My Friend Pete

My Friend Pete

The afternoon storm clouds and lengthening shadows gloomily complemented my dark thoughts as I surveyed the desolate surroundings at the shafthead. The rusting steel of the old mine headgear was testimony to its disuse and yet, tall and still imposing, it remained a salient monument to the endeavours of men once engaged here in the bold industry of gold-mining. Perhaps to a mining engineer there is nothing quite so forlorn, so evocative of fond memories, as a derelict mine. So I thought as I ruefully observed the few corroded engineering remnants lying against the gaping walls of the sheds and the brown puddles of rain water upon the crumbling, once well-maintained concrete apron ahead of the barricaded entrance to the shaft.

The large winding equipment would have been removed from the engine room, which fact I confirmed as I looked through the winding-rope aperture into the dark cavernous interior. Silence pervaded where formerly the powerful electromagnetic hum of the generators had signalled the readiness of that magnificent equipment to provide the essential power for transport to the nether regions in which the precious metal was found.

I made my way through the doorway of the old rock-drill shop where I, as a pupil engineer, had been taught the assembly of the one piece of equipment which finally pierces the rock that adamantly entombs its treasure, the crucial pneumatic rockdrill. Nostalgically anticipating the singular, not unpleasant smell of the lubricants that had in those days inevitably filled my pores and permeated my clothing as I had familiarised myself with the equipment, I was instead now met by the dust of disuse and decay laying thick on the old bench in the wan light from the broken window.

I made my way to the electrical workshop which had been so familiar during my time spent as a pupil engineer and to which I was assigned for some weeks after I had completed my electrical apprenticeship. I entered but the dilapidated shell of the workplace that Tom Reay, the foreman, had so meticulously kept spic and span and perfectly organized. The locker doors, where they existed, hung at grotesque angles, mute testimony to having been forsaken so long ago by - was it Trevor, and Bert and, yes, Jimmy in that corner position, and me, at the far end? I stood at the very place on the now broken floor where we customarily gathered to receive the day’s instructions before catching the cage to the underground workings and where, I wryly recalled, Pete had made that inane remark that introduced the association that I now fondly describe.
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Tom Reay was a quiet, reserved foreman who commanded the respect of his workmen as with great competence he managed the day-to-day electrical affairs at the shaft. He was also very obese, waddling around the circle of his men and breathing somewhat heavily as he gave instructions for the day’s work. Just middle-aged, he was apparently not very well, and his team was generally solicitous of his health. Pete’s comment as he received his job-card was to his workmates therefore as insensitive as it was unexpected from a junior, newly qualified electrician.

Tom had a few days earlier decided that I should work with Pete on a construction job in a new section, named 45c, that would provide useful experience at that stage of our careers and, because of the conditions would, in his words, ‘challenge the stamina of two young and able electricians’. Though we hardly knew each other, Pete and I had welcomed the prospect of being involved in something new as opposed to mundane maintenance work. We sensed the chagrin of a few of the other chaps who felt that they deserved and were better qualified for this work and I think that the chargehand, Jimmy, had reservations about the arrangement. However, Tom had explained that my pupilage prescribed this type of activity and the application of my knowledge would be of mutual benefit to Pete and me, ‘the two youngsters’. Jimmy, of course, would have a watching brief over the work.

‘Tom,’ piped up Pete, loud enough for all to hear, ‘what is the height of inconvenience?’
‘What is,’ responded the foreman quietly, without looking at Pete.
‘Two fat tummies and a short willy,’ Pete said, with the briefest glance at Tom’s ponderous paunch and then at me, his smile fading somewhat when he saw my upturned eyes and gaping mouth.
Perhaps, I later reasoned, it was just a euphoric moment, the prospect of the new stimulating work producing in bright-eyed Pete some impulsive ill-considered humour, a puerile joke for want of something better to say. I certainly thought in the following seconds that he would not get away with his indiscretion, and perhaps had forfeited his role in the new work. However, it says much for Tom that whereas he might have responded angrily at Pete’s impertinence and changed his mind, he simply stopped directly ahead of the young man, glaring at him for a long moment during which Pete, now reddening slightly, returned his stare with pleasant nonchalance.

Pete was lean and athletic, his youthful angularity enhanced by an obvious physical strength honed, as I later learned, by working out at the gym. His movements were quick but controlled; he evinced boundless energy and gave the impression of facing each day with bright enthusiasm. Though inexperienced and, as the incident illustrated, impulsive, his vitality and gusto was observed with a degree of affection by his workmates that on that morning mitigated the censure his remark deserved.

But I had during our short association also observed the moments when he was pensive, his lithe form leaning easily against the wall and his features composed in deep thought. Some movement or my stare would then arouse him from his contemplation and he would emerge, again pleasant and animated and with a smile across his handsome features. Enigmatic, I thought; in some indefinable way his buoyancy covered a seriousness at odds with the outrageous comment to the forman that had so taken us all by surprise. He was not, however, immediately repentant as I discovered when I joined him on his walk to the shafthead where I would leave him and proceed with preparatory matters for 45c.

‘You took a chance, Pete,’ I said.
‘He should do something about his weight,’ he replied. ‘Yesterday when he went underground he was huffing and puffing all the way. As a foreman he should be fitter.’
‘You do know that he’s diabetic?’ I asked.
I thought that this was news to him and, looking at me sideways, he went on, ‘All the more reason why he should do something about it. Do you see what he eats? It just requires a little discipline, Anton, a little bit of self-control,’ he pontificated before heading toward the shaft.
‘So says the expert,’ I called after him, mentally agreeing with his spirited observation as he nimbly covered the distance to the waiting cage.

If I had any reservation about how Pete and I would work together on the new work it was soon dispelled. Somehow we complemented each other remarkably well with pleasant deference though this would not be without strongly debating some aspects of the work from time to time. I warmed to his expressive argument, often animated and delivered good-humouredly and very often correct. Conversely, I was a little flattered when he was obviously impressed with my theoretical approach to a situation, the relevance to our job on 45c of the significance of such things as phase rotation or the fault capacity of transformers and symmetrical components or vector grouping, the subjects fresh in my mind. It is supremely satisfying to enlighten somebody on a technical point – especially when understanding is evinced as it was in the bright-eyed enthusiasm of Pete.

His practical skill was excellent. I watched with admiration, for example, his application of the insulating tape when terminating one of the cables we had drawn into the new section, his precise execution of the half-lap technique and his overall neatness and cleanliness. At such times I had the opportunity of observing his hands, his long fingers moving unerringly over the work and wondered if his dexterity also found expression in some other field.

‘Pete, that’s a neat job there,’ I said on one occasion as he finished a cable-end. ‘You put me in the shade.’
‘I think my hobby helps a bit; I do a bit of art-work, the sort that requires accuracy and fine line work; realism,’ he said as he meticulously cleaned the surface of the joint with a final flourish.
‘So it’s art; I wondered about that – portraits, figure drawing?’
‘Mainly figures, though I’ve done a few landscapes, for the most part in water-colour.’
We were fast becoming friends, prompting me to ask him to show me his work sometime. He was appreciative of my interest though somewhat self-deprecating and invited me to visit his studio, a converted garage, he explained, behind his house.

He stayed with his mother and sister, Joan and Cecile, delightful people who welcomed me on my visit. I wondered about his father but at that time desisted asking; it would be a few days later that he would tell me of the divorce which had profoundly affected his young life.
His art work was impressive. