Of Rats and Cats

I don’t know how they kept it secret from me – but they did.  ‘We have been planning it since August last year,’ said Shaun Hewett triumphantly.  The problem was that I was not expecting anything so I walked right into the trap.

Looking back, I can now see the succession of clues but 850 boys ensure that life is busy and there is seldom a dull moment to reflect on chance incidents and comments. Pippa maintains that I am typical male and notice nothing at the best of times.  I always maintain that this is nonsense as I can see immediately if the square leg is too fine when the leg spinner is bowling over the wicket.

We once had a fairly attractive young student teacher in the staff room some years ago.  The bachelor members of staff were all casting lascivious eyes in her direction while chatting over coffee and sandwiches.  Then the news was announced a few months later that she and a certain teacher were getting engaged.  I was surprised for two reasons a) he was married and b) I had not noticed anything that might indicate that the relationship was anything other than collegial.

‘P-e-l-e-a-s-e,’ said Martin Stovold to me, ever alert to social nuances.   After I had expressed my surprise that this had come out of the blue, he said, ‘He sat next to her every break!  Everyone could see that there was something going on.’

Well, everyone except me that is.  I thought he was just being polite.

The first clue in the saga of the plaque on the rock was when I noticed that our away game against SACS had been changed to a home game.  ‘No particular reason,’ said Shaun airily when I enquired about the motivation behind the change.   I just shrugged my shoulders and went on to handle the next crisis waiting outside my door.

Then an email from Shaun arrived asking during which years I had taken the first team and for my length of service as Master in Charge of Cricket. ‘What on earth do you want to know that for?’ I said. ‘That was back in the dark ages!’

Subterfuge I

‘SACS asked for the information,’ he replied.

Now I know.  Shaun Hewett lies with a straight face.

Then another email came from Shaun.  ‘Would you like to invite the SACS Headmaster and his wife to join the first team for lunch on Saturday?’  It was followed up by about four reminder emails.  I should have smelt a rat at his persistence.

Subterfuge II

On the Friday before the match, I saw Mike Smit driving his bakkie through the school grounds.  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked in my normal flippant fashion. ‘Surely you should be doing a job of work at this hour of the day, not meandering around the school?’

‘I have come to do the plaque,’ he said, letting the cat out of the bag.  Good old Mike – clearly those three years in matric at Wynberg were totally wasted.  However, the joke was on me because I thought he was referring to the plaque honouring the 2014 matrics who had donated the waiting area outside Silverhurst as their present to the school.  I have been nagging him for months for this plaque. So the cat went straight back into the bag and I was none the wiser.

A crane was used to bring in the rock and Mike spent Friday drilling the surface where he would epoxy the plaque. Luckily for the conspirators, I was busy interviewing all afternoon and did not go down to watch the Golden Oldies cricket match taking place on the Jacques Kallis Oval.

At 7.30 on Saturday morning, the bell at the gate rang. I was busy typing end-of-term reports. It was Trevor Hewett, father of Shaun, who was wanting to give me two tickets for the opening ceremony of the Golden Oldies Festival, which was going to take place the following day at Newlands.  ‘I believe there is a big presentation today,’ he said allowing that persistent cat out of the bag again.

Shaun Hewett: "Who? Me?"

‘Not that I know of,’ I said – but my mind was still on reports and I was not concentrating enough to string all the dots together.  Back into the bag went the cat without any alarm bells going off.

Two hours later, I had enough of reports and announced that I would be going to watch cricket with the dogs. ‘Which field are you going to?’ Pippa asked.

The alarm bells were still silent.  ‘What difference does it make?’ I replied. ‘I will do the usual.  Junior teams on Silverhurst in the morning and the first team on the Kallis Oval in the afternoon.’   I only found out later that she had been delegated to steer me away from THE rock.

I spent a very pleasant morning on Silverhurst chatting to SACS parent Alan Dawson about the Proteas’ chances against New Zealand in the semi-final of the World Cup and then to Andrew Paterson about school sport.  I met up with Ken Ball and we wandered down to the Oval to catch the last few overs before lunch.

