Carol’s Column

In the swim of things

IT WAS an innocent question.

Which should have warned me, coming as it did from the newly-shaved fluffless lips of my oldest unmarried son.

He opened his eyeballs wide, fluttered his eyelashes and caught me as I transferred the fourth pickled cucumber to his lunchbox.

"Hey, Ma," he yelled in that raucous voice peculiar to 14-year-old boys, "can we have the swimming team party here?"

"Sure," I bellowed back. "And let's have the tennis and rugby parties here too. Ha, ha."

"Ta, Ma," said Barry as he sauntered out of the house, saddled his bike and rode off into the smog-filled distance, giving me his gum-to-gum Jimmy Carter smile.

I completed the sandwiches for the month to the staccato sound of burnt egg-plant fritters popping on the stove.

As I watched our herd of dogs frolicking through the newly-planted vegetable and sweetpea patch I pondered on my family's predilection to pickled cucumbers.

I once worked out that if we laid out every pickled cucumber consumed monthly by this average six-mouth family not counting the dogs, rabbits, hamsters and goldfish, the line would stretch from Johannesburg to Bloemfontein — give or take a jar or two.

At dinner, two weeks later, Barry dropped the bombshell.

"Ma, don't worry about food tomorrow night, everyone's bringing their own."

"Tomorrow night? What's happening tomorrow night?" I asked blankly.

"The swimming team party," he answered with that especially pained look reserved for dim-witted mothers of 14-year-olds.

"Don't you remember?"

"Oh yes," I nodded weakly. "Of course I remember," I muttered through clenched teeth not batting an eyelid. "I thought you'd given up swimming a year ago, er, how many kids are coming?"

Barry was vague: "About 10 or 60," he answered. "But don't worry about a thing. We're doing it all."

This from a boy who demanded the Nobel Prize if he made his bed on a Saturday morning.

Throughout this exchange, my husband retained his customary calm. His glasses misted over and his face grew purple.

The next day dawned bright and early. The neighbours cockerel with the sore throat crowed us awake at 4.30am and I made the supermarket by 7am laying in stocks of pickled cucumbers and chips. I couldn't let them starve.

At lunchtime I learnt the expected guests were arriving at 4pm and leaving at midnight.

"Eight hours! What on earth will you do for eight hours?" I screeched.

"No, on second thoughts — don't tell me."

At 3pm that afternoon I bought some extra wors, made enough cabbage and potato salad to feed a battalion, bought 10 dozen rolls and took out my clown suit from Nicky's last party.

Barry was horrified. "Ma — this isn't a nursery school party. This is different. You don't have to do your Bobo-the-clown act, we've hired two movies."

I packed the clown suit away.

By 3.45 the playroom was cleared, the braai fire lit, the tables set out and the house vibrated to the sound of Boney M.

I could see the crack in the lounge wall getting wider crescendo minute by minute.

I felt cheated. I hadn't done a thing.

They started arriving at 4pm. In all shapes and sizes. My eyes boggled. Where these tall, tree-trunk men really still at school? And as for the girls.

Tall, slender and lovely — they organised things with an authority that made the Defence Force look sluggish.

I hid in the kitchen and grabbed Barry as he whizzed through en route to the champagne glasses.

Champagne glasses!

"For the toasts, Ma."

"In what standard is that divine silver-haired boy?" I asked.

"Ma — that's the swimming coach, and he's also the history teacher. Funny, dad wanted to know what class Mrs Smit was in — she's our other coach."

Things jazzed up.

While the sausages sizzled and the steak burned — the kids did their thing.

Kit danced the tango with a pitchfork and Cecily, while Killer King eyed the wenches.

In the kitchen Richard wrestled with the boerewors and there was much jollity.

They ate, showed the movies, ate, danced, ate and chatted until midnight.

And then suddenly it was all over. They'd all come and gone — their goodnights wafting on the fumes of burnt boerewors.

I trudged outside to clear up. Other than an abandoned chop, you'd never have known they'd been.

It was magical.

Said my husband over a coke: "You know, kids are noisy, messy, loud, and they wear ridiculous clothes — but they're hell of a nice."

"Ya."

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