Cape Town - Last week, I was sitting on a rock next to a dam with my eyes closed.
I’d just conquered a swimming milestone (actually, since you asked, a mile-plus-milestone) and I was feeling very pleased with myself. I also wasn’t sure I could stand up, so I sat drowsing in the sun, swatting away horse flies.
It was mid-week and the only other people there were a couple of surfers practising their paddling.
When they weren’t shrieking about the temperature of the water, the air was still and quiet.
The bowl of the dam was the colour of brown onion soup and the mountains swept up to a blue sky. It was perfect.
Then there were voices, coming closer, coming closer, coming closer. They came to rest nearby. There was a splash, a “brrrrrrrrrrr”, another splash, and then the voices continued.
“I just feel you don’t respect me when I’m trying to discuss it. You don’t listen,” a man said.
“I know. I’m sorry. And I realise now it was necessary. And I’m okay with the new account. It’s got good interest, right? Like 6.3 percent?” I forced open one eyelid.
The couple looked slightly older than me. His hairy shoulders rolled out towards the middle of the dam; she followed, flicks of feet breaking the surface. They turned, swam back to shore and continued their conversation while lounging on the grass: bonds, mortgages, the 20k needed for Megan’s fees, transfers, tax, deposits, the outstanding 300k on the outstanding understanding with the bank, loans, cars, the cost of new tyres, Pravin’s speech, capital gains, the price of bananas.
I picked up my towel, hobbled to the car, scratched among the till slips and found R3.75.
I apologised to the car guard and drove home, thinking about banks and bonds and breaststroke. How much did bananas cost anyway?
I was brought up not to talk about money. In our Anglo household, it was crass to venture into the churning riptide of rands and repo rates.
Money existed independently, like a nice uncle who lived far away and would regularly send gifts. It just arrived, and bought bananas and Marmite and pork sausages. Sometimes it left.
As an adult, my few conversations about money have gone something like this: “Um, you know I had to, um, pay for that thing? Well, I, um, paid it and now, um, I can’t pay for that, um, other thing.” I leave money crises until the last minute, have become adept at shuffling cash between bank accounts and once lied to my husband about a vintage chest of drawers I had bought. He didn’t believe I had found it lying near the train station.
Something had to change.
That evening, I told my husband about my milestone and asked him if he thought my shoulders were getting too big. Then I sat him down.
“We need to talk,” I said.
He looked worried. “Is it about Kevin? Because I don’t know any Kevins.”
“Okay, so you know how, um, I am rubbish with money and, um, hate talking about it and, um, last month I found that chest of drawers and, um, you didn’t believe me?” I said.
“Yeeeessssss,” he said slowly.
“Well…” I imagined I was back in the dam, swimming towards the reeds on the far side, pulling my arms through the water, feeling the cold depths with my fingers. I took a deep breath.
“I’m quite poor and I earn less than you think and I once bought a very expensive dress and told you I was given it and I owe R600 for the TV licence and I’ve borrowed money from the home loan and I have exactly R27.32 in my purse and I don’t know how much bananas cost and I think my credit card is a bit poked and the dogs really don’t have to have Canadian food and everything is expensive and I’m worried the geyser is on its last legs and I don’t know how much a new geyser costs and I wish I could just swim and swim forever.”
My husband smiled. “Is that it? I thought you were going to tell me you had a gambling addiction, or you’d written off the car, or discovered a lump.”
And then we had a very grown-up conversation about bonds, mortgages, the R1 000 needed for guitar lessons, transfers, tax, deposits, other people’s outstanding understanding of the markets, loans, geysers, the cost of new dog food, Pravin’s speech, capital gains and the price of bananas. It was easier than I thought.
“And the chest of drawers?” B asked.
“Actually, it wasn’t at the train station,” I replied. “It was further down the road, you know, where the bottle store is.”
B laughed.
“Small strokes,” I said in my head, “small strokes.”
Cape Argus
* Helen Walne is an award-winning columnist and writer