14 1953: I have a first try at University, and get my first taste of work-life

Chapter 14

1953: I have a first try at University, and get my first taste of work-life

After my less-than lustrous school career, having passed the Matric exam with nothing like seventy percent but a dismal “C” (between 50 and 59%) in all subjects except Afrikaans Ordinary Level where I got a “B” (something unspecified over 60%), I really had no idea of what to do next. Most of my schoolmates seemed to have a very clear idea of where their careers should go but I had no idea of what sort of work I wanted to do, or could do. Then Tokkie, my brother-in-law, offered to sponsor me for a degree course at a University. I took the opportunity not having any better idea to pursue. I opted to study Engineering but for completely invalid reasons: one being that Boet was registering in the Engineering faculty; and two, because common wisdom at the time was “What can anyone do with an Arts degree?” This was a huge mistake because, although the “C” in English was no better than my “C” in both Math and Physical Science, I had a definite leaning (dreaming?) toward literature and writing. My undoubted five minutes of glory in all my school days was when Mr. Fearon, the English teacher, chose to read out before the whole class, as an example of good writing, an essay I had written on the topic “A High Wind In A Village Street”. Added to that, George Parish, our maths teacher, had conducted an aptitude test on me which showed a definite leaning toward literature.

But, I chose — and I entered into three months of total bewilderment at Natal University’s Howard College in Durban (the Pietermaritzburg campus, which would have been a more sensible location for me, at the time did not have an Engineering faculty). Total bewilderment, because from the outset I had no idea of what the lecturers were talking about in any of the subjects. I am not trying to dramatise any of this, I really had no grasp of maths at this level not having grasped anything but the simplest equations at school. I contemplated making a quick change to – - – - anything! I saw some student ‘surveying’ the campus and I thought ‘Surveyor! That’s what I could be!” But, no — it was heavy on maths and calculations. I had a cousin who I knew was a geologist, so I thought “Geology. That would be it! An outdoor life picking up and studying rocks!” But no — where would I go to work as a geologist?

I knew I would be leaving University at the end of the first quarter. I had this idea that I could write so I called in at the offices of the Natal Mercury just to find out about the chances of working on the paper, The Editor I saw seemed to be quite interested in taking me on but the salary I would have got as a cub reporter would not anywhere near cover board and lodging in Durban, so I had to give up on that idea straight away.

As for University, I just never returned for the next quarter. My University career was ended abruptly but one or two memories were generated during the time there. I joined the rowing club and enjoyed the practice sessions rowing in a ‘flying-four’ (I think that is what they are called) on Durban harbour at six in the morning. That was exhilarating, the sort of experience that sticks in the mind. That was one little thing, and the other had to do with selling the RAG Magazine downtown.

I had been designated to ‘work’ the Marine Parade. I started at the pub closest to the Point and worked my way along from pub to pub enjoying the hospitality of patrons all along the way. By the time I came to the Edward Hotel, I was quite ‘happy’. I walked into the lounge — and saw the prettiest girl I had ever seen up to that point! She was sitting at a table with another three — her husband and another couple, friends of theirs. When I got to their table, she invited me to sit down and have a drink, which I accepted immediately, of course! During the course of the conversation I learnt that her husband was the Ambassador from a South American country. I had the drink, and I suppose another, sold her a magazine and one to the other couple then I left. By that time, the bars and lounges were closing and I left to return to the Residence at Howard College. It was past 11 o’clock and the last trolley-busses had left the city so I had to walk home, I don’t know how far but it must be all of ten kilometres from the Marine Parade to the top of the Berea at the Umbilo end. The encounter with the amazingly pretty woman stuck in my mind and many years later I wrote her into a Don Corbett story.

I think it was during the time that I was at University that I received a letter from Dad to say that the farmer-landlord at Seven Oaks had given him notice to vacate the Headmaster’s House in Seven Oaks because he needed it for a farm manager. In response to my query, Dad said he had placed an advert in the Natal Witness and received an offer of a house on a farm at New Hanover. I’m not sure, but it may have been Mr. Bentley, the owner of the farm in New Hanover, who sent his lorry to fetch Dad’s furniture. When I returned to stay with Dad until I could think of something to do with my life, it was to New Hanover that I went.

My academic career at an end, what to do next? I had a passport from the couple of times I had travelled to Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) to spend school holidays with my sister Toni and Tokkie (Tokkie had a medical practice in Gwelo — now Gweru) so I decided on the strength of the passport to make my way up into Africa to work at something there with nothing particularly in mind, but possibly, I imagine, on a mine on the Copper Belt of Northern Rhodesia. So with my passport in my haversack and what little money I had in my pocket, I went onto the road to hitch my way up north. I got a lift to Pietermaritzburg and then another as far as Howick. Night came and, with no prospects of getting a further lift that day, I bought something to eat (probably a meat pie!) and found my way into a church (churches always stood with doors unlocked in those days), felt my way in the dark to a pew at the back and settled down to sleep. I was not alone in the church because I could hear someone else shifting around on a pew somewhere in the middle. I did get some sleep but it was the most uncomfortable night I have ever spent. The pew was narrow so it was impossible to lie on my back, which would have been the most comfortable position on a wooden bench, so I had to lie on my side with my knees overhanging the edge. Morning came and I returned to the road as the sun came up. I was picked up by a truck and taken as far as Ladysmith — and there commenced the strangest adventure on the whole trip. Two men in a grey Peugeot 203 stopped to give me a lift. The driver got out to let me put my bag in the boot and in the boot was a canary cage which he took and simply tossed into the ditch. Then he lifted the spare wheel out as well, said to no one in particular, “We won’t need this”, and threw it also into the ditch. With my bag stowed in the boot, I got into the back seat and we set off for Johannesburg. I don’t remember much of the conversation except that we passed one or two police cars on the road and the one chap said to the other, “The Johns are active today!” We arrived in Springs and the one asked me if I would like to spend the night with them and they would drop me on the Pretoria Road the next day! But my suspicions about them had been thoroughly raised so I asked them to drop me off at the railway station so that I could catch a train through to Pretoria still that afternoon. They didn’t argue the point but dropped me off as requested, wished me well on the rest of my journey, and drove off. I am quite convinced that they had stolen the car in Durban simply to travel back home to Johannesburg. (The episode was another that I later wrote into a Don Corbett short story.)

