Rochelle Hairman

Betting

Odds on: This a bet where you outlay more than you win. If a horse is two to one on, you have to outlay two dollars to win one dollar and your total collect, if the horse wins, is three dollars. That is made up of your original two dollars and the one dollar you win.

I first experienced a Judas complex when I was a nineteen-year old student, clerking for my dad, Abe, in his rooms at Roodepoort Tattersalls where he worked as a bookie. It was a typical horseracing day. My dad began by working out the odds, sorting out the cash, and preparing the book: a ledger of money in and money out. The ticket books were in place. He had his race card in his pocket.

My dad also ran an underground book, in which illegal betting shops bucket shops phoned in to lay bets, which we wrote on his race card. His cubicle, located in a dusty mining town that bridged Johannesburg and Soweto, was one of the few places where people of all walks of life, race or creed, intermingled despite the constrictions of Apartheid. In the glorified Tattersalls shed the miners Zulu, Afrikaans and Pedi thronged to put money on horses, dreaming of intangible riches. My dad knew them all and could speak phrases from each of their languages. They were his friends and clients. Sometimes hed swear at them, telling them to go home when they were about to spend the last of their wages on one more bet.

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But at work he was technically a crook. He got away with tax avoidance because he did not show all of his takings. On every race day he played two games: one was bookmaking, the other was outdoing the tax office. To him, the game with the tax inspectors was not immoral. Most wealthy people had tax schemes that were evasive and dishonest, his tax avoidance was no different. He counted his illegal profit as winnings.

******

It was soon after the Soweto riots when Abe embarked on an elaborate gamble, conscripting my mother, Wanda, to set the scene for a day of riotous hilarity.

In the circus of his life, he is the magician and Wanda, with her auburn, teased beehive hairdo, in a lime-green shantung mini, is the glamour girl who does not flinch when he throws his knives at her. She puts a tape in the recorder with bagpipe music and each time he beats the odds, she blasts the punters with the sound of the pipes and drums. This is not how a business should be run, she drawls when Abe yells, Pour me a black tea, pointing to the bottle of Scotch hidden beneath a tea towel. The stakes are high. We clown around, performing all sorts of balancing tricks to raise a laugh out of him on race days. We hand him his tea. For Abe, every meet is a test of fate, a daring act in which the gods of gambling are evoked. He sets his odds above everyone elses, takes all money offered, lays off none, so that he stands to lose more than he will win. 2

Rochelle Hairman Wanda waits at his side. Her red-lipsticked smile is fake. Theres no emotion on her face. Shes a survivor and does not flinch at the odds because she loves Abe for what he is. Call it living on the edge, call it gambling, call it laissez faire, or risk-taking magic or even greed. This was their relationship at its core boom or bust, with no safety nets. And that day the stakes were higher.

******

Under pressure: On the day of the first betrayal the horses were under pressure. When a horse is under pressure, it is given a hard time during a race by another runner in the field for instance, when being attacked.

This day, Abes gamble is not against the punters. The African miners who ask their white bosses to lay bets for them inside the Tattersalls are outside singing Shosholoza, a song about a train coming to taking them home to their families. Inside, the punters joke, count money, work out the odds, and glean information about jockeys. Amongst the regulars who close their eyes and imagine they are jockeys riding the winners, a tax inspector blends like horses bunched together at the starting line. There is one punter slapping his thighs as the race runs its course whilst another holds an imaginary whip in front of his body, urging his horse to fly. Hearts pump harder as the announcer calls the race over the radio and the punters imagine their horses racing for them. When the winner comes in past the post, a cheer rises from the crowd. Winners rush over to the bookies to

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collect. Losers shake their heads in unison: somehow the race has been fixed. As on some occasions it is. Abe stands back with a grin stretched across his face. Hes backed the winner. He had not known the outcome when he lengthened the odds, taken the miners weekly pay packet and downed a mug full of tea. He wins by a nose. Luck is on his side. In the glorious aftermath of the race he reaches for his tape of Scottish Highland music and turns the knob full on. The sound of a triumphant march crackles from the old tape player. Abe fills his mug with more Scotch. This is pure capitalism, he whispers to me, his conspirator, and I love it like only a Communist can. There is little to do now a few payouts, some second places and then the emptiness that follows a race won by a long shot, an outsider or a donkey. Today, the fillys name is Chimbora, a name with a ring to it. Count the cash, Abe yells. Tie the notes in bundles of hundreds. Im uneasy. Ive always been an observer, and Eddie the Leb, the bookie next to us, is acting casual. Theres something in the way he catches my eye that unsettles me. Stay calm, I think. It is then that the tax inspector declares himself and enters our cubicle, raising an eyebrow. Hes watching me and I have to wipe away the thought that he is leering at me because it is too disgusting. In voice like Lex Luther, he addresses me in a mixture of English and Afrikaans. Mooi, ja. Abes daughter, a pretty girl with blue eyes. In 4

