In this nostalgic story of a Johannesburg childhood, I revisit a house of
secrets, summer sunbathing, and a boy who sings beneath my bathroom window.
“When an irresistible force such as you, meets an old immovable object like me...”
Frank Sinatra’s voice, smooth as ice cream, broke through my reverie as I swept the floor of my
apartment. A delicious shiver ran through me as I remembered when I was just a girl—and David made that song belong to me.
We lived in Greenside, a middle-class suburb in
Johannesburg. Our house was a single-story yellow-brick home with a front lawn
framed by a hedge and a stone path lined with white alyssum. In the backyard,
my sister and I played badminton, school, and other make-believe games with the
neighborhood kids. Our leafy apricot and plum trees made the perfect backdrop
for our imagined worlds.
A red-tiled roof perched like a hat on the
house. A row of outbuildings—garage, shed, and servant’s quarters—extended from
the side in the shape of an 'L.' The core of the house was its single bathroom,
always in demand. With five people in the family, someone was always banging on
the door, shouting, “Hurry up—I gotta go!”
The only ventilation for this overworked room
was a small fanlight window that opened onto the flat roof of the garage. We
became experts at clambering up shelves and squeezing through the window to the
roof. Getting down was easy, thanks to a giant pepper tree with woody branches
and knotted ropes that my father had strung for swings.
In the summer of my fourteenth year, my
friends and I would sunbathe in a secluded nook on the roof, recklessly
smearing cooking oil on our fragile skin and lying naked on towels until we
turned lobster red. Then Sophia, our maid, would yell, “Heh, where you,
Pamela?” And I’d stand up, stark naked. “Heh!” She’d shout, “What you doing up
there with no clothes? Get dressed or I call your mother and tell her what you
up to!” We’d giggle and pull faces, delighting in the warmth of the sun and the
thrill of our secret nakedness.
Our house was flanked by two towering,
double-story block houses—one slimy green, the other beige. On the right lived
the Shiffrins, a loud, jolly family with three daughters and a son, Ian, whom
my mother described as “a bit of an ox.” Ally, the eldest, looked like Snow
White: milky skin, cascading black hair, and a waist that could fit between the clasp of two
hands. In our dreams, we all looked like Ally, talked like Ally, and waited for
a prince to sweep us away.
The Shiffrins reveled in their wealth. I
envied the daughters, who had generous clothing allowances to splurge at
boutiques, while my own wardrobe was handmade by my mother on her Singer sewing
machine. Cyril Shiffrin, their father, was a dapper man with a pin-striped
suit, Brylcreamed hair, and a Havana cigar between his fingers.
They often flew to Lourenço Marques—the
holiday playground of South Africa’s elite—and returned to host lavish
barbecues with black waitresses in white aprons serving platters of prawns,
mango sorbets, and watermelon chunks. Exotic scents wafted into our yard, and
my sister Beth and I would crouch behind the hedge, spying and salivating until
the guests left and we were called over for leftovers.
The adults would retreat into the Shiffrins’
darkened lounge to watch blue movies or play cards adorned with cartoonishly
naked men and melon-breasted women. Once, Ally stole a deck, and we locked
ourselves in the bathroom, giggling as she revealed to us the “facts of life.”
If the Shiffrins awakened my senses, the
Zeemans—our neighbors to the left—sent chills down my spine. Morris Zeeman, a
pint-sized man with an egg-shaped bald head and pockmarked nose, fancied
himself an intellectual. He often cornered my father for Sunday morning tea and
home-baked scones to lecture about the meaning
of life. My father, honored but out of his depth, endured these sessions
out of politeness.
Milly Zeeman was dying of stomach cancer, and
Morris clung to Scientology in a desperate bid to save her with positive
thinking. When she died, he took it as a personal failure and had a breakdown.
The Zeeman children drifted. Tony joined the
Israeli army. Jean kept house until her father’s secretary moved in as his
lover, prompting her to flee to England in stacked heels, seeking her own
future. That left David—fourteen, aloof, and angry—utterly alone. He became the
torment of my teenage years.
I had little patience for him. Tall and bony,
with feathery blond hair and a cynical mouth, David was perpetually mooching
around our house, clinging to anyone who’d spare him a word.
“Why does he have to come here?” I whined to
my mother after yet another dinner invitation.
“Oh Pamela, he’s lonely. He doesn’t have a
mother. Don’t be mean.” She was exasperated by my lack of empathy.
“Well, why does he have to hang around me? If you like him so much, you talk to him.” And if I was feeling
particularly venomous, I’d add, “Besides, he’s always hanging around that dumb
Ian,” knowing full well that David used Ian only to orchestrate run-ins with
me—while avoiding my mother’s scrutiny.
My mom called David “the guest who came for
dinner.” She said if we let him, he’d move in “lock, stock, and barrel.” He
never left until someone got rude—and that someone was usually me.
The Zeemans’ upstairs bathroom overlooked our
dining room where the piano stood. I was an enthusiastic but untalented music
student, and my elderly teacher—mole-covered and metronomic—did her best to
drum rhythm into me. I’d spend afternoons murdering Für Elise, while David stood at his window tossing soggy
tissues rolled into balls against the glass behind me.
When that didn’t work, he’d serenade me with a
nasal, tuneless version of our song:
“When an irresistible force such as you…
...meets an old immovable object like me...
...woosh woosh... something’s gotta give…”
He’d lounge on our garden gate, cigarette
drooping, fingers slicking his yellow hair into a ducktail in a hopeless
attempt to channel James Dean. But no matter what he did, David always looked
like the “before” guy in a Charles Atlas ad.
Then—some sixth sense stirred me. I looked up.
Framed in the small window above the bath, two
lecherous faces: David and Ian.
For a moment, I froze. Then everything moved
in fast-forward. The faces vanished. I bolted out of the tub, wrapped in a
towel, and ran down the hall dripping and screaming.
Beth and Sofia came running. Daddy, shirtless
in jock shorts, rubbed his eyes.
“Whatsa matter? What’s going on?”
“David and Ian!” I shrieked. “They were
watching me—while I was naked!”
Rage flooded his face. “I’ll kill the
blighters!”
The house shook with his fury. I heard a
ladder thud against the wall, footsteps stomping across the roof.
“Stop, Daddy!” I yelled, clutching my towel.
“It doesn’t matter! STOP!”
But it did matter. I felt violated and shamed.
Daddy banged on the Shiffrins’ door. Ian
emerged, bleary-eyed.
“What? I’ve been asleep all afternoon! That’s a fucking lie!”
Dad’s fury deflated. He grabbed Ian’s jaw and
growled, “Stay away from my daughters. And stay away from my house.”
Later, he sat beside me on the veranda swing.
I stared at my feet. He pulled me into his arms, warm and strong and safe. I
sobbed. He held me, lit his pipe, and sighed.
That evening, David crept in, feigning
innocence.
“What happened? Mr. Shriffman said your dad accused me and Ian of peeping?”
My mother narrowed her eyes. “You’d think
butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. I don’t want those boys near this house
again.”
I remember David’s half-smile, the mockery in
his eyes, the way he made me doubt my own memory.
Now, as I clean my own quiet home, Sinatra’s voice rises again. And I remember that
bittersweet dance with David—filled with longing, danger, and ache.
“Babee, somethin’s gonna give, somethin’s
gonna give—
something’s gotta give.”
Looking back, I see how easily innocence tangles with
confusion, how girls learn to navigate power, shame, and desire before they're
ready. That summer, I didn’t fully understand what was taken from me—but I
remember how it felt.
Have you ever had a memory that came rushing back with
the sound of a song? I’d love to hear yours in the comments.
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