A hot Sunday, a large roast dinner and then a pleasant afternoon drive … how wrong
can you get?
THE SUNDAY DRIVE
‘Whew! It’s hot in here,’ he remarked.
‘Then open the windows,’ came a voice from the kitchen. All morning she had slaved
over the hot coal stove, cooking the three-course lunch he insisted on. No matter
what the time of year, high temperatures or low, exhausted or not, he always insisted
she cook a three-course lunch on Sundays.
Throwing wide the large windows, sweeping a pile of dead flies from the sill, he said
with heavy jollity, ‘Then you’ll have to accept the flies, Mommy. Even they can’t resist
your cooking.’
‘Damn the man,’ she thought a she brought the savoury tarts from oven to table. ‘He
always states the obvious with snide little remarks. After all these years, I still don’t
know how to take them. Is he trying to be funny? Or maybe he’s trying to trick me
into agreeing I’ve done something wrong.’
Saying nothing, she loaded the table with wholesome, well-cooked food. Five
vegetables, the savoury tarts, a roast hindquarter of beef. Yorkshire puddings, roast
potatoes, gravy, horseradish, mustard and all the trimmings, steamed syrup pudding
to follow. She knew what would happen if she left anything out. Hours of insults, then
when the bedroom door was shut and the lights out there would be a beating for
being a hopeless wife and mother.
The children knew what happened to Mommy when the door was closed. Accident
prone she was; amazingly so. Doors mysteriously opened in the dark, and with
unfailingly poor eyesight she bumped into them. Toys, which they knew they had put
away before bedtime, caused slips and falls, bruises and broken bones; even an
occasional visit to hospital. It wasn’t advisable to hug her too hard; she groaned and
pushed them away if they squeezed her. They knew about these things; had learnt to
say nothing. To give no sign they recognised the pain and hurt, not a word of
sympathy. Remarking on Mommy’s black eye, bandaged wrist or hospital absence
while Father was near could bring a cuff around the ears, a kick, a beating. If Mommy
tried to intervene, it was she who caught it instead.
Dinner over, he settled down with his pipe and the paper while she and the children
washed the dishes and cleared up. Then, looking at the big clock, he said in his
dictatorial way, ‘Come along, it’s three o’clock and time for our Sunday drive.’
‘But Dad,’ interjected Harry, ‘I haven’t finished my homework.’ ‘That’s your problem.
You know we always go for a drive on Sundays; you must finish your homework
earlier. No excuses, everybody must come … the fresh air is good for you. I want to
go to the other camp to see if the Petrus has finished dipping the sheep.’
Climbing tiredly into the old open-sided Ford Model-T before he arrived she said to
the kids, ’Don’t say anything to your Father. Don’t upset him, say nothing. If you
complain, he’ll take the long way home and we won’t get back until dark. If you make
a fuss, he’ll get angry and hit one of you, or make you walk home. So keep your
mouths SHUT.’
Angry clouds were gathering, great heavy banks of towering cumulus. Tongues of
forked lightning zigzagged around the base. Thunder crashed, and dark sheets of
rain were falling on the next farm. ‘Don’t you think we should leave the drive for
today?’ she ventured timidly.
‘Never,’ he snapped angrily, the lunch-time friendliness over. ‘You know we ALWAYS
drive out on Sunday. Petrus will be waiting for me; more nonsense from any of you
and you’ll know all about it,’ and he glanced meaningfully at the sjambok on the rear
seat.
Silently they drove past the dam, up the ridge and down the other side. In the
distance lay the dry river bed and the concrete crossing. When the river was full, the
kids occasionally fished the pools in the hopes of getting a cat fish or a barbel. But
now it was dry and empty. There’d been no rain for months. Thunder rumbled
menacingly overhead and a brilliant flash of lightning lit the darkening sky. Engaging
lower gear, Father drove the old Ford towards the crossing, loose stones and dust
sliding from under the tyres. Thin and bald, their grip and traction was long gone.
‘Look, Dad,’ said Samuel, ‘there’s the hammerkop I was telling you about,’ holding
his father’s arm and pointing into the thorn trees on the bank. ‘Where, my boy?’
stopping the car and putting his arm around the child’s shoulders. Samuel was his
favourite. He could always charm him with his interest in the natural world; birds,
insects and animals.
‘Stop Dad, wait a minute … there - over there, just look over there …’
‘Oh no, not another delay,’ Mother thought tiredly, gazing down at her slippers. She
had forgotten to change. ‘Why must the silly child always distract Arthur? I want to
get home and have a lie-down for half an hour before I have to make supper.’
Then … with a roar, and a churning of mud and boulders, a wall of water was on
them. The Ford gave a cough and a lurch and was swept off the concrete slipway.
The water hit the car tipping it sideways; then pushed it over. Screaming loudly, the
kids scrambled for anything they could hold onto. Harry grabbed an overhanging
branch; Samuel climbed a tree like a monkey. The twins, Angela and Patrick grabbed
a floating sapling and when it drifted to the bank, they jumped and got ashore. The
baby Margaret was in Mother’s arms and the children grabbed them both.
But where was Father? Pinned underneath the car by the swirling waters, held fast
by a boulder between the steering wheel and the dashboard, his jammed foot held
him tight. Desperately they tried to grab his arms, but could not move him; the water
level was rising, it was too difficult, nothing could be done. Like any bully, he would
not listen to reason; they always had a drive on Sunday and despite the storm
warnings he was determined to show who was boss.
Tossed by the dirty foam and debris, she looked back. There were her fluffy slippers
caught on a branch in midstream, feeble reminders of a day they would never forget.