Christmas Dinings, Whinings and Woes (Part One)

When things go wrong on a plot, they tend to go very, very wrong. There are no happy mediums on plots - unless they are the sort lucratively employed in communicating with the dead.

So, when my borehole pump started tripping at the main board, I knew I was in trouble. Not even I, accustomed as I am to the vagaries of country life, could have guessed just how much trouble it was going to turn into.

The first time it tripped, I thought my pump had been stolen. This happens a lot out here. As I waded through the shoulder high grass to the site of the borehole, my spirits lifted. Not even a water-diviner could have found it in this wilderness of weed, grass and bramble - and so it proved; the borehole and its pump were intact. So what could it be?

I checked at the board in the house – nothing. There was power, yet there was no water. So I called my local knight-in-shining-armour, Papa Delta, for help. Shortly after, he called back to say a bakkie bearing water was on its way to me, could I open the gate? On my way there, I checked the main board at the water tower. It had tripped. I switched it on again, and the storage tank started filling…

I grovelled suitably and blushed and apologised for my incredible stupidity and the kindly, long-suffering man drove off with his water-laden bakkie, no doubt privately cursing all women, particularly those who did not immediately check their main boards for tripped switches.

But the switch kept tripping. And not the psychedelic kind either.

Every time I used a lot of water, it tripped. Luckily the rainy season had come early and the garden did not need watering. So the problem went undetected, growing bigger like a hidden snake, biding its time to strike at just the right moment..

And suddenly Christmas was upon us.  Frantic polishing and cleaning.  Days before, I started washing sheets for my Christmas houseguests. Sheets and blankets always smell nasty after a stint in the cupboard, and I love the delicious anticipation of getting into a really cleanly fragrant bed. All the sofa covers needed to be washed too, because otherwise they smell of their default odour, which is damp dog. I have seven dogs, five of which are devoted sofa-snugglers. Two of them are also pond-waders, so I always keep a pile of clean throws to toss over suspect sofas for unexpected visitors, but this had to be thorough. My ex-husband was coming over for Christmas.

I am not a keen fan of my ex-husband. But I read that according to Karma, lessons not learned in this life will be repeated in the next, and if I do not make peace with him, I might well be married to him again in my next life.. That is not a risk I am willing to take, no matter how small the chance.

And that was not all. My gay ex-brother-in-law was coming along too, with his boyfriend, Bunny, who was the only one I looked forward to seeing. Bunny is vivacious and full of fun, a real sweetie. What he sees in Yawn, my ex-brother-in-law, is a mystery to me, but there it is. Besides, who am I to criticize? After all, I married into that family. The only shining light that lay over the whole event would be the presence of my daughter Morgana, who can turn a funeral into a party.

And so I was slaving away, trying to make my crumbling old house look its best. As old houses do, it resisted. It summoned the forces of nature to help it. As spiders grumbled at having their comfy old cobwebs disturbed, the skies rumbled, thundered, and smacked fat sulky clouds until they retaliated by dropping their heavy load directly overhead.

As always happens with such storms, the power failed, leaving the polisher stranded in mid-floor. Muddy paw-prints planted by ozone-charged dogs  gathered around it; clean washing blew away and settled damply in branches like cartoon ghosts abandoned on impact. The old house sighed contentedly as it settled into its thick, churned-chocolate mud bed. So did I, although rather less contentedly, and turned to polishing the brass and silver instead. That always cheers me up. I love the warped reflections in shiny objects, and the way the light bounces off them.

In the cold-hearted manner of things mechanical and electrical, the gate also started giving me trouble. When the rain stopped, the gate wouldn’t open to the remote control, and there is n other way to open it that does not involve wallowing in the mud. It just stood there, shivering and straining as if it was about to give birth. Closer inspection revealed that during the week of rain, it had silted up. Water from the Magaliesberg had rolled unencumbered down the road, bringing a rich collection of topsoil and debris with it, until it had come to the gate, where it nested. I cleared it. It still wasn’t happy. It rumbled and grumbled and shivered until a hearty shove sent it creaking on its way. But at least I could get out. It never did manage to open all by itself again.

The day before Christmas, the switch kept on tripping. I had done a lot of washing. My daughter, Morgana, arrived with her friend Mondrian and his relatives, some of whom I had never met, and I unexpectedly found myself swigging Brandy and Coca-Cola. We all became extremely happy to have met one another, and found ourselves and everyone else to be amazingly charming and witty. The switch tripped, but no-one noticed. When they left two hours later, a nap was necessary.

Having fallen behind schedule due to these unforeseen circumstances, we laboured late into the night. It was only the next day, when Morgana was sluicing down the enormous verandah, that the switch became a problem. I kept having to run up and flip it. It was proving to be more stubborn each time. I had to turn the mains off first, then flip it before it would take.

