I think that my lifelong love for percussion and the drums grew from the ‘… clikety-clack… clikety-clack …’ rhythm of mainline trains, as I travelled home at least twice a year by train from Boys’ Town, for the holidays. I travelled either to my home in Bloemfoentein, where both my parents, though divorced since I was about ten, lived, separately, until I was about fourteen; or, in later years, to my mother in Cape Town or to my father on the South Coast of Natal. I travelled by train for most of my youth to and from schools and home, during my army days, and much, much later, into my forties and fifties. I have never learnt to drive.

 

‘Clikety-clack … clikety-clack …’ the sounds alternated between a low and a high pitch, making them not only mesmerising, but strangely melodious. It was like an incantation; but not as repetitive as a Latin Mass, and not nearly as monotonous. Nothing at all like the Kyrie, the dirge we choirboys used to sing at funerals, when I was at Nazareth House in Kimberley, before I was transferred to Boys’ Town. We choirboys and altar boys at Nazareth house used to do duty at the main cathedral in Kimberley from time to time, at baptisms, confirmations, weddings and funerals. We, the hired guns, usually performed these duties for complete strangers.

 

Nazareth House also served as an old-age home in those days, and so there were quite a few funerals in our own chapel. My nose will never lose the smell of incense. Nor will I ever lose the sight of open coffins displaying the faces of the dead, as I, with other boys, would stand at the head, foot, and sides of a coffin, ‘swinging the smoke’ as we called it.

 

The bells and smells. 'Clikety-clack … clikety-clack …'

 

I had just left Boy’s Town – a little prematurely – and was on my way to begin my life.

 

I was 18 years old and Christmas of 1968 was a few weeks away. I would enjoy the holidays, after which, in early January, I planned to get a job as quickly as possible. I had the princely sum of R10 on me, and a little brown suitcase containing all my possessions. At home though, I had R40 in the safe-keeping of my mother. Some of that money I had by then already planned to use to spoil my mother and sisters – who were also living with her. And, with at least the other half of the money, I would open a clothing account and buy a suit, shirt, tie, underwear and socks, and new shoes for my first interview. My mother said that it was possible to open an account, as she would stand as guarantor for me at the store where she had operated one for a few years. This clothing store, in Main Road, Wynberg, on the corner of Station Road and opposite Barclays Bank, was a family business, Rifkin & Miller. Their slogan, sign-written on the front doors and windows, and on a large sign above the front of the store, was, appropriately: From a needle to an anchor! You could buy almost anything there.

 

Earlier that year, while still at Boys’ Town, I had won the R40 in a nationwide essay competition run by one of the few large, national departmental stores of the time, John Orr’s. John McIntosh, my English teacher received an invitation from John Orr’s encouraging him to enter his pupils into their writing competition. The winning students would receive cash prizes, and so would the their schools. The theme was: ‘Ten Novel Ways to Attract Teenagers to Departmental Stores’.

 

I told John McIntosh that I’d love to have a go at it but that I’d never been into a departmental store. Back home, during holidays, I had walked past departmental stores, but I never had money and so did not bother even to go inside. He came up with an enterprising idea. Michael Guittard, with whom he was living and who taught us Geography and coached rugby, suggested that on our way to play rugby in Johannesburg, before one of the up-coming fixtures – generally on Saturdays during the season – we could quickly stop outside John Orr’s in the centre of the city, and I could run in and take a look around to get a feel of the store. I agreed enthusiastically.

 

One Saturday morning, on our way to play against Marist Brothers, Inanda, Michael Guittard kept his promise and parked the bus outside John Orr’s. He said: ‘You’ve got ten minutes, Dof’, and I ran inside. Those ten minutes or so were enough to give me a good idea of the concept. I wrote the essay. It was one of the ten winners. I won the R40 prize. R40! I was richer than I had ever been. I don’t recall how much Boys’ Town won. Father Orsmond wired the money to my mother when the school received it. Fortuitously, it was there to help me start my working career.

 

‘Clikety-clack … clikety-clack …’

I was sitting in the bar-cum-lounge of the train, which adjoined the dining car. It was just after that evening’s first dinner-sitting, about 7.30 pm. I was drinking my second beer, and, pen in hand, was scribbling in my black manuscript book, which contained all the poems I had written at Boys’ Town. I was writing down thoughts about my experience the night before with Pamela, Father Orsmond’s niece. I had been caught that night in Pamela’s room by her grandmother, Ma Orsmond, and had been promptly put on the first train home, after completing my very last final-year exam, Latin, earlier that morning. It was an expulsion of sorts. I was feeling melancholic and a little sad.

