He stood at the door, an old brown suitcase in his hand.
The first knock on the door did not register with Nigel, busy in his office with plans for their upcoming safari. He heard it the second time though, loud and urgent. Rising to see who it was, he opened the door to find an old man in a brown suit and fedora hat. He was not as tall as Nigel himself, thin and rangy, and when he removed his hat, his receding hair, wet with sweat, clung to his skull. His hat held to his chest with his left hand, he offered his right hand to Nigel in greeting.
“Hello, I’m Uncle Tom? May I come in, its quite warm outside”
“Come in please, put your suitcase here in the corner. Would you like some tea?”
“Yes please, that would be lovely, I’ve had to walk the last four blocks to get here.”
Nigel ushered him into the lounge, offered him a seat and went off to brew a pot of tea. Calling from the kitchen.
“Normal tea or rooibos Uncle Tom?”
“Normal will be good, thank you.”
Returning to the lounge with a tray and cups, he set it down on the low table, examining the visitor closely but surreptitiously, handing him a steaming cup.
“Bridget didn’t say anything about your visit, Uncle Tom, is she expecting you?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I am so sorry to catch you unawares, but my situation has become quite difficult, and I need some help.”
“How can we help?”
“Well, you see, I came to Cape Town to visit our cousin, but she has been unexpectedly called away for a funeral, so I am left with no accommodation until she returns. I hesitate to ask, but can you help me for a few days?”
“Of course, Uncle Tom, we’ve got a spare room ready made up for guests. You are welcome to use it.”
“Thank you, I really appreciate your help. I cannot go back to my niece in Bloemfontein until they return from their holiday, and I have not been able to contact our other cousin in George recently. I hope I am not imposing on you.”
“Of course not, you are most welcome.”
Bridget would only return after five, if she was able to complete her edit by then, so Nigel entertained their guest until she arrived.
“You live in Bloemfontein then, Uncle Tom.”
“Only visiting my niece there. I returned from overseas three months ago to visit my brother, but he passed away several years ago.”
“You’ve been away for several years then?”
“Nearly forty years. This is only my third visit in all those years.”
“Good heavens, excuse me for asking, but where have you been all that time?”
“I have travelled the world, from North Pole to South Pole, around the equator and back again.”
“Amazing, you must have many stories to tell. Please share some with us while you are here.”
“It will be my pleasure, but I am afraid to bore you or keep you from your work.”
“Not at all, we don’t have much pressing business at the moment. Please tell me how your journey started. Bridget and I love travel.”
It began when he was eighteen, he explained. Leaving school, he joined the railways as a porter and steward. Offered an opportunity to learn to be a chef, he grasped it. In those early days of slow travel, a dining car always accompanied long distance trains. He asked.
“Do you know how and when the Blue Train started?” Shaking his head negatively, Nigel asked him to tell the story.
Uncle Tom told him that when Parliament was split between Pretoria and Cape Town, many parliamentarians had to either drive, fly or travel between the cities by train. Dr Verwoerd preferred to go by train because it gave him a chance to discuss matters with his staff and other members who travelled with him. Special coaches and a dining salon had to be provided. Uncle Tom was a chef on this train for two years. The railways could not allow them to stand idle for many months, so they offered the public presidential quality, at an exorbitant rate. It became so popular that it was made a regular scheduled journey, two days to Cape Town, a day in the city, and two days return, and vice versa. It became known as the Blue Train.
“Did you meet the President?”
“Of course, at the end of every journey, he personally thanked every staff member, shaking our hands and complimenting us on our service.”
“Amazing. And what did you do after that, when you left?”
“I walked from Joburg, Vereeniging actually, to Cape Town. It took me two years.”
“Why? I mean, not the time, but the reason.”
Uncle Tom told Nigel that growing tired of public service, he decided to backtrack the old Voortrekker (Dutch Settlers exodus from the Cape) route. Not on tar roads, he preferred the gravel and dirt roads that wound their way through many small towns and villages. Sometimes he had to walk, sleep under the stars, but more often he was welcomed into farmhouses and peoples’ homes, relying on his story of the Blue Train to repay his hosts. They loved it, often pressing him to stay a while longer and tell their friends the story. Often, he was taken by car to the next village where he had to begin again. This was why it took so long.
“And after you reached Cape Town, what did you do?”
