Fruitcake, files and frozen relations: A Chatsworth neighbourly dispute

When at last I got to meet Uncle Marnie at his home, I was convinced that he was a chronic grumbler.

"Pather sweeps the pavement and leaves his dirt by my light pole every morning." That complaint, delivered in a baritone stage whisper, came even before any greeting or handshake.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a greying man on the porch next door, gently blowing the froth off the top of a mug from the comfort of a worn wicker chair.

"Come inside, sit down," ordered Uncle Marnie.

A dainty imbuia tea stand groaned under the weight of a hillock of lever-arch files. "Four years I been writing to your department, to the corporation, to the councillor...."

Just then, a kindly woman who I took for Mrs Marnie edged into the hallway arch past an old oak sideboard festooned with decorative plates and snow baubles screaming Melbourne, Cape Town, London and Mauritius.

"Good morning, sir. May I offer you coffee, tea or cocoa?" she sang with the grace of a church pianist.

Uncle Marnie was furiously flipping through plastic pockets crowded with garish red letterheads. "Here, I even wrote to the president."

I listened quietly while he let off steam, nodding without necessarily agreeing. The kettle must have boiled the moment my car pulled up on the verge outside their quaint Chatsworth cottage.

The tea arrived faster than the milky, sugary concoction waiters at the Rank Cafe opposite the Morning Market on Warwick Avenue dropped in front of you back in the day. Instead of the bowl of dhall and buttered bread or bhajia, Mrs Marnie served a plate of lightly buttered fruitcake. She smiled as she laid the slices over the crocheted doily on the solid coffee table that reached right up to my knees.

Uncle Marnie grunted. I listened.

"And that useless councillor says it's a domestic matter," was his next tirade.

Mrs Marnie coyly served the tea first to her guest and then to her husband. The twinkle in her eye caught his. He appeared to soften up as he slurped, though the respite was only momentary. He rattled off a further list of the people he had complained to, even mentioning the Divine Life Society. It seemed like only the SPCA had not received a letter about Pather.

"Your department was first class, with a hundred and one reference numbers but no action, nothing, nada."

I needed no convincing to polish off the cake on the fine china side plate. Suitably refreshed, I took the gap to pipe up.

"Uncle, I haven't worked in the government for more than five years and, besides, the work of Human Settlements is to build houses, not get involved between neighbours," I pleaded.

"Fine job y'all doing there," he retorted sarcastically. "Every corner there's jondols. Opposite, people put a Wendy house for tenants. Where are the by-laws? Dunno when last I saw a corporation worker sweeping in our road."

It was the first moment I noticed his clipped English slip into the colloquial style peculiar to Durban Indians. Mrs Marnie got involved with replenishing my plate and thanked me for the tray of Issie's Malay koeksisters that I seem to take to everybody I visit.

"Can you talk to that fella to scoop his dirt and put it in his own bin...?" Uncle Marnie trailed off as if I were now his last resort. "I saw your number in the paper and told Aunty to WhatsApp you."

They nodded in unison. I was grateful for the tea and cake, but this matter sounded more complex than mediating in the Iran war.

"Next best thing is for me to phone Patrick. In Phoenix, he got a reputation for getting things done. I saw he was putting posters on the highway."

I had to spare my good friend Patrick getting his ear chewed off.

“Is there a chance we could all sit down and talk?” I ventured, only to be told that Pather was like a brick wall.

“You can try, but I am not one for arguments with the neighbours,” protested Uncle Marnie in fake innocence.

There was a beep on the radio and the newsreader announced that it was 10 o’clock. Uncle Marnie reached for his watch as if to wind it in the old-school way, only to correct himself by yanking the sleeve of his sweater over his wrist.

The conversation sunk to silence as the volume on the news was turned up. Cat Madlala was due to make an appearance at the Madlanga Commission. He was guaranteed a higher viewership than Dallas or Anupama. The weather forecast advised people not to drive to see the snow. I bit my lip, being a serial offender.

With the complaint letters exhausted, Uncle Marnie started to show off his certificates, one of which was for fourth place in the medicine ball dash at Greyville School during the Michaelmas term. There was also a certificate for good payment from Model Furnishers dated 1971.

With the fruitcake finished, I had little incentive to remain except to hint at an in loco inspection and a quiet word with the neighbour.

On the verge outside, Mr Pather had a watering can filled with the run-off from a burst pipe up the road. There was a gaping hole around the light pole that he had been steadily filling with dried leaves. Beautiful zinnias and daisies were sprouting as spring approached. The patch in front of his fence was swept like the Japanese arrange those Zen pebble gardens.

Uncle Marnie ought to write a letter congratulating him on beautifying the neighbourhood.

Kiru Naidoo filed this piece from the airport lounge at King Shaka International Airport as he ponders yet another jaunt in the Cape.