RUGBY
in those days, being some distance from cape town, there were various gatherings at weekends in order to watch super 12 rugby games on a saturday afternoon.
the walkers’ cottage in du toit street was just one such venue.
a blanket of secrecy protected us regulars who assembled there. the last thing anyone wanted was to be disturbed during a game. the venue was therefore never discussed in public — especially at the saturday morning market, where gossip abounded, confidences were broken and secrets disbursed. the odd nod, wink and toss of the head was enough to confirm the time and place to the chosen few. joan walker was famous for her baking, and we rugger lads were treated to all kinds of dainties during half time. the thought of extra mouths arriving uninvited near tea time was a risk not worth taking. secrecy, therefore, was of the highest order.
these were exciting times for our motley bunch. alistair was a scotsman with snow-white hair and mischievous blue eyes. he was not an inch over five foot tall and had a lovely broad accent. tsepo was next. he was a big man and an avid gardener. he was never without his ‘lappie’ hat and always arrived for rugby with it firmly clamped on his head. i lived one house away, where tsepo would park his ancient bakkie so as not to draw attention to the gathering at the walkers’ cottage. a fourth chair was available to cater for any unforeseen arrival. mostly it remained empty, but there were exceptions.
like the appearance one afternoon of greyton's very own italian resident.
a loud banging on the front door announced his arrival. joan did everything in her power to dissuade him from gaining access to the cottage. however, he was a descendant from a long line of roman gladiators and there was no way to fob him off. add to this the smell of freshly baked scones, and our italian stallion insisted that he be let in. from the moment he entered the cottage, he didn't stop talking. there were cries of “shut up!” from the loft where the match was in full swing. passionate about italian soccer, maurizio watched in disgust as thirty adult men set about maiming each other over the possession of an odd-shaped ball, stopped only from time to time by a gent with a whistle.
“is ’and ball!” shouted maurizio. “shut up!!” we yelled. and so it went on until the final whistle. the italian was unimpressed with the shape of the ball, the disregard for human life, and our apparent enjoyment of the whole spectacle.
this did not in any way affect his love of cream scones, banana loaf and a handful of choc chip cookies. we were too tired to debate soccer versus rugby. trying to watch a game with the commentary in english, afrikaans and italian was exhausting.
so why had he come in the first place? italians, after all, are supposed to have a siesta in the afternoon. he claimed that the din from du toit street had disturbed him and, as a concerned resident, he felt obliged to investigate the roars and curses, groans and moans coming from the walkers’ cottage.
thereafter, it was very difficult to throw him off the scent.
he always arrived at tea time, because the shouting always stopped after the first forty minutes.