MY DAPPLED LIFE - A QUILT OF MEMORIES. CHAPTER ELEVEN. SÉAN'S MINE ACCIDENT

 

                                                               Séan Whittle and friend

Mine accident

One day Séan fell off a six foot ledge underground and hurt his back.  In terms of his contract, he should have reported the incident in case he might need workmen’s compensation, but he was in a hurry to go home and play with his babies.  Later on he landed in hospital in Johannesburg for six weeks but by then it was too late for him to claim. 

In those days sick ‘day’s pay’ miners received only twelve days sick leave  per annum.  Taxes were not deducted on a monthly basis but annually and we had earned good money between us, all now spent on the stolen car, so we owed a lot of tax for the previous year.  The timing of the tax demand coincided with Séan’s hospitalisation.  When we were unable to pay, the taxman garnisheed a part of Séan’s salary.  Séan was supposed to get two or three pounds a week at work from some benevolent fund, details of which I cannot now recall, but even that the taxman took before I could get my hands on it.  So it was back to the grindstone.

Temporary work

This time I did temporary work in Johannesburg so that I could stay home in case our son or Nicolette became ill.  After work I visited Séan at the hospital if there was time before catching the five o’clock train back to Brakpan and making it to the crèche by six by the skin of my teeth.  Then I’d carry the kids back to the next bus home and I can assure you that when our heads hit the pillow by seven thirty the three of us slept like logs until the alarm rang at five the next morning.  It’s amazing what you can do when you have to.

Daily grind

In the mornings, I left the house with the children fully washed and dressed in time for the six o’clock bus to the crèche behind the station where, fortunately they were given a full cooked breakfast.  Then there was a brisk walk back to the station for me, followed by a seat on the train to Johannesburg if there was one vacant.  

Wrong train

One afternoon I took the wrong train home and failed to discover my mistake until I arrived in Randfontein at the end of the West Rand line.  Because this particular train stopped at nearly all the stations on the line I knew it would take me almost an hour to go back to Johannesburg by the next train, never mind the time I’d have to spend in Johannesburg awaiting the East Rand connection.

At the Randfontein station I telephoned the Brakpan crèche from a telephone booth and explained the situation.  The woman at the other end was furious.

“I’ve been looking after your children for almost twelve hours now and I have my own children waiting for me at home,” she said. 

“I’ll phone my sister in Springs and ask her to drive through,” I said.

My fabulous sister

Elly was now married.  She was working and awaiting the birth of her first child.  In those days we had no cellphones and so it was a toss up whether I’d reach her.  I phoned my brother-in-law's work and he said he and Elly were going to supper with friends. “Speak to Elly,” my brother-in-law said.  When I heard my sister’s voice I burst into tears. Elly said:

“Never mind the supper.  I’ll phone our friends.  This is more important. Explain how we can get to that crèche and we’ll be on our way at once.”

When I arrived at Brakpan station two hours later my children were enjoying the attention they were receiving from their uncle and aunt.

Successor to dear Aline

After this I took them out of the crèche and employed another lady, who took good care of the children and kept the place spotless.  Although I earned three pounds a day five days a week, there was hardly any money left after I had paid the rent, wages, water and lights, our son's formula and my train season ticket.  Most of what was left over was used to pay whichever one of our creditors I drew from the hat that month. 

One day the housekeeper waited until eight when I arrived home after visiting Séan in Johannesburg before making food for herself and her husband.  It smelled so heavenly, just onions, tomatoes and toast, and I longed for her to offer me some but she must have thought I had eaten in Johburg.  Nicolette ate little and our son had his formula.  However, I have listened to the parable of the Prodigal Son with different ears since then.

Needing the pay

One weekend while I was still temping and Séan was still off sick after the mine accident, our son's formula had run out.  I was supposed to get paid on Fridays and the petty cash box was put into the safe at three every afternoon.  By ten to three I whispered to the accountant:

“You do remember I haven’t been paid yet, don’t you?”  He lost his temper and screamed at the top of his voice, causing the rest of the staff to sit up and take notice:

“Don’t worry Mrs Whittle.  You’ll GET your money.” 

I wanted the earth to swallow me up but the staff looked at me, not judgementally but with sincere empathy.  He might have been working for his health but clearly I was not the only one who needed every cent I earned.  I realised that day that one can take a lot if one needs money to feed one’s child.

Lovely visit

My monthly season ticket was valid for the weekends too so I would take the train to Johannesburg on Saturdays and Sundays to visit Séan in hospital.  One of my Springs friends and her daughter were visiting her husband.  She offered to take me home past Brakpan in her car.