“I worked there as a chef for six months then I walked, rode and travelled to Walvis Bay and Windhoek in Namibia, going far north to the Caprivi Strip. That took me three years. I reached Windhoek only a month before my twenty-third birthday and returned there two years later.”
He told of his journey, the many stops he still recalled, the places he worked and his experiences. After two days sleeping in the dunes north of Walvis Bay, he came across a fishing camp. The tents and huge braai laager (barbeque boma) were full of weekend fishermen, enjoying this unique West Coast tradition. As he walked in, a fisherman arrived with a 45 kg (96 pound) musselcracker, dumping it on a table, demanding that the chef cook it for the whole camp. Eying it carefully, he stated that even in this boma, it was an impossible task. Uncle Tom told him scornfully that it was not only possible, but he would make it the most memorable meal the visitors had ever eaten. Accepting the challenge, the chef, barely trained and with little experience, handed him the fish, telling him to go ahead. It was, even on his own admission, the best fish he had ever cooked and eaten. What made it memorable, were the many side dishes he provided. One of the guests, a game lodge owner from many miles away scooped him up and took him home to be his head chef. He stayed at the game lodge only three months before setting off once again for Windhoek. His reputation as a chef preceded him.
His stay in Namibia terminated with an almost fatal attack of malaria after spending three months in the Caprivi Strip. One of his many recollections of this trip as chef to the diamond mining magnates, was the day he was pressured into shooting a Gemsbok (Oryx). One shot through the head saw it fall dead. Only afterwards did he mourn it’s passing with the Bushmen trackers who accompanied the safari. He shared with them the praise ritual for this magnificent, proud and hardy desert dweller. He swore never again to harm another beautiful beast of God.
A severe bout of malaria nearly ended his travels and life. Two months of convalescence persuaded him to return home to his family. The journey by train was fully paid for by his employers. It took four days, including a day travelling through Botswana, his first and only time in that country.
The sound of Bridget’s car pulling into the garage halted his discourse. Nigel hurried to meet her in the kitchen as she entered. Holding his finger to his lips and signalling her to retreat, he told her briefly that they had an unexpected guest. Whispering, Bridget asked who it was. Nigel told her quietly that it was Uncle Tom, who needed a place to stay for a few days. He added that in just a few hours, he had concluded that Uncle Tom was the most amazing man he had ever met. Buoyed by this assurance, she returned inside to meet him.
“Bridget, this is Uncle Tom.”
“Pleased to meet you Uncle Tom, and welcome to our humble abode. I hope Nigel has looked after you in my absence.”
“Most certainly, my dear, and it is a pleasure to meet you. I have heard so much about you since my return to the country.”
“Thank you, Uncle Tom, I’m sure it is all exaggeration, I’m just a working girl plying her trade. Nigel, the tea is old and cold. Offer Uncle Tom some coffee before he thinks we are savages.”
A fresh pot of coffee brewed and they sat together in the lounge. Uncle Tom’s stories were briefly reviewed by Nigel. He nodded his head with approval as he did so. When Nigel ended his precis, Uncle Tom resumed. His tales were only halted for a few minutes when Bridget heated a frozen Macaroni Cheese dish in the microwave for supper.
This was the prelude to many, many days and nights of Uncle Tom’s stories. Neither of his listeners ever doubted their voracity, told in such earnest and modest terms.
They learned that he stayed only briefly in his home city before heading off for Port Elizabeth where he boarded a ship bound for Portsmouth, working his passage to that city. There he found another vessel bound for New York. He worked for a bookmaker, a hotel and an amusement park, and saved enough cash to cross the country to San Francisco. That journey took another six months. Working his way south after several months in San Francisco, he spent another seven months travelling as far south as San Diego. Las Vegas in Texas attracted him. A good win on the slot machines allowed him to board the Great North Railroad to Detroit and the Great Lakes. There he worked on board the cruise ships that plied the lakes as chef and deck hand. His gift as an entertainer became locally famous. Telling his audiences of his travels in amusing anecdotes, he was in high demand.
As his stay extended to weeks and then a month, Nigel and Bridget never missed an opportunity to encourage him to talk. He did this willingly and with great enthusiasm.
Not long after his appearance, Bridget screened her documentary of the Bushmen of the Namib. He watched entranced, having spent months working with them as trackers. When the documentary ended, he sat in silence for several minutes before commenting.