‘Let’s sit here in the shade,’ said Ken.  Obliging as ever, I concurred.  The bench was well away from the rock.  So even the SACS Headmaster was in on the act.

I noticed a number of staff members arrive, among them the Chairman of the Governing Body, Glen Cassells.  ‘Nice of them to come to cricket,’ I thought.

Why didn’t someone just smash me over the head with a mallet?

At that moment my phone rang.  It was Keith Clark, parent of Brandon, who has four 7-wicket bowling trees around the ground.  ‘Notice anything different around the ground?’ he said.  At this stage Einstein Richardson was still not getting the picture.  My immediate feeling was guilt as Keith’s Golden Oldies had played on the Oval the day before and maybe they had left a gift which I should have spotted.  Was it a bench, perhaps?

I scoured the ground.  I spotted nothing new.  ‘I will walk around the ground after lunch and get back to you,’ I said.  Fortunately he bought that line and I switched off.

Pippa arrived with a bunch of flowers for Bev Ball who was having a Big Birthday that day.  At that stage I noticed the two teams at the top of the steps.  ‘How nice,’ I thought.  ‘They are going to wish Bev all the best for her birthday.’

When I arrived at the pavilion steps, I saw it.  The rock was nestling among the aloes.  I saw the plaque with my name on it ‘The Richardson End’ and couldn’t read any more. The cats tumbled out of the bag and chased the malodorous rodents all over the bank.  I had been had.  It was a sting of note.

Shaun Hewett, and my dog Storm (no doubt 'sizing up my rock'!)

I felt winded.  I shook Shaun Hewett by the hand – but couldn’t say anything.   My first reaction was to say that I had clearly lost control of the school as they had been able to plan, prepare and execute this subterfuge without me suspecting a thing.

Mike Smit, normally fondly referred to as ‘Bob the Builder’  or ‘Cracks’ – depending on whether he has built a house for you or not, was responsible for the construction of boulder and plaque.  He was not slow to bring me down to earth.  ‘I wanted to say the ‘End of Richardson,’ he said, ‘but I was outvoted!’

‘Better be careful,’ said Mickey Lumb, another member of the Old Boys’ Union, ‘that the pupils don’t do to your plaque which some students did to the Rhodes statue on campus.’

After lunch, I sat on my own for a while on a bench on the bank of the field with a kaleidoscope of memories.  I thought of all the captains, the players and exciting matches which had been part of that journey.  I remembered that parent who had asked me how long the 15 year old Jacques Kallis, newly promoted to my first team, would remain at the top of the first team batting order because he always batted so slowly.  I recall my response: ‘Just bear with us.  I think he is going to be something special.’

It was probably one of the few sensible comments I made in my coaching career.  Certainly it was the most prescient.

I remembered the feeling of immense pride standing with Greg Bing under the Oaks at Newlands when Kevin Bridgens (the first captain of my 1st X1 coaching career in 1979)  went out for to bat for Western Province in a Benson and Hedges game; listening on the car radio in Hermanus when Jacques Kallis (captain 1993) scored his first test hundred at Melbourne in 1997; watching Charl Willougby (lst team 1991 – 1992) celebrate on the balcony of Lords in 2003 with the Proteas after they had won the test at the Home of Cricket; sharing the disappointment with Aubrey Martyn (lst team 1988 1990) when he had to come home from a Proteas tour of England in 1994 with a back injury; admiring the confidence of Adrian Holdstock (captain 1987) whenever I saw him umpiring on TV; appreciating the coaching skills of Andrew Wiley (captain 1989)  at UWC and Stellenbosch University and wondering when he was going to be given a chance to do it at a higher level; basking in pleasure while listening to the West Indian crowd at the Kensington Oval in Barbados shouting ‘Jonty! Jonty!’ when Antonio Bruni (1st X1 1993 – 1994) pulled off another magnificent piece of fielding which helped us to win the final of the 1994 Sir Garfield Sobers Tournament; listening with admiration whenever Paddy Upton (captain 1986) spoke on the psychology of sport –  what happened to that naughty, social animal of his school days?

