Wheildon

scrap eddie was a colourful fellow, if ever there was one.  we met him by chance even before we moved to greyton.  at the time we were living in an old fisherman’s cottage in kalk bay.  one afternoon i heard an engine screaming for help outside our front door and raced out to protect our car from harm. before me was an ancient datsun bakkie, filled to the sky with bits of old iron beds.  the driver was doing his best to park between two cars and could hardly see where he was going through his cargo of beds.  having managed this feat, the driver squeezed out of his bakkie and when he saw me i got a “howzit” and “got any beds?”

he introduced himself and tried to convince me that what i saw in the back of his bakkie was worth a fortune.  he was visibly hurt when i told him that my pink elephant could fly and that i had just come back from the moon with a piece of cheese.  he then had to explain how he cut and welded the old bits and pieces, sandblasted them and, finally, epoxy-coated the result.  he looked pretty much like his stock: dirty, sloppy and dishevelled.  i was encouraged by his clothing to conclude that he was close to becoming a homeless person.  i invited him in for coffee (much to ginny’s horror), and we learned lots more about the scrap industry.

he had a network of ‘runners’ covering municipal dumps, from whom he collected on a regular basis in exchange for cash.  we warmed to him, even though ginny gave his chair a thorough wipe down after he had gone.  we were invited to his home in claremont to witness the fruits of his labour.

what a treat!  his home was filled with treasure: antiques of every description, and his garage was full of beautiful brass beds of every size and variety.  scrap eddie was as kind and generous as anyone i have ever met.  the subject of golf was mentioned in passing and, when he heard that i had never had a full set of left-handed clubs, he leapt up and disappeared for a few minutes, returning with a full set of clubs in a smart bag for me.  i really was embarrassed, but he insisted.  we left enlightened, and promised to keep a lookout for old beds.

scrap eddie visited us from time to time over the years and we did find plenty of beds for him to resurrect.  one of his observations on a visit was ginny’s expanding tummy.

“i see you are breeding,” he announced.  “what is your brat going to sleep in?”  ginny muttered something about a camp cot and got a grunt of disgust from scrap eddie, who left for cape town.

two months later, we were gassing away over a cup of tea on the back stoep when scrap eddie wandered through our house and invited us to come outside.  there in the back of his bakkie was the most beautifully restored victorian baby’s cot, finished in brilliant white.  every detail was complete and in perfect working order.

“this is for your brat,” scrap eddie announced.  “it can’t sleep in a camp cot.”

~

then there was willie.  he was a strange man.  he wandered around with a bible in a briefcase.  i do not find that odd at all.  what i find odd is that he never discussed it.

the first time i met him, he was in my office.  he had a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and unwrapped some ‘smalls’ which he had for sale.  sometimes he had beautiful platters or old handmade furniture.  on another occasion, he had victorian locks and keys which, when polished up, were in perfect working order.  he never revealed his source, and i often wondered whether there were a number of unsecured doors in nearby genadendal.

one day willie offered me a three-piece lounge suite for R500.  i was instructed to meet him in voorstekraal, a little distance from greyton.  he appeared out of the fynbos as i approached, and leapt into my bakkie.  i followed his instructions to a house and was told to wait while negotiations took place.

suddenly the front door flew open and willie came hurtling out, screaming at me to start the bakkie and “ry!”  not far behind was the most ferocious dog, frothing at the mouth and doing its best to catch and eat willie.  willie was normally very dapper and smart in his working gear — white shirt, dark slacks and shoes, not forgetting the bible.  the briefcase carrying his bible crashed into the back of my bakkie, followed swiftly by the man himself.  i roared off with the dog after us, willie desperate to avoid the snapping jaws of the hound.  by this time the neighbourhood had turned out to enjoy our retreat, and there was much cheering and encouragement for the dog.

i never got to the bottom of the lounge suite story, but the trip was worth it just to see willie airborne like an american phantom jet, undercarriage up, flaps down, at full throttle.

willie was out of town for a while.