The Etiquette of Succour
an excerpt

October 1972.
Turk woke up coughing. He rubbed a hand over his brow and across his head wet with sweat. His roommate Tim snored in shadow across the room. Cape Town's night sounds snaked in through the open windows, snores and engine sounds entwined in a loose embrace. The air cooled Turk's arms with an indifferent sigh. He sat up in bed, peeling his back off the sheets. It was light enough to see the polished floorboards. His bare feet slapped a moist rhythm as he made his way out into the corridor and along to the communal bathroom. His pale moon face looked back at him from the mirror over the chipped sink. He coughed again: dark clots hit the white porcelain. Turk spat more sputum and blood into the bowl, turned on the taps.
'Jesus. I've got cancer.'
Sucking water from the tap he washed out his mouth. Felt better. Still hot and sweating but not dizzy. There was a taste of something rotten, decayed, like ancient wood. Back in the room Tim was awake, his bedside lamp turned on.
'You okay mate?' Tim was Australian. The YMCA was full of Australians.
'Ja. Sorry. Did I wake you?'
'Don't worry about it. You've got a bad cough there. You should see the doc in the morning.'
Turk didn't tell him about the blood. He got back into bed, lay staring at the ceiling. Tim turned his light off. Within minutes he was snoring gently, inviting the traffic noises in to play.
*
Turk's alarm woke him with a start, made him cough. He was surprised he'd fallen asleep again. He thought, 'I haven't got cancer. Probably bleeding gums or something.'
Despite the sun streaming in Turk felt cold, ill. He put on jeans, t-shirt and a polo neck jumper he'd worn winter. He wasn't hungry, the thought of food made him gag, he walked straight past the dining room. The doctor's was a five minute walk away along covered pavements to a tinted glass office block opposite the station. Table mountain was crisp and clear and looked flat against the blue morning sky, like a huge cardboard cut-out. Whenever he looked at it like this Turk thought that a big fake dinosaur looming from behind it would not look out of place.
*
Turk's cough embarrassed him in front of the pretty receptionist, he tried to suppress it but was reduced to silly gasps. He over-explained that he was one of SAF Marine's cadet officers and he felt unwell and needed to see the doctor - SAF Marine had given him the doctor's name and address when he'd arrived in Cape Town, at the briefing he and the other ten cadets had attended.
A stern doctor listened to his chest then to Turk's description of the previous night's haemoptysis. He sent him down one floor for an x-ray. Turk didn't have to wait long.
'You have TB,' said the doctor, holding up the x-ray and pointing to an area of lung that meant nothing to Turk.
Turk's mind faltered for a moment like an engine with fuel problems. 'How long ..?' He really thought he was going to die.
The doctor assured him, 'You'll cease to be contagious within twenty four hours.' He steepled his fingers, sat back in his chair. 'We'll give you some streptomycin then you'll have to go home. Rest. You will be fine. But it will take time.'
Turk sat with a myriad questions buzzing around his head but asked none of them.
'I'll inform Captain Richmond,' said the doctor. Captain Richmond was the fleet liaison officer. The doctor had stood and walked to the door. 'You wait out here. It shouldn't be long.'
It wasn't. Within an hour a car had picked Turk up and taken him back to the YMCA where he packed his bag and books. Within two hours he was on a plane to Jan Smuts Airport. Another car took him from there to Boksburg and on into the veldt and his family's wide white bungalow perched on a scrubby plain surrounded by nothing but horizon. Turk's mother stood, arms folded, watching the black car approach.
Turk got out into the red dust and blazing sun, still wearing his black polo neck jumper.
'Turk?' even his mother called him Turk. His given name was David, David Baker. He had fallen off the flat corrugated roof of Turkstra's Bakery when he was five years old and broken his leg. He hadn't chased lizards since but somehow the name Turkstra had stuck to him and had eventually become Turk.
His mother said, 'Turk, what's wrong?'
'I have TB.'
