THE BEDFORD GOLF CLUB PUB - PT1
Richard introduced me the locals, who sat around a horseshoe shaped bar which occupied one side of a large open room. The wide doors to this room opened onto the lawn, where the kids were playing a game of cricket. There were excited hysterical cries from them whenever Spud chased the ball. Beyond them a gentle dusk was descending like a blue mist over the thorn trees on the golf course. Beyond this, in the distance, the slate grey of the Winterberg range was merging slowly with the deep violet of the darkening sky.
I could see all this from my position at the bar. The rest of the room was occupied by second hand sofas and chairs, clustered loosely around a set of matching low wooden coffee tables. There were about twenty people seated around these tables. On the orange slasto just outside the doors a braai hissed as fat dripped onto it from strings of boerewors. Beside it, at a red formica table, a woman buttered bread rolls. The smell had been getting to me but without my saying a word she had walked over with a Boerie roll on a white paper plate and deposited it on the bar counter before me.
'Welcome to Bedford!' Richard had crowed. Now he was embroiled in a lengthy discussion about the relative merits of one car over another. He had insisted on buying me my first draught. When I'd tried to buy him one instead he'd said, 'Hell no! You're my guest! You don't buy anything tonight!'
Coming from him I found this slightly ominous. With his crafty eyes he didn't strike me as the overly magnanimous type. Halfway through his first draught his scalp, showing clearly through the black cirrus of his hair, glowed a bright shiny pink, as if it had been scalded and was weeping. I felt good and was holding my own with the locals, putting in my comments now and then; but whenever I spoke Richard cocked a paternal eye at me, proud at having been the one to set me up with a place to sleep for the night. In case any of us forgot this, he slipped it into the conversation at regular intervals.
'Wait until the Doc arrives. I think you'll like him,' Diane said to me in her husky voice, as I finished my roll. She was wearing a loose buttoned blouse with an airy summer weave that revealed the shape of her beige bra. Her arms were lean and brown and the chords showed in her neck. She smiled wryly, with a slight self-conscious twist of her lips to show the wryness was directed at herself too. "He's quite a fundi on Bedford.'
When the Doc arrived, to cries of 'Doc!' from the locals at the bar, darkness had sealed off the view beyond the doors. The light from the pub and a few lights outside illuminated the lawn, on which the kids were still playing. Moths flitted meteorically around a light by the door. Spud was wandering around the tables, his claws clicking on the parque floor, being fed scraps.
Each of the barstools had a small brass plate screwed to the rim of the seat, inscribed with a local's name. The Doc's chair was beside mine. He sat down and Richard quickly introduced us, explaining how he'd organised me the back room for the night. When I explained that I was travelling the country for the sake of, merely to see the sights, his eyes lit up.
'What do you know about local Settler history,' he asked in a soft Scottish burr. He was in his mid-fifties, with a beard and a full head of slightly wild grey hair. I explained how earlier I'd driven up a dirt road on the outskirts of town and found an old stone building. It had consisted of one barren room, in which two women and an old man had been sitting on the floor, watching a pot bubble on a fire between them. One of the women was breastfeeding a baby. Numerous tiny kids sat against the wall, staring at me in awe. Two of the older ones, five or six year old girls, held babies. It was a creche. I made up the excuse that I was lost and the breastfeeding woman smilingly gave me directions, while the other two nodded sympathetically.
"Ah, that's the old X building,' the Doc said. 'It dates back to the settler period. It's a pity, but a lot of these old treasures go neglected.'
'I told you you two would get on,' Diane said, the dark parting in her straw coloured hair showing as she leant over to refill our draughts.
In the next few hours I learnt a lot about the Doc. His name was Andrew Lamont. After
graduating from Edinburgh University in the early seventies he'd come to South Africa. He was immediately dispatched to Bedford to establish a practise and he liked it so much here he never left. When he first walked in I'd noticed the bright ethnic belt he wore along with his nondescript working clothes. It was frayed and worn, inlaid with a zigzagging pattern of tiny african beads. It bespoke a certain appealing eccentricity - an impression which grew with every beer. He was passionate about flowers and butterflies and birds. There was nothing he didn't seem to know about the local people, the local geography, the local Settler history. When he got going on a topic - he was deeply concerned about the Aids epidemic decimating the local blacks - Richard and the boys nudged each other and winked. They got a twinkle in their eye when he began telling me the story of his search for a particular species of local butterfly. It took him seven years to find it. And for some reason they found the word lepidoptera hilarious. So did I though, at this stage of the night. But their ribbing was edged with respect. For all his eccentricity - if you could call it this - the Doc was a formidable character who was good company around the bar.
He invited me to play golf with himself and the boys the following morning, once he'd put in a few hours at the office. He told me that the Bedford golf course was one of the oldest in the country. After golf the two of us could investigate the local settler architecture. I accepted immediately, although I've never played a hole of golf in my life. Then he staggered off to the toilets.
"Jeez,' Diane said to me. 'The Doc never has more than his regular two. Tonight he's had four.'