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his slimy way, he smiles. It is an obvious attempt to charm me. Revolting. He is running his hand through his greasy hair, preening. I want to say, Voetsak, creep, which means fuck off, slime-bag, but I have the race card in which Abe has been writing illegal bets in my sweaty hand, and I bet myself a hundred dollars that he knows something. Ill start at Eddies, then make my way here, Capone, he says. Abe begins to work up a sweat that stains his armpits quite clearly. Bloody asshole, Abe swears and pours himself another Scotch. Im shaking because I know the liquor will make him talk. Abe yells at Wanda about a paper hes put somewhere that he says shes touched. She yells back saying shes done nothing and he shouldnt drink. The magician is throwing daggers at his target but he is out of control as he swigs from his mug. We hold our breath. Nobody can bear it. Finally, before he does something we know he will regret, a regular punter hustles Wanda off-stage, out of the cubicle. I have to work. Torn between consoling her and protecting him, I try to concentrate, under the serpent eye of the tax inspector. My dad hands over his books for inspection.

Washed out: A horse is said to be washed out when he becomes so nervous that he sweats profusely.

Anxiety can be accompanied by physical effects such as heart palpitations, rapid breathing, sweating, nausea and chest pain. Abe does not experience any of this, except for the sweating. He is drinking his tea. Scotch helps his physical symptoms of anxiety but not mine. I am 5

Rochelle Hairman focusing on writing tickets for customers. My father is counting on me as usual. But he does not know that I cannot keep a secret because my body has a mind of its own. I am washed out, and I write guilty all over myself without uttering a word. The Tax Inspector spends some time going through the books. I sweat. My face burns. My heart is racing. Head down, I hide the race card. Praying. After what seems hours but is only minutes, the inspector says hell have to take the books away for further scrutiny. I catch my fathers eye and he seems okay. Im still sweating, but my breathing calms as I clutch the race card in my clenched fist. The tax inspector sways and rises to go to the door. Suddenly, he whips around and strikes, snatching the race card from my hand. I let out a cry as he sinks in his fang. In the blur of betrayal that overwhelms me I hear his two-forked tongue: Why are you crying, girl? What makes you care about your father so much? Look how he treats your mother. The inspector gazes at me now without speaking. The next race is almost on. The phones are ringing like hungry infants, crying to their mothers heart. Nobody will answer and we all grow more and more tense. We hardly hear what is spoken to us. I must be very pale now because the Inspector asks, Are you all right, Miss? Yes, I say. But I am not. A noise rises inside me. I cannot place it. I cannot say what it is. 6

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And on and on it goes, like a madness. Burning with anxiety and fear, I turn and see my fathers eyes blaze at me for one strange and senseless second. I am a betrayer; the thought hits me again and again. The terror in Abes eyes says it all. Worse than Judas.

The tax inspector takes every paper he can find, cleaning Abe out to clean him up. When hes gone we are exhausted, finishing the day mechanically. The customers whisper condolences. Abe cannot look me in the face. He does not see that he is to blame at all. He says hes been set up. I can hear his unspoken words, I thought I could trust you, my own daughter. I am hollow inside. I cannot speak.

******

This continues until we get home and Abe takes stock. Wanda. That lawyer you worked for when I met you, whats his name? Chaskelson. Phone him, quick, and your cousin, the surgeon. Im going to need a character reference. I dont know if they will charge me now or later but if I dont come home tonight, Ill be in jail.

******

The policeman to whom he gives long odds arrives with a sheepish grin on his face. Ive asked my mate there to put you on your own. Its the 7

Rochelle Hairman best I can do. Abe begins to cry. This is not what he wants to be doing in front of the policeman, who cannot disguise his disgust. Im thinking: I got my dad jailed.

****** A jockeys race: A jockeys race is one whose outcome hinges on strategic thinking by the riders. Riders must pay close attention to pace, to keep their horses fresh for a strong finish.

I have been betting on Wandas emotional welfare since I was three years old, when Abe began to hit her. Over the years I prayed for them to stay together because Wanda and I wanted Abe in spite of everything. You dont need to prove anything, Abe. I didnt love you for your money. I could have married Morrie and he was loaded. But I chose you. Wanda lights another cigarette and Abe opens the window. Youre doing good work for the Communists. Stop fretting over your lack of money. It doesnt make sense. Stop spending more than we have, he says, his face is white and his fist is clenched. I dont know what theyre arguing about. I can only understand that I have two fathers, although they are the same man. He is a clown that talks about dough whilst he conjures a wad of notes from his pocket.

