Memories of childhood can harbour sharp sting in honey

Hagen Engler

IN ALSACE Road, Lorraine, there is a park. It may have changed now, but in the eighties it was one of those open space-type parks. It was the main entertainment zone in the neighbourhood, and also the pinnacle of the Lorraine social scene, circa 1983.

The bottom end, next to our house, was where the action was. That was where Anton Vosloo scored his famous park-cricket century, occupying the crease in front of the Vibracrete wall for an entire afternoon. That‘s where I watched Michael White wheelie his Scorpion the full distance between two lamp posts – the first time I‘d seen it done.

No grown-ups intruded into this world. They got home in the evenings and retreated into their homes, where they would prepare dinner and then summon us for another night of bangers and mash, homework and TV.

Sometimes you‘d report to the park and there‘d be a complete surprise waiting.

Like today. Here‘s Steven-John Lawler, his cousin Ricky and Carlo and Deon. They‘ve got the concrete stormwater drain open.

“I dare you,” says Steven-John. “I did it yesterday. Went all the way to Bordeaux avenue.”

Ricky‘s not too sure. “I‘m not allowed in the drains.”

Somehow we peer-pressure Ricky Blackmore into climbing into the drain. “I dare you to go to that one there,” says Steven-John, indicating the drain across the road.

Hands shaking, Ricky descends into the bowels of Lorraine. “Look! He‘s scared! He‘s gonna cry!”

“I‘m not! I‘m not crying!” As his feet vanish from view, into the first section of pipe, a shriek emanates from the drain. It seems to echo throughout the neighbourhood. “Aaaaah! Bees! They‘re stinging me!”

Up on ground level, Steven-John Lawler goes pale. The drops of perspiration behind his glasses throb. “He‘s allergic to bees!”

We all run screaming for our homes. The idyll is shattered. It‘s time to call in the adults. Our house is right next door. I come sprinting into the kitchen and breathlessly tell Gladys, “Ricky‘s getting stung to death in the drain!”

Gladys waddles outside, impervious to the angry bees, reaches into the drain and pulls Ricky out by his foot, like she‘s retrieving a fish from the hold of a trawler.

Ricky was taken to the Walmer clinic and lived to ride another day. But he was never again seen in the park. And nor was Steven-John Lawler.