Reminiscing…

Towards the end of my school career I decided that I was going to live in Cape Town.  I was pretty annoyed with my parents as they put pay to my dream of becoming a nurse.  I was pushed into a career in banking.  In the 1970’s girls were not given much choice, pretty much become a teacher, a nurse or a bank clerk, the argument supporting this was that we were going to get married anyway. 

My mother tried to convince me to live and work in Oudtshoorn. I was having none of that nonsense.  I was young, restless and curious, I wanted to experience life. The battle raged for a long time, so I was determined I was not going to give in to my mother. 

I applied for a job with Standard Bank Limited situated in Long Street, central Cape Town.  Much to my mother’s dismay I got the job.  However, Mama was adamant that I was not going to move into a flat, I had to stay in a Boarding House.  Oh horror of horrors, and  totally not cool.

So off we trekked to the big city, Mother had to ensure that I was safely settled into a boarding house, as heaven forbid I should decide to run off with some hippies or some such thing.

As the branch was located in central Cape Town it made perfect sense to live in the Kloof Street/Gardens area.  We eventually decided on the Madeira Boarding establishment in Kloof Street, within walking distance to the bank.

The residents of the boarding house were an eclectic and interesting bunch of people, from all walks of life.

To name but a few, there was a Mr. Redelinghuys who worked for one or other Member of Parliament, a lovely one woman called Lola who worked as a manager at a clothing store.  For the life of me I cannot remember any other names like the lady with the blond bee-hive hairstyle who was so kind. A very bossy woman, who was a translator in parliament, a whole bunch of parliamentarian staff, retired folk and lastly the old woman who listened to our telephone conversations.  The public telephone booth was situated in the foyer. As soon as anyone entered the booth to make a phone call, our “friend” would tiptoe to her bedroom door and quietly (or so she thought) open the door to listen in.  One day, I gently put the receiver down, walking to her room; I yanked the door open to find her cocking her ear to the door.  I told her off – word got around the boarding house that I was a very cheeky young woman! 

Living in a boarding house and working for the Standard Bank, certainly had its challenges, however, although I hated banking, I had loads of fun and met so many interesting people. There were times when I suffered from severe homesickness; I missed my parents and my siblings.  I am grateful to wonderful folk who cheered me up by inviting me into their homes to spend a weekend and some good home cooking.

An unforgettable moment was the arrival of a certain Mrs. Anna Louw, who liked to be referred to as Mrs. Eric Louw.  Mrs. Louw was stone deaf and appeared to be somewhat neglected. Her late husband Eric was the former minister of foreign affairs, a deplorable racist and fascist. It appeared to me and others that the ruling party seemed to have neglected their duties in looking after her. It was terribly sad to witness, and although I disagreed with everything she stood for, Lola and I decided to care for her.  On the odd occasion she would dress up and dine with us in the dining room, which proved to be challenging as she was profoundly deaf, so communicating with her was tricky and  very difficult, and at times she could be very obstreperous, in desperation we resorted to writing little notes to her.  That particular evening beef stew and rice was on offer, the food served was normal and simple home-style cooking, it was edible and tasty.  Mrs. Louw took one look at her plate, exclaiming loudly:  “Wat die hel is dit?! Dit lyk soos die Beaufort West se dam wat oorgeloop het!”  Fortunately, no one took her remarks to heart! One morning she decided to have breakfast with us. What a saga! She asked for a hardboiled egg.  When the egg was served she picked it up, brought it close to her ear, shook it a few times and shouted: “Die eier is nog sag! Bring vir my ‘n hardgekookte eier!”. Lola saved the day by winking at her saying: “Let me listen. I’ll tell you if this egg is hardboiled enough for you”.  Putting the egg to her ear, she shook it a few times and said: “It’s perfect; you are really going to enjoy this egg.” All Mrs Louw needed was a bit of pampering and some attention.

If my memory serves me correctly she was eventually admitted to an old age home.

The Long Street branch was a large, busy and vibrant place, servicing very interesting people and businesses in the area, because of the size of the branch it had two sub-branches, one operated at the top end of Long Street and the other in a little shopping Centre in upper Kloof Street. Junior clerks (like me) were required to accompany a Teller and a Messenger to assist in the sub branches. One particular Friday it was my turn to accompany Mr. King and the Messenger, Mr. Bruinders, to the Kloof Street sub branch.  All went according to plan – we had a fairly busy morning attending to various queries, assisting with deposits and opening accounts.  Mr. King and I worked behind a bullet proof counter / cum office space which included a tiny kitchenette and a loo. This particular day Mr. Bruinders decided to clean the windows of the branch. The next moment pandemonium broke out as dear Mr. Bruinders had left the keys in the little banking hall, closed the front door from the outside, thereby locking himself out of the bank and us inside!

Mr. King was a really grumpy old man, not a smile or a laugh or even a hint of a sense of humour.  Oh how he shouted and ranted, while I fell about laughing. I telephoned the main branch to inform them of our situation.  Two hours later we were saved.  On arriving back at the branch, one of the young Tellers presented us with a bunch of bananas.  Puce in the face and outraged, Mr. King shouted like a man possessed, tears were streaming down my face as I doubled over and laughed and laughed.

Writing has afforded me time and space to reminisce about events, places and people – and certainly my memories of living in Cape Town – working in the bank and living in a boarding house. These memories are part and parcel of me growing up and learning how to navigate life.