Staffrider Vol.3 No.1 Feb 1980 - DISA

The Slumbering SpiritA short story by Jayapraga Reddyillustrated by Mike van NiekerkTerry set off for the shops as usual.It was only seven in the morning butalready the day was hot, the relentlessheat building up slowly. By noon itwould make work impossible and lieupon them all like something heavy andtangible. He kicked a stone on thepathway. From the kitchen, his mothersaw him and she thrust her head out ofthe window. 'Terry' she warned, 'thoseshoes must last for a year, remember!And hurry up! Or you'll be late forschool!'She disappeared and resumed herearly morning tasks of preparing breakfastand packing eight school lunches.Terry quickened his steps but outsidethe gate he slowed down. He hatedMondays. After the carefree freedomand fun of the weekends, Mondaysseemed a bad mistake. He and hisfriends played games of high adventurein the huge storm water pipes. Or theywould go exploring the whole of Durban.Sometimes on a Sunday theywould go to the other side of town tothe old Indian temple. There wouldusually be a wedding on and they wouldsit down to a mouth-watering meal ofrice and pungent vegetable curriesserved on banana leaves. Ah yes, weekendsmeant living the way you wantedto. Running with the wind, dreaming inthe grass and smelling the sun hot andsweet on one's skin. He sighed regretfully.But it was a Monday and therewas school. He would have to hurry.At the corner, he paused. Someonehad called,'Hey boy!'It was old Miss Anderson, the whitewoman, who lived at the end of thestreet.In those days the Group Areas Actwas slowly trying to sort out the differentraces in the interest of separatedevelopment. But in the meantime,whites, 'coloureds', Indians and even afew Chinese, lived cheek by jowl in thecity. In their neighbourhood there werea handful of whites. And Miss Andersonwas one of them. She lived all alonewith a nondescript mongrel and two oldcats. Her sole relative was a sister, muchyounger than herself, who lived somewherein Canada. Thrice a week anAfrican maid came in to do the cleaning.Nobody in the street knew muchabout Miss Anderson. She lived quietlyand kept very much to herself. It wasrumoured that she was very rich but noone could be sure of that.Now Terry glanced enquiringly towardsthe stoep where the old womanstood. She motioned to him to wait.She hobbled towards the gate on herstick. The dog followed tiredly.'Young man, could you get me a fewthings from the shop?' she asked in athin, quavering voice.He nodded. She held out the money.'Buy yourself some sweets from thechange,' she said. 'Just get me somebread, cheese and half a dozen eggs.'He took the money with murmuredthanks. She was so very old and frail, hethought. Her hair was snowy white andthis gave her an added air of fragility.When he returned, she was sitting onthe stoep in a rocking-chair. He took thethings to her which she accepted with aquivering smile. 'Thank you, my boy.You're very kind.'He went home but did not mentionthe errand he had done.The following afternoon on his wayto the shop, he paused to glance at thehouse. She sat there, waiting for him,rocking gently. She beckoned to him.The dog lay languidly at her feet, andwagged his tail half-heartedly. Terrywent up the few steps and stood besideher. The red stoep was clean and shining.It had been polished that day; heknew, fox he could still smell the polish.Roses grew in wild profusion over thewhite lattice which partly screened theverandah. He noticed the unusual quietIt was alien to him. Their house, withten children, resounded with laughterand noise. He wondered what it was likeinside.'I looked for you this morning,' shesaid.He explained that he went to theshop in the mornings only on Mondays.She nodded.'I see. Well, would you mind stoppingby on your way, just to get mea few things?''Alright. I don't mind,' he agreedcasually.'You are so kind, you are so differentfrom the other "coloured" boys fromthese parts,' she remarked.He shifted a little uncomfortably, forhe was unused to praise. Different? Inwhat way was he different? He watchedher fumbling in her purse with handsthat were knotted with arthritis.'There, keep the change,' she said.When he returned she was there,waiting. 'Sit down boy,' she said,motioning him to a chair.He shook his head, saying he preferredto stand. He glanced anxiouslyat the street, hoping none of his friendswould see him. He dreaded the curiousprying and merciless teasing which wasbound to follow. He stood there awkwardlyas she tried to draw him out.'What's your name, boy?' she asked.He told her.'How old are you and how many arethere in the family?'He told her that he was eleven yearsold and that there were ten children inthe family.'Ten!' she exclaimed, incredulous.'Now that's a big family! Are they all inschool?'No, he explained haltingly. Therewas the baby and his eldest sister, Pam,who worked. Pam would leave themsoon, he went on. She was going to get20 STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980