Carol’s Column

Birthday greetings ‘Kos’ a fortune

Birthdays are happy occasions. Especially family birthdays.

“It’s our little boy’s birthday on Wednesday,” I said to my husband.

“Which one?” he replied.

“You mean you don’t remember which son, which birthday? What kind of father are you?”

He glared at me and retreated into the rice crispies. “Listen, we have so many sons and so many birthdays, it’s difficult enough to remember their names let alone their birthdays. At least I remember Nicky’s name and birthday,” he added.

“Who’s Nicky,” I muttered, momentarily distracted by the sight of the dog buttering himself a piece of toast and covering it with Swiss black cherry jam.

“Good heavens,” I screeched, “look at that dog, he’s putting the Swiss black cherry jam on the toast.”

“Well, give him the peanut butter if you don’t want him eating the cherry jam,” grunted my husband.

It’s no wonder one is forgetful under circumstances like these. Meanwhile, it was Barry’s birthday on Wednesday.

“It’s our little boy’s birthday on Wednesday,” I repeated. “We must phone Barry and wish him happy birthday.”

“Little boy!” growled my spouse. “Barry is almost two metres tall, he’s built like a tree trunk, he wears size 14 shoes and he’s been shaving since the age of three. How can you call him little?”

“He’ll always be my little boy,” I said about my eldest unmarried son. “And you can imagine how lonely he is, far from Africa, far from his loving family.”

Oh, we knew where he was. On Kos, a remote Greek island, off the coast of Turkey, teaching windsurfing and scuba diving.

We even had a phone number. Like a military exercise we planned the birthday. We would phone Barry at 8 am to wish him happy birthday. Five minutes later, his grandparents in Cape Town would phone. Then at 8.15 am his brother Ralph, also in Cape Town, would phone. At 8.20 am his granny from Killarney could put a call through, at 8.25 am his brother James would phone him from the Transkei, and then at 8.30 am, the cherry on the top, his close friend Sheryl would call him. There’s no doubt he’d be thrilled to hear from us all.

His younger sister, Nicky, composed an eight-verse birthday celebration poem especially for the occasion, to be sung to the tune of “Feelin’ Groovy” and she accompanied it on the piano while I played the guitar.

At 8 am on Wednesday, we pushed the piano next to the phone, got the guitar into position, crowded around and phoned Kos.

“Allo, allo, Club Mediterranee,” answered a charming French voice, who then proceeded to find Barry.

We were in the middle of “Happy Birthday to You,” when we were cut off. Twenty minutes later, we got through again.

“Allo, allo, Club Mediterranee,” answered the same young man. “Ah, you want Barry,” he added when we identified ourselves. “You cannot have him, he is under the water already. He said I must tell you to phone him tonight at six.” He must have sensed our disappointment because he added: “Don’t worry, you can speak to me instead. My name is Henri. So how is South Africa?”

“Great, great,” I said. “It’s election day and everything’s just fine.”

“Ah, election day,” said Henri. “Here in Kos, the sun is shining, the sea is blue and everybody is happy”.

At R10 a minute, we cut the call short and said we’d phone back at 6 pm. It took half an hour to contact the family network to give them the alternative arrangements.

At six, we opened a bottle of champagne and put a call through to Barry.

Henri answered. “Barry comes,” he said. We immediately launched into “Happy Birthday to You” and then made loud kissing noises down the line.

“Ma, I can’t talk now. I’ve got to usher people into the restaurant for dinner,” said our oldest son, the birthday boy. “Call me back in three hours time,” and he was gone.

“I mortgaged the house to pay for his six years of university education and he’s an usher in a restaurant,” muttered my husband as I phoned everyone to tell them to be on standby at 9 pm.

At 9 pm we phoned for the third time but Henri said Barry was in the middle of a cabaret act and he couldn’t call him off the stage. “The show must go on,” he said. “Phone at 11 pm, it will be finished.” Then: “And what is happening with the election?” he added.

Finally, at 11 pm, we got through to Kos. “It’s Barry,” said my husband, and so we sang “Happy Birthday to You” followed by Nicky’s eight-verse celebratory song, made loud kissing sounds, then ended with a hearty “Three cheers” in Afrikaans, just to make him feel at home, you understand.

I was the first to speak to my son. “Happy birthday, we’re missing you and we wish you were here. Greece feels such a long way away from South Africa.” I hummed happily, as mothers do. “How are you my little boy?”

“I’m fine, Ma. And I’m missing you too. But why are you phoning from South Africa?” he said.

“Barry, is that you, Barry?” I asked anxiously.

“My name is Marvin,” he answered, “and I come from Oshkosh, Wisconsin. But it is my birthday, and I’ll give you the address for the present,” he added.

“So settle for Marvin instead of Barry, he sounds a nice enough boy,” murmured my husband pragmatically. “It’s the thought that counts.”

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