25April1998

Saturday, 25 April 1998: Another lovely day
My dear folks,

There's a different feel about the Witbank Benson household on a Saturday morning. Bren still gets up fairly early as he goes to fetch one of his company employees who spends the day in the garden. Micaela will sleep in if she gets the chance, something for which - like music & horse-riding - she has a gift. Other guests do so at their own risk for Brendan loves nothing more than to fling open their doors & order the dogs to wake them up. The dogs need little encouragement. They bound into the room & leap upon the bed where Rose (the Rotweiler) cavorts while Lily (the Dalmatian) does some face licking & ear nibbling. Since they're both heavyweights, it's not an experience easily to be forgotten. The dogs love the weekends too for it's their only real chance to spend any time with their humans.

There are two modes of dog behaviour, one when Bren's at home; the other when he's away. Both dogs acknowledge him as the undisputed master of the house. They know exactly which tone of voice spells trouble & how much. Both have mastered to the millisecond how long they have to spend lying down - at his instruction - before they can safely move again. He doesn't allow his dogs to beg at the table or relax on the furniture. Micaela tolerates a more lenient regime, one that Lily especially prefers. It means that she can lie on the sofa with her head resting on the armrest while she watches proceedings. The sound of a car in the driveway has her leaping across the room where she balances on the armrest & back of the opposite sofa in order to peer through the curtains. She's so bright, it's scary. Unlike Rose, Lily has been known to steal from time to time. A tray of pies disappeared one day & there was little doubt about the thief, especially as Lily gets conscience-stricken & the family immediately know what she's been up to. It's just a matter of establishing what's missing.

Bren still goes across to the office of his company, FGM, on a Saturday to let in a book-keeper. Until recently, he had a secretary who did the books but she departed under a cloud. He was pleased to see the back of her as relations had become frayed but less pleased to go through the books afterwards & discover why she'd resigned. Brendan's language at the office is frequently colourful but on this occasion it hit the deep purple register. I was with him at the time, so I know. In fact, I've spent two mornings helping him to sort out his end-of-month accounts. This is a fractious business as the phone interrupts his labours almost as much as people do - & it's hard to concentrate. What's more, finding the appropriate files & invoices is frequently time-consuming. My heart went out to his unfortunate assistant - the young & immensely willing Deric - who bore the brunt of Brendan's frustration.

FGM, I ought to say, occupies some two acres on a site which backs on to the motorway. Affixed to the high, electrically controlled gate are various signs discouraging callers. One reads: "No pedlars, agents, salesmen or other such pests." There is no bell at the gate. When I asked Brendan how visitors announced their arrival, he said they hooted. (I'd had to climb over the wall after arriving on my bicycle one day & failing to attract attention!) There are two air-conditioned porta-cabins on the property. Brendan has his offices in one which he shares with a foreman. In the other live the accounts, the files & the long-suffering Deric. The secretary's departure has meant there's a vacant desk there. Behind this desk is a mini-kitchen with a few cupboards, sink, fridge & dish-washer. Outside, beyond the dying flowers & the array of cigarette butts that Brendan hurls through the open door, is a washroom. There are half a dozen sheds & garages fringing the property - filled with plant machinery. At a central open workshop, labourers are busy painting, cutting & welding hundreds of metal bars for the stone-dust barriers & stoppings required underground.

Covered parking is provided for half a dozen vehicles. Most of the time, it's occupied by assorted bakkies. The alarm company that Brendan employs has installed various beams that are triggered by anyone entering the property. Until they did so, break-ins were frequent, in spite of the huge (& terrifying) rotweiler that used to guard it. Attempted break-ins have continued but have all been frustrated by the prompt arrival of security guards. The company, Winning Alarms, is really good. Bren had no sooner arrived at FGM last weekend than the company rang to check on his right to be there. A couple of check-calls followed during the day. Similarly, when his home alarm has gone off accidentally - last time when Lily's wagging tail whacked a sensitive window - there's just been time to make it to the phone for the inevitable check call. Security is big business & little wonder. The pages of the newspapers are filled with an endless round of brutal murders & robberies. FGM's uncompromising view on this is announced from the notice-board in one of the porta-cabins: "If you steal something from FGM, we hope you die."

I have cycled across to FGM each day from Plumer Street where Brendan's house is situated in one of the older parts of town. It's a comfortable 30 minute ride through the suburbs. The first day took me 90 mins but that was my own fault. The streets are wide & free of the vehicles that line both sides of the road in London. Cycling here is a joy by comparison, especially in the sunshine we've basked in all week. There's a footbridge over the freeway that enables cyclists to avoid the worst of the main roads. School pupils & the occasional black were my only fellow cyclists. Few whites walk anywhere. Car travel is the norm. The nearby down-town area is very black. Parking is limited & the fear of crime is highest there. So most white shoppers head for the several big shopping centres that dot the suburbs. These all have guards, some well armed. Security elsewhere is lighter.

Down at the Nelspruit shopping centre where Bren has his restaurant, it is negligible & a source of constant concern to restaurant staff - as incidents are frequent. The restaurant managers go armed, in spite of protests of the centre manager, a woman, with whom Brendan has had a couple of heated exchanges. He is livid about the lack of security & is not a person to hide his feelings. He's told the manager that if Conal is attacked as a result of security failings, he - Brendan - is coming after her. I suspect that she will be as relieved at the Bensons' departure from Nelspruit as they will be themselves.

During my cycle expeditions here in Witbank, I have been fascinated by the acres of sports grounds to be found all over the town with hardly a soul on them. The luxury of space just isn't appreciated. The churches, dotted about the suburbs, are big business. This gets Brendan's goat as a syndicate which milked FGM of large sums of money was made up of some of the area's more prominent church goers & elders.

Brendan had hoped to take Micaela horse riding on Friday p.m. but found himself tied up so I went in his place. It's an hour up the motorway to the outskirts of Pretoria where Micaela stables her mare - which is just old enough to be ridden - & takes lessons from a leading teacher. I watched Micaela riding for the best part of an hour. She's a splendid horsewoman & made the exercise look effortless - at least until the horse she was riding suddenly refused to take a jump & threw her rider. Micaela landed on her face on the wooden beams of the jump, suffering grazes & bruises. I thought she was a hospital case but, after recovering from the fall, she resumed the lesson & jumped the horse over the same jump half a dozen times.

Last night, I took her, a friend of hers & Bren to dinner at the best restaurant in town - our thanks to Mum; it was a fitting way to wind up the week. Bren has shot up to Johannesburg today. Sunday we go down to Nelspruit before I fly back to London in the evening.