Carol’s Column

Roll out the pastry, your country needs you.

THE envelope arrived on Monday morning.

I remember it well. We were all sitting down to breakfast and I had just poured a bowl of energy-giving muesli.

My husband had adjusted his spectacles to fit his face and was peering at the marmalade and chived cream cheese, wondering which one to spread on his wholewheat-to-combat-constipation toast.

"Decisions, decisions, decisions," he sighed. "Life is full of decisions."

Just then, we heard the postman's cheery shout as Liquorice-the-labrador took a lunge for his posterior and nipped him gently.

"I'll see if there's anything interesting," said Jamie, leaping up from the table and spilling the orange juice on his father's newly-pressed, misty-blue wool and polyester pants.

He returned to the table carrying two envelopes in his hand.

One a summons from Mr Nightjammer the postman. The other a buff-coloured envelope covered with official-looking writing.

"Leave it," muttered my husband, swilling down his green-lipped mussel pills for backache with a cup of decaffeinated coffee. "It looks like a form, throw it away."

I knew he was joking so I tossed it into the wastepaper basket. And then noticed it was addressed to Mr Barry Lazar.

"Hey, it's not even for you," I said and handed it to my oldest, unmarried son.

We have always been a family who respects individual liberty, who respects the privacy of a person to do his own, unfettered thing — such as open and read his post privately.

We have also always tried to encourage intellectual freedom and inquiring minds among our children. With the result that we all sat mesmerised as Barry opened his envelope.

"So?" I said, not wanting to appear too curious. "Who's it from?"

He paused, allowing his 16-year-old pimples to settle on his face.

"Mother," he said dramatically — he always calls me 'mother' in times of severe stress as opposed to the less formal 'ma', 'mom' or 'hey you'.

"Mother," he said again, gripping me by the left elbow — it being the nearest to him. "You won't believe this, but I've been called up."

I was happy. It's nice to know your children are popular.

"Called up? To summer camp, to a swimming tour?"

He shook his head and took a bite of toast.

"Eat with your mouth shut or a fly will zoom in and lay germs and things on your tongue," I said automatically. "Called up to what?"

He paused again and took another bite.

"To defend the nation," he said with his mouth full.

There was a hushed silence. Then: "Don't talk with your mouth full," I retorted.

I couldn't believe it. Our oldest son of the dimple and knock knees had been called up.

"Stop crying," said my husband. "You're making the cornflakes soggy."

"My baby," I wailed. "He's only just come out of nappies. He's only just learnt to eat with a knife and fork."

"Who says?" growled my husband.

"I can remember when he took his first faltering steps."

"So you can," murmured my husband. "It was only two weeks ago."

The defender of the nation spread the marmalade on his fourth piece of toast and licked his knife.

I couldn't believe it. Our oldest son and heir apparent was being called up to the army.

This delicate, pink-faced 16-year-old with bristly cheeks and size 13 shoes would soon be leaving us.

Dressed in khaki, wearing hob-nailed boots (I made a mental note to remember to teach him to tie his own shoe laces), carrying a heavy R1 rifle.

I shuddered. Throughout his childhood I'd discouraged satchel-carrying because I didn't want him to grow up with his spine out of alignment.

"Never mind," I murmured through my tears. "I'll write to your commanding officer and ask him if someone else can carry your rifle. It's much too heavy for you."

I brightened considerably. "And don't worry about food, I'll send you food parcels every day. A little chicken soup for energy — home-made cookies, banana bread — don't worry, your mother won't let you down."

"That's what worries me," remarked my oldest son.

I shut my eyes. The thought of him leaving was painful.

No more mounds of washing to wade through. No more deafening music and ruptured eardrums. No more bits of windsurfer left lying in the lounge to trip and break your neck over.

There would be no more pleading and begging with him to tidy his room.

Indeed, instead of my dulcet screech, he'd have some horrible little sergeant with a large voice and a small heart, issuing orders. I could see the piles of dirty clothes standing to attention and marching to the clothes basket.

And, worst of all, would that little sergeant care about my son in the same way that I did.

No — he wouldn't worry if Barry wore damp socks or didn't change his underpants for three months. He wouldn't make him hot drinking chocolate if he couldn't sleep at night.

The rest of the family were equally unhappy about the prospect of their older brother joining the army.

"Good," said Ralph. "I can have your room."

"At least there'll be peace and quiet," said Jamie, "no more Bob Marley blasting me awake at 6am every day."

I glanced at the defender of the nation. Why was he slouching in his seat and were those his elbows on the table?

Soon, those very same elbows would be staggering under the weight of a massive killing machine, I said as much to my spouse.

"Your English is shocking," he retorted, "elbows don't stagger."

I stood up to leave the table.

"Where are you going?" asked my husband. "You've only eaten half a grapefruit."

"I want to go and bake for Barry," I said virtuously. "I don't want my little man going empty-handed to the Border, the Falklands or wherever."

"But Ma, isn't it a little early to start baking?" said Barry. "I'm only leaving in one and a half years time. I've got to finish school first."

"Well, I'll start baking anyway. Better sooner than later. I don't want you to go off hungry."

Since then, I've also started knitting gloves, a balaclava, a scarf and most important of all, thick, double-ply socks. Those feet are going to have to do a lot of marching — they say Army transport is not too good.

Furthermore, now's not the time to tell Barry, but I volunteered too. I thought I might go along with him just to see his washing's put neatly away, his knapsack's kept tidy and his helmet is dusted regularly.

The defender of the nation is unmoved by the whole affair.

"I don't know why you're so upset, Ma," he said the other night. "They probably won't even have me anyway. I'm deformed. My eyesight's lousy, my feet are flat, I have knock knees and my knuckles click."

"Whaddya mean they won't have you? I'll phone Magnus Malan personally and if he doesn't know how lucky he is getting you. If he doesn't make you a general or a field marshal immediately he'll know all about it.

"In fact, Magnus Malan is jolly lucky — he's not only gaining a soldier. He's gaining a mother too."

My husband sniggered. "He's lucky," he said.

Only last night I heard Barry chatting to his good friend Guiseppe. "You know Juice," I heard him say, "I wish my mother would stop phoning General Malan and telling him how lucky he is to be getting me. It makes me feel kind of uneasy."

Rubbish, I thought to myself. That's not just anyone the Army's getting. He's my son.

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