'Ya, that's right! 'Richard's said, his wizened face floating above the counter across from me. In the bar's light I noticed his strong orbital bones. The shadows and hollows they created in his wasted face gave him the mad, staring look of a skeleton. 'And he's working tomorrow morning!'
I could see all this from my position at the bar. The rest of the room was occupied by second hand sofas and chairs, clustered loosely around a set of matching low wooden coffee tables. There were about twenty people seated around these tables. On the orange slasto just outside the doors a braai hissed as fat dripped onto it from strings of boerewors. Beside it, at a red formica table, a woman buttered bread rolls. The smell had been getting to me but without my saying a word she had walked over with a Boerie roll on a white paper plate and deposited it on the bar counter before me.
'Welcome to Bedford!' Richard had crowed. Now he was embroiled in a lengthy discussion about the relative merits of one car over another. He had insisted on buying me my first draught. When I'd tried to buy him one instead he'd said, 'Hell no! You're my guest! You don't buy anything tonight!'
Coming from him I found this slightly ominous. With his crafty eyes he didn't strike me as the overly magnanimous type. Halfway through his first draught his scalp, showing clearly through the black cirrus of his hair, glowed a bright shiny pink, as if it had been scalded and was weeping. I felt good and was holding my own with the locals, putting in my comments now and then; but whenever I spoke Richard cocked a paternal eye at me, proud at having been the one to set me up with a place to sleep for the night. In case any of us forgot this, he slipped it into the conversation at regular intervals.
'Wait until the Doc arrives. I think you'll like him,' Diane said to me in her husky voice, as I finished my roll. She was wearing a loose buttoned blouse with an airy summer weave that revealed the shape of her beige bra. Her arms were lean and brown and the chords showed in her neck. She smiled wryly, with a slight self-conscious twist of her lips to show the wryness was directed at herself too. "He's quite a fundi on Bedford.'
When the Doc arrived, to cries of 'Doc!' from the locals at the bar, darkness had sealed off the view beyond the doors. The light from the pub and a few lights outside illuminated the lawn, on which the kids were still playing. Moths flitted meteorically around a light by the door. Spud was wandering around the tables, his claws clicking on the parque floor, being fed scraps.
Each of the barstools had a small brass plate screwed to the rim of the seat, inscribed with a local's name. The Doc's chair was beside mine. He sat down and Richard quickly introduced us, explaining how he'd organised me the back room for the night. When I explained that I was travelling the country for the sake of, merely to see the sights, his eyes lit up.
'What do you know about local Settler history,' he asked in a soft Scottish burr. He was in his mid-fifties, with a beard and a full head of slightly wild grey hair. I explained how earlier I'd driven up a dirt road on the outskirts of town and found an old stone building. It had consisted of one barren room, in which two women and an old man had been sitting on the floor, watching a pot bubble on a fire between them. One of the women was breastfeeding a baby. Numerous tiny kids sat against the wall, staring at me in awe. Two of the older ones, five or six year old girls, held babies. It was a creche. I made up the excuse that I was lost and the breastfeeding woman smilingly gave me directions, while the other two nodded sympathetically.
"Ah, that's the old X building,' the Doc said. 'It dates back to the settler period. It's a pity, but a lot of these old treasures go neglected.'
'I told you you two would get on,' Diane said, the dark parting in her straw coloured hair showing as she leant over to refill our draughts.
In the next few hours I learnt a lot about the Doc. His name was Andrew Lamont. After
graduating from Edinburgh University in the early seventies he'd come to South Africa. He was immediately dispatched to Bedford to establish a practise and he liked it so much here he never left. When he first walked in I'd noticed the bright ethnic belt he wore along with his nondescript working clothes. It was frayed and worn, inlaid with a zigzagging pattern of tiny african beads. It bespoke a certain appealing eccentricity - an impression which grew with every beer. He was passionate about flowers and butterflies and birds. There was nothing he didn't seem to know about the local people, the local geography, the local Settler history. When he got going on a topic - he was deeply concerned about the Aids epidemic decimating the local blacks - Richard and the boys nudged each other and winked. They got a twinkle in their eye when he began telling me the story of his search for a particular species of local butterfly. It took him seven years to find it. And for some reason they found the word lepidoptera hilarious. So did I though, at this stage of the night. But their ribbing was edged with respect. For all his eccentricity - if you could call it this - the Doc was a formidable character who was good company around the bar.
He invited me to play golf with himself and the boys the following morning, once he'd put in a few hours at the office. He told me that the Bedford golf course was one of the oldest in the country. After golf the two of us could investigate the local settler architecture. I accepted immediately, although I've never played a hole of golf in my life. Then he staggered off to the toilets.
"Jeez,' Diane said to me. 'The Doc never has more than his regular two. Tonight he's had four.'
'Ya, that's right! 'Richard's said, his wizened face floating above the counter across from me. In the bar's light I noticed his strong orbital bones. The shadows and hollows they created in his wasted face gave him the mad, staring look of a skeleton. 'And he's working tomorrow morning!'
posted by Krisstoffel at 11:40 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home