I remembered some of the tight matches – the one under the captaincy of Peter Cowan in 1988 where we defended 79 against Northwood on tour and won by two runs.  Then there was the match when we had to defend 75 against Fish Hoek in 1980 and I changed the batting order – an elementary youthful coaching error. On that occasion - and because of the result of this game, it would be the only occasion - I allowed myself to be persuaded by Wayne Colborne to permit him to open the batting with Bryan Cawood. Both of these players were competent batsmen but were normally lower down the order, seldom having the opportunity of a leisurely bat.  They didn’t have an opportunity in this match either as they both went out cheaply and we lost the match by one run.

Recently Wayne made amends for this and has donated the funds for a cricket scoreboard on the Silverhurst A field.  Construction of this scoreboard, in the style of the Ray Connellan scoreboard on the Hawthornden Field, will commence in the next few weeks.

Later on in the evening of that momentous day, Pippa was reading the horoscopes from the newspaper.  In the light of the ceremony at lunch time, we both thought my Virgo prediction was particularly apt: ‘Tread carefully around emotionally sensitive areas.  When in doubt, say nothing.’

Fortuitously, that is exactly what happened at the rock.

Rising from the Ashes

Little Malabar: Before and After

It was 1.56am on Wednesday 4th March when the phone rang. It was Wynberg’s Director of Operations, Peter van Schalkwyk. 'Bad news,' he said. 'I have just received a message that your house in Noordhoek is in danger from the fires.'

In the meantime, Pippa was checking her phone. 'House ablaze,' the message from a neighbour said. 'No point in coming down as the area is being evacuated.  All the roads here have been closed off.'

Not much chance of sleep after receiving that message!

Shawn Benjamin Photography: Cape Fires

It had been an intermittent night's sleep in any event. We had been put on standby for a possible rescue operation for the school’s 175th Celebration wine. Newly bottled, the 175 double magnums were being stored in a cellar on the wine farm, Eagles' Nest, on the slopes of Vlakkenberg. An Old Boy, Stuart Botha, winemaker at Eagles' Nest, was responsible for the birth of the wine - a responsibility he had carried out with diligence and impressive attention to detail during its confinement.

Now the flames, having devoured the mountainside, were licking in anticipation at the high-lying vineyards of Eagles' Nest. Five years after conception, the Oude Wijnberg wine, eagerly anticipated as any birth, was nestling unconcerned in the cellar's dark womb.

Sterling efforts by firefighters and farm workers ensured the safety of the farm, its personnel and its contents.  However, we had far bigger concerns with the events on the other side of the mountain.

We had only taken possession of the keys of 'Little Malabar' the previous Thursday. This 150-year old cottage had presumably provided accommodation for a farm worker's family for the nearby farm, 'Sleepy Hollow'. It was four thatched rondavels expertly joined together with superb finishes put in by the previous owner, Chris Barrett, who had lived there for 35 years. Using his experience as a Master Builder, he fitted in window frames and doors of Burmese teak while yellowwood was used in the beams. The finishes were so tastefully done that we were smitten when we first walked in.

There was little trace of any of this in the smouldering wreck of 'Little Malabar' when we went to Noordhoek the following morning. A building which had survived under thatch in the Noordhoek valley for 150 years succumbed to flying embers a mere six days after we received the keys.  A few doors and shutters somehow managed to escape the inferno, but otherwise it was just a shell of the beautiful cottage which had ensnared our hearts some months previously.  Our tenants had started moving in some of their possessions during the week and it was sad to see the smouldering cushions, linen, books and children’s toys.

The property was crawling with people - most of them just gawping. A TV news crew was there. The fact that the owners had just arrived clearly excited them. 'How do you feel?' someone said as a microphone was shoved in my face. I told them exactly how I felt - which was fortunately deemed unsuitable for family viewing later.

A more inane and inappropriate question to ask someone as he walks into the scenario of his destroyed house is difficult to imagine.

