So in the latter part of 1985, I settled into the routine of working at RJ Spargo—me as the apprentice, and Danie Rousseau, my big-hearted journeyman, showing me the ropes. I was driving to work every day in a second-hand Volkswagen Golf I’d inherited when I got my licence in Pietermaritzburg.
But then something unusual happened. My dad, impressed that I was knuckling down and doing something remotely useful with my life, decided it was time for an upgrade. On a trip to Johannesburg, he took me to the Lindsay Saker dealership on Rivonia Road, and bought me a brand-new Golf GLS for R36,000. Just like that. Paid with his Diners Club card. I mean—how cool is that?
And then my problem began: how the hell was I going to drive that gleaming new car into the RJ Spargo parking lot without blowing my cover? I’d done a pretty good job disguising the fact that Sidney Spargo—the owner—was basically my godfather. No one at the shop knew that. And I worked hard to keep it that way. Calluses, grime under the nails, the works. I wanted my blue-collar credibility intact. My silver spoon was buried deep.
But then along came Anthony Fletcher, a close friend of Niels. He was dating—and going to marry—Ginny Bateman. As in the Batemans. One of the biggest engineering families in the southern hemisphere. And, naturally, there was going to be a big society wedding. Somewhere in all this, it was decided that I’d be Ginny’s younger sister Sam’s date. I was 18, Sam was 14 or 15, and frankly, the whole thing was totally arranged.
I wore a tux. Sam looked radiant. We danced. It was all very chaste, and then came the movie dates—again, all very proper. I had a car, she had parental oversight, and there wasn’t much room for rebellion. It was cute. But she was 15. There wasn’t a lot to do with that, even if I’d wanted to.
That Christmas, I was invited to spend the holidays with the Batemans at their place in Plettenberg Bay. The “Pink House” on Beachy Head Road. But let’s be clear—this wasn’t a house. It was a bloody mansion.
I took leave—RJ Spargo offered a princely ten working days per year—and hit the road on the 24th of December. Drove from Johannesburg to Plett in nine and a quarter hours. In 1985, that kind of time meant I was hammering it—160 to 170 km/h through the Karoo, eyes peeled for speed traps. No radar in those days—just gatsometers: those little strips across the road that clocked your speed and a traffic cop with a smug expression waiting 500 metres down the line. If you were lucky, you’d spot them and brake in time without locking up and drawing even more attention.
Somehow, I made it. Rolled in just in time for Christmas lunch.
Now, the Batemans were charming. But staid. This was South African royalty. I’d gone from elbow-deep in grease with Dannie and Charles to playing charades with Bill and Cheryl Bateman and family every night. Alcohol was minimal. Rebellion non-existent. And I was meant to be romancing their 15-year-old daughter? I still don’t know what they were thinking.
There were two bright spots. One was Roxy, the middle sister, who was legally flirtable. I remember lying by the pool one day and she asked me to rub suntan cream on her back. Teenage me was having a moment.
The other saving grace was Uncle Rob Muller. Mad keen fisherman. He had a boat, and I was out with him nearly every day catching leervis and shad. Honestly, I fished more than I did anything else. I had no idea what I was meant to be doing with Sam, so I didn’t do much at all.
When the trip ended, we were back in Johannesburg. I think I took Sam to another movie or two, but it fizzled out. No drama. No heartbreak. I assume we were both still virgins—can only speak for myself, obviously.