Category Archives: Creative writing

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Story postcard – I’m only doing this for you (4)

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Simi tries to catch the jokes being pushed around the room. They come in snatches blown apart by the weather, some batted back by Tim and Jacobus. None of it makes any sense to her.

You know, I can’t understand this lot. Why’m I even here? Could be down Goldhawk Road right now. Picking fabrics. Chit chatting. I don’t need this. Even mad Soapy and his opera next door. I’ll take that. Anything. Just not this.

“Tim … Hansie and the lion,” Sal calls.

 “Oh … not that …”

Laughter rocks the room, then drowns beneath a fresh tip of rain and wind.

 “Hey …” Tim shouts, ” … gonna leave it … Hansie … this … is all over.”

Hansie holds both thumbs up, and Tim and Jacobus splash down from the table. As they return to their seats, Simi lets the fire draw her eyes into its shifting dance. When she next looks up she sees Marybelle approaching, so she holds the blanket wide, inviting her friend to join her.

“Thanks,” says Marybelle, drawing the blanket close. She smiles at Simi, lifting her chin to speak into her ear. “At least we got a bit of the speeches.”

Simi nods. “Don’t understand this farm thing,” she says, bending close to Marybelle, narrowing the space for the wind to tear the words apart.

Marybelle laughs. “Agh, it’s all politics now. You scratch my back, and I’ll let you plough my land. Don’t even think about it Simi.”

Simi nods, and asks one more question. “Are Bernard and Fred war vets?”

“In a way,” Marybelle says. “But those two were in Malaya. For you.”

“For me? I mean for who? For the UK?”

“I think so,” says Marybelle shrugging.

“Why? What is this Malaya thing?”

“Don’t ask me. I don’t know. I think the UK needed soldiers for some war somewhere so took them. Ask them.”

Malaya? Never heard of any war there. Probably not even born anyway.

Simi’s relieved when Father Norman shouts a question across the room.

“Marybelle, any storytellers here?”

“Storyteller?” Marybelle shouts back. “Any storytellers?”

The high cry from Marybelle, sounds like that of a gull riding the wind. But there’s no response from the room, so she tries again. But this time, she has barely begun when her question is swamped by a great wash of rain. Heavy and loud on the roof, it pins them all to silence. They wait, watching the sparks as Tonderai throws another log on the fire. At last the downpour passes and Marybelle tries again.

“Anyone know any stories?” she shouts.

“Stories? No way,” rumbles Jacobus. “We’ve got enough problems without stories.”

“Jacobus! That’s ridiculous,” Marybelle scolds. “I love stories. Doesn’t anyone know any?”

“No speeches?” someone asks.

“No way. We’ve done our bit,” Tim shouts.

 “Anyone? If not, I could give you a sermon.”

“Oh no …” someone groans. “Spare us Father Norman. Please spare us.”

“Story please!” urges Marybelle.

Simi looks around at the lack of voices.

Surely? Surely they’re stories here? I’m in Africa? I thought stories began in Africa. I think I’m going mad. London’s packed with stories. In fact … maybe there’s more Africa in London, than here? Please? Somebody? Give us a story. This rain is doing my head in.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

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Story postcard – I’m only doing this for you (3)

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“Right … back to that party. We’d just moved into the district. Bruce and Katania were there. I don’t think Caralee was … or she might’ve been, but only as a baby. Jambee was. That’s how we all know each other. From the farms. Hansie was bigger than me. No surprise there … Did everything better than me. But … but … hold on … ” Tim pauses. Waits for the heckling to fade. “I had a superpower.”

“What?”

“You’re kidding …”

“Yes. I was at boarding school … already … He wasn’t.”

Laughter and rain gust, and then die away.

“Hansie couldn’t beat that. I was a survivor … at five …”

“Ja,” says Jacobus. “Telling you, he was such a scrawny little kid. None of us could figure out how he survived.” He slaps Tim on the back, and jokes fall around the room, like a pack of cards thrown into the air.

Five? In a boarding school. What kind of boarding school does that? I thought they were supposed to be for the mega rich. All bowties and what not. Maybe not in this place.

The room quietens, and Simi hugs her blanket closer.

 “Learned everything at that school. Taught us how to keep our heads down, eat Zambezi mud, and keep going. Reckon most of you had the same lessons. Just took you a while to catch up!”

The room laughs, and the wind snaps at the edges of the roof. Simi pulls the blanket tighter. Outside there is a cracking sound. It repeats, louder and faster, then suddenly it stops. The rain falls back to footsteps.

