First date

Margaret Clough

From the moment he first saw her, at the University Film Club, Tom just knew that she was the one for him. There she stood in the doorway, tall, slim and utterly desirable, long fair hair floating about her shoulders, big blue eyes gazing about the room. Tom wondered who she was. He had not seen her at the club before. A new member, perhaps. Not that Tom went there all that often himself. It was Craig, his roommate at the university hostel, who was the movie buff. Tom couldn't understand how anyone could get excited about the flickering images, stilted acting and corny plots which seemed to be the usual fare on offer and had joined the club only to please Craig. But this time Craig had promised him something special. "It's one of the classic early musicals, great music, great singing and acting; surely you must have heard of it!" Tom didn't like to admit to ignorance of this gem of cinematography and so had agreed to accompany Craig. What a good thing he had! He nudged Craig in the ribs. "Who's that?" he asked.

"Who's what?"

"The girl that's just come in."

"No idea," said Craig. " Sshh! Sit down. The movie's starting."

Someone turned the lights out, someone else fiddled with the projector, and after a few false starts the evening's entertainment began. Tom tried to concentrate on the film, but he couldn't. The image of the girl in the doorway kept coming into his mind and distracting him from what was on the screen. He craned his neck to see where she was sitting and tried to make out whether there was anyone with her or whether she had come to the club alone.

At interval he located her. He pushed his way though the throng of students making their way to the bar and offered to get her a drink. She hesitated, looking about her for the friends she had come in with but then, not seeing them at once, gravely accepted.

The interval was too short for much conversation and Tom's offer to see her home was refused as she had arranged a lift already. But he managed to glean a few vital facts. He recounted them to himself on his way home. He knew that her name was Caitlin, that she was majoring in history and anthropology, that she loved music and that she was boarding at one of the women's hostels on campus. Enough to go on with. He'd ring her tomorrow. But hang on. A first date with a girl like that would have to be something special. Where could he take her? He consulted Craig.

"There's a great movie on at the Labia," Craig said. " Japanese, but with subtitles. It's really good. I've seen it three times."

"No. I don't think that would do," Tom said dubiously.

"What sort of things does she like doing?"

"Not sure, but I know she likes music."

"Take her to the Jazz Festival then. It's the biggest music happening of the year and it's on next weekend."

"Perfect," said Tom. "Craig, you're brilliant!"

"I know," said Craig modestly.

The next day, as soon as he had a minute to spare, Tom rang the booking office and asked about tickets for the Festival. He was horrified at the prices. The cheapest tickets were way more than he had expected to pay and they were all sold out anyway. There were still some tickets available in the upper price range, but a quick check on his bank account told him that his meagre balance wouldn't even cover one of those tickets, never mind two, and his monthly allowance wasn't due for another week.

Without much hope, he applied to Craig for a loan, but it was as he expected. "I'm sorry, Buddy. You know I'd help you if I could, but I'm as broke as you are." The response from other friends was much the same. Tom was about to abandon the idea of taking Caitlin to the Festival, when he heard of someone in the next-door hostel who had bought tickets early, but was now unable to use them. He rushed over before anyone else could get there. The tickets were for good seats and more expensive than he had hoped, but Tom decided to take them all the same. It took a lot of haggling, but by putting down half the price and promising to pay the balance with interest over the next five months, he was able to secure them.

Now all that remained was to ring Caitlin. He rehearsed carefully what he was going to say to her. He picked up the phone and then put it down again. Suppose she already had a date for the evening? A girl like that - she was bound to have lots of invitations. She loved music - she might have got tickets for the Festival too. Suppose she didn't want to go out with him. Suppose she never wanted to see him again. He sat by the phone for several minutes. Then he screwed up his courage and punched in the number.

The girl who answered the phone was apologetic. "I'm afraid Caitlin isn't here. She's gone away."

"Gone away? In the middle of term? Where has she gone? Do you know when she'll be back?"

"To some kind of camp, an archeological dig or something like that. She should be back by Friday."

Friday! And the festival was on Saturday. He would have to get hold of her before then.

"Doesn't she have a cell number?"

"I expect so, but I don't know what it is."

"Can't you find out?"

"Her roommate might know "

"Please could you go and ask her? I'll wait."

But the roommate was unable to supply the number.

"Can I give Caitlin a message?" asked the girl.

"No thanks. No message." He couldn't leave Caitlin a message. What would he say? She might not even remember him.

And the message would get to her too late anyway.

Tom was distraught. What was he going to do? He just had to get hold of Caitlin. Where could she be? An archeological dig, the girl had said. Of course! Caitlin was studying anthropology. It must be something to do with her course. Someone at the Anthropology Department would know about it.

The secretary at the department was grey-haired and friendly and only too ready to help a student inquiring about archeological excursions. Tom guessed that she didn't meet too many of those. "Yes," she told him, "they do welcome students from other departments who are interested - if there is room for them, of course. Transport is always a problem. You're too late for this term's excursion, but I can let you know when the next one is planned and we can see what we can do."

But when he wanted to know about the current dig and where it was situated, she was a bit vague. "Somewhere on the West Coast, or is it near Struisbaai? Let me think. It will come to me …"

Tom tried hard to control his impatience. She rummaged in her desk. "Here we are," she said, handing him a pamphlet. "It's all in here." Tom thanked her and took it gratefully.

The pamphlet was a little more informative. It told him that the excursion was to the excavation of an old stone-age settlement near Klipvlei (wherever that might be) and that the group would be camping on the farm Weltevrede.

Tom's next stop was the library. Using a book of roadmaps, he was able to pinpoint the location of Klipvlei, a tiny village, about a hundred and fifty kilometres away. Not too far, just a few hours' drive. It would only mean missing a few classes. He had a test the next morning that he couldn't afford to miss, but he could drive there in the afternoon. Or at least he would be able to if he had a car to drive in.

