Whitethorn (60 page)

If there was Mr Jacobs didn't pause to find out, and returned to reading. ‘My business, known as the Born-again Christian Missionary Society, is to be sold and the proceeds to be given to the RSPCA to be used for the euthanasia of cats, as there are far too many cats and not enough laps. It is a condition of this bequest that “the cat that pisses” is to be the first recipient.

‘There is also a sum of one hundred pounds owing on the Gospel-gobbling Goose and this debt should be settled with the proceeds of the sale before the remainder of the bequest is honoured.'

Mr Jacobs looked up over his
pince-nez
. ‘Pissing cats and Gospel-gobbling geese? Do you know anything about this, Boy?' he demanded, as if somehow I was responsible.

‘His ginger cat and the printing press, Sir. The money is still owed by Heavenly Prophets to the firm of Goose & Pratten.' I realised at that precise moment that my career as a tract writer of international repute had come to an abrupt end. ‘Sir, when did Mr Smellie make this will?' I asked.

‘Make it? You mean unmake it! He's changed his will on the first day of every month, providing it wasn't a Sunday, for twenty years. At one stage I recall he left everything to a foundation to be named “The Mahatma Ghandi Foundation Dedicated To Drinking Your Own Urine”. On another occasion it was to be for “The Propagation of Rabbits in Australia”!' He cleared his throat. ‘Smellie's current will is his most sensible yet and made only a week before he died.' Mr Jacobs paused and looked directly at me. ‘This cat that urinates, will you be able to find it?'

‘It's ginger, and according to Mr Smellie is rather timid and afraid to do its business outdoors, Sir,' I replied. ‘But I've never been to Mr Smellie's flat or seen his cat.'

‘I see. Mr Jellicoe Smellie has been dead for ten days, either the cat has starved to death or been forced to compromise the habits of its urinary tract and found more pleasing places to piss.' He gave a small chuckle, which sounded more like an amused cough. ‘I imagine it won't be too difficult for you to find a ginger cat to take its place on death row, hey, Boy?'

I now knew why I had been called to the reading of Smelly Jelly's will. I must say, I thought it bloody unfair that the responsibility of finding a cat to snuff to meet the requirements of the will had been allocated to me. I knew absolutely nothing about cats. I'd never known a cat intimately in my whole life and I had no idea where to find one willing to commit euthanasia.

I was about to protest when Mr Jacobs commenced reading again. ‘To Tom Fitzsaxby I leave Flat 22, Parkington Gardens, 18 Cross Street, Hillbrow and all the goods and chattels within it. I am aware that he has not enjoyed the best of accommodation during his school holidays over the past three years. Now that he has but one year to go before entering university he will need somewhere other than the park or the railway station steam pipes to live.'

I couldn't believe my ears. I had never told Smelly Jelly of my holiday living arrangements and could only surmise that he must, on some previous occasion, have followed me to the art gallery, and again later to the steam pipes. Now, all of a sudden, I owned somewhere named Flat 22, Parkington Gardens, 18 Cross Street, Hillbrow. I was fifteen years old, nearly sixteen, and owned a completely furnished home of my own! I wasn't sure I had heard Mr Jacobs correctly.

‘Do I now
own
this flat, Sir?' I asked, somewhat incredulously.

‘Do you have a guardian, Fitzsaxby?' Mr Jacobs asked, ignoring my question.

‘No, Sir.'

He looked up at me over his glasses. ‘I'm afraid that simply won't do! You're too young to take possession, papers to sign, deeds. Do you have a birth certificate?'

‘I don't think so, Sir.'

‘Well, man, how the devil do I know you are who you say you are?' he exclaimed, stabbing a single sausage in the direction of my chest.

It was a good question and one to which I had no answer. ‘I just am, Sir, well, me. I'm an orphan, Sir.'

‘Good Lord, Boy! Orphans don't just appear from under toadstools! They get born properly! Hospitals, records, that sort of thing!'

‘Maybe they've got something at The Boys Farm, Sir,' I said.

‘Boys Farm?'

‘The orphanage at Duiwelskrans, Sir.'

