Carol’s Column

Never give up in a tight spot

IT WAS dark. The whole world was sleeping.

Johannesburg, Pretoria — well, I guess they’re always sleeping there. Why even in as faraway places as Ogies, the people were still sleeping.

Which made me wonder what I was doing in the middle of the night — OK, 5.30am anyway — bumping over a dirt road which seemingly led to nowhere.

It’s at times like this that I know one of two things.

Either motherhood isn’t for me or that I deserve a medal, preferably a Krugerrand model encrusted with diamonds.

Oh, they’d asked nicely enough.

“Ma,” said my second youngest unmarried son, “it’s school holidays now.”

Why do all children think their mothers are cretinous halfwits?

“Ralph, I know. It’s a pleasure not having to get up at 6am to make sandwiches.”

He smiled, which is always dangerous. When children smile they want something.

My left kidney began to knock against my spleen. The right one twitched nervously in unison with my liver.

“We thought we’d get out of your hair and go camping at Spurwing Dam so we could practise boardsailing.”

“Great,” I said. “Go, enjoy, have a wonderful time, don’t rush home.”

Ralph grinned. That really worried me.

It was the same kind of grin that Jaws had on his face when he demolished a ski boat in one gulp.

“Ma, there’s a problem.”

Why is it in a whole world full of children, only mine always have problems?

“Tell me Ralph,” I said pouring a stiff orange juice on the rocks.

“We’ve organised a lift home, but we need someone to take us.”

Which is why at 5.30am I was sitting in my small crimson chariot, clad in a faded-pink candlewick dressing gown and dog-chewed slippers. Accompanied by four boys, their sailboards and an overloaded trailer.

Besides camping gear, there was enough tinned food to feed a battalion.

There was a huge hunk of steak — surely a whole cow, plus at least a kilometre of boerewors.

“But boys, you’re only going for three days,” I muttered as the trailer sunk lower until the axle rested on the ground.

“Ma, boardsailing’s hungry work,” they’d replied.

I wondered where they got their energy as I watched them at 4am. I couldn’t even keep my eyes open.

“We want to be on the water at sunrise,” they’d said engagingly. And like mothers throughout the world, I’d fallen for it.

I mean, what full-blooded mother of any merit would deprive her sons and their friends of the pleasure of being on the water at sunrise?

It is not necessary to explain how we got lost and almost landed in the Free State. Or was it Natal?

At 5.45am they look the same.

It must have been round about sixish that Wim noticed black smoke, like volcanic Mount Etna, erupting from my exhaust pipe.

“Mrs Lazar,” he said politely, “I think your car’s on fire.”

“Don’t worry, it’s just a little bit of dirty old oil or something,” I laughed casually. What’s a little smoke among friends?

We eventually hit Spurwing Dam. And to the boy’s delight, the sun had not yet risen.

Neither had anything else.

Intelligent birds, ants and snakes I thought to myself as I looked around at the slumbering countryside.

Within minutes, the boys had unpacked and I waved them farewell.

“Does your mother always cry when she says goodbye?” said Volker to Barry.

“Yes, they’re tears of happiness, not sorrow,” he replied knowledgeably.

It didn’t take me long to find the dirt track which eventually led to a tarred road.

What a beautiful country I thought to myself as I chugged slowly northwards.

The sharp, clear, early-morning sun bounced across the fields and koppies.

And although there wasn’t a person to be seen, there were birds everywhere.

Then, without a whimper, my car died.

One minute he was alive and spluttering. The next he was dead.

I jumped out tripping over my candlewick dressing gown.

“Carol,” my dad always taught me, “get to know your car.” My grandfather had owned a garage so he could fix a fan belt before he could walk.

I looked inside the bonnet. To be honest, I hadn’t got to know my car that well.

Oh, I recognised the engine, the radiator and the battery, but the cunning little carburettor was in hiding.

It took me ages to find it.

By now the sun was definitely shining but there still wasn’t a soul in sight.

With great care and dexterity I removed the distributor cap and dropped it in the sand as a cow mooed.

The petrol pipe was clear, there was a spark and the battery wasn’t flat. “So, why don’t you start?” I begged and pleaded.

In a nearby field, a cow twitched at the sight of a dressing-gowned mother-of-four on bended knees to a car.

It is no joke, being stuck in the middle of nowhere.

So what does one do in a crisis situation?

I burst into tears.

But, as the first droplet fell, I remembered Hannibal’s words: “Never give up in a tight spot,” so I turned the key and he started.

Triumphantly the car bumped homewards, belching black smoke and almost, but not quite, stalling on the hills.

I parked in the carport and crept into bed to sneak a little sleep.

Beside me slumbered my spouse, oblivious and snoring.

As I rolled over, he opened an eye. “Wassa matta?” he mumbled.

“Nothing! Sleep!” I hissed. “You must be exhausted after a full night’s sleep.”

Without a twitch, he shut his eye and was out like a light.

My grandmother always told me never marry a man. She was right.

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