual human being. Hooray! So people do live here! She’s in a light summer dress, wearing a big floppy hat and she’s watering the garden. The drops sparkle in the sun and beckon me. I drop my bike on the patch of grass in front of the little gate. 

“Hello,” I say, “I’m Eleanor. Who are you?” Mummy says I shouldn’t talk to strangers. Mummy says I should always be polite and introduce myself. Neighbors aren’t strangers. They’re neighbors. And the townhouses are just at the end of our street. So they’re neighbors, aren’t they? 

“I’m hot. I’ve been riding my bike in the park. And the stream’s all dry. Can I jump in your sprinkler for a bit to cool down?” And then I remember, “Please?”

“I’m Helen Beckham” she smiles back at me. “Where do you live?” 

“Number 61,” I say. “Just down that street there.” And I point back to Daphne Street. “Mummy's resting and I’m supposed to be quiet and not bother her, so she lets me ride my bike down to the park and back. ” 

“Well, we better not get your clothes all wet. I’m sure your mother wants you home dry. But I’ve got some orange squash and I can put lots of ice in it. Will that do?” she asks. 

“Oh, yes please.” 

“Lean your bike on the wall there,” she points, “and come in.” She walks to the tap, turns the water off, then wipes her hands on her dress.

We go in through the sliding glass doors that open out onto the little garden. Inside it’s deliciously cool. An enormous dining room table sits to one side of the room, a big cushiony sofa and two armchairs on the other. An elderly lady sits at the table. She looks a bit younger than Granny. Balls of string are spread out on the table in front of her. 

“This is my mother,” Helen says. “Mother, this is Eleanor. She lives just a few houses down, at number 61 Daphne.” She beckons me over. “Sit here with my mother while I get you your drink.”

“Hello, Eleanor,” the old lady smiles at me. She pulls out the chair next to her and pats her hand on the cushioned seat. “I’m Trudy. You can call me Aunty Trudy.²” 

“Pleased to meet you,” I say like I’ve been taught. I throw in the little curtsey we’ve been practicing in Scottish Dancing at school. “What are you doing?” I ask as I sit down.

“Macramé,” she replies. “I’m making a plant holder. See, here’s what it will look like when I’m done.” She pushes a magazine over to me. I look at it. I’ve seen these in other people’s houses. But I didn’t realize you could make them yourself. It looks sort of like knitting, but also sort of not. 

“Granny says she’s going to teach me to knit when she next comes to visit. How do you do macramé? Can you show me?” 

“You can watch me and I’ll explain,” she offers. 

I watch, fascinated. Her fingers work slowly. It seems like there’s something wrong with her hands. It’s like they’re all stiff or something. She explains how each string goes. Over and under and around. She keeps on going. She picks up a bead and threads it through some of the strings and wraps the other strands round it and then carries on weaving. 

“Here you go,” Helen says as she puts an enormous glass of orange squash in front of me. Beads of water are already forming on the outside. I take a huge sip. Then remember my manners. “Thank you,” I say, as I swallow quickly. 

I feel something brush against my leg. I look down and a tabby cat is curling itself around me. 

“That’s Mitsy,” says Aunty Trudy. “She likes you. Do you have cats too?”

“Oh yes. Mine’s White Foot. ‘Cause she’s all black except for one white foot. She’s two years old. And she likes my bed best. She gets under the covers with me, and I read with the torch when I’m supposed to be asleep. How old is yours?” 

“Oh, she’s an old cat, like me,” says Aunty Trudy. “She’s 16.” 

I bend down and pick Mitsy up. She settles contentedly in my lap. I stroke her soft fur. She’s bonier than White Foot. I tuck my feet around the legs of the chair to make my lap a bit higher so that Mitsy can stay on. I drink my orange squash and carry on watching Aunty Trudy as she works, my other hand continuing to scratch Mitsy on her cheeks, under her chin, behind her ears. She butts my hand for more whenever I stop. 

Aunty Trudy asks me all sorts of questions. About Mummy and Daddy. And Tig. “His name’s actually James, or Jem. But we call him Tig—or Tigger. Because he bounces. And my nickname’s kookaburra, because I’m their laughing, gay child, Mummy says.” She asks about school. And Granny and Grandpa. And Gran and Grandfather. And White Foot and Raffles (our dog). She gives me some string too and shows me how to do some macramé. I hear Helen in the kitchen, and then she goes out through the glass sliding doors. 

Talking to Aunty Trudy is like talking to Granny. She’s interested in everything. Mummy tells me I’m a chatterbox. But Aunty Trudy seems to like it. Aunty Trudy’s macramé keeps on growing. Hers looks beautiful. Mine looks terrible. 

Sometime later—I’ve completely lost track of time—Helen comes back in. 