Mr Jacobs made a note, then looked up. ‘Well, I'm afraid you're going to have to bring someone in who can positively identify you. Someone who can act as your guardian until you come of age. Do you understand, Boy?'

I wondered if this meant that I wasn't going to become a property owner after all. ‘What kind of somebody, Sir?'

Mr Jacobs was growing increasingly impatient and clucked his tongue. ‘Someone who has known you for a period of three years, and who is prepared to sign an affidavit that you are who you say you are and agrees to hold the deeds to the property until you're old enough to take possession. Do you know someone like that?'

I thought of Reverend Robertson, the headmaster, but just as quickly dismissed the thought. Mr Jacobs would have to read the will to him and he'd find out about me sleeping rough all these years. ‘Yes, Sir, Mr Lofty van der Merwe.'

‘Dutchman?' he sniffed disapprovingly.

‘Afrikaner, Sir.'

‘Knows you well? Three years at least?'

‘Yes, Sir.'

‘You're to bring him in,' Mr Jacobs ordered. ‘When? Can you call him on the telephone?' He jabbed a nicotine-coloured sausage in the direction of the telephone resting on his desk. ‘I want to clear this matter up as soon as possible.'

‘He's not available on the telephone, Sir.'

‘Oh, where does he live?'

I swallowed hard. ‘At the Starlight Hotel, Sir.'

‘And they don't have a telephone? All hotels have telephones, Boy.'

‘They won't take messages, Sir,' I lied. ‘I can bring him in for you after school tomorrow.'

‘Very well, and be sure to be on time, Fitzsaxby.'

‘What time would that be, Sir?'

‘On time is on time, Boy!' he reprimanded me sharply, half standing up and dismissing me in the direction of the door with a backhand wave of five pink sausages. ‘Bring along two guineas for stamp duty!' he called after me.

So now I had a different problem. It was nearly five o'clock and Lofty van der Merwe would be well on his way to getting drunk. I had to get to the park and somehow persuade him to stay sober the following day until I picked him up after school. There was also the matter of clothes to be considered. Both cleanliness and tidiness are not usually associated with alcoholics living rough and Lofty was no exception. I'd have to persuade him to wash his shirt and his worn khaki trousers, as well as himself, first thing in the morning. His customary footwear was a pair of filthy takkies with a hole cut into each of their canvas toe-caps to allow his big toe to be exposed on the right foot and three of his smaller ones on the left. Lofty's exposed toes were not a pretty sight. I decided I'd solve this problem by buying him a new pair at the army disposal shop on the way in to see Mr Jacobs.

Lofty was at his usual place on the top step of the art gallery when I arrived, and appeared to be comparatively sober. ‘Hey, what you doing here, Tom? It's not the
blêrrie
school holidays already?
Here
, man, time flies, it's only just the other day you went back again.'

I sat down next to him. ‘Lofty, I need to ask you for a big favour,' I began.

‘Ask away, Tom. We friends from way back.'

‘
Ja
, thank you, Lofty, do you know what an affidavit is?' I asked.

‘A what? No, man, I wouldn't know one from a bar of soap.'

‘Well, it's like signing a document that says you know me and that I am who I am.'

‘Who's asking, hey, Tom?'

‘Well, this lawyer, Mr Jacobs.'

‘Jacobs? I don't like the sound of that name, you hear? Take my advice, Tom. Stay away. Those Jews are very clever people, they got brains coming out all over the place, you can't beat them, you only going to end up worse-off than before.'

‘No, it's not like that, Lofty.' I explained the business of Smelly Jelly's flat to him and with me being underage and having no birth certificate I needed him to positively identify me on a piece of paper called an affidavit while at the same time acting as my guardian.

‘Guard?
Ja
, I can do that, Tom. Anyone who touches you has to deal with me, you hear? I'll knock his
fokken
block off,' Lofty declared fiercely.

‘
Ja
, thank you, Lofty, I've seen your straight left in action before.'

Lofty looked pleased. ‘Any place, any time, Tom. Just ask, man.'

‘Guardian just means you agree to look after my affairs, like you're sort of, you know, my father.'

