Last words from Karin Brynard
It’s a woman thing, says Karin Brynard’s husband. This business of not being able to drag yourself away as you’re about to leave.
NNip-it-off-disability-syndrome, he calls it. All women suffer from it, he will state. See for yourself, next time you’re having dinner at someone’s house. The hosts will walk you out to the car to see you off. Then suddenly one of the women will remember something important, which will set them off on a new discourse.
Men find it easier to disengage. “Right, then,” they’ll say. And one will get into the car and start the engine while the other steps back, hands in pockets. No further eye contact, provoking no idle chatter. They’re just waiting; all patiently and politely.
But I reckon they’re not fooling anyone. Before long, one is drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and the other is giving his wife a look across the roof of the car.
Like last Monday, for instance. We were saying goodbye to old Johannesburg acquaintances who’d recently moved into a new security complex nestled here in the Boland vineyards.
I already had one foot in the car when Marie said she hoped we’d see each other again soon, once her overseas kids, who were coming for a visit, had gone back home. You know, the ones with the disabled little boy, shame.
Oh yes, I replied, don’t forget about that amazing new children’s hospital in Cape Town. My nephew is a specialist there. Just say the word, and I’ll arrange an appointment for them and… “Can we please go now,” I heard behind me. I ducked back in the car. “Coming, darling.” “Well, come on then!” Marie and I hurriedly exchanged some more vital bits of information, but apparently not quickly enough. This time, he revved the car’s engine.
Saying goodbye, Marie enquired: “Will you find your way out of here?” “Of course! If my wife would just get in!” Unashamedly abrupt. I couldn’t help but quickly tell Marie the story about old Reverend Terblanche, pastor of the Dutch Reformed Church in Britstown some 55 years ago. One evening in a similar “nip-it-off” situation between my mother and Mrs Terblanche, he bent down to my father’s window and said: “Lord knows how Moses ever managed to get this lot through the Red Sea.”
Back at home, my mother, most unamused, had remarked: if Moses had only listened to the women, the Israelites might not have gotten lost and wandered the desert for 40 years.
I said goodbye to Marie and had scarcely sat down when my husband pulled away. Racing down the street, we narrowly missed a shaggy dog. “What got into you?” I exclaimed, alarmed. No reply, just some more racing towards the next stop street.
“Just because you have no manners, you don’t have to get us killed.”
“I have to go. Urgently,” he growled. “And I’m not sure I’ll make it home.” “What? Why didn’t you go there?” He shook his head emphatically. “It’s not that type of ‘go’.” Ah, the dreaded Number Two. “It’s that woman’s food!” he declared. I was about to argue but suddenly remembered the pudding we’d had – pears poached in red wine – and how a pear works like a Roto Rooter in my dear hubby’s exhaust system.
“If you’d spoken up earlier, this death race wouldn’t be necessary.”
“It’s you lot who can’t flipping finish talking!” Suddenly he braked, looked around and then careered off into a side street. Around us, the carbon-copy security estate homes flashed by. He raced towards another stop street, desperately looking this way and that.
“Where the hell is the exit in this place?” At that moment I heard a menacing rumble from his nether regions.
About to phone Marie, my husband stopped me, agitated. He was definitely not going to share his predicament with strangers. “Well, you can’t go on the pavement,” I cried, “it would be practically on someone’s front doorstep!”
With pursed lips he put the pedal to the metal. Around one corner we careened and then the next. Tyres screeching on the new cobblestone pathways. There was another dog. And then a duck. My husband cursed.
“The entrance was that way,” I gasped helpfully, “towards the mountains.”
“Rubbish man, the mountains are north. We entered on the south side.” “We need to stop and ask.” “This time of n–? Oh, bloody hell.” There was a thunderous noise coming from his down-under side and he stepped on the accelerator like a man possessed. I would’ve liked to have rolled down the window, but I was holding on for dear life. Shallow breaths were all I could manage.
Just then we spotted Marie’s house. She was about to close the front door. My husband braked, threw open the car door and flew out. Dashing past a surprised Marie and Pieter into the house. “Forgotten your keys?” called Marie from the front door. “Moses,” I gasped, rolling down the windows. “He’s seeing Moses. Don’t ask!”
And she didn’t, bless her heart. Because this time it would have been laughter-containment-deficit-syndrome.