She burst into tears. 'Oh, my baby.' The car drove away down the red dirt road as she hugged her boy.
*
The regime was tedious. Pills in the morning, more pills in the evening, but worst of all, at 7am every morning, an injection of Streptomycin. Left cheek, right cheek; pretty nurse, ugly nurse; left cheek, right cheek. 'Which cheek today, my boy?' And bed rest. Boring bed rest. Lots of bed rest.
His mum clucked and fussed around him. His dad looked embarrassed, he'd always had trouble talking about illness, like it was a weakness on a par with kleptomania.
*
A month later and Turk was allowed back to Cape Town, back to college and back to the YMCA.
Everyone knew. People avoided him. The other cadets were sympathetic but didn't touch him. Didn't shake hands. He was given a single room at the YMCA. Tim had another roommate. Said, 'Hi,' and moved on.
During the day he sat alone in a class of eleven. In the evenings he stood by himself in a crowded 'play-room' at the YMCA watching the snooker and table tennis. Turk took to going out, walking the streets of Cape Town, down into district six, the notorious 'coloured' area filled with crime and shabeens - illegal drinking houses - hoping something would happen. But nothing did.
Up from Long Street where the old wooden YMCA building sat, was the Skyline Hotel. A bar, free disco, people he didn't know, who didn't know him. Turk could afford one brandy and coke. Make it last an hour or two, watch the girls. He sat, watching the couples sway to Je t'aime, when a familiar face appeared at the bar.
Turk recognised Owen Howell as one of the guys from the YMCA. He hadn't seen him since he'd got back. Hadn't had much to do with him before the TB. Played the odd game of snooker, never been out drinking with him. Owen was about twenty two, three years older than Turk. A 'man'.
Owen ordered a Castle lager, looked around the bar swigging from the bottle, saw Turk. He beamed and made his way through the crowd. 'There you are,' he shouted to be heard over the music, extended his hand. Turk stood and took Owen's had to shake it but Owen pulled Turk towards him and gave him a hug, slapping him on the back like a long lost brother. 'I've been looking for you.' Turk looked puzzled. 'Come with me.' Owen put down his beer and left. Turk followed him out.
In the cool night, getting onto the back of Owen's Triumph Bonneville, Turk asked, 'Where are we going?'
Owen answered by kicking the bike into life. What a glorious noise. Turk put his hands behind him and gripped the cold loop of chromed steel at his back as the bike surged out of the car park and onto the road.
Five minutes later Owen swooped onto the pavement in front of a whitewashed house in Sea Point, two streets up from the beach. Turk jumped off and looked at the single story house crowded into a gap between a 'cafe' - a small general store - and a two story affair surrounded by mature fig trees. Owen led the way through the unlocked front door down a long passageway with three rooms off to the right and into a linoleum floored kitchen with peeling yellow walls and a single table covered in unwashed plates. A naked light bulb, dangling from a twisted pair of ancient cabling, just managed to light the room. A fig tree poked its big leaves through the open window.
'Coffee?' asked Owen.
'Sure.'
'Quick will be back in a minute.'
'Quick?' Turk felt a slight unease. Owen was talking to him as if they had been childhood friends. Who or what was Quick?
'Quick. Les. You know him. Les Slow. Quick-quick. Hence, Quick.'
'Oh.' Turk remembered. Les Slow was a telephone engineer who had been staying at the YMCA. A good table tennis player. Not very bright but a good guy. Friendly. Big watery eyes. About the same age as Owen. Turk wondered if it was a cruel ironic nickname using the 'quick-quick slow' tag as cover.
Owen turned, folded his arms and looked at Turk. 'So ...'
Turk began to feel uncomfortable. What was he doing there? 'Yes ...' was all he could manage.
'I hear you got TB and now the bastards are treating you like a piece of shit.' Owen's words hung in the room like smog. The kettle popped and groaned. 'Noisiest kettle on the planet. You okay?'
'I umm ...'
'Listen,' began Owen, but he was cut off as Quick walked into the kitchen through the back door carrying a crate of bottles. He stopped short as he recognised Turk.