Her husband being in hospital and most of her relatives having congregated in the passage (I assure you, there were more than twenty standing or sitting there), my acquaintance and her daughter had been invited to coffee with the family.  I watched the party with absorbed interest.

Once inside the flat, the people so suave and sophisticated in their behaviour outside were transformed and the place became like a beehive, buzzing with their voluble conversation.

Entranced, I listened until my beautiful hostess steered me from the kitchen into the lounge where two gentleman were chatting together.  They took me under their wing with genuine kindness and interesting stories.  

Age of courtesy is past

A week after my visit to the family, Séan came back home from hospital.  In due course he returned to work but he had developed a fear of mining, so I encouraged him to resign and find a job as a clerk in Johannesburg.  I stopped temping and found full-time work there myself.  We went to work together in the mornings.  I was earning more than he was but together we were struggling to pay our debts off and I imagined that we had landed in that area of life which is called the darkest hour of the night that comes before the dawn.

We walked through a large patch of veld after leaving the train and there was a little footpath we used to follow.  During the rainy season the path had become muddy and my foot slipped in the mud.  I landed on my hands and feet and stayed in that position for a while, thinking: “This is just too much!”

In the pitch dark of the evening, Séan stood with his back to me and his shoulders were shaking.  “Don’t cry Séan, I’m all right.  Truly!” I said and struggled up.  When I reached him I discovered that, far from crying, he was laughing soundlessly, the tears of mirth running down his face.

“The age of courtesy is past indeed,” I commented acidly as I wiped my mud-smeared hands dry on my skirt as best I could.  Then I burst out laughing myself.  We must have looked a strange pair, making our way into the house, me covered in mud, and laughing fit to beat the band, while my housekeeper looked at us and the children clapped their hands for joy to see us come home.

Best sandwich ever

Food was still at a premium in my home and one day my colleague had organised a sales meeting and was left with a number of toasted sandwiches with mayonnaise.  She gave me two.  I ate one – it tasted like the Swedish bread and butter sent to Holland after the war – and phoned Séan to come to a spot midway between his office and mine at lunchtime.  

When I got there he was waiting for me.  He ate his sandwich with the utmost relish.  Even when we were over forty years married, he occasionally recalled that instance to my mind and expressed how I had won his heart again that day.    It’s that kind of love our marriage was made of, despite all the arguments his Irish temper and my Dutch obstinacy caused during those years.  First generation immigrants have such days and they form character.  I will say that in those days I never battled with my weight.

Electricity cut off

Another evening we arrived home to darkness.  The electricity had been cut off because it hadn’t been paid for.  It was a happy family occasion, each of us with a child on our lap, eating bread and jam and drinking milk in the flickering candlelight, and planning how to get out of our financial hurdle.  After all, we argued, it wasn’t possible for bad luck to continue forever.

Impromptu party

Because we no longer had a car, we took to walking to Holy Mass on Sunday afternoons.  An English Dominican celebrated Mass in a classroom.  We sat at the school desks and there was a lady who sang so beautifully that I was sure you could not have heard better in La Scala.

“This parish is so poor,” Séan said after the prayers after Mass we said before these were discontinued in the wake of the Second Vatican Council.  “I know we’re battling but their need seems to be greater.  Would you mind if I gave three pounds to Father?”

“Of course not,” I answered for the Dutch have a saying: ”De arme gegeven is Gode geleend” – what’s given to the poor is lent to God. I believed we surely needed to make an investment into the heavenly vaults.  Maybe Our Lord would pay us favourable dividends, I hoped.  We waited for the priest who rushed past us to his battered car, driving off without realizing our presence.

I could see Séan was feeling very foolish, looking at the three pounds in his hand::

“What shall I do with this now?”

The Amsterdam practical side of my character came to the fore.

“It’s money from home,” I said.  “On the way back, we’ll stop at the café and buy all the cold drink, ice creams, chocolates, sweets and biscuits we never can afford.  Tonight we’ll all celebrate.”

At home Séan told me that he’d take care of the children. Our pigeon pair were still sleeping in our bedroom to share in the benison of the electric heater.  I took my time getting ready for bed, and when I returned the children were half asleep, holding their bottles, having been bathed and had their treat.  I cannot tell you how snug we were in the middle of all our hardships. The room looked beautiful in the dim light of a bedside lamp and the heater was plugged in.  There was a plate with food on my bedside table, next to my library book and my rosary.  I lifted my glass of Coke and proposed a toast to the Father who had been the unwitting host at our table while at the same time I knew that God would bless Séan’s generous intentions.  The lack of material wealth always drew Séan and I close instead of apart as some people say happens when poverty comes in the door.

 

*Some names have been changed