Lofty looked down at his knees, then back up at me. ‘Tom, I have to tell you I wasn't a very good father.'

‘No, you don't have to be one, you just have to sign a paper to say you'll do it,' I explained.

Lofty looked relieved. ‘
Ja
, okay, bring it here, man, I'll sign it.'

‘No, it's only tomorrow, you have to come with me to the lawyer. He has to witness your signature.'

Lofty looked shocked. ‘I have to come with you?' He took a quick slug of brandy and then shook his head slowly. ‘Tom, I dunno, man. Lawyers, they always trouble, you hear?'

I spread my hands. ‘Lofty, it's no big deal, we just go into his office and you just sign this piece of paper to say you know me and we get the deeds, finish and
klaar
.'

Lofty thought for a few moments, then nodded slowly. ‘
Ja
, okay, I'll do it,' he said.

‘Thanks, Lofty, you're a real pal,' I said gratefully. Now, for the hard part, the bit about him having to take a shower and wear clean clothes. Lofty was a proud man and I wasn't sure how to broach the subject. But he saved me the embarrassment.

‘What must I wear?' he asked, glancing down at his dirty blue shirt and torn khaki trousers. His tone of voice suggested that he had a wardrobe full of clothes and all I had to do was nominate the appropriate apparel for the visit. ‘At the Salvation Army, I can get a clean shirt and some trousers,' he volunteered, then added, ‘I can't promise a jacket, you hear?'

‘No, no, that's fine, you don't need a jacket, and I'll buy you a pair of new takkies. Thanks a lot, Lofty.'

‘For you it's a pleasure, Tom. I'll also take a shower, hey.'

Everything was falling into place but for one last thing. ‘Lofty, you must promise me you won't have a drink until after the interview with Mr Jacobs.' I paused. ‘That's after five o'clock tomorrow afternoon.'

Lofty took another long slug of brandy. ‘
Ag
, Tom, you got no faith in a human being. You think I'm an alcoholic or something? You talking to Lofty van der Merwe, you know!'

‘Please, Lofty,' I begged, ‘just this once? Half past three tomorrow afternoon I'll be here.'

‘Don't you worry, Tom. I'll be waiting, all spick-and-span, just you wait and see.'

The following afternoon I arrived to fetch Lofty. He was sitting in his usual spot on the art gallery steps, and from a distance I could see he wore a clean white shirt and a pair of dark brown trousers, but as I drew closer I saw the brandy bottle in his hand. ‘Oh, Jesus, no!' I exclaimed. Drawing closer still, I saw that Lofty was completely legless. ‘Lofty, you promised me!' I shouted angrily.

Lofty tried to focus on my face. ‘
Ag
, Tom, ish my nerves fir that affydavy,' he explained drunkenly. ‘Jes one little sip fir the nerves, man!' He looked at me sadly. ‘But it did . . . didn't help, so I took nutha . . . you unnerstan, fir me nerves . . . not let yer down, Tom, I jes fine . . . no prob . . . prob . . . lem . . . man!'

‘Lofty, you're drunk as a skunk!' I shouted at him.

‘
Ja
, skunk asha drunk . . . but I can . . . sign the
blêrrie
affy, davy . . . look, I'll show you,' he placed the brandy bottle down beside him and began to trace squiggles with his forefinger in the layer of dust lying on the surface of the step.

‘Christ, what's the use!' I cried, thoroughly disgusted. It was my fault, I'd put pressure on him and that's one thing you can't do with an alcoholic. The scrub-up and clean clothes and the expectations of the visit to Mr Jacobs had all been a bit too much, and he'd taken just the one little drink to calm his nerves, everyone knows all it takes is that first little drink.

Lofty looked up from his fancy finger-work. ‘
Ag
, be heppy foh a change, Tom, ish notshow bad!' he slurred.

I turned and started to walk rapidly from the scene.

‘Tom! Tom!' Lofty called out.

I turned to see him standing up and then somehow managing to stumble down the art gallery steps. He stopped at the bottom, swaying unsteadily. ‘
Fok
you!' he shouted after me.