 

‘Clikety-clack … clikety-clack …’ I noticed a girl sitting alone a short distance away from me, closer to the bar. She was reading a book. But every now and then, when I looked in her direction, our eyes would catch. On one or two occasions, when I looked her way, she would smile at me. A quick, shy smile. I smiled shyly too. She had short brown hair, brown eyes and was waif-like and very pretty. Butterflies began to play havoc in my stomach, at first little tingles, and then, the more our eyes met, the more we exchanged smiles, an intense feeling. I felt waves of heat course through me, especially my cheeks. It was a delicious feeling.

It wasn’t too long before a steward approached me, asked if I would like another beer, and whispered: ‘The girl over there says you can join her if you’d like’.

 

Thoughts of Pamela faded as fast as the landscape moving by. ‘Clikety-clack … clikety-clack …’

The butterflies fluttered faster as I stood up, grabbed my book, and, bottle and glass in hand walked awkwardly the short distance to the girl’s table.

 

We introduced ourselves. She told me that she had been wondering what I was so busy writing down. Was I a student, she asked. I told her that I sometimes wrote poems. I did not tell her about Pamela. I told her I had just finished matric at Boys’ Town and was going home to Cape Town to live with my mother, and that I planned to get a job as soon as I could. I told her that, apart from my love of writing, I had no idea what I wanted to do, but had already decided to follow the advice of a career councilor at Boys’ Town and get a job in a bank. From there, I would decide.

 

She told me she was a final year student at the University of Stellenbosch, studying philosophy and political science. She was Afrikaans, but spoke fluent English. Her name was Lizette. She told me she was twenty-four. She asked if she could read a few of my poems, which she did. She also asked if I would like to have a brandy and coke. She bought me another brandy and coke. Soon, we were drinking doubles.

 

When we were politely asked to vacate the lounge at closing time, she invited me to join her in her compartment. She was travelling alone in a coupé, which slept three, unlike the six-bunker I was sharing with a few other men. She also had some brandy and coke in her coupe, she said … we could go there and continue our conversation. I followed her along the narrow aisle. A cold night wind was gusting through some of the open windows. We were passing through the Karoo. As the train hurtled on, and because the brandies were taking effect, from time to time I would cling to the rail on the passage side to keep my balance. She took my hand and drew me along with her to her coupé. Though a little pissed, I was nervous as hell.

We went in, she latched the door, and we sat down on the lower bunk. The middle bunk was folded up. Alone with me in the coupé, she was a bubble of laughter and fun. She poured us each a strong drink. We joked and talked excitedly.

 

‘You can kiss me if you like’, she said suddenly. By now I was trembling. I kissed her. And again. And again. Until we were caught in a stormy embrace, hands fondling each other feverishly. She asked if I had ever slept with a woman before. No, I said with embarrassment.

 

‘You’re eighteen and you haven’t slept with a girl before!’ She sounded astounded.

 

I briefly remembered Pamela. I told her that I, well, sort of touched a girl most places, but, well … had never had intercourse.

 

“Would you like to?’ She kissed me deeply. She was very kind. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I’ll show you how.’

 

She undressed and revealed a beautiful, toned body. Her breasts were smallish, pert and beautiful. Then she put out the lights and undressed me. Gently, while whispering kind words and instructions in my ear – nibbling my ear and neck from time to time – she guided me into her. I exploded very quickly.

 

‘Clikety-clack … clickety-clack …’

 

We did it a few more times. She was incredibly understanding.

 

The next afternoon, Lizette got off the train at Paarl station, where she said her folks would be meeting her. We kissed, a little surreptitiously, I thought. When I offered to help carry her luggage, she declined and asked me not to come with her onto the station platform. We promised to stay in touch by letter and I gave her my mother’s address.

 

When I arrived in Cape Town I wasted no time looking for a job. I used R10 of the prize money my mother had been keeping for me to open an account, put down a deposit and buy myself new clothes. I walked for hours, cold-canvassing, knocking on doors of the banks in and around the Southern Suburbs of Cape Town, where I lived. I was usually turned away, or told to phone for an interview. The manager of the Standard Bank on Plumstead Main Road, however, was very polite and encouraging and made a formal appointment for us to meet in early January the following year.

 

We met. I landed a job as a junior clerk, earning R90 a month. I hated arithmetic, particularly math, but decided that I would work extra hard and apply myself. I had not cut my hair since leaving Boys’ Town, and from time to time the manager requested that I cut it. I always put it off with the excuse that I needed to wait for payday. Somehow, he let the matter be, or conveniently forgot to push it. All my friends had long hair. It was the sixties.

