Carol’s Column

Hot water and a bald head

I WAS concerned about my youngest unmarried son. How was he faring in Cape Town? Alone, away from the heart of his warm family bosom. Away from his well-stocked fridge, clean laundry and the endless supply of home-made chocolate cakes he enjoyed.

In deference to escalating airfares, I took the half-price midnight flight to Cape Town. On arrival, the terminal was crowded, but of Jamie, there was no trace.

A bald-headed man flung his arms around me. Which was disconcerting because I knew no bald-headed men in Cape Town.

“Hi, Ma,” he said. It was Jamie.

Three weeks ago, when he’d arrived in Johannesburg to carry off my household effects for his student digs in Cape Town, his hair was short, a sort of American GI crewcut.

But this? My son resembled an egg with ears attached.

We walked to his car and he stopped me as I was about to climb in. “It needs a little push,” he said. So there we were, in the inky Cape night, pushing his car until the engine burped and started.

“So why don’t you get it fixed,” I asked him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ma,” said Jamie. “That costs money. And anyway, the exercise is healthy.”

We drove to his small house in Observatory where he and two mates lived.

The house was bright and sparkling. I couldn’t believe it.

He offered to make me a cup of coffee and my heart swelled at such hospitality.

He passed the coffee and I sipped it gratefully.

It tasted strange. “Jamie, I think you’ve forgotten to put in the coffee,” I remarked tactfully.

“Sorry, we’re out of coffee, sugar and milk,” he said cheerfully.

So together we sipped hot water and chatted.

“Your haircut is interesting,” I observed, “it sort of grows on one. What made you decide to shave it all off.”

“I thought it would be different,” replied my son. “And, talking about different, I don’t spell my name ‘Jamie’ any more. It is now spelt ‘Jaime’ because ‘Jamie’ is illogical. ‘Jamie’ sounds like something you spread on bread.”

Later, I kissed my bald-headed son Jaime and retired to bed.

Next day, I was astonished. The house was still tidy. Was this the son who at home regarded being asked to make his bed an assault of his human rights, who regarded dishwashing as if it was a certifiable disease, who had never folded a shirt or a pair of pants in his life, who acquired severe backache when the lawn required mowing and who thought working for a living was unfashionable?

Indeed it was. Furthermore I learnt that my third-youngest unmarried son who, when he left home could barely boil an egg, was a chef of distinction who concocted a venison stew worth dying for, was renowned for his curries and baked a chocolate cake so light and airy that it almost floated away.

His little house in Observatory, built at the turn of the century, was held upright by willpower and 27 layers of paint.

In between Jamie’s academic studies, he stripped the woodwork of paint, rewired, cleared blocked drains and became a keen rose-grower.

There was no doubt, being a householder suited Jamie.

The house was filled with empty wine bottles filled with prize roses borrowed from the neighbour’s garden and instead of Dire Straits, he played Bach, and Rolling Stone had been abandoned for Plato.

I couldn’t believe it. My bald-headed son Jamie/Jaime was on his way to becoming a rose-growing establishment yuppie.

The two-day visit flew and before I knew it, Jamie’d deposited me at the airport, kissed me goodbye and push-started himself away.

“I see your son’s a monk,” said the woman standing in the check-in queue beside me. “Kids are so interesting, aren’t they?”

She should only know.

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