Quick said, 'David, right?'
'Ja.'
'You were sick, ne?'
'Still am. But not contagious.'
'Drink?' Quick motioned with his head to the crate we was holding. It was bottles of booze. Mostly beer but some spirits; brandy, gin, cane, tequila.
'Thanks.' Turk pulled out two bottles of castle lager and used one to pop the top off the other. Then he remembered the coffee, looked guiltily at Owen.
Owen flicked off the noisy kettle, grabbed a beer and removed the top by holding it against the metal edge of the cooker and hitting down with the palm of his hand. 'My place?' he said.
'Why not,' said Quick.
Owen led them back up the passageway to the front of the house and into his room. He had painted the walls in six inch wide vertical stripes of every conceivable colour. There was a large, messy double bed, a cabinet with a hi-fi, an impressive set of shelves full of LPs, a table covered in incense sticks and Rizzlers, and several large cushions scattered around the floor.
Les put down the box, pulled out a beer, took a bottle opener from his pocked, settled back on a large red cushion and let out a heavy sigh. 'Fuck,' he said. 'That's better.'
Turk made himself comfortable among other cushions as Owen chose an LP from his huge collection.
Owen slipped his selected record from its sleeve without touching its surface. He discarded the cover on top of the shelf and blew across first one surface, a dextrous spin of the record, blew across the other surface, then carefully onto the platter. Little finger raised the stylus arm and placed it lightly on the lead in groove to the tiniest of clicks from the twin speakers mounted on the wall either side of the bed.
Turk recognised it instantly; John Mayal, Fela Ransome Kuti, Africa 70. He said so.
Owen squatted and turned to his coffee table. He rolled a large joint using four Rizzlers with rolled piece of card torn from a cigarette packet as a filter.
A frisson of nervous energy made Turk's head shake for a couple of seconds. Should he ask why he was here? Why him? Did they feel sorry for him? Did it matter? He'd smoked dope a few times before. At home in Boksburg with friends, and in Durban with the other surfers. He recognised the tang of DP - Durban Poison - and inhaled to say so. But changed his mind. Not cool. Just chill.
Within five minutes, Turk was playing cushion bongos, Quick was playing the hairbrush harmonica while Owen favoured the air guitar.
*
Turk stayed the night. Quick had two single beds in his room - the second room along the long corridor. The third door was to the bathroom - white and green tiled with a massive Victorian bath, a wooden seated toilet, a chocolate brown basin and a mirror with half the silver missing.
In the morning, Owen gave Turk coffee and cornflakes, and asked him if he'd like to stay. Quick wouldn't mind sharing and it's half the price of the YMCA.
Turk couldn't say, 'no'. He wasn't sure but said, 'yes'.
Owen said, 'Good. I'll give you a lift.'
*
Turk had just one bag. He took it to college with him. They had 'Oscar' all day. Oscar was an attractive thirty-something female lecturer in Applied Mechanics. On their first day John Green had said, 'What's she called.' Tony Laaper had hissed back, 'Ask her' with a very strong Afrikaans accent. 'Oscar,' said John. 'Strange name for a woman.' And the name had stuck. She'd been exceptionally kind to Turk when he returned, offering to make herself available in the evenings so he could catch up. Turk declined.
*
Owen had a girlfriend, Janice. She was an honest-to-goodness model. Pictures of a her bottom in a pair of jeans were scattered around Cape Town's larger billboards. Turk could barely talk to her. His mind turned blank whenever she was around. Quick and Owen acted as if she was a normal person.
One Sunday morning, Turk was woken by something wet. Quick and Owen stood over his bed pouring champagne onto him. Turk sat up. The floor was covered in bottles. Bottles of booze. Hundreds of bottles of booze. And a surfboard. A long board. A cream beauty.
'The van's loaded,' said Owen. 'We're fucking off. Come on.'
'What?'
