Joe Twead - One Young Fool in South Africa

Para Beaky, who constantly urged me to write,
then improved and polished this, my first clumsy effort.

* * *

Thank you, Joe. Am I allowed to improve andpolish this dedication?

Certainly not.

PART ONE:
Beginnings

1
Ma

July 2014, El Hoyo, Southern Spain.

Joe and I sat at the kitchen table. It was a balmysummers evening and the door was open wide. Cicadas buzzed in thevine outside, competing with our neighbours, the Ufartes, who sangand danced a flamenco in the street. Dogs barked and childrenshouted.

Hmm... I said, taking a sip of Pacos homemadewine. Paco was another neighbour, and he had insisted that thisparticular batch of red wine was his best yet. Not bad. Not bad atall.

I agree, said Joe.

We sat in companionable silence for a little while,listening to the village noises.

You know, I said, perhaps a little fuelled byPacos wine, you really should write about your childhood. Fromwhat youve told me, I think people would find it very interesting.Anyway, isnt it about time you carried out your threat to writeyour great masterpiece? Your, um, what is it you call it?

Magnum opus, Joe answered with a smile and tooka generous slurp of wine. Its not really a happy story,though.

It doesnt matter. I think people would befascinated. More interesting than that other heavy tome you werethreatening to write.

Perhaps you have a point, Sweet Pants, he said,treating himself to another slurp. You know, I might just do that.Now BURMA.

BURMA? Whats BURMA?

Its be upstairs ready my angel. Its what weboys used to snigger about.

Poor Joe. You live in a fantasy world, dontyou? Now concentrate on your story and start writing.

* * *

South Africa, 1951

I have no idea exactly when I was born or indeedwhere. Perhaps it was a home birth or perhaps I was delivered in amaternity hospital, I cannot be sure. What is certain is that itwas somewhere in Johannesburg, a major city within the Union ofSouth Africa, a colony of Great Britain. The 11th July 1951 was thedate given to me when I was old enough to understand such things.But I have never seen any confirming documentation.

My very first memory of the world was when I wasabout two years old. I was standing in a sunlit kitchen, the brightlight streaming through a large-paned window that overlooked asink. I am with a man and a woman and the man is bending overme.

This is for you, Robert, he said quietly, andplaced a tiny object in the palm of my hand.

I didnt know what it was but it was red and shinyand I found it very attractive. I closed my fingers protectivelyaround it, reserving it for a later, more leisurely inspection.Without saying another word, the man left. The moment he had gone,the woman pounced on me, easily relieving me of my trinket.

Your name is not Robert, she hissed, itsJoe! and she tossed the object into a bin.

I did not pine its loss for long. The man might havebeen my father but I am not certain. If I did see him again it wasall too brief and he remains an indistinct figure in my memory. Iwould not properly meet him again until I was in my mid teens.

The woman, on the other hand, I knew was veryimportant to me and that her word was law. She had informed me thatmy name was Joe and I accepted that. I have done so ever since,even to the present day, more than six decades later.

Unfortunately her decision to change my name hascaused many problems. The paperwork that recorded the firsteighteen years of my life insists that I am Robert, not Joe. But Iam resolute: it is Joe, not Robert.

The woman was my mother and I would call her Ma. Shecalled me Boy.

Ma smoked incessantly. Her movements were slow, heractions unhurried. There was always a dreamy look in her eyes as ifshe was looking deep within herself. I never could fathom herthoughts. When I interrupted them with one of my endless questions,she would give me a long look before slowly lifting her hand todrag on a ubiquitous cigarette. The look was invariably one of mildsurprise, as if questioning my very presence. It was almost as ifshe had forgotten who I was and why I was there. She seldomanswered my questions. In fact, she seldom spoke to me.

I didnt mind. I soon accustomed myself to her waysand accepted her and them with that infinite capacity that isgifted to all very young children. In return I was given absolutefreedom. And what freedom!

I could roam wherever I wanted and do whatever Ipleased. Often the police, after first giving me a plate of foodwhich I ravenously devoured, returned me to my house. Whether thisaffected Mas behaviour, I do not know. Soon enough, however, Iwould be off again only to be returned by the police or by aperfect stranger.

Now dont touch anything, one stranger said,leaving me alone in his car before disappearing into a store.

Of course I immediately searched everywhere forsomething to touch. My eyes settled in the centre of the steeringwheel which was bright red with a gold rim. I touched it. Nothinghappened so I decided to give it some proper attention. Idiscovered that the gold rim screwed off, releasing the red centrewhich sprang out at me. The instant it was free, the car hornblared continuously and, terrified, I shot back to the passengerseat. The man appeared and quickly repaired my vandalism, but notbefore giving me a malevolent look.

Soon we were on our way and looking for my housewhich was amongst identical houses, situated in identicalstreets.

Theres my house! I would shout.

Are you sure?

No, thats not it.

What about this street? Is your house here?

Yes! Theres my house!

But it wasnt, so we carried on searching.

We would find it eventually and I would be handedover to Ma.

My memory at this age is only reliable enough toportray the kitchen, the man, the trinket, Ma, the police, theplate of food, the man in the car, the horn, and the search for thehouse. I dont know exactly what age I was, where I lived, or forhow long.

* * *

I hope youre not going to mention the littlebird, I said, trying to read over Joes shoulder.

What bird? Joe said somewhat defensively. Heclearly had something to hide.

You know what Im talking about.

Joe did. The event, like so many others in his life,greatly mortified him.

I must, he said reluctantly, I have to behonest.

* * *

My second memory of the world around me occurred notlong after that.

I was alone in a small backyard overlooked by thewindow that belonged to the sunlit kitchen. The yard was completelyenclosed with stone slabs underfoot. Except for a small tree in thecentre of the yard, I saw no other plants or greenery.

Not far from the tree, a small bird hopped on theground. It hopped away when I approached but made no attempt tofly. I caught it easily and picked it up. It was tiny andcomfortably fitted in the palm of my small hand. I could feel itswarmth.

I stared at the fledgling. To my astonishment itchose not to escape, preferring to nestle down in my palm. It evenclosed its eyes, probably enjoying my warmth.

I should have been delighted in the absolute trustthis tiny creature had shown me, but I wasnt. An inexplicable rageoverwhelmed me and, with all my might, I threw it to the ground,killing it instantly. I immediately regretted my action but had notime to ponder the consequences.

Ma appeared from nowhere and slapped my face so hardit took my breath away. She must have witnessed it all from thekitchen window. Her face was dark and her expression thunderous. Imade no sound, too shocked to say or do anything.