“Marybelle,” Simi shouts. “You need some blanket?”

“I’ll borrow some of Fred’s. Keep him warm.”

Simi watches Marybelle organise the rewrap. Two heads emerge, cocooned tight together. Tim carries on.

“We spent the next four years of school holidays on each other’s farms. When I got big enough – seven I suppose – I used to ride my bike to Hansie. Sometimes he’d come my way. But I liked his farm better. It had a dam and we could go fishing. He liked my farm better because it had kopjes and we could go climbing. Then we lost our farm. 2002 was the end of that. For us anyway. War vet time.”

“War vets? Who are they?” Simi asks.

Bernard answers. “Soldiers. Veterans from the war for independence. ‘70’s and ‘80’s.”

“Let’s not go there, hey, Bernard?” Jacobus nods at Bernard. Bernard says nothing.

“Ah …” Simi feels her body clench, indignant, her heart thumping into a revolution on behalf of ancestors she can only imagine.

“It was a mess,” Jacobus says. “Still is a mess.”

“But Jacobus … aren’t you still on your land?” The question is out, before Simi even wants to ask it.

“Ja. Only some of it hey. It was the Brits who really got it.”

“Eg me,” Tim grins, looking around the room, glasses shining in the firelight. “Anyway, this was supposed to be about Hansie. Not Zim.”

“Ja, and plenty of us lot back on the land anyway,” a voice shouts.

There’s more laughter and a scatter of jokes.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

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Story postcard – only doing this for you (2)

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“Come on Tim,” one of the young crowd shouts. “Entertain us.”

“Cheer us up!”

“Jacobus you too. You’ve got to stand up there, and introduce him,” Marybelle urges, as she heads over to Jacobus, hands beckoning him insistently.

Simi watches Jacobus’ try to resist. She knows it is futile, for Marybelle is as tenacious as time. Their voices argue back and forth, and the rain raises its tempo.

 “No … no … Okay … from here, man.”

 “No Jacobus … this properly. Up … get.”

A slow clap begins on the far side of the room. Simi shrugs off her half of the blanket and tries to join in, but the pain in her hand makes her stop. She holds it up against her chest and watches the tussle of the speeches unfold. Tim points at the table with its piles of logs and steaming clothes, the shrug of his shoulders implying that there’s nowhere for him to stand. Instantly Tonderai leaps to his feet. He clears him a space, and then, mission accomplished, he invites Tim to the pedestal. As the doctor hesitates, the clapping becomes more insistent.

“Speeches! Speeches!”

The stomping chant mixes with the rain, with Tim’s voice loud over the top, urging Jacobus to join him. As the crowd waits, it changes its chorus to “Jacobus! Jacobus!”, closing off any hope of escape for either man. At last the doctor climbs on to the table, and holds out his hand to the embarrassed Jacobus, who crosses the room to join him. Tim hauls him up, and the pair stand together, one slender and the other like rock. Slowly the applause and laughter still. Tonderai sits down, and Marybelle slips into the vacant seat beside Fred.

“You okay, Fred? Bernard?” Tim asks.

Simi sees Fred raise one hand in response, while Bernard nods emphatically beside him.

“Right,” calls Marybelle. “Jacobus, I want to hear you now. Not the rain.” As if obeying her, the pounding on the roof eases.

Jacobus wags his finger down at her. “I’m only doing this for you, hey.”

Marybelle blows him a kiss, and Simi pulls the blanket close. She’s looking forward to the speeches, anything to distract herself from the thrashing of the storm. The wind has dropped back, but the sudden violence of the rain when it comes still shocks her, and she doesn’t even want to think about the possibility that it might go on and on for hours.

 Jacobus begins. “Ladies and gents, I haven’t got my notes with me, but may I introduce to you Dr Timothy Southwaite, the best man. Hansie’s mate since they were kids.”

The far bench claps, and Tim swings round to face it, his head almost touching the roof.

“Right,” he begins, “here goes. I’ll skip the toast to the bridesmaids, etc.” Below him, the hecklers start to jostle for drama.

“What?”

“Speak up.”

“You’ve gone all Pom now man … can’t understand you.”

“Okay …” Tim raises his voice. “Well, for those of you that don’t know, the first time I met Hansie was at my fifth birthday party. April – best month of the year.”

“Apart from this year …” Jambee calls.

More laughter. “You can say that again.”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023