'Quick's van is loaded with the booze we couldn't fit in here - twice as much again in my dad's cellar - and we're off to Jo'burg. The long way.'
'I don't get it. Where did all this stuff come from?'
Quick explained while Owen went to collect some more of his records. Janice had dumped Owen. He and Quick had gone and got pissed. They'd ran up the fire escape of the Elizabeth hotel as a lark and found the top door open. The bar was unlocked. They'd spent half the night carrying booze down the stairs and decided to get out of Cape Town and go to Jo'burg and Turk was coming too, whether he wanted to or not.
'And the surfboard?'
'Owen knows you like to surf - he got it from somewhere.'
Turk was caught up in the exuberance of it. The just 'fucking off' of it. The navy had been his mother's idea anyway.
But what about the injections, his pills? 'I can't,' said Turk. 'I have the clinic every morning.'
Owen poked his head into the room. 'No problem - we'll go and pick up as much as you need. Come on. Let's go.'
*
Quick's van was an ancient beige Volkswagen panel van fitted with a tow-bar. A trailer carried Owen's beloved Triumph Bonneville. Turks surfboard was strapped to the roof-rack.
After the clinic visit, where a very put-out staff-nurse handed over enough streptomycin and syringes to keep Turk going for several weeks, they headed for the streets lining the lower seaward slopes of Lion's Head. In one of the brightly painted stucco bungalows, Mary and Frank were to have a party to celebrate five years of marriage and the sixth birthday of the twins Mango and Chutney.
Neither Quick nor Turk knew the happy couple. Owen knew Frank but never said from where.
It was early afternoon and already half a dozen bodies lay around the Indian themed lounge. The air was thick with dope and incense, Ella Fitzgerald played on an ever repeating record player.
Turk accepted a 'neck' from a bleary-eyed bearded stranger still holding his breath after a hit. A bottle neck had had a coiled silver-paper filter fitted in the 'pouring end' and then been stuffed with a mixture of marijuana and tobacco. The neck was turned into a smokable pipe by taking the bottle end between thumb and forefinger, resting it on the opposite palm and curling the fingers around to form a hole through which the smoke could be drawn in a single, lung-filling inhalation or 'hit'. Turk had seen this done, even practised a few times, this time it was for real. He'd had plenty of joints so what could he difference be? Turk placed his mouth against the hole made by his thumb and forefinger gripping the bottle and inhaled as deeply has he could. He held his breath, fighting the urge to cough, let the thick, sweet, blue smoke out slowly through his mouth and nose. He passed the neck along to his other neighbour, felt his eyes drying, a peace settle over his mind, thirsty. Owen was talking to Frank, Quick was nowhere to be seen, Mary sat on Frank's knee. A dizziness came over Turk, a slight nausea, nothing he couldn't handle. Very dry throat. What was everyone saying? Ella told Turk she saw his face in every flower, his eyes in stars above.
The stranger who had handed him the neck was looking at him and nodding sagely. Turk settled back. Someone turned on a light. It lit up the smoke huddled against the ceiling. Ella sang, her voice mingled with the blue clouds, strands of melody followed strands of smoke. A joint came by. Sweet and mouth-watering. Ella sang. Another joint.
Quick stood laughing at Turk, saluting with a bottle of beer. He said something Turk didn't understand. Quick took a swig of beer from the bottle, spilled some down his chin, jumped back, annoyed at getting his shirt wet. The way his arse stuck out made Turk laugh. Uncontrollable, stomach aching, lung busting laughter. Quick gestured at Turk, a two fingered jerk that made more beer slosh out of the open bottle. Turk rolled on his back, holding his ribs, 'No, no, stop.' Quick saw the humour in the situation and smiled, shaking his head.
Turk's laughing subsided as he lay on his back on the floor. A hand gently lifted his head. He realised he had his head on someone's lap. He looked up into a pair of blue eyes. It was Janice, Owen's girlfriend, the model. 'You are so gorgeous. But you already know that.'
'And you are stoned.'
