Spud - Learning to Fly by John Van De Ruit Page A

about taking Blacky to the kennels in the first place.
    ‘It was a hell of a thing,’ said Mom as she stared out at the road from behind a huge pair of dark glasses. I noticed her jaw was clenched which means her mind was ticking and the mood wasn’t good. When I asked her where we were staying this weekend, she didn’t answer. After some time she said, ‘Now, boy, it’s all been a little difficult, and I don’t want you to freak out because God knows we’ve all had enough of that this week …’ It’s worse than I thought …
    Much worse.
    I’m staying at Wombat’s!
    14:30 Wombat flagged us down on the street outside her block of flats. She then directed us up the driveway and into a parking space like we had never visited her before.
    15:00 As soon as Mom left, Wombat turned into Gollum and accused me of coming round to steal her money. My grandmother also announced that my pimples looked revolting, and that I was eating far too many sweets. She then charged off to hide the sugar.
    15:05 After hiding the sugar bowl and padlocking the fridge, Wombat became strangely pleasant again and we sat down to a long afternoon of tea and boudoir biscuits. I talked about school and Wombat prattled on about the war.
    16:00 Made a gruesome find under my bed. A disgusting plate of fried fish, tinned peas and mashed potato – Wombat said it was my dinner and ushered me into her bedroom to demonstrate an identical plate lying in wait under her double bed. (?)
    16:15 The phone rang and Wombat rushed through to my room to say that Graeme Pollock was on the phone. It was just Dad playing nasty tricks on Wombat – he says it’s one of life’s great pleasures. Once my father had finished his snorting and sniggering, he said he’d organised a braai at Frank’s on Saturday night and then a game of golf on Sunday afternoon to save me from the Wicked Wombat of the West.
    16:30 My grandmother set off to buy the evening paper, brandishing a very long walking stick. She then made it very clear that when she returned she needed absolute silence because she had to listen to the news, weather, and shipping forecast on the radio. I didn’t argue and was just relieved to be alone.
    16:50 Wombat returned from her walk with neither her walking stick nor the evening paper. I offered to run back to the shop to buy her paper and find her stick, but Wombat brought up my ‘drinking problem’ and said I couldn’t be trusted with her newspaper money.
    16:55 Wombat set off again, this time armed with a yellow umbrella.
    17:30 I began to worry that Wombat was either lost or arrested. I thought about calling Mom but decided against it, thinking it would only drive her into a panic.
    I really don’t think Wombat should be living alone.
    17:45 As I stepped into the bath there was a loud knock on the door. I then had to step out of the bath, dry myself, and get back into my school pants and shirt. The knocking became loud banging and general shouting. I eventually opened the door to a bald eighty-five-year-old man brandishing a bread knife. Behind him stood a large crowd of old ladies, including Wombat, who pointed at me with her umbrella and walking stick and cried, ‘That’s the rapscallion! I heard him using up my bathwater!’
    The old man with the knife demanded my name. When I said it was John Milton he immediately looked suspicious. Another old duck glared at me and said, ‘They all operate under assumed names these days.’ Another old geezer wearing a cream safari suit joined the geriatric lynch mob and suggested the block should hire armed security men to keep the riff-raff out. His name was Mr Jeffreys and everyone agreed with him.
    Thankfully, a woman about Mom’s age burst through the crowd and screeched, ‘Oh, look, it’s John Milton.’ The crowd began muttering among themselves, unsure what this latest development meant. The woman shook my hand and explained to everyone that I was Wombat’s grandson and that she knew Mom.