Rochelle Hairman Ill bet you two dollars that you do not know how many dollars I have in my hand. One hundred. How did you guess? he says spreading them before me. Pure magic, I say, copying one of his favorite expressions, making him laugh and toss me into the air. Yet he can be a dark man, tall and wild, who shouts and hits out, making my mother scream to me for help. I dont know him when hes drunk with rage like a caged panther. I cry and tell Wanda, Mom, just go away. Dont answer back. But she never listens and I lose something intangible when I say to my dad, Do you want to bet that she can keep quiet? I am already obsessed with Wandas emotional odds when Abe says, I want my own bookmaking business. Ive worked long enough for peanuts. I need a deposit of twenty thousand to get the licence. Wanda, well have to sell. With the money, I can get a licence and build you another house. Youre not selling my home. Its my security. Shes crying and fighting as hard as she can because our house is everything she ever wanted. Ive found some land overlooking a large field with a dam where we can build a new house.

Rochelle Hairman No bloody way will I sell my home, she says, Im sick of moving. I want to watch the garden grow. You know how I moved as a kid. Twelve schools before the age of twelve. Im not selling my home.

I see Abe growing redder. I bet the new house will be even more comfortable, I say. Im not moving, she says again. I have two choices when Im so afraid for her: I can lock myself in my room with a pillow over my head or become the rescue squad, flinging myself into the thick of battle when she calls, Help me, come and help me. Unfailingly, I bet myself a hundred dollars that my dad will stop when he sees me. Sometimes I learn bitter lessons.

I am compelled to take care of her. The stakes are too high if I abandon her.

****** Purple Patch: A horse or trainer has hit a purple patch when experiencing a run of success.

On my thirty-eighth birthday, my dad dies and Wanda, who is now sixty, moves in with my husband and me. Whats the worst thing youve ever done with dad? I ask Wanda. She does not reply. Instead, she orders another whiskey and coke. Then she says, We werent even engaged. At the back of the Zoo, near the zebra enclosure far from anyone. I had sex 10

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with your father. I bet myself that he would marry me if I fell pregnant. Ive never told anyone this before. Worst thing, mom? She nods. Worst and most intense and enjoyable thing. For twenty years my husband and I care for her and love her too. Why cant she go to a home? people ask. Well I suppose it's because she has no money. And shell be alone. But I know its because I have vowed to look after her and protect her, and that leaving me will break her heart. And mine.

****** Wanda gambles. Lotto, lottery, the pokies. I need luck to have money. If you're lucky you have money. If you're lucky, you will always get more money, she says. Shes read that somewhere and she repeats it like a proverb. When Wanda was five she was sent to boarding school Her father told her that her mother had died. When she was eleven she fell ill, and was in hospital, close to death. She woke to find her mother leaning over her and she thought she was in heaven. She thinks she wants money to fill the emptiness inside her. Are you not lucky? I say. You live with us. I look after you. I love you. Very unlucky, I should say, she says bitterly. Why? I ask. 11

Rochelle Hairman I don't know. Nobody ever knows why one person is lucky and another unlucky. I think you are very lucky indeed. Why? Youre lucky because you have me and I'm a lucky person because I have you. Why? Wanda says again, with a sudden laugh. I stare at her. I dont know why but I bet myself Wanda feels loved.

******

The night of the second betrayal I have a dream.

My baby is sleeping with her arms curled beneath her head, serene like smooth water. I have abandoned her to sleep, gambling on the temperate weather. Ive left my baby in her white cot floating on the water near the pier, I say to the crew in the boathouse who sit, yarning and drinking. The cot is anchored and the cot mattress is well above the waterline.

They continue talking and laughing as if what I have done is perfectly normal. I get up and go to check my baby. Outside, the water is still calm but the cot has vanished. I rush to the waters edge and the cot is underwater, upright on the floor of the riverbed with the white sheets pulled tight as if freshly starched. My baby has disappeared. Gone.

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I am berating myself for being so trusting, so stupidly certain that it was safe to leave her alone. Crying, guilt-ridden, self-flagellating, I go indoors for help. But when I tell the others, they scarcely react. Some nod sympathetically but nobody seems to care. Its my baby. I love her, I cry. But they continue eating and drinking, laughing at jokes and discussing trivia as if they do not see me or hear my distress.

I am glad to awaken from the dream and I know why I am dreaming of careless loss. It is about her, my mother. The drowning has everything to do with the decision to send her to a home now that she is assessed as demented and needing high care. Its a gamble that could be fatal.

******

The home straight: The length of the track nearest the spectators, where the finish line is situated.

It hurts so much that when I pack her bags to take her to her new home, I end up on a drip in Emergency at the local hospital, and my husband gets her admitted on his own. At the nursing home the doctor is like the tax inspector as he imprisons her in high-care, a lock-up ward. People in their moments of intelligible conversation are the punters conjuring a winning race. Theres a great deal of gambling going on. The newly renovated walls are whispering last resort. Nothing can disguise the sadness I feel. Her going is like her dying, and I have to face the final stretch. 13

Rochelle Hairman I never want to die, she says. What can I say? I want to keep her as she was. With me. Safe and protected. But I know that my body speaks for itself. My red eyes tell her that I cannot change the odds. The race will run its course, and this time I am not to blame. Perhaps I never was.

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