“Wonderful Bridget, I think you captured them perfectly, their way of life and their folklore. No wonder you got a Pulitzer Prize for it.”
“An Emmy, Uncle Tom.”
“Well, I think you should have got a Noble Prize too.”
“They don’t give awards for film makers Uncle Tom.”
“One thing I’d like to know about that mythical pan. Did the lake fill first from the borehole, or did the rain fill it?”
“Both, when we drilled the borehole through the volcanic cap, it released the pressure, and the water came rushing out. The rains inland had filled the aquafers and as it seeped down, the pan began to fill. The rains did come soon after and the river came down in flood, filling it.”
“So, the Bushman folklore was right, if the pan has water, the rains will follow, and it will be a good season. I hope you didn’t confuse them with the technicalities.”
“No, we didn’t. We left them assured that they were absolutely right.”
“The flowers are amazing. Nothing for months, years, and then just days after the rains, millions of them in all their glory.”
“Just as amazing was the arrival of the birds and game within days of the pan beginning to fill. You saw the elephants come over the lip and plunge into the water, cavorting like little kids. They were last seen hundreds of miles north, arriving just two days after the pan flooded. How did they know?”
“Yes, Mother Nature poses many questions that we mere humans have no answer for.”
After this showing, Uncle Tom often sat quietly in her office, listening as she wrote up and rehearsed her voice overs. One day as she struggled to get the right information and tone while doing an insert on the scarab beetle, she glanced over at him. He gave a slight negative nod. Spinning her chair to face him, she read over it again, asking for his opinion.
“People don’t want to hear about the six legs, antennae the exoskeleton and all the scientific stuff, they want to know what it does, how it survives the heat and how it lives.”
Tearing off the page, she began writing again. Calling it the Tok Tok beetle, she used the name derived from its habit of knocking its rump on the ground to call others of its kind. She told the viewers that when the sun and heat become unbearable, it dives a few inches into the sand on a slope away from the sun. In doing so, the temperatures experienced are six to eight degrees cooler. Turning to him again and reading the text, he nodded his head, indicating his approval. After that, she frequently used him as a sounding post, waiting for his approval. She was amazed at his vocabulary and his grasp of English, telling Nigel that it far exceeded her own which she had always regarded as very good.
As the weeks extended to months and he became a part of the furniture, the home atmosphere became increasingly relaxed, He was never under foot or in the way. He often cooked fantastic dinners, relieving Bridget of that task. One she did not relish. He woke early, 5.30 am, but never disturbed them. He enjoyed a morning walk or sitting on the back veranda as the sun rose. He waited for signs of their wakening and boiled the kettle. A pot of steaming coffee was ready in the kitchen as they came through at 6.30.
He continued with his stories when they were not busy, amusing them with unusual anecdotes, just as he had done as an entertainer. He was very good, extremely interesting and never appeared to forget the minutest details of his past. They could only wonder at a mind that retained so much information, retrieving it at will.
Places, names, even the faces of the people he had met were kept in his mind. Bridget once checked on his geography when he told them of his stay in Nepal. Not only were the names of places, sequentially spoken of, correct, but the approximate distances between towns were accurate. Recounting his view of the great peaks, he listed them in exactly the order they would be seen from Katmandu. He did not mix up even one of the towns and cities in India as he described his amazing three-year journey over the mountains and through India to Rajasthan. The way he travelled, the difficulties and joys experienced, all had such meaning, such clarity.
As his stay extended to two months, Bridget and Nigel became concerned. In just two weeks, they must leave for their commissioned safari.
“Nigel, what are we going to do, we can’t just kick him out and he can’t stay here alone for several months. We’ll have to broach the subject after supper tonight,”
“He’s your uncle, you will have to tell him Bridget.”
“My uncle? He’s your uncle, you said so when you introduced me to him.”
“I did not. I said, this is Uncle Tom. He mentioned your work and fame when he arrived, so I assumed he was your uncle.”
They stared at each other for minutes and broke into a fit of laughter.
“You know, Bridg, we never actually did confirm how he is related. My family are all in Kenya, so I automatically assumed he was your uncle.”
“Well, I really thought you knew him, the way you spoke. The friendship you already had when I came home. Nige, does it really matter. I don’t know how or why he came here but he’s our uncle, always will be.”
“Yes Bridg, you’re right, he’s our uncle. Let’s not let on we know, okay?”
