Carol’s Column

Happiness is when your son has a date for the matric dance

NOBODY could find me for my matric dance.

I got lost in my dress. A sky-blue, home-made concoction of net, tulle, draped satin and bows, it looked like the curtain at His Majesty's.

When Peter, my swain of that time, came to collect me, debonair and handsome in his father's tuxedo three sizes too large for him, I'd disappeared.

Instead there was just a quivering mound of material. Well, almost.

All my friends wore home-made tulle creations. We looked like a row of dying swans. When we sat, you couldn't see us for the pile of net in front of us.

We were instructed to dance with decorum. It was an unnecessary command. We couldn't have done anything else. Kilometres of skirt, not to mention metres of stiff petticoats, frilled, starched and reinforced with whalebone, kept us at arms length from our partners.

Bopping

Waltzing was purgatory, the quickstep was a joke and bopping was unthinkable ... there was just too much dress to move around.

We lived, breathed and spoke matric dance for the first seven months of the year. Oh, how we agonised over whom to ask ... over dresses, the music, the food, the decor. And a pimple on the day was almost cause for suicide.

That was the day, flotillas of matric girls swarmed the hairdressers and emerged triumphant and identical in towering beehive hairdos decorated with artificial flowers.

Afterwards, the dance was dissected into a million pieces. It was the sole topic of conversation for two months until exams.

How Robert dared to smuggle in a beer in his cummerbund. How Tessa wore black and was nearly expelled. How Eve had to wear a hankie in her cleavage because her décolleté was too daring. How Averil's dress fell down when her shoestring straps broke.

That was then.

Today it's different.

A month ago, my 17-year-old matriculant muttered something casually about his matric dance.

Psychologists say one shouldn't pester offspring for information. They'll tell you what you want to know when they're ready.

“So who are you taking?” I asked breathlessly, casually, nonchalantly.

“Somebody,” Ralph replied.

“Who?” I demanded.

“A girl.”

“A girl?”

“Well do you want me to go with James or Erez?” he replied tartly.

Eventually, my own home-grown James Bond and Mata Hari put me out of my misery.

“Mummy, Ralph's taking Leonie to the matric dance,” announced Nicky.

“Leonie, who's Leonie?”

“Relax, Ma. She's pretty, she's bright, she has two arms, two legs, a sense of humour and she's a girl,” said Jamie.

Happiness

Happiness is knowing your son is fixed up for the matric dance.

On Monday, I asked Ralph what he was wearing for the occasion.

“Clothes,” he replied.

“Thank heavens,” I muttered, “you never know these days.”

On Tuesday I asked him what clothes.

“Well some of the guys are going in black tie, some in boiler suits, some in white sharkskin — I thought I'd go in red-striped bermudas.”

I was silent. There are times when it is better not to speak.

I phoned my good friend Betty to discuss the matric dance.

“I'm so worried about Ralph's outfit,” I said.

She laughed. Bitterly. “You've got a son. I've got two daughters. Do you realise we've walked Johannesburg for little outfits. I'll have to run something up.

“But that's nothing,” she added. “Half the school is going in designer gowns — Chris Levine, Pascual, Greta — you name it.”

“I know, I know,” I interjected. “One of the girls at Greenside has ordered an Emmanuelle ballgown from London and her mother's mortgaged her duplex townhouse to pay for it.”

“So why are you worried?” she asked.

“Well, wouldn't you be if your son was going to the school dance dressed as a crimson bumble bee.” We both sighed.

Slowly the scenario for the Greenside High matric dance unfolded.

Jamie and Nicky knew it all.

“They're having the dance in a country club because they can't all fit into the school hall, then they're going on to a supper club until 7am and then they're off to Loskop Dam for a champagne breakfast. They'll be home late on Sunday night.”

Yes, times have changed.

“Do you know, I had to be home at 12.30am after my matric dance,” I said to Ralph sharply, “otherwise my father said he'd lock me out.”

“So what happened?” said Ralph.

“He locked me out. It was lovely.”

No, perhaps times haven't changed that much.

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