Partly fact but mostly fiction...
Shit! Fuck! Bloody damnit! I pulled the old car off the road into the dirt; dust and stones flying. The car behind me hooted at the unexpected manoeuvre and I raised a finger in his direction. I slammed my hand against the steering wheel in frustration. "Fuck it!" I said again.
I was driving my mother's old Volkswagen, which in itself was a rarity, on my way to photograph a building that was being demolished out on the edge of town. I was hoping to catch the dust and destruction in the last light of day, caught by the last rays of sunlight as the sun disappeared over the horizon.
I was already late, the afternoon practical had dragged on longer than usual and then I had missed the usual bus home from the university campus. I had prepared all my photographic equipment the night before, loaded some high speed film in the camera, upgrading the film speed to give me the equivalent of one thousand six hundred ASA in the hopes of getting moody, grainy pictures.
I had rushed home, loaded the kit in Mom's car and roared away. I was ten minutes out when I realised I had not loaded the tripod. And I needed it! I wanted to do some long exposures, two seconds, five seconds, maybe even longer as the light faded.
I was a third-year student at the local university, studying Architecture, the year 1974. One of my elective subjects was photography and we had the use of a well-equipped darkroom at the university where we did all our developing and printing; black and white of course. In those days there was no such thing as digital anything.
Our final exams and presentations were due in a few short weeks and I was behind in creative material having spent more time than I should have on the final design project of the year. I really needed this series of pictures!
I glanced at my watch, then spun the steering wheel, made a U-turn and raced back towards home. When I turned into our street I saw there was a car parked in our driveway; Mrs Vere's shining Mercedes.
Let me give a little bit of background here, if you'll excuse the interruption.
I attended Highland Park High School, where my mother was the school secretary and Mrs Vere was the English teacher. We had all sorts of names for her, Sir Vere, Verey Strict and so on. As the names suggest, she was strict, humourless and cold. She would send you off for a caning at the slightest infringement, real or imagined; the girls suffering detention day after day. The headmaster must have seen the pattern but he was a sadistic bastard who liked to inflict pain. I hated school!
My parents and the Veres became house guests and then best friends when I was in standard eight, grade ten in today's language. Mr Vere and my father were about the same age and they were inseparable; golf every Saturday, watching rugby or cricket whenever they could. And the pub. The pub! Every evening after work, off to the local for a few pints; more often than not a few pints too many. Mrs Vere was about forty, ten years younger than her husband and my parents. She and my mother were soon as thick as thieves; they did everything together.
I was not a good student, how could I be when I hated school? I was a bit of a loner and excelled in solo sports, running, swimming and cycling. My grades were poor to rotten and Mrs Vere sent me off to a good many thrashings from the headmaster. She humiliated me in front of my classmates, made me do extra homework; generally made my life a misery.
At home, when they visited (which was often), she was rude, bossy and just generally nasty. Why my mother never intervened I will never know; she was a kind loving mother although a little timid. As her and Mrs Vere's friendship developed, she became more and more snobbish and condescending, almost trying to outdo her friend's vitriolic view of the world. She became critical of almost everything.
When I graduated from high school (scraping through with a matric exemption) Mrs Vere called me to one side. I remember to this day (nearly fifty years later) what she said to me; word for word! "In the future, if you ever consider doing anything with the English language... Don't!"
Now, four years later, I tried to avoid being home if Mrs Vere was there. And if I could not avoid being there when she was there, I would close myself in my bedroom until she was gone. Back to the story.
I stopped in the street and wondered how best to get to my tripod without running into Mrs Vere. When I was on my bicycle, I accessed our yard via the neighbour's behind us, being the shortest route to where I normally went, and entered our house by the back door. I also knew that my mother and Mrs Vere always sat in the front room and drank tea. I started the car and drove round the block and parked in the street outside the neighbour's entrance.
The door lock on Mom's old car no longer worked, so I grabbed my camera and ran through the neighbour's yard, over the fence and to the back door where I paused and listened. Faintly, I could hear music. I turned the handle and eased it open. The music was much louder but I could hear no voices. Maybe I would be lucky and be able to grab the tripod and be on my way again without running into Mrs Vere with her snide remarks and demands; "make me tea..." or, "fetch this or that from my car..." Never a please or thank you.
I tiptoed through the kitchen and down the passage en route to my bedroom. As I passed the sitting room door the music was quite loud and I glanced in. I saw there was some odd shape in the middle of the carpet and was about to move on when I heard a moan and then I realised what I was looking at. I nearly fainted with shock! I stood rooted to the spot and stared.
A body on hands and knees, well not hands, shoulders and knees with her arse raised and facing me, the knees well spread. I took in the lumpy cellulite white and blue thighs. Buried between the spread arse cheeks I could see the back of someone's head, moving rhythmically in and out.