Bridget wanted to cry. How could they summarily evict such a sweet old man, leave him stranded and alone.
The dinner was once again superb. They sat in the lounge as he prepared it, reciting the ingredients from memory, checking the quantities. Smiling at his methods, nodding to each other as he ticked off each ingredient, it was amusing. Mumbling to himself, barely audible from the lounge, they heard him say.
“Right, meat on top, cover with light foil, vegetables below, cover with tin tray. Sauces, sauces, lightly done in the frying pan then rapidly brazed in a skillet for two minutes, add a drop of red wine and sprinkle cheese over when done. Broccoli, cauliflower, white sauce done, add and brown under the grill for two minutes. Right, I think that is it.”
“Dinner will be served in five minutes, ladies and gentlemen.”
Strangely, dinner was eaten in a foreboding silence. No one seemed to want to talk much. Even Uncle Tom who was usually quite vocal after preparing a meal. Sharing a bottle of light white wine did not lighten the mood. With the dishes packed in the washer, the three of them retired to the lounge, taking their wine with them. Nigel glanced at Bridget, coughed to clear his throat and asked Uncle Tom.
“Any word from your cousin here Uncle Tom?”
“No, now that you mention it, I don’t know if she is back. I left her a message to call me, I hope her neighbours gave it her.”
“What about your cousin in George, have you contacted her?”
“No, I’ve been putting it off, actually. Why Nigel, is there a problem?”
“Uncle Tom, Bridget and I must leave in two weeks for our safari. You can stay on here, that is not a problem, but you will be alone. We could contact a good friend and ask him to take you in while we’re away.”
“No, you have been so accommodating and hospitable. I cannot ask you for anything more. I will contact Enid in George tomorrow and if she does not reply, I will go back to Bloemfontein.”
“Uncle Tom, can I help you to send a message to Enid. It is so easy if you have her number. Even if you don’t, I can look it up.”
“That would be splendid Bridget, I will really appreciate it.”
“Well, let’s see what tomorrow brings, then we can decide Uncle Tom.”
Setting everything else aside, Bridget called Uncle Tom into the lounge after breakfast. He showed her his phone, an ancient small-screen model. She checked the charge and flicked to messaging; there were no new messages. Opening contacts, she found nothing.
“Uncle Tom, do you have Enid’s number?”
“Here,” he said, handing her a scrappy bit of paper. It was written in perfect italic script,
ENID BAINES-CLARKE, 27 HELDERBERG STREET, GEORGE, 2770. 086 626 8839
She thought about dialling the number, but for some unknown reason, decided to send an SMS.
Uncle Tom dictated the message.
My Dear Enid, I am presently in Cape Town with two delightful friends. I wish to come and visit you at your convenience. Love and best regards, Your cousin Thomas.
Minutes later the reply came through.
Is that really you Tom, I haven’t seen you for 40 years. Where have you been, Grace said you went to America.
Yes it is I, my dear, returned from my travels after nearly 40 years. Can I come and visit you?
Of course. My husband Jack, who you probably never met, died two years ago, so I will welcome your company. How will you travel and when.
By Bus, I suppose. When can I come?
Whenever you like. Can I get a ticket for you? There is a delightful little bus that travels to George every day. It is quite fast, so if you leave at 8 am, you will be here by 4 pm. I will meet you at the terminus. Are you alone.
Thank you, Enid, may God bless you. I am alone, as always, and can leave tomorrow morning. Will that be suitable?
I look forward to your visit with eager anticipation Tom. I will book your ticket and send you the code shortly.
Uncle Tom, for the first time since his arrival, had tears in his eyes as he repeated his words to Enid. May God bless you. Wiping away the tears, he turned to Bridget.
“After 40 years she still remembers me. Amazing. We were very close once, long ago, her and her sister Evelyn. I am delighted she will have me. Our problem is solved Bridget. I cannot thank you enough. God bless you too, and Nigel.” Bridget also shed a tear, happy that Uncle Tom would be safe with his cousin.
Bridget and Nigel drove Uncle Tom to the bus depot in the city. His ticket confirmed, they stood by the door of the small twenty-seater commuter bus, not yet pressed to bid farewell.
An elderly lady stood nearby, waiting her turn to board. Uncle Tom, stepping aside, offered her his arm to assist her.
“Here my dear, allow me to assist you, the step is quite high.”