His friend Bob had occasionally lent Tom his car in return for help with maths assignments, but this time he was not willing to oblige. "Not a chance! I'll need it tomorrow. What's the matter with your bike? Why don't you use that?"

"It's off the road at the moment," said Tom.

"I suppose that means it's lying in pieces all over the garage."

"Something like that. Actually I'm waiting on some parts. They're on order but they haven't arrived yet."

"Can't you fix it up temporarily?" asked Bob, "I'm good with bikes. I'll give you a hand if you like."

Tom had meant to spend the evening revising for the test the next day. Instead, he and Bob toiled for hours in the garage and finally got the motorbike repaired. It wasn't going perfectly and Tom was doubtful about it, but Bob assured him that it was good for another thousand kilometres at least.

So the next afternoon Tom set out for Klipvlei. The road was rough and the bike shuddered over the corrugations. Halfway there it began making ominous noises, but Tom ignored them. It was a hot, windy day and Tom was dusty and dishevelled by the time he reached the town. He hoped Caitlin would overlook his scruffy appearance. He stopped to ask the way to Weltevrede at the nearest café and then rode on, but after he had gone for several kilometres without getting to the farm he began to doubt the accuracy of the directions he had been given. He could see no sign of habitation and the road was deserted except for an old man driving a donkey-cart.

Tom stopped next to the cart.

"Excuse me," he said, "I'm looking for a farm called Weltevrede. Can you tell me if this is the right road?"

The old man pulled on the reins and brought the donkey to a halt. He looked Tom up and down thoughtfully.

"That's a very old bike you've got there," he said.

"Not so old," said Tom, a bit annoyed. "And it's still in good condition."

"It won't get you far on these roads," said the old man, shaking his head. "What farm did you say?"

"Weltvrede."

"Whose farm would that be?" the old man asked.

"I don't know," said Tom. "But I know some students are camping there."

"It must be Oom Danie Rossouw's farm. Yes. Weltevrede, Oom Danie's farm."

"Am I on the right road then?"

"No, you're on the wrong road. You're quite wrong. But never mind. You can still get there from here."

"Which way must I go then?"

The old man's directions were very detailed and involved. Tom tried to follow them, but he couldn't be sure that he had remembered them correctly. Should he have turned left after the third thorn tree and right just before the sheep kraal, or was it the other way round?

He came to a cluster of whitewashed farm cottages. A woman was hanging up washing in the backyard of one of them. "What is the name of this farm?" he asked her.

"Onverwacht," she said. "What farm are you looking for?"

"Weltevrede."

"Whose farm is that?" she asked.

"Oom Danie Rossouw's farm, I think."

"O yes, Oom Danie's farm. You're on the wrong road. You'll have to go back to where you turned off. Then if you go on a bit further you can't miss it."

"Thank you," said Tom.

"That's a very old bike," said the woman. "It won't take you far on these roads."

Tom didn't reply. He just waved as he rode off.

Tom did as the woman had told him and went back to where he had turned off, but after going quite a long way down the road he still couldn't see any farm. It was getting late, he had had no lunch and he was feeling tired and hungry. The bike had developed several new squeaks and rattles and was beginning to labour up the hills. Tom hoped it would last out. He saw a man driving a tractor in a field next to the road. Tom stopped and called out to him.

"Can you tell me the way to Danie Rossouw's farm?" Tom asked.

"Danie Rossouw's farm?" asked the man. "I'm not sure. Can you tell me the name of the farm?"

"Weltevrede," said Tom.

"O yes," said the man, "Weltevrede, Oom Danie's farm."

"Is this the right road?" asked Tom.

"No," said the man, "it isn't. Not if you're going to Weltevrede."

Tom groaned. Would he ever find this elusive place? Did it even exist?

"But you can get to it from here," continued the man. "Take that track across the field over there, go through the gate and up the hill and you'll come to it."

"Thank you," said Tom.

"That bike of yours …" began the man.

"I know," said Tom; "it's very old and it won't take me far on these roads."

"But it should get you to Weltevrede," said the man. "It's just over that hill."

Tom rode across the field, went through the gate and over the hill and there, sure enough, was the farm. There was the camp and the dig with numerous students busily plying spades and trowels. And there was Caitlin, in dusty jeans and shirt, but looking as beautiful as ever.

"Tom!" she said, in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

All his carefully prepared speeches went right out of his head. He just blurted it out: "Will you come to the Jazz Festival with me on Saturday?"

Caitlin stared at him in amazement.

"I don't believe it," she said. "Do you mean to say you have come all the way out here on that bike to ask me that?"

"Yes," said Tom, "it's the music happening of the year, you know."

"Yes, I know," she said.

"Well, will you come to it with me?"

Tom held his breath. His heart hammered in his chest and he had to clutch the handlebars to keep his hands from shaking as he waited for her reply.

The motorbike broke down on the way back and had to be pushed for more than a kilometre before Tom could get it started again, and he got back to the hostel too late for supper. He was covered with dust and exhausted. He had most likely failed that morning's test and his allowance was in hock for the next five months. But to Tom, none of this mattered. He was deliriously happy. His heart was bursting with joy. He was taking Caitlin to the Festival! Caitlin had said yes!

Margaret Clough retired to Cape Town a few years ago from George where she worked as a soil chemist and later as a Physical Science teacher. Shortly after arriving in Cape Town she took a short course in creative writing at Bergvliet High School (the adult education programme) and was hooked. When not writing stories for her many grandchildren, she enjoys walking, hiking, dog training and reading novels.

LitNet: 23 February 2005

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