'I know. Hey, what are you doing here? What about you and Owen?' The back of Turk's head pressed down on Janice's thigh. One of her hands cupped his cheek, the other rested lightly on his chest. He became aware he might get an erection so raised a knee.
'We can still be friends, can't we?' Janice stressed the first 'we'.
Turk felt brave. 'You've hardly said two words to me before. Are you trying to make him jealous?'
Janice laughed. 'With you? You're just a boy.'
'And you're just a girl.'
'I'm twenty-two.'
'Only three years older.'
'An age.'
Turk closed his eyes. 'An age,' he echoed. Janice stroked his cheek.
*
Words were cracking the seal, breaking in, smashing through. Turk woke, heavy head, dry mouth. Something pushed his side. His head rested on something harder than a thigh. Janice?
'Come on sleeping beauty.' It was Owen. 'Lets go for a walk.'
Turk struggled to his feet. The room was filled with smoke and blurred people. He followed Owen. Outside was crisp and cool, the sky black and starry. A familiar dry cough hurt his ribs.
Owen held a yellow pill in his palm, said, 'Take this.'
Turk took the pill, struggled to swallow it, it wouldn't be cool to ask what it was before taking it. 'What is it?' he asked.
'Something to wake you up.'
Apprehension poked Turk in the stomach. 'Okay.'
They walked in silence. Owen's stride was long and purposeful. Turk watched the ground slide underneath him. Owen stopped him at crossings. Urged him on and round corners. As his lungs were starting to get sore a wooden gate blocked Turk's path. He looked up. They were back at Frank and Mary's house. Ella had been given a break. The Doobie Brothers' Long Train Running played through open windows, the sound muffled by smoke and bodies. They'd been for a walk, just a walk. Owen was looking after him.
Turk sat on the stairs to the stoop while Owen went inside. Quick plopped himself down beside Turk.
'So,' said Quick. There was a long pause while he collected his thoughts. 'Is there a world record, a Guinness Book thing for the number of times ...' Quick belched. '... a guy gets knocked back in a single evening?'
Someone knocked the record player and silence fell like an anvil from a tree. A rich, bubbling fart sounded from inside the house. 'Dear God,' said a male voice. The house erupted with laughter. Quick held his stomach and silently convulsed. Turk stood, looked into the windows, people were laughing uncontrollably, joints, pipes and drinks held steady. His place in his head came into sharp focus, he was in his skull, observing the world, and the world was laughing. All the world except him. This had happened before. While watching It's A Mad Mad Mad Mad World at the bioscope in Boksburg: halfway through, Turk had realised the whole cinema was in an uproar, all except him. He'd looked round at the contorted faces, Hogarthian, caricatures, a waking nightmare, a thesaurus of expressions of amusement: people giggled, tittered, sniggered, snickered, chuckled, horse laughed, belly laughed, guffawed ... and he alone watched them, quietly.
Turk sat down on the step, put his forearms on his knees, bent his head and fell asleep.
He awoke fully in bright sunshine, sand between his toes. Images swam into his mind: he'd been almost carried - Owen on one side and Quick on the other - back to the van where they'd placed him in the back. He'd dozed through a bumpy drive and stumbled out onto a beach. He'd been given a sleeping bag which he'd slept on top of.
Turk squinted against the sun. Quick smiled back. He was frying something over a small gas stove. The smell made saliva spring into Turks mouth. Bacon.
Revived, Turk at last realised where they were: Long Beach. Down the point from Cape Town. There was a light offshore breeze, a gentle swell made long six feet waves peel from right to left. One after the other, a procession of perfection.
Turk stood to get a better view. His throat tightened, his heart rose in his chest. Owen appeared from the other side of the van, under one arm the surfboard, in the other hand a syringe.
'Really?' said Turk, eyeing the syringe.
'Which cheek, big boy,' said Owen. Turk took off his t-shirt, dropped his pants, pulled his khaki baggies out of his bag then, before pulling on the swimming shorts, offered his left cheek to Owen.