I got through to Pretoria on the train, and back onto the road. I didn’t have long to wait before I was picked up by a commercial traveller on his way to Louis Trichardt. He kindly took me beyond his destination all the way to Beit Bridge where my next surprise awaited me. The passport control officer took one look at my passport, a second look at me and refused to let me through. My Passport was a visitor’s document and he could tell that I wasn’t just making a visit — in fact, I probably told him what I intended to do. I know I could have contacted Toni and Tokkie from there and they would have vouched for me, but I hadn’t told them beforehand of my plan and didn’t want to involve them at all. I can’t remember how it happened, but the same commercial traveller gave me a lift back to Johannesburg (it may have been Pretoria but probably Johannesburg where most businesses were located). I think he may actually have waited at the border post to see me pass through. He was only too happy to have company all the way back to Johannesburg. It would have been nightfall when he dropped me off at the railway station where (again memory eludes me), I think I caught a train the same evening to Pietermaritzburg, arriving there in the middle of the night. At Pietermaritzburg, I would have spent the rest of the night at the station and hit the road in the morning for a lift home to New Hanover. It wouldn’t have been the only time I waited out the time at a railway station sitting on a bench in the waiting room or on the platform.

I spent some more days, or weeks, with Dad but I had to find a job. One of the boarders at Mrs. Owen’s establishment in Greytown was Percy Gibbs who was the Extension Officer in the Department of Agriculture. That sounded like a good sort of career so I hitch-hiked into Pietermaritzburg and offered myself as a future Extension Officer. I don’t think I had long to wait before the letter came offering me the job. In Pietermaritzburg I needed a place to board, an affordable place, and I knew that George Parish’s wife’s mother ran a boarding house, which turned out to be within easy walking distance of the Agricultural Department’s offices and, yes, she could take me in, and the boarding fee would leave me with enough for my cigarettes (but little else). I was put to work in the section which surveyed contour levels for farmers. There were three of us in the same office — the engineer in charge of the office and a man called van der Linde who went out to do the surveys, and me. My responsibility was to do calculations (what calculations?) from the figures van der Linde brought back, and plot the contours on a plan of the farm that I obtained from the Deeds Office.

It wasn’t long before I started running into trouble with my boss — I wasn’t doing the calculations and contour plotting fast enough which was holding him up as well. I also didn’t think that this was my job for life so I cast around for other things. There was a photographer looking for an assistant, which seemed to be the sort of thing I could enjoy (Boet had given me a Kodak Baby Brownie camera, a basic instrument but which took nice photos. It was something I enjoyed doing). I went for an interview — but, again, the salary offered wouldn’t have covered my board, let alone buy my cigarettes, I had to pass that one up. Then I got taken in by “Be a successful salesman. Name your own income!” advertising so I went along to a presentation by someone from Watkins Products (yes, they were going strong over 50 years ago). I committed for the lovely attaché case full of samples, and set out to make my independent living in the evenings. But it was no good — I just wasn’t bold enough in approaching people to set up demos in homes. I did have one such meeting — a bit of charity, really — organised for me in the home of a descendant of the famous Andrew Murray. I was introduced to the family (I think) by Theo Parish, wife of George (I now suspect it was in hopes of getting me ‘converted’! But I had no thought or suspicion of that at the time — I would not have known what converted meant). I gave up on Watkins Products; they graciously agreed to take back all the untouched demo samples but I had to pay for the case which I later used in all my travels until after  DorothyAnne and I were married.

The end of my job at the Department of Agriculture came suddenly one day. My Engineer-boss blew up at me. I said something back whereupon he threatened to take me to the Big Boss of the Pietermaritzburg office — a Mr van der Berg. I reacted immediately saying, “Okay — let’s go” and before he could say another word I was off down the stairs, with him following as quickly as he could after me. Without knocking, I threw the door open and marched into the office and round to the side of Mr van der Berg, with my boss standing in front of the desk. Without explanation I said, “Mr. R….. is going on at me. Tell him to get off my back!” I have no recollection of what was said by anyone after that, but it was the end of my career as an Extension Officer — I left, I think, without notice, but I must have got my last pay-envelope somehow.

I sold my bicycle to someone at the boarding house, took my belongings and hitched to New Hanover. I once more had no idea at all of what to do next, but in the weeks that followed, I read every book that Dad had on his shelf, reading by candle-light until late into the night and resuming when Dad brought me a cup of tea in the morning. But I had to move on – - – - – -