Royals, Bells & Hammers!

‘Pologies for a late blog!! Lost my internet cable to the farmer’s plough so the first bit may seem a little dated, but what the hell, the rest makes up for it and anyway, you’re all nice people; hopefully will be back on track as of now.

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What an incredible day it was. As much pomp and good old British pageantry as you could shake a stick at. Stuff the naysayers; the Royal Wedding was simply, magnificent! Even a Republican buddy of mine down in Australia watched it – bless you G, promise to wear my drover’s hat ’n corks in recognition of your support. So, go the Aussies! Now go dig out a signed photo of Ned Kelly and forward it to me – one of my more rebellious heroes...

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The bells are ringing for me and my gal!

Year 2 at boarding school saw us first year movers-and-shakers propelled to loftier heights. We were shifted en masse from the infamous Cowling House to more prestigious accommodation – Tower House on the other side of town; a stone’s throw from school, so no more daily traipsing through whatever weather God had decided would suit His little band of devotees. We were big kids now; had the rudiments of first moustaches and stout hairs sprouting from strange places. Some of the squeak had gone from our voices, nuts were dropping all over the place and we were all growing upwards at a rate our mothers found alarming. We had moved to an era of razor blades and deodorants, conversation revolved around girls and what to do to them should we ever be given the chance.

Tower House was a place of frenzied male activity; little of it educational. Some five hundred yards to our north-east stood Temple House, a hostel crammed with girls of every shape and hair colour. One kid, little guy, really short with black hair and white suit rented out his binoculars for a shilling per quarter hour, think he bought himself Fantasy Island from the proceeds; always shouted: “The plane! The plane!’ if one flew over the hostel. However, there were much more sinister things afoot!

On Saturday nights, deep inside the corridors of Tower House something stirred. Mini-skirted teachers smuggled in booze and nibbles and of course none of us lads knew this. However, out from our corner window we went and up the drainpipe. Six kids in rugby shorts, trainers and dark jerseys – onto the flat roof and like some special forces recce mission, we were there purely as observers. Once directly above the staff room windows we leaned out over the edge and peered inside. We had sound as well, compliments of the staff room wall breeze blocks.

‘Oh darling, darling I love you, I love you!’

Maybe she did but by this stage we were all at level 8 on the giggle scale.

‘Let’s go to my room!’

‘Yes darling, let’s, let’s!’

We legged it back to the drainpipe. Back inside, we ran to warn the others and then crouched in the dark, ready to crowd the housemaster’s bedroom door for a listen.

Unbeknown to him and her, all of the tinkley service bells from two staff dining tables had been nicked and tied beneath his bed. Door opened, door closed. The lovers were in there; shredding each other’s clothing to reach the juicy bits. Ten of us, ears against the door strained for giveaway noises.

Then it started; more jingles and jangles than from Santa’s sleigh at peak delivery times. We made it back to bed just as his door flew open. Then our dorm lights went on and there he stood; dressing gown, one slipper, red-faced and in his right hand, twitching like a lion’s tail was, The Punisher – a four foot length of bamboo cane from behind the woodwork room.

‘Line up damn you, you, you’ll pay for this!’ (Basil Fawlty would have given the scene much credence). His hands shook. His lips were thin demented slugs and he dribbled profusely. The cane rose and fell, rose and fell until the last of us, crippled more by laughter, fell into our beds. His door slammed and his girlfriend left. Can’t recall her ever coming back again...

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Sons of Africa; an extract:

... With the over-burden cleared, Mathew took his time examining what lay beneath. The underlying rock was banded ironstone, harder than the pillars of hell and when struck with a four-pound hammer it would ring as solidly as the metal it had given its name to.

From the steep angle of the hillside, Mathew estimated the distance they would need to tunnel before hitting the reef.

‘Twenty paces in – maybe thirty before we reach the gold.’

Mhlangana squared his shoulders and waved his gang of miners up to the face. Each man carried with him a hammer and drill-steel. With a piece of soft serpentine, Mhlangana marked the rock face with a network of white crosses; the drill pattern for the Empress Deep’s first blast.

Mathew threw off his shirt and took up the hammer and steel of the closest miner.

‘I will drill the first hole.’ He cocked his head at Mhlangana, ‘If you were not already an old man, I would gladly have matched your month’s earnings against you finishing before me.’

‘And were you old enough to lift that hammer I would gladly cover your wager - tenfold.’ Mhlangana looked to one of his drilling crew and commandeered his tools. Theatrically he raised his hammer to the sky, when he turned to Mathew his grin was that of the hyena for the newborn wildebeest.

‘Let the boy step aside for the better man, murungu.’ He pushed his way through to the rock face; already the taste of victory was honey-sweet on his tongue. Both men picked a mark furthest from the centre.

‘No changing of your drill-steel before the halfway mark or your opponent wins,’ warned Mathew.

‘If the boy is ready?’ laughed Mhlangana and swung the first blow.

As tolling bells, the hammer blows rang for three miles along the valley; neither of the two men paused to take in water, nor did they rest the arm that swung the hammer. Side by side they worked their steels deeper inside the rock; with each strike, bright halos of sweat leapt from their foreheads. Still they took no respite and the drill-steels sang their songs to the mountain. Each new blow was preceded by a sharp twist to their drill-steels, setting the hardened tips at a fresh angle for them to break new rock.

At the same time, almost to the second, both hammers fell silent. Both men slumped with their backs to the ironstone. Mathew dropped his hammer and openly marvelled at the ruined pads of his right hand.

‘You must have lucked to a sharper drill,’ Mathew chided.

‘And yours was the bigger hammer,’ Mhlangana countered playfully. ‘Rova i nyundo!’ Mhlangana shouted his crew forwards onto the rock face. ‘Use your steel, murume! I give you ten days to reach the lair of our snake.’

‘And a bonus of ten shillings for nine,’ Mathew promised, and like brothers they walked away from the rock, leaving behind space enough for the miners to swing their hammers.

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