At the time I met Olive, I was still staying in an old mine house. The house was built in the 1930’s we think, and from the outside it looked like a glorified shack. On the outside, the walls and roof were built of corrugated iron. I hated the house! Olive lived in a similar house across the railway tracks.
Both our houses were in a state of disrepair. The back gate of my home was hanging from the top hinge, leaving enough space for my female black Labrador, who had recently had pups, to escape. Olive saw my dog and followed her home – that is how we met.
Olive and I ‘clicked’ at our first meeting; we were of similar age and both stay- at- home moms. Over coffee, we both grumbled about the state of our homes and how we were not allowed to make any repairs ourselves, per leasing agreement. Olive, her husband and four boys were only living in a mine house until they could find better accommodation, the same situation we were in.
Irish Olive, with her black hair, green eyes and pale skin, soon became a regular visitor at my home, and we fast became firm friends. Sometimes Olive would fetch me and my three girls for afternoon tea at her house. In those days, I didn’t have my driver’s licence yet.
Time passed and our new house was completed. We moved in amid much jubilation. Olive and family had found a house to rent in an up-market suburb, not too far from us. My hubby bought me an old VW Beatle, and Olive taught me to drive. This was great fun! We would take long drives, with my three girls ensconced in the back – her boys were left at home with their nanny for safety sake.
Olive’s husband, Eamonn, was a rough Irishman, who got drunk often and beat his wife. I tried to steer clear of him whenever I could. I had long talks with Olive, asking how she could allow this - the beatings, I mean. She confided that she had no family in South Africa, and no money of her own, so had to ‘grin and bear it’!
My hubby, Ray, had two good friends at this time, Billy and Roelf (both deceased now). On Ray’s birthday in June, we had a party; all our friends were invited. Olive was there with her husband, Eamonn. Roelf was there with his first wife, Eileen, but Billy arrived alone. Many other couples rolled up too and soon our lounge was full to overflowing. We moved as much furniture out of the lounge as possible to accommodate the dancing. The party was swinging, and soon Eamonn was very drunk. Billy and I decided to play a trick on him.
Billy and I slipped through to the bedroom, where I hauled out my slinky, long black dress and short auburn wig for Billy to don. Two pairs of rolled up socks to fill out the bosom completed the ‘look’, and we slunk back into the dimly lit lounge. “Sally” was duly introduced to Eamonn, and although Billy had a moustache, he coyly hid it behind his hand. “Sally” flirted and was soon in Eamonn’s arms dancing to a slow number blaring from our record player.” Sally” was draped over Eamonn’s shoulder, winking mischievously every time he passed by. Olive and I stood out of sight, watching and killing ourselves with laughter – she had at once seen through Billy’s disguise. After dancing another slow number with Eamonn, “Sally” made her excuses and slipped away. Billy returned a few minutes later, minus his disguise – Eamonn was still asking where that sexy lady had disappeared to. I still wonder if anyone ever enlightened Eamonn about the prank played on him.
Olive confided in me many times. One of her ‘secrets’ was that after the birth of her twins, her breasts left much to be desired. It showed in the way she walked; all round shouldered, as if trying to hide them. One day she arrived on my doorstep all buoyant and happy – Eamonn had agreed to let her have a ‘boob-job’!
Things seemed ‘lighter’ after the operation. Olive was obviously happier with herself, more confident. I soon learned that the ‘boob-job’ wasn’t the only reason for her new happiness. She started telling me about the wonderful specialist that had done the operation – she obviously had a huge crush on him. I got the feeling that her emotions were reciprocated, to say the least.
One night after we were all asleep, we were awakened by a pounding on our front door. It was a very bedraggled Olive! Poor thing, she was in such a state; blood was running down her forehead, she had a shiner (blue eye) of note and her dress was torn. Of course, she was crying almost hysterically. Shocked, I rushed her to a couch before she fell down. As I gently bathed her wounds, the story of a horrific fight unfolded, how she had gone with Eamonn to a pub in town. A drunken Eamonn had assaulted her in the parking lot, of how he had bashed her head into the car and ripped her dress in front of bystanders – nobody had lifted a finger to help her! She had run the three miles to our house in the dark, fearful that the drunken lout would follow.
After I had made her tea and got her all cleaned up, we ensconced her on a large couch with blankets and a hot water bottle. I had given her pain tablets, and she soon fell asleep.
I was still managing the local bug house (Cinema) at that time, so when I left for work at 9:30 the next morning, I took her with me. I was busy on the phone with head-office when Olive stuck her head around the door to say that Eamonn was there looking for her – she said that she was going with him. I didn’t think it was wise but couldn’t demur as I was giving my previous nights facts and figures to my boss’ secretary – I couldn’t break off my telephonic conversation.
That was the last time I saw Olive. For some forgotten reason, I never went to check on Olive in the next few days, and when I did, I found the house empty. I often wonder about Olive and where she got to. I would like the think that she ran off with her ‘wonderful specialist’ and has made a blissful life for her and her children.
Olive, wherever you are, I still love you, girl, and I still miss you!
