Carol’s Column

Braving the depths of life in a wetsuit

ONCE upon a merry Sunday when the sun shone and the dogs dug up the newly-planted seedlings, I had four small children. Three sons with freckles, dirty socks and huge grins and a miniature daughter with dark eyes, sea-urchin spikey hair and plum cheeks.

One day, son number two said to son number one: "Wow, Barry. You're really grown up now. You've got a proper watch and hair under your arms." Barry was 13 at the time.

A few years later Barry went off to Cape Town University and a year later Ralph followed.

Which left two for whom I could bake banana loaves, give lifts to swimming, extra maths and sailing. Take to Greenside High Schools at 4 am for athletics, hockey, swimming and netball tours. On parents' evenings I only saw 12 teachers instead of 24, and our phone was only occupied for six hours a day instead of 10. Only two tape recorders blasted music with ear-drum shattering sound and only two teenagers argued about who would shower first, whose turn it was to wash the dishes and who would feed the dogs.

And then suddenly Jamie was 18, he'd matriculated and he and his goldfish were off to Rhodes University.

"Jamie, you need some clothes," I said to my youngest son as I surveyed his wardrobe. "You can't pitch up at Rhodes wearing a sarong and ethnic sandals. Your knees will catch cold." Mothers worry about such things.

"Ma, relax," said Jamie as he gyrated his head in time to Pink Floyd.

"I'll pack for you," I offered tentatively.

"Ma, relax, I'll pack myself," said my son. That was four weeks ago.

Anyway, he packed this weekend and while he was cemented to the phone in a short three-hour conversation, I quickly checked his luggage.

"He's got 27 T-shirts, three pairs of jeans, one pair of red underpants, cycling shorts, hiking boots and a wetsuit," I said to my husband in horror.

"So, if it's cold he'll wear a wetsuit to lectures," said my spouse unconcernedly. "Leave the boy alone, stop being an interfering mother."

I surreptitiously snuck three jerseys, a pair of long-johns and a sunhat into the trunk, hiding them among the T-shirts. Then I added a kettle, two mugs, coffee, sugar and milk powder, three packets of rusks and one salami. Those I hid in the wetsuit legs. Into the corners I tucked Peppermint Crisps wrapped in underpants, and the biltong I pushed into his boots. Studying is hungry work.

On Tuesday, we took the trunk and the bicycle to the goods van at 2 pm. The train was leaving at 3.30 pm. At 2.15 pm Jamie decided that Clinton Friedman and Natasha, his goldfish, would be uncomfortable in their traditional orb-shaped fishbowl and so he dashed up to the local pet shop to find a travelling fishbowl. At 3.10 pm he hadn't returned and my hair had turned white with worry.

At 3.15 pm Jamie arrived without a travelling fishbowl. We pushed him, his fish, his bicycle wheels and his backpack into the car and made Johannesburg Station at 3.29 pm. As we sprinted down the escalator, we saw the train slowly departing.

It is not easy to run alongside a train holding bicycle wheels and a fishbowl and it's even more difficult trying to push them through a closed window. Clinton Friedman slipped out and it was only the fact that he slipped into my sleeve instead of on to the track that saved his life. We popped him back into the bowl, I kissed Jamie goodbye and there wasn't even time for a proper weep as he disappeared around the corner hanging out of the window.

"This is like a Greek tragedy," I sobbed to my husband.

"Rubbish," he growled, "it's more like a Monty Python show."

The house was fairly quiet that night. I say fairly because Nicky's tape deck was on full blast, the phone rang 17 times, and Mandy, Claire, Tracy and Vanessa popped in to keep her company.

Later, when I opened Jamie's door to kiss him goodnight and he wasn't there, I got a lump in my larynx. And then I felt proud that I'd sent my youngest unmarried son out into the world "equipped" with his wetsuit, red underpants, two goldfish and 12 Peppermint Crisps.

What more can any parent do?

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