Our guests arrived, minus Bunny, due to a last minute lovers’ tiff. Much effusive and largely insincere greeting took place. Drinks were poured, and everyone settled in. Shark (my ex-husband) had taken the precaution, at Morgana’s urging, of  slightly pre-roasting the lamb and potatoes and other vegetables, because the power levels have been known to drop radically on Christmas Day in the past resulting in lunch being served in the evening and everyone being sozzled from drinking on an empty stomach. 

Lunch was a splendid affair, in spite of the entire table, an ancient oak refectory table, having to be carried indoors twice due to rain. There was mint jelly as well as mint sauce made with freshly picked mint, glorious wine served in the finest cut crystal glasses, and a salad colourful enough to shame a hula-girl. Malva Pudding with Liqueur Brandy  followed, along with grapes, cheeses and plums. The table looked lovely with a fifty-five year old hand-embroidered Irish linen centre-piece and napkins. Everyone was on their best behaviour, and in a truly festive mood. Not so the plumbing.

It was just after lunch that I noticed that one of the toilets, newly fixed, had started leaking again, and that the other had come out in sympathy. We rallied, and spread towels to absorb the flow, which was luckily clean water. Eventually we all drifted off to bed, Morgana and I totally exhausted but replete, and congratulating ourselves on the day having gone unexpectedly well.

 The following morning, the only water to be found in the house was that on the bathroom floors. The switch had tripped for the very last time. Even the most ingenious coaxing resulted in a baleful flash of sparks that boded ill. Luckily, I always keep some bottled water for these little emergencies, so we could at least make coffee. Yawn was mildly perturbed because he couldn’t get hold of Bunny. He wondered whether he might have committed suicide as he thoughtfully sipped his coffee.

We called the Drain Scurmudgeon. They offer an excellent 24 hour service, and I’ve used them before. Their man was nearly here when we had a power failure. Without power, he wouldn’t be able to find the source of our woes.  Sadly I phoned and he turned back. Not twenty minutes later, the power was back on. More phone calls, desperate pleas and some sharp words later, José was on his way back to us. In retrospect, it is a pity we were so convincing.

José arrived in a flash of mud and white teeth, a very personable young man. He looked efficient enough. I’m not an electrician, what do I know? Shark kindly escorted him to the board up at the pump-house and confided man-to-man that the only problem with the board was that I had let it get wet. Then he returned to the comfort of one of my saggier sofas, where he and Yawn quaffed more wine and muttered mutinously about toilets having to be flushed with buckets full of pond-weed and lunch being delayed while I flitted about the in the undergrowth with electricians.

 José bustled busily about. Morgana and I followed him like devoted magician’s assistants as he flourished his screw driver like a wizard waving his wand. I instantly trusted him. He bypassed the troublesome switch, which turned out to be the transformer, and the tank filled with happy gurgles and splashes.

“It cannot trip now!” he proclaimed triumphantly.

There was a loud bang.

The water tank was nearly full, but not quite. The pump had stopped. He asked us to open all the taps so the water could run out. With some misgiving, I did as instructed. But I was worried. How would we fill it again?

I asked him why we were emptying the tank. He explained patiently that he wanted to see what would happen. I demurred, on the grounds that I knew what would happen. The tank would drain, and there would be no more water. Firmly, I closed the taps. He looked disappointed. He said that in that case, there was nothing more to be done, and that he would return early in January, when the shops were open and he could get spare parts, to replace our tripswitch.

“Why do you not have municipal water?” he enquired accusingly.

“I don’t know, José. We pay rates and taxes. But apparently our Government has more pressing needs, such as the refurbishing of our beloved President Zuma’s private home in KwaZulu”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, sympathetically “This Zuma has too many wives. Me I do not even have a paved road to my house! And he is spending millions! I am never voting again. It is useless.”

“Well, José, we are in the same boat in that respect. Do you see any paved roads here? See you next year!”

 Then he was gone with another splat of mud and flash of teeth.

By then the enormous Pizza I had made for lunch was stony cold, but still very tasty. We made short work of it, washed down with a lovely Cabernet Sauvignon, and life looked less bleak. We laughed uproariously at feeble Marie Antoinette type “Let them drink wine” jokes before retiring for a much needed siesta.

We awoke at about five to the rumble of thunder. Morgana rushed off to wake her father.

“Dad, it’s about to rain. Aren’t you working tomorrow?”

Shark surfaced reluctantly.

“What...?? I am! Rain..? Oh God no!” and he was off like a shot to wake Yawn. Amazing the effect news of rain has on visitors who know our road. Moments later they were on their way. And not a moment too soon. We had barely returned from the gate when the heavens roared their discontent and let fly with a storm that would have left Wagner speechless with envy. We lit candles, sank exhaustedly onto the sofa, comforted dogs, and drank hot cocoa. With Brandy. We had survived. We had no water, but we had each other, the dogs, and lots of Brandy…And relative peace, if not of mind.