The Lyndi Tree. JA Ginn Fourie
that with all the festive holidays it is not possible before the wedding date, now set for 2 January 1970.
On our return to Cape Town, we find out what a grave mistake that is and must pay for the Contract - after the fact, with all of the money we have received as wedding presents. Ho-hum.
There is a flurry of activity at Greenfields; the reception will be in our garden. London, who has replaced Edward as the chief cook and houseboy, cooks and cleans with vigour. When Mum goes into the kitchen to check on him, London tells her to go back to her guests, he has everything under control! Mum returns with a strange expression and recounts London’s words, to which we all burst out laughing. Anne helps with icing the unused fruitcakes which Mum had put in the Freezer for Christmas and making colourful trifles for dessert. I help as much as possible, particularly helping Irma with the finishing touches to the flower-girls’ dresses. Shelley and Charmaine, Ian and Irma’s little girls are our only attendants; they are nervous about what to do in their long white replicas of the bridal gown. We make little poesies for them to carry from the many blue and white agapanthus in the garden. All seems set for the wedding day. There are many family members and our friends from Bulawayo; invited by phone. There is no time for written invitations and fuss, thank goodness.
I walk down the aisle of the burnt umber face-brick church on the arm of my Dad, feeling very glamorous, but also apprehensive about the future until I get to the chancel when I suddenly think; ‘marry in haste, repent at leisure’ over and over it sounds like a stuck record in my head and gets annoying. The preparation has been exciting, but what will the reality be?
Douglas Harcombe, the father of Johann’s flatmate, is the minister. He says the usual things. I don’t remember any of it. Then it’s time to leave the church - it’s hot, so hot that my soles are burning in my gold pumps. I look at the bouquet of frangipani in my hand and muse about their sweet smell and golden match for my shoes. I had been quite happy to elope until Ian asks,
”How could you do that to your parents, who only have one daughter?”
Oh dear! I guess I must suffer the conventions of society for the sake of those I love. Now it is quite fun, let’s get to the farm as soon as possible … I forgot to have breakfast, and the cold meats and salads will taste so right now. No, not yet, the photograph album is proof of it. Snap!
As we leave the church with Charmaine holding Johann’s free hand. Snap! Now we smile adoringly at each other on the steps. Snap! Confetti showers down on us. Snap! Before the vaulted arch at the front of the church, Snap! At the open door of John’s blood-red Volvo, Johann looking ever so handsome and me looking wistful and a little bit French! John has chauffeured me to the church with white ribbons tied to the front, making a stunning statement. He will drive us back to the farm, dear brother.
“Dear God! what are you doing Mrs Fourie.”
Panic sweeps over me for a moment. The adventure has all happened too fast; I’m not sure that it’s the right thing to do!
Now we are at Greenfields, and the show must go on. Mum and Dad are showing the guests where to sit, and London is bringing the food to the long buffet table, in the shade of the graceful trees. Dad makes a moving speech about his lovely, well-travelled and accomplished only daughter and welcomes the fifth son into the family. Johann responds with much laughter and joking, and everyone tucks into the delicious meal.
The photographer, whom Mum engaged, is busy taking pictures all over the place. Now Mum brings Cheelah, the only surviving cheetah of three cubs that she reared. He is purring loudly and ambles over to my frightened-looking husband. We pose with Cheelah, and the next week a newspaper article with the picture appears in The Sunday News: Spotted – A Rare Wedding Guest it says and proceeds to tell all about the cheetah, and in passing who the bride and groom are and where they married!
On our trip back to Cape Town, we have car troubles and overnight in Petersburg, Uncle Alan, Mum’s brother, is home at 45a Rabie Street, but Aunt Sally is away. He welcomes us with open arms and much joking and laughing, as is his custom. He tends to my husband’s needs about the best motor-mechanic to contact in his home town and nonchalantly gets clean sheets out of the linen cupboard to help me make the bed.
My husband is disappointed with the breakdown and grumpy, a side of his personality I haven’t seen before. Now there is no going back – c’est la vie! I hear an expression Mum often uses as though she is right there, watching as we make the bed,
“You’ve made your bed, now lie in it!”
The road is long and tiresome with seemingly minor decisions about where to stop for a meal or a pit stop becoming major discontents because our combined money bags are low to empty. Oh, dear this is what it is all about! The stark reality of our situation can’t be denied but try as I may, I can’t find a way of talking to my new husband without an angry response. I am puzzled and deeply disturbed by what we have taken on.
When we arrive home, my husband moves into my flat, and Dougie moves into a smaller flat alone. We have lots of fun getting settled, and in the evenings, either taking a picnic to Rhodes memorial or chasing each other around the flat in a fit of free-spirited joy while making supper. My husband helps me with housekeeping and washing up the dishes. I remember writing to Mum and Dad that marriage is fun, but we need to have a garden to potter in at weekends. There is very little to do in a rinky-dink flat on the third floor!
I enjoy having my friends and family come around to visit, and although my husband is very charming, it seems to be stressful for him.
We live in Lilford for a year, which holds memories of mixed pleasure and strife. At Easter weekend, I start to feel nauseous most of the day and worry that I have contracted some dreadful disease! Not so - I am pregnant and frightened out of my wits! Despite, or perhaps because of the many exercise classes I have facilitated for expectant Mums in preparation for labour and childbirth.
I am glad to have the independence of my car to go to work and church. I continue to work at the Parow Geriatric Centre. The dear ladies became very excited to see my expanding waistline, and when the time comes for a baby shower, I receive three dozen pairs of booties, two dozen knitted outfits and more than any family expecting quintuplets could have needed. We are both nervous about parenting – the responsibility seems overwhelming, so we decide to have much fun before our sleep is disrupted by night. And we have severe routine changes by day. Weekends find us touring the coast and enjoying the fresh air. Our two bedroomed-flat seems very small to me; I am used to large farm living, but we will make the best of it. The last couple of months of pregnancy are trying with the stairs and groceries to lug up and laundry to lug down, but we work together with more ease and grace. Perhaps life together will work out well.
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Far from my comfortable and privileged life in Cape Town, an eight-year-old Letlapa is growing up in Manaleng, a little village near Pietersburg (now Polokwane) in Northern Transvaal. Amusingly he is learning that marriage is difficult.
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Letlapa Mphahlele 1968-1970
I have clear memories of the pecking order when playing with friends under the huge morula tree in the front of our house; within earshot of the elders drinking their beer.
The preparation for weddings is when everyone practises the song and dance in the moonlight,
‘Dikuku di monate, lenyalo le boima – the cakes are delicious, but marriage is difficult,’ they sing, and the women ululate. Among those early songs, one rings continuously in my head,
‘Afrika lefase la bo ntat’arona le tserwe ke makgowa – Africa, our fathers’ land, has been taken away by whites.’ With the clarity of hindsight,