Still a bare-footed little boy from Zululand at heart
Haven’t the foggiest idea of why I should inflict the following diatribe upon you, dear reader. Overcome I suspect by the effects of Covid-19 “bubble blues” and reawakened memories of bygone days, especially when I called to mind an old friend and colleague, Glyn Williams who turned 94 earlier this month.
How time flies. Glyn, older readers may recall, was head-hunted by Donald Woods, a former editor of the Daily Dispatch from the Western Mail in Cardiff, Wales.
He agreed to give it a three-month trial run and stayed 40 years, bringing with him his unique Welsh flair which served the paper well.
We spent many a sweaty evening in the late 60s and 70s helping to put the Dispatch to bed. Now in deep retirement, the man is still as sharp as a tack and living in Perth, Australia.
By some quirk of the imagination, my random musings then took me back to April 1 1942 80 years ago
to my home town of Empangeni, Zululand.
Early that autumn morning I found my father in his armchair in the lounge, in his pyjamas beside our old valve-operated radio, seemingly fast asleep.
As a major with active service in World War 1 with his regiment, the Natal Field Artillery, of which his father, Lieutenant Colonel RW Beningfield was commanding officer in the late 1800s, my Dad religiously followed the progress of his regiment and the war in general until late at night.
I tried to wake him to no avail. I ran back to my parents bedroom, shook my mother sobbing: “Mom, I can’t wake Dad.” He had died in his sleep at the age of 59.
On that fateful day we lost a much-loved husband and father –a truly remarkable man.
An accomplished sportsman, he had captained Zululand at cricket and polo, played for Natal against the MCC at Kingsmead and won the Buffalo Grand Challenge Trophy, on East London’s Buffalo River, rowing bow for the Durban Rowing Club and ran the 100 yards in 10.2 seconds when at Lancing College in Sussex, England.
He learnt his cricket there where one year he topped the batting averages for all public schools in England with a top score of 154 at an average of 51.11.
He honed his rowing skills on the lakes of Switzerland while at university in Zurich.
He knew all the operas and in his young days had his own dance band, playing the saxophone. That was my beloved Dad, WR “Jumbo” Beningfield.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, Mom was left with two young sons aged nine and seven, shortly after the Depression and in a time of war with very little money.
Being a senior staff member in the local municipality at the time, she accepted a similar position with the Ndola municipality in the then Northern Rhodesia where she remained for 12 years.
Barry, my brother and I were sent to school in Eshowe and later completed our education as boarders at Durban High School.
Those were wonderful years in the late 40s and early 50s where I was taught by such legendary teachers as Bill Payn, former Springbok lock forward and Natal cricketer, whose exploits in the 1922 Comrades Marathon are still spoken of in awe today.
He took us for English and was my cricket coach.
Among my contemporaries, later to become well-known personalities, were newspaperman Steven Mulholland and Alden Goodenough, later a medical practitioner, who had the bed next to mine in our first year.
Alden couldn’t march to save his life his left and right arms would move in conjunction with his left and right legs!
Alden’s sons became journalists who once worked on the Dispatch. When I told them about their father s lack of co-ordination they said simply: “Sounds like Dad!”
Mom later joined the Eastern Province Herald as secretary to the editor, Mac Pollock, father of the cricketers Graeme and Peter, for about 12 years until she retired.
It was there that I served my apprenticeship before moving round the country working on various newspapers before settling in the Eastern Cape and marrying Naomi. And there at the Dispatch, lo and behold, was another DHS old boy who was soon to shape the newspaper’s fortunes the formidable Terry Briceland.
And it was Terry who I have to thank for sending me 16 years later in 1978 to run the company’s operation in Queenstown for 22 fruitful and happy years.
I rewarded him by winning the award for the best newspaper in S in its category in 1991. If you’re reading this Terry, thank you!
Later here at Berea Gardens where we now live, I met a man I hadn’t clapped eyes on in 65 years
Chris Broekman. We first met way back in my apprenticeship days in Gqeberha (Port Elizabeth).
Chris, alas, died a month or so ago alone and, I’m afraid, a somewhat embittered old man in his 87th year. He became a good friend and I miss him.
He was one of those naturally gifted sportsmen.
A Springbok on the basketball court and later the national coach; an almost unbeatable billiard and snooker player who represented EP against various touring world champions; a two-handicap golfer who dined out on that he couldn’t make the Walmer Country Club’s first team, such was the club’s talent.
Lennie Killeen, a mutual friend, who many sports people may remember as a superstar of the rugby league code in the Tom Von Vollenhoven era, was also resident at Berea Gardens and died here a little while before we arrived.
Len Killeen was inducted into the sport’s Hall of Fame in both England and Australia and was also a basketball star.
Broekman, a tall, dark-haired good-looking man in those days, and I were roughly the same age, and spent many a glorious evening, cold libation in hand, watching the sun set over the ocean and chewing the fat on those carefree times in old PE.
As for me, I’ve been in this province for nearly 60 years now and married to Naomi for almost as long. But dammit man, at heart I am still that bare-footed little boy from Zululand!
Broekman, a tall, dark-haired goodlooking man in those days, and I were roughly the same age, and spent many a glorious evening, cold libation in hand, watching the sun set over the ocean and chewing the fat on those carefree times in old PE