The firefighters, neighbourhood watch and the neighbours themselves were full of concern.  Most of them had been up all night watching over the area.  One of the neighbours had been on his own roof hosing down his thatch and had seen the whole sorry scenario unfold in the early hours of the morning.  He told me that the northwester had come up unexpectedly and reignited the fires amongst the pines on the slopes of Chapman’s Peak.  The wind was hurling fireballs like mortars into the valley below.  One went squarely into our thatch and within minutes the house was ablaze.

The Brown’s, Wynberg parents who lived in a house in the next street, told me that the entire area had been evacuated in the early hours with the instruction to bring a ‘small bag’ each.  Their son, Michael, duly packed his music and his tablet and they repaired to the Noordhoek Sports Centre.  Imagine his surprise when he saw a Wynberg girl who also lived in the area walk in carrying her school case full of books.  This was beyond his comprehension.  Expressing his concern about her lack of priorities, her retort was that she was certainly not going to rewrite all her notebooks if they happened to be destroyed in the fire.

I don’t think that this made any impact on Michael. He had left his school bag on the kitchen table where, surrounded by wood, he had given it ample opportunity to be engulfed in flames should the house fall victim to a fireball.  This is as good an example as any of the difference between boys and girls.  It strengthened my belief, once again, that principals of boys’ schools should be paid more than those of girls’ schools.

We spent the rest of the day pottering around trying to retrieve anything of value – a brass doorknob here, a teak shutter there, a yellowwood plank under a pile of rubble.  Surprisingly our tenants’ framed photographs survived – they had been placed under piles of linen.

Then a shout went up.  ‘Here is a tortoise!’  A small mountain tortoise was found wandering on the edge of the ashes.  ‘If it has plasti-tak on its shell,’ said Chris Barrett, ‘then it is Sweetie.’  It did have plasti-tak and so Sweetie was renamed ‘Phoenix’ and welcomed back from the ashes.

The rest of the day was spent in a whirl of insurance agents, assessors and architects.  This process is destined to be a long haul.

Sweetie - the survivor

On the way home, Cape Talk Radio was full of comments about the fire.  Someone phoned in to ask what all the fuss was about.  Only a few houses went down, he said, and they were those belonging to ‘rich people’.  Well, unhappily, this sentiment certainly shows that we are still a hugely divided society. Human disasters are human disasters and they are no respecter of rank, religion or remuneration. 

That day, the Wynberg Campus of Schools decided to raise money for the volunteer fire-fighters. A few days after the fire, R95 000 raised by boys and the parents of the Wynberg schools, was donated to the cause of wildfire fighting in the City and its environs – from which all Capetonians will benefit in the future.

The aforementioned Michael Brown (15) summed up the spirit of community which has run through all fire-affected areas.  Denied by his age to fight the fires, he volunteered to do the donkey work and help to sweep ash from the road on Ou Kaapse Weg.  Londoners who lived through the Blitz in the Second World War, will recognise – and applaud – this community spirit.

We have received literally hundreds and hundreds of emails, letters and cards.  It has been a gargantuan task to endeavour to respond to them all.  As I frequently indicated in my acknowledgement, no-one has died or been hurt.  We personally lost no possessions.  We now have ten months to rebuild and restore a home.  There was, however, one touching and sensitive message from a long-standing friend which does stand out:  ‘I trust that this episode will not take the place of a proper house-warming party.’

Humour in the midst of all the doom and gloom is once again reminiscent of the Blitz.  I recollect seeing a cartoon of those dark times when a fire warden shouted down into an air-raid shelter while a bombing raid was going on: ‘Any babies down there?’

A cheerful Cockney voice shouted back: ‘Give us a chance, Mate. We ‘ave only been down ‘ere ‘alf an hour…’

A few days after the fire, when I thanked the teaching staff for their support over this period, I remarked, tongue in cheek, that if the restoration is not completed by December, I may have to extend my departure date and the school will be stuck with me for another year.  This prompted a stage whisper from a corner of the staff room, ‘I bet he petrol-bombed it himself….!’

A book belonging to our tenants was discovered in the ashes - charred, wet and bedraggled. The title: ‘Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff’ radiated defiantly from its cover as it lay amongst the carnage.

I took heed of the message.

Photos sourced from the internet: Shawn Benjamin Photography & Jenna Harwood Photography