'Not bad,' said Turk, stepping into his baggies then taking the surfboard.
Owen smiled and joined Quick who sat in a collapsible chair facing the ocean. 'Go,' said Owen. 'Go surf.'
Turk felt his eyes moisten and turned quickly and, with board under arm, jogged towards the waves. He was out of breath when he got there then almost exhausted when he'd battled through to the calm beyond the breakers. Though not a long-board, Turk found this new one a little too long to duck-dive under the breakers, he'd had to turtle-roll which is a lot more tiring. Sitting astride the board, getting his strength back, Turk could see the van with Quick and Owen sat watching him. Behind them, grey and green hills rose to a perfect blue sky. The beach stretched for a full mile to his right. Deserted.
Turk turned to face away from shore: his eye immediately drawn to one swell among many that were heading towards him. He knew that was the one: lie down and paddle, feel the first swell, use the forward pitch to help gain speed, paddle harder, second, tempting but let it go, here it comes, paddle harder, chest hurts, paddle, that's it, the back of the board was rising, wind on his forehead, extra hard two-handed paddle, grab the board, it's peeling on my left, pop-up onto feet, too slow, step forward, need more wax, pitch down, pick it, up, lean right, balance, speed, cut up, trail that hand, along the wall, the board clung beautifully, slash the top of the wave sending a peacock fan of water into the air. Jesus man, nothing in the world feels like that ... and the wave seemed to go on forever. He'd out-run the peel by yards so dug in and cutback towards the breaking wave, then cutback again to race away from the crashing foam, step forward, arms up, make like The Cross, eyes closed head back, feel it die on the slowly shelving beach, sit down.
Turk's chest hurt, his head pounded, his mind was in heaven.
That's enough for now. Turk walked slowly back up the beach dragging the board.
'Bloody hell, man' shouted Owen, when he was close enough. 'You can really surf.'
Quick was applauding. 'Level, ou'kerrel.'
Turk collapsed on the sand. 'Fucking brilliant,' he said.
Spluttering engines could be heard out of sight behind the van. Two beach buggies - converted Volkswagen Beetles - pulled up alongside.
'There goes the neighbourhood,' said Owen.
There were four guys in each buggy with boards strapped to the roll bars. They jumped out, already in baggies, and threw their t-shirts into their respective buggies. A moment of chaos while they struggled to untie the boards. Seven set off for the water immediately and one hung back. 'How's it,' he said. 'What's the water like?'
Turk called back, 'Ace.'
The stranger grinned, waved, then set off after his friends.
Quick said, 'You know, they filmed part of Ryan's Daughter round here somewhere.'
Owen said, 'Noordhoek Beach.'
'That's right,' said Quick. 'A bar would be great up there.' He tossed his head in the direction of the dunes. 'Just where the dunes start. A small bar. Bottled beer, spirits, wine.'
'Sounds good,' said Owen.
Turk squinted into the distance. 'Ja,' he said. 'One of those outside generators should do the trick. Little petrol job for the fridge and lights at night. What about a toilet?'
'Dig a hole,' said Owen. 'Something like that.'
'Snacks,' said Quick. 'Chips - or maybe fresh fish.'
'Sounds ace to me,' said Turk standing up. 'I'm off for another dip.'
Owen and Quick watched Turk jog to the water carrying his surfboard.
'Where did you get that board from anyway? Asked Quick.
'One of Frank's Australian friends. He was just passing through and left his board. I thought, why not.'
'Should he be doing that? He's very sick you know.'
Owen sat forward, shaded his eyes. 'Life's short,' he said. 'Let the boy play.' He watched Turk paddle through the surf and sit among the others bobbing on the swells. 'Anyway, what would you need to start a bar up there?'
'Need?' asked Quick.
The question was interrupted by the roar of another beach buggy engine. Janice pulled up beside the other two cars. She had three friends with her. The two girls in the back were standing, resting their arms on the roll bar, shading their eyes, looking out to the boys just starting to catch waves.