Of Kings and Queens
Chapter 2
Growing up is not always easy, not even when your parents are relatively affluent, hard- working and yet attentive enough for you not to grow wild. My parents were both teachers by trade, but my father eventually bought my maternal grandfather’s butchery and later a small farm and thus worked for himself and the ‘boytjie’ (slang for young guy) from Germiston and Boksburg became one of the more prominent members of society in our town. My father even had a street named after him eventually.
My parents were enigma’s, full of contradiction. On the one hand they were very strict and conservative, but on the other hand fair, open minded and ahead of their time. Conservative and openminded are not terms anyone would normally use in the same sentence, but in our household it was that contradiction which set us aside from everyone else and that applied equally to my parents, myself and my brother. We had friendly acqaintences yet remained outsiders. Maybe it was all the ‘soutie’ (English) uncles, aunties and cousins, maybe it was due to our English names and surname, maybe it was the reddish to dark hair and very fair skin which looked foreign, I truly do not know, but we were always a little different, but so then were our interests.
In a predominantly Afrikaans society the British (the real ones from across the ocean.) were not much loved and revered. The little monument across from the old sandstone church still served as a stark reminder of a war which was fought many years ago and during which the British had put our great-grandmothers in concentration camps. Our grandfathers were still telling us stories of camping out in the open, of eventually going home and finding it burnt to the ground. Yes, in a small Afrikaans community such as the one I grew up in there was not much love lost for the English and words like ‘soutie’ (salty) and ‘hans khaki’ were regularly flung at us although we spoke Afrikaans at home, went to an Afrikaans school and church. The term ‘Khaki’ was used for the British soldiers, especially during the Anglo-Boer War, but from that came a few other derogatory terms such as Khaki-boer – and that would be a boer who surrendered before the end of the war and a hans khaki would then be a traitor or someone who mingled with the English. Well we had to take it on the chin because we were indeed proud of our Scottish heritage and the fact that my father and brother still carried the family names and from time to time, as a lark, they still donned their Grant tartans.
Our English speaking cousins also regularly entertained us with their warped understanding of Afrikaans and we loved it. What a family dynamic – we had a cousin who grew up on a kibboets in Israel, so English and Afrikaans were often not the only language we had to negotiate, but for a few years we had to translate from Hebrew as well. Luckily Ashley caught up very quickly, faster than we could learn Hebrew.
In our district was also a large German community and although not compulsory, our schools did offer German as a third language.
Complicated? You ain’t seen nothing yet my friend. In the late sixties and seventies and in a small rural mining town like ours it was not a given that the black folk would be able to speak Afrikaans or English and my father thus had to learn enough Zulu in order to communicate and understand the people working for him, both on the farm and at the butchery.
My brother also quickly picked up the necessary, but unfortunately being a girl I did not have the same opportunity, at least not until I got to Grade 7 when Zulu was introduced as a subject. At the end of the day I could pick up a word here and there in a conversation and use a few sentences myself.
As complicated as it all sounds, life was simple then. Like my father I was a prolific reader. I read anything and everything and I was allowed to read anything and everything, from my father’s Scope magazine to the Sunday papers and any other book in the house. My father collected Wilbur Smith books and my mother went through a Mills and Boon phase, but my father was also a scholar of sorts and would regularly order books on the occult, free masonry, religion, politics, war and he would study early Afrikaans writers like Eugene Marais and others. So one day I would be dreaming of working on an archaeological dig in a distant land and the next my dreams were filled with with the knight on a white horse rescuing me from myself. My life was filled with clichés and contradictions and my bedroom and cupboard bore testament to a girl who jumped on her scooter and whisked down the dirt roads of our town dressed in jeans and a leather jacket and one who loved romantic pink frilly garments. Despite the roller-coaster ride of my teenage years, there were a a few constants; my mother bought the ‘Huisgenoot’ on a Thursday and every school holiday I set off for my grandmother’s home where, for the first few days I read through all her magazines, including the British Women’s Weekly. My grandmother was adamant that the British knitting and crochet patterns were far better than those in South African magazines.
So between school and sport, motorbikes and horses there were also a few blossoming romances, but none too long lasting as my longing for adventure was more prominent than to be part of a couple, but when my life lacked romance there was always the royal romances, but before I get to that, there was something very significant which happened to us… on the 5th of January 1976 the SABC started a regular countrywide television service. I was nearly 13 years old and I remember it like it was yesterday. My father had bought us a set and a brown wooden cabinet with doors and it was set up a week or more in advance. To provide better viewing for all the dining room table was moved into the formal lounge and those furniture moved to the casual lounge and the casual lounge furniture moved to the dining area. A whole rigmarole, but it was done and ready for that first broadcast. People in places like Johannesburg and Durban had some transmissions the year before, but we country bumpkins did not have the privilege., but we were ready and waiting when it happened.
To be very honest; up and until the day it became known that Diana had become a sort- of permanent fixture in Prince Charles’ life I did not really take notice. Yes, I saw the photographs of Charles and a girl and before I could begin to remember her name there would be another one. My mother’s Huisgenoot and grandmother’s Women’s Weekly kept us updated on the latest arm candy, but none of them really made an impact and nor did I really care… until those very first photographs of Diana at Balmoral, I did not pay much attention to the prince’s love life. Diana was different. Maybe because she was so young, nearly our own age, she resonated with me and my friends and suddenly we were all talking about the British prince and his beautiful and very young girlfriend. We even took to buying our own magazines on Wednesdays when we were allowed to go to town from our boarding school. We could not wait until the weekend so we could read our mother’s magazines. Whether you were anti- monarchy or not, we were all talking about Charles and Diana and more about Diana than Charles. Some had their hair cut like Diana’s, my matric farewell (grade 12 prom) dress was designed and based on a Diana type outfit. The fabric was white chiffon with a silver thread running through it and it was lined with white satin. It had a short loose jacket with a frill collar – just like something Diana would have worn. But as fascinated as we were with the girl, the same excitement did not really pass on to the entire relationship or to Charles. The girls in my passage were all adamant that Charles, prince or not, was not an oil painting and we all though Diana could have done better. Yes, we were still naive and were all going to marry for love and definitely not for the crown jewels…although…
In 1981 there was another budding romance though; that of Andrew and Koo Stark. Always the rebel, always fighting for the underdog, I shifted my attention to Andrew and Koo. I though they were a good looking couple and very well suited. She was dainty and pretty, but there was something strong and tough about her, unlike the shy and timid Diana, and I liked Koo Stark for that.
Unfortunately the one romance, that of Charles and Diana, ended up in a wedding and the other in Splitzville. I was sad when I heard that Andrew and Koo broke up, but I was also a little sad when I learned that Charles and Diana were to be married so soon.
Even as an 18 year old at the time, I felt almost more mature than Diana. Yes, despite coming from a good family and having a father who was a good provider, life in Africa is a little harsher than in Europe and I think we grew up a little faster, because I remember looking at Diana and seeing a child in her eyes and my heart went cold for a few seconds. I remember telling my mother that the entire marriage did not feel right. I felt that Charles should have waited a little and should have taught Diana more, taken her around more and settled her in more and should have given her another year or two to mature and learn. It was just what my instinct told me at the time, but my mother said it will be okay, royals marry young and Diana will not have any hardship as she will have all the servants and assistants her heart can desire.
I loved the wedding, but still felt a little sad. Beautiful Diana, now chained to a man too old for his years… but I had my final school year to complete and quietly sent up a prayer for Diana and myself.