My name is Vaselinetjie. Anoeschka von Meck
oupa calls me Bitty.”
The teacher smiled with his eyes. “Where on earth did you get that name?”
“My ouma says when I was a baby my skin was very dry. She used to rub Vaseline into my skin. As soon as I could talk, I would cry for a little bit of Vaseline. So that’s what they called me – Bitty Vaseline.”
Now the teacher’s eyes were laughing. “I see. But by which name were you registered at your old school when they enrolled you? That’s the name I have to write here.” He pointed at the register.
“Oh.” She blinked away her tears. “It’s Helena Bosman, meneer! But no one ever calls me that. It was just for my holy baptism at church.”
The teacher held out his hand to her. “Well, Miss Bitty, I am Mr Du Pisanie. I’m very pleased to meet you. Welcome to your new school.”
At first break Vaselinetjie stood outside the classroom door, at a loss where to go. She looked around for Killer, but there were strange children all around her. She had never had a white playmate before. Avril wasn’t really white and, besides, she was horrible.
The coloured girls who had kept giggling at the back of the class approached her. They smiled, but not in a friendly way.
The leader stopped in front of Vaselinetjie. Her skirt was very short, and Vaselinetjie saw that the hem was held in place with staples. Her name was Nazrene Diergaardt. Vaselinetjie knew this because the teacher had warned her to be quiet a few times in class. Nazrene’s hair had been straightened and was pulled into two tight buns like horns on either side of her head. The short, stubby legs protruding beneath the skirt were dimpled and reminded Vaselinetjie of Ouma Kitta’s souskluitjies.
“Girl, we don’t like it when a whitey takes us for a gat, see?”
“What do you mean, gat? Leave me alone! What’s wrong with the way I speak? I always speak like this!” Vaselinetjie tried to step back, but she was trapped against the wall.
Nazrene looked over her shoulder at her friends and rolled her eyes. “Are you for real?” she asked and stepped even closer to Vaselinetjie.
Vaselinetjie wondered if the other girls were laughing because they could see how afraid she was. They formed a circle around her.
“Go buy us some Beechies and sour worms at the tuck shop so we can see if you’re genuine,” said Nazrene. She made as if to slap Vaselinetjie’s face.
“I got no money.”
Nazrene spat next to Vaselinetjie’s foot. “Look man, girlie! You don’t know me! I don’t play with dollies and act cute to bastard whiteys! I come from the Cape Flats and I know how the people talk there, so don’t try and scheme me,” she said in a menacing voice, her hands on her hips.
I come from the Northern Cape, Vaselinetjie wanted to explain, but the bell announced the end of break and a group of teachers came walking out of the building. Nazrene gave Vaselinetjie a lingering look. “See that you bring ciggies tomorrow, or else …” Slowly she drew her finger across her throat before she and her friends disappeared around the corner, laughing.
After school the children from the home went to the large dining hall where they all had their meals together. The members of each house shared a table with their matron. First they lined up in the passage and then they filed through the kitchen, where a black matron dished up their food.
“That’s Auntie S’laki. Her bra strap is always showing,” Killer whispered to Vaselinetjie, glancing back over her shoulder. Vaselinetjie was very glad that Killer had saved a place for her. “Old S’laki doesn’t like whiteys or coloureds. Only blacks, but not all blacks, mind you. You’ll see. Just look at who gets the biggest helpings.”
The moment Vaselinetjie walked into the dining hall, she was aware of the other children turning in their seats to look at her. Some of the older boys winked, others made faces, and if it hadn’t been for Killer giving them the finger on the sly, Vaselinetjie would simply have carried on walking through the door on the opposite side.
She was amazed to see how much Killer, who was so thin that her skin seemed nearly transparent, could eat. Vaselinetjie found it hard to swallow with so many eyes on her and when the matron wasn’t looking she quickly swopped her plate for Killer’s.
“Not great, but I ate,” Killer said with her mouth full, while reaching for Albie’s plate as well. Albie was in a huff and refused to eat. She had slid from her chair and was slumped halfway under the table.
“Why is our matron called Whiskers?” Vaselinetjie whispered to Killer, who was licking salt from the palm of her hand. She had painted the nail of her little finger white with Tipp-Ex.
“Are you blind or something?” Killer said and pretended to be combing a bushy moustache. For the first time Vaselinetjie giggled.
When lunch was over, everyone got up. The occupants of each table had to exit as a group, Killer said. Only the children who had to clear the tables and the stubborn ones like Albie stayed behind. Vaselinetjie was surprised to see that a few others were also refusing to get up from their chairs or come out from under their tables.
At the far side of the dining hall she noticed the small redheaded boy of the first evening. He hung his head and it looked as if he’d been crying again. She tried to catch his eye, but he didn’t look up.
The smaller children got up first because they came in to eat before the bigger ones. Some were so young that the older ones had to feed them. “Sometimes I help over there at the nursery, but it smells of pee,” Killer said and made a face. Vaselinetjie laughed again.
She forgot that she was supposed to sit up straight, and turned in her chair when the toddlers came past. A small coloured girl with lollipop legs and a very large bow on top of her head was holding a fat little black boy by the hand. His bandy legs were sturdy and his knees were wrinkled. When the little girl let go of his hand to wipe the ribbon out of her eyes, his arms reached out to the nearest person. “Up?” he said, waddling towards Vaselinetjie.
Her fear of being scolded forgotten, she got up immediately to pick him up. “Hello, big boy!”
“Put that klong down!” Auntie S’laki ordered. She was leaning against the doorframe, supervising the clearing of the tables.
“Ow!” Hastily Vaselinetjie put the little boy down, but he refused to let go of her pigtail and she had to prise the small fingers loose one by one.
1
The days became weeks, then months. Vaselinetjie couldn’t get used to the strange life at the children’s home with its wailing sirens, squabbling children and sullen matrons. She kept to herself as far as possible and spoke only when absolutely necessary. The September school holidays brought a measure of relief when some of the children left. She spent most of the time on her bed, reading her library books. She was glad when school resumed. At least the final term was a short one and there was the prospect of a nice long holiday just around the corner.
Oh, she was counting the days! Just wait till she told her ouma and oupa what it was like at this place! The swearing and the cursing, the second-hand school uniform and the cheeky, disrespectful children. She felt certain her oupa would remove her immediately and put her back in her old school.
When she lay on her back in her secret place – inside the swimming pool, which had been empty for years, and where no one would ever think of looking for her – the same pictures kept running through her mind. She’d be sitting in her own room, reading the back pages of You. It would be night-time and she’d open the window wide to listen to the cries of the nightjars. It would be Sunday and she’d go to church with her ouma and oupa and sit in the pew between the two of them and breathe in the smell of Stasoft. Ouma Kitta always poured in an extra measure when she rinsed Vaselinetjie’s clothes.
And then there would be the food. Lots of food. Everything she had been longing for. Golden, freshly