 

In the meantime, I kept in touch with Lizette. One day I received a letter from her, inviting me to spend a weekend with her in Stellenbosch. Not at her home, we could never do that, she wrote, but she could book us into a hotel and I could take a train there. She would treat me and pay for it all. She understood that I was still finding my feet, and how did I feel about the idea? I was ecstatic and replied, yes, yes, I would love to. On reading her letter I could hear her, smell her and feel her. I trembled all over.

 

‘Clikety-clack … clikety-clac k…’ I was on a Friday afternoon train to Stellenbosch, hardly able to contain my excitement. It was early March, and I was trying to remember every detail about Lizette. She was there to meet me in her own car. We kissed and embraced, and she drove us to The Royal Hotel in the centre of the town. I was carrying a small overnight bag with a razor, toothbrush, deodorant, after-shave and a change of clothing. She had pre-booked the room – it was on the second or third floor, I don’t remember exactly – and after signing in, we dropped our luggage in the room and went back down to a cozy bar for drinks before dinner. She was bright and refreshing, with a playful sense of humour. She was as kind and gentle as on the train. She showed genuine interest in me, my job, and my dreams. She encouraged me to keep on writing and told me that she loved the poems to her that I had included in nearly all of my many letters. She really liked me. And I her.

 

I could not wait for dinner to be over, to be alone with her. Whereas I was only thinking it, she had the maturity – and the courage – to say it aloud to me. ‘I can’t wait to be alone with you’, she told me. ‘I think I’m falling in love with you’, she added. I told her that I was feeling the same.

 

Back in her room she immediately jumped onto the double bed. Pirouetting like a ballerina, clasping her arms to her chest, she cried out loud: ‘We have a whole weekend together … two beautiful days, two beautiful nights alone …’

 

And then she began to undress slowly. First her blouse, then her bra … then suddenly she jumped from the bed and into my arms, her legs wrapped around my waist and hips, dangling above the floor as I held on to her tightly. We kissed feverishly, then she found her feet and, softly biting and kissing my neck, on both sides, took off my shirt, unbuckled my jeans, pulled them down … and we fell onto the bed and threw off our shoes and the rest of our clothes. This time she did not have to guide me. Well, not initially.

 

The lovemaking was exhilarating. She was not shy or as inhibited as I was, and encouraged me, talking gently to me from time to time, prompting me to explore her body as she did mine. Beneath me, astride me, with me also entering her from behind, as she had suggested, she coaxed me on and on to heights I had only dreamt of before.

 

And then there was a loud knocking at the front door, and, simultaneously, harsh pounding knocks on the glass veranda doors opposite.

 

‘Oh my God!’ she gasped, became frantic, and quickly put on the bedside lamp. I became limp. I iced up. I saw a terrified look on her face. She drew the sheet over her naked body. I panicked. I got up quickly and pulled on my jeans. The knocking became furious. I was confused. Which door to open first? I went to the front door, and unlocked it. An elderly policeman in full uniform barged into the room, knocking me aside, went straight to the veranda door and opened it, allowing another, much younger, policeman into the room. The younger man began swearing and throwing abuse at Lizette in Afrikaans, as she lay back, clutching the sheet up to her neck. She was trembling. The older policeman began swearing at me too, and I remember him distinctly calling me ‘… donderse takhaar en ‘n Kommunist’. Literally, a damn long-haired communist.

 

He slapped and shoved me around a little. He told me in a quiet, menacing voice to wait outside the room. From behind the closed door I could hear the continuous swearing and abuse; Lizette sobbing aloud. Then the door opened and the two of them appeared, dragging Lizette, by now fully dressed, along with them. They both warned me, stopping to push me against the passage wall, shouting at me in tandem, that I was never, ever to think about contacting Lizette; and that I must never, ever put a foot in Stellenbosch again. I was to get out of town by first light the next morning.

 

Which I duly did. After a sleepless, fitful night; hurt and hurting even more for Lizette.

 

On my way out of the hotel I asked directions to Stellenbosch station from the receptionist on duty, a white, Afrikaans, middle-aged woman. She tried to avoid my eyes, but gave me the directions. She was not very friendly. When I asked if there was any money owing, she said that my ‘companion’ had pre-paid the bill. I enquired about the policemen who had come that night, and why. She said that the elderly policeman was Lizette’s father, and station commander of the Stellenbosch police; the younger one was Lizette’s brother. There was a slight smirk on her face.

 

‘Clikety-clack … clikety-clack …’

 

Lizette had left me with a desperate longing, and an emptiness that would take quite a while to refill. I never heard from her or saw her again.