Staffrider Vol.6 No.2 1985 - DISA

screaming his head off in his own specialway in the back seat, so both Gillianand I crammed into the front seat.When we dropped Gillian off, Iperformed once again the pre-arrangedsignal, a subtle wink of the left and thenthe right eye. Almost not a wink, just alowering of the lid. She smiled inacknowledgement. The die was cast —she would speak to her mother rightaway.I worried that mother had perchancepicked up the runaway vibe, so on theway home I set about settling hersuspicions by introducing new conceptsto the car, such as percentages, aboutwhich I had heard some prefects talkingat break. I told her as a matter of factthat I had come top of the class andachieved the remarkable score of sevenpercent for the last spelling test. Motherfrowned. I had come tops, but I wasn'texactly sure about the percentage story.Still so very much to learn.After lunch and homework, twentyfivejumps on the trampoline andchecking to see if any silkworms hadhatched, I settled down to some heavymeditation. I had to prepare in my ownmind the sequence in which I was goingto confront the family with mylamentable list of grievances. I'd startwith the lesser evils, work my waythrough the mediums and then hit themwith the heavies at the end.S, "he told methat she had had one hell ofa time convincing her motherof the absolute necessity ofmy moving in.Father always came home a littlelater on Fridays, settled into hisfavourite chair and read the paper,watched TV and drank his ritual cup ofcoffee all at the same time. Multitalented.I approached the dinner tablewith nervous foreboding. Mother lit theSabbath candles and father said theprayers. I indulged in more than myusual drop of red wine to bolster myflagging resolve.I stood up ceremoniously.'I wanna talk about a few things,'I said with soft subtle dignity. No-onepaid any attention. Father was onceagain watching TV. Mother was servingup with fine precision. Little brotherwas racing his favourite Ferrari aroundhis soup plate, using crusts of bread todemarcate the course.'I wanna talk about a few things,'I said more loudly. Still no attention.This was no good — a radical route wasto be resorted to. I waited a momentand then yelled out my introductorysentence again, at the top of my voice.This time father did look at me brieflybefore turning back to the TV. Motherwas scolding little brother who waspouring his soup in lines over the whitetablecloth.I was still standing, stunned, numbedby my inability to play out my dramaas planned. Then in a fit of direfrustration and peeve I screamed at thetop of my voice. 'You don't love me!'I burst into tears and ran from theroom. I grabbed my knapsack, prepackedwith my travelling essentialsand hit out onto the road in flannelpyjamas and gown, heading for Gillian's.Flooding tears obscured my path.Tears salted with abandonment,exasperation, helplessness, hopelessness,disbelief, fraught with pain and fear,flowed to the ground. Suddenly theearth fell away from my feet and I washeaved higher and higher towards theheavenly abode of my Maker. Deathcomes so swiftly, so surreptitiously,stalking up and snatching at thesacrificial lamb.'Of course we love you,' shoutedfather above my dying dirge. He foldedme limply over his shoulder, my facesnuggling into the warmth of his back,bumping against him as he walkedback to the house. I howled for a whilelonger, the howl subsiding to a cry, aweep, a whimper. Then I relaxed andrelief overcame me. I was twice blessed.Snatched from the Gates of Heaven andreturned to the bosom of my lovingfamily — all in one shot.Gillian phoned just before bedtimeto confirm that everything was set ather end. She told me that she had hadone hell of a time convincing hermother of the absolute necessity of mymoving in. She had forced her mother'sirresolute hand by suggesting that shemight possibly be pregnant. That alwaysmanaged to get everyone 'shook up' inthe movies, she told me wryly. Hermother had become quite flustered, buthad finally acceded to her demands,on condition that they put the babyup for adoption.I explained to her that I had reevaluatedmy situation. I couldn'tleave them just yet I told her. It justwouldn't be right. They weren't quiteyet able to cope without me. Shewas bitterly disappointed, but sheunderstood.I went to bed wondering about theconcept of pregnancy. Wishing for thecoming of spring. Hoping for a newimproved family relationship of living,loving and working together. Worryingthat my silkworms would hatch beforethe mulberry leaves bloomed. Consideringthe necessity to purchase newmarbles for the forthcoming marbleseason. Working out a plan to get myfavourite smokey back from Louis. #PatrickFitzGeraldSong for BenBen you found methin as glassWoodstock in winterBen I found yourdrunken seminarin an Alex shebeenmidnight in Guguletuwatching for copsboot full of pamphletsModderdam roadthey bulldozed the shackwhere we met othersand plotted our victorydrinking brandyplaying Crazy Eightssinging Working Class Heroreading Leninwe brawled over the caryou dented at 'bush'but you always had planswere always full of places and peopleBen I miss youyou always knewthe blood-roads aheadyour project oftaming the gangsturned their angeragainst the systemsecond time around(what went wrong?)they struck you downin Cape TownBen Louw is deadI hear the newsacross a thousand milesof exileand I hear your voice, back in '77calm in an argument's heat,reminding us of thosewho have left and who returnmay the freedom songs sungbeside your graveecho and re-echoand make us bravemay the earth around your deathrich with your memorybring forth a dark redwine of freedomPatrick FitzGerald8 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985