“Thank you. Are you also travelling to George?”
“Yes, we shall be companions on the journey.”
Uncle Tom was already making friends before the bus even departed. His case stored in the trailer, it was time to say goodbye.“My dear Bridget and Nigel, how can I ever thank you for your hospitality and friendship. I cannot express how wonderful my stay with you has been. I have seldom experienced life in a loving home, filled with compassion and such dedication, such commitment.”
“Uncle Tom, you have filled our lives with your stories, your incredible journeys. Please record them for the many others who will find so much pleasure and interest. Promise me you will do it Uncle Tom.” Bridget had tears streaming down her cheeks as she spoke.
“Yes, my dear, I will try. And Nigel, look after this lovely lady, she is so special.”
“I will do that Uncle Tom. May your journey go on for many more years, adding new adventures and stories. You have kept us enthralled with them during your stay.”
They hugged him, Bridget reluctant to let him go. He turned and boarded the bus, finding a seat next to the lady he had helped. Bridget and Nigel watched as he introduced himself, knowing that she was in for the most interesting journey of her life. Uncle Tom seemed to exude that friendly nature, an opening that allowed him to tell his stories.
He waved to them as the bus drove away, standing in the isle until it was out of view. They waved back, watching him disappear. He had touched their lives as few others had done. His memory may fade, but he will never be forgotten.
Nearly a year later, the doorbell rang. Opening the door, Bridget saw a sight she could not believe.
“A postman, a real postman. I don’t believe it, you must be the last of your kind.”
“Yes ma’am, I think so.”
“What have you got for me, Mr Postman.”
“Letter, special delivery. The Postmaster said it looks very important, told me to deliver it by hand.” Digging into his leather satchel, he produced the letter and handed it to her, asking her to sign for it. Bridget thanked him, sending him on his way with a bottle of cold water on this hot day.
“Nigel, we’ve got a letter, from Australia, I think. Come quickly.”
They studied the envelope carefully. Their name and address were handwritten in perfect italic script, precise and neat. No return address on the reverse. Opening it carefully, they took out a foolscap page, also handwritten in the same precise manner. Glancing at the end, Bridget excitedly told Nigel.
“It’s from Uncle Tom, look. He’s in Australia. Let’s sit and read it together.”
Campbeltown, New South Wales, Australia. 20th October
My dear Bridget and Nigel
As you will see, I am writing to you from Australia. Enid and I are visiting her grandson and his family here. They have a lovely farm with cattle, sheep and horses, grow wheat and canola. We arrived here a month ago and plan to stay for three months before going on to her sister in Auckland, New Zealand. It is wonderful meet the family and see new territory again.
We sailed from Port Elizabeth on the ocean liner White Star, stopping off at the Canary Islands before berthing in Marseilles to take on new passengers. A few days later we sailed through the Suez Canal (not as impressive as the Panama Canal) to Sydney, with many stops on the way. What luxury, better than anything I have experienced in all my travels. I had many interested listeners as I told my stories to the recorder. I much prefer speaking to people.
Gail, our hostess, made an interesting discovery. The Baines family genealogy website has my name in it, BAINES Thomas Edgar, born 28/4/1946 Bloemfontein, South Africa. Can you believe it? Apparently, I am a direct descendant of Thomas Baines, a well-known explorer and artist in South Africa, and even here in Australia. I knew that travel and adventure run in my veins.
A young man from Cambridge University was very excited when he heard about me, becoming almost ecstatic when I informed of my travels. He wants to write a book about me. Imagine that. We sent him some of the recordings I did on board the ship and he has promised to write them up and send them to us. Early in the morning I tell my stories to the sheepdogs, I think they understand. In the evenings the family listen, but not as attentively as you did.
Ah, my dear friends, when I think back on all the hardships, the struggles I endured for so many years, I find my present existence very comfortable and reassuring. I wonder if it is justified. Without hardship, does life have any meaning? Still, Enid says it is my reward. Her husband left her a fortune, and now she has also been bitten by the adventure bug, but not in the manner I am accustomed to. She has a preference for comfort.
May you, too, enjoy your adventures and your film making. The family here have looked up your documentaries and are very impressed. I am grateful and proud to have known you and shared a small part of your life.
Kind regards and best wishes
Uncle Tom.
The letter and envelope are framed and hang in our lounge, a reminder of dear Uncle Tom who will always be our uncle.