An unwanted Christmas gift

There’s no fun in having your holiday plans threatened by a virus. No, Cyril Klopper isn’t referring to that virus, but a common childhood ailment.

Ishoulder the chalet door open and make a beeline over the veranda towards the pool. My feet barely touch the wooden deck, and I hear how the coil spring jerks the door shut behind me. I launch myself off the deck with a giant leap, ignoring the stairs, and land hard on the grass just as the door bursts open again. Petro laughs out loud, and her feet stomp loudly on the planks. From somewhere inside the twobedroom chalet, I hear my mother call out, “Slow down, you two!” I’m eight years and seven months old, and my scrawny legs pump furiously up and down as I race across the lawn. Petro is 13, and she’s both taller and stronger than me, but I give it everything I’ve got – the pool is near, and I’m not going to allow her to beat me this time – I have to reach the water first. Petro giggles defiantly as the distance between us shrinks rapidly. Dozens of holidaymakers are swimming and sunbathing at the resort’s pool, but Petro and I are barely aware of them, because all that matters is to be the first to get to the water. Had we paid attention at all, we might have seen the expressions on people’s faces change… showing first uncertainty, followed by awareness and, finally, sheer panic. Petro has levelled with me, and our feet slap down on the paving around the pool at the same time. I bend my knees slightly, straighten my thighs… and dive! It feels as though time stands still as I fly through the air. I’m milliseconds ahead of Petro. I’m going to win! We’re only vaguely aware of mothers grabbing their kids by the arm and plucking them from the water. Teenagers stumble to the side of the pool and roll over the edge to safety. The only thing that registers with me is that Petro and I break through the surface of the water at exactly the same time. Air bubbles fizz around me as I thouch the bottom of the pool with both hands and then swim upwards. I lift my head above water and Petro grins in triumph – she’s going to claim she won the race! I hate losing to her and she knows it. She’s going to tease me until I start crying from frustration. It’s suddenly very quiet around us. I look around and notice that Petro and I are all alone in the pool. Several people stand some distance away from the edge of the pool – and a boy points a shaky finger at us and asks: “Mommy, why do they look so ugly?” Petronella is my grandmother’s youngest and my mother’s baby sister. She’s only five years older than me, and because we were raised together in my grandmother’s house and my own parents’ house, Petro became more of a big sister than an aunt. In the photos taken at my christening, you see a five-year-old Petro proudly holding me in her arms, and in a photo of my first day of school, she hides in the background, pulling a mischievous face. We also happen to have a birthday one day apart – I’m on the 22nd and Petro on the 23rd of the same month – so we blew out birthday candles together as kids. On family holidays, Petro and I would fight all the time on the back seat of the car until my dad got fed up. Then, he’d pull over and order us to get out right there on the side of the road. I would burst into tears as the car drove away, but Petro would comfort me, assuring me that my father just wanted to teach us a lesson – of course she was right, and the car’s brake lights soon flashed and then my dad would reverse. A stern admonition would follow that he’d really leave us behind next time. It was on one of those very family holidays that the pool episode occurred. In December 1980, I had just finished my Sub B school year (Grade 2), and Petro and I are on our way to the Silverstrand Resort near Robertson in the Breede River Valley with my parents. We’d both contracted measles some time earlier. This virus almost ruined our holiday plans, but thanks to South Africa’s vaccination programme, Petro and I didn’t turn around at death’s door. I do feel weak, due to a fever that broke a few days previously. Petro claims I infected her, but I’m convinced it’s the

other way around. We’re unusually quiet on the back seat and aren’t doing our usual squabbling. Our family doctor had reassured my mother that Petro and I are out of danger and no longer highly contagious. On top of that, the red blisters covering both of us from head to toe would stop itching within the next few days and eventually disappear. So, we were able to go on holiday with peace of mind. A few kilometres outside the holiday resort, my father spots a young pine tree next to the road and it’s quickly cut down and tied to the roof of our Chev Nomad. We’ve forgotten the Christmas decorations at home, but my mom buys rolls of crêpe paper at the resort’s camp store, and Petro and I help decorate the tree. On Christmas Eve, we sing Christmas carols, and other holidaymakers appear from their rondavels and step closer to sing along. They don’t venture closer than the porch, because Petro and I still look quite gruesome. It’s Christmas morning, and Petro and I feel absolutely fine. Her skin, however, is still covered in hundreds of blisters, and mine looks even worse with scarlet pimples and blemishes covering my body. It’s time to open our presents, and I notice Petro’s gift is bigger and more expensive than mine – she makes no secret of it and sticks out her tongue as she weighs her gift against mine. I pass a snide comment, and soon we’re at each other’s throats, until my dad tells us to cut it out. My mother checks our temperatures – it’s back to normal – and she sees my blisters are popping and forming scabs, a sure sign that the infection had run its course. We finally get permission to go swimming and I’m determined to dive into the water ahead of Petro… The race is over and here we are – floating in the pool surrounded by shocked holidaymakers. The scabs and blisters on our bodies sparkle like rubies in the sun, and Petro and I grin benevolently at each other while everyone else flees our pestilence. Then, she pushes my head under the water and only lets me go when I start to struggle anxiously. As I cough out the water, I call her the ugliest word I know as an eight-year-old, and she exclaims, “I’m telling your mother!” It was not a curse word, but it is, nevertheless, the ugliest word in my limited vocabulary, and I plead: “No, Petro, please don’t!” “Yes, I’m going to tell,” and she laughs heartily at this scawny little crybaby with his speckled body. Petro would pester me for the rest of the holiday, but I found comfort in knowing that we’d have the pool to ourselves until the measles was gone.