“Your mother said to be home by four thirty for tea. It’s four thirty now, so time to head home.”

I’m reluctant to leave. This is the most fun I’ve had all week. 

“You can come back anytime,” Aunty Trudy says warmly. “I’m always here.”

With promises that I can come back tomorrow, I pick up my bike and walk it back home. 

Mummy’s waiting for me in the family room. 

“I hear you’ve made a new friend,” she says from her usual chair, her voice tired. 

I start telling her all about Aunty Trudy and macramé and Mitsy and how Aunty Trudy has something called multi scosis something. It means her hands don’t work so well anymore. So she knits and crochets and does macramé to help keep her hands going. 

“She says I can come back any time. Can I, Mummy? Can I?” I plead. 

“Yes,” Mummy says. “Helen said you’re actually good company for Trudy. That you really cheered her up. So it seems like someone likes your chatter boxing! But mind you don’t tire her out.”

Afternoons while Mummy’s resting become my new favorite time. Aunty Trudy teaches me how to crochet, but she refuses to teach me to knit just yet. “Your Granny said she would do that,” she gently explains, “I’m not going to deprive her of that joy.” 

Later, after Granny’s Christmas visit, Aunty Trudy and I decide on a pattern for me to knit too. We decide on a romper for Boppity, who I got for Christmas. 

When we’re not crocheting, or knitting or doing macramé, we play place names. And alphabet games. And word games. And board games. We talk about books I’m reading. Mummy’s started to read Anne of Green Gables out loud to me. I help Aunty Trudy get up and down from her chair on the days when it’s worse. Helen shows me where to find things in the kitchen, and I get Aunty Trudy tea and cookies for our afternoon snack. 

One school holiday evening in the late summer I’m allowed to stay later than usual and have supper with them. I meet André Beckham, Helen’s husband, for the first time. 

“What do you do?” I ask him. “Daddy’s an engineer. He works at CSIR³. We go there to swim in the pool sometimes.” 

“I’m a diplomat,” André says. 

“What’s a diplomat?” I ask. 

“We represent South Africa to other countries.” 

“What does that mean?”

“Well, it means we talk to the other countries about what’s important to us. And they talk to us about what’s important to them. And we try to have good relations with them.” He scratches behind his ear, thinking. “It’s sort of like being good neighbors. We talk to each other and we try to understand them, so that we can help each other out.” 

That sounds interesting. But something doesn’t feel quite right. Then it comes to me. “But Daddy says we’ve got a bad government and no-one should be helping us. That if other countries support us, they’re supporting black people not being allowed to vote or live like white people. Are you working for the bad government?” 

I glance at Aunty Trudy. Have I been rude? But she just smiles kindly at me, and gives me a slight nod.

“Yes,” André says slowly, pulling on his mustache, “I suppose you could say that.” His finger moves to his chin, which he rubs, thoughtfully. “But there are many good people who are working for this government, who try to make what they do less bad. And when we talk to the other countries, we tell them the kinds of things that they can do to help our government do less bad things too.” 

“Oh, okay,” I say, turning over his explanation. Adults are always asking “What do you want to do when you grow up?” Here’s a new idea I could try out. I’m getting bored with saying zoologist. 

But something else occurs to me. 

“But, you’re here in South Africa, how do you talk to these other countries? When Daddy goes overseas he says he can only talk to us for a few minutes because it’s so expensive. And you have to wait for ages after you’ve said something for him to speak back.” 

“Well, countries send their representatives here. They have offices here—called embassies. And we send our diplomats to different countries too. And they work in our embassies there.” 

I digest that for a bit. 

“Will you and Helen and Aunty Trudy go live in another country too?” I ask anxiously, my voice rising, suddenly realizing what he just said. 

He smiles. “Yes, that’s the plan,” and he glances over at Helen with a look I see on Daddy’s face when there’s clearly another whole Mummy-Daddy conversation going on that I’m not part of. 

“When?” I blurt out. “For how long? Does that mean I won’t ever see Aunty Trudy again.” I’m distraught. 

Aunty Trudy reaches over and pats my hand. 

“It won’t be for a year or so yet. And we’ll only live overseas for a few years and then we’ll come back to South Africa again. And we’ll write each other letters every week. But it won’t happen for a while yet. So we still get to be together lots and lots.” She leaves her gnarled hand on mine, reassuringly. 

I try to comfort myself with that thought. 

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1. Schistosomiasis, also known as snail fever, bilharzia, or Katayama fever, is a disease caused by parasitic flatworms called schistosomes.

2. In South Africa at that time it was customary, and expected, that white children would call unrelated white adults Aunt or Uncle, or Tannie or Oom in Afrikaans, as a sign of respect. Black children were expected to call white adults Master or Madam (Baas or Mevrou in Afrikaans).

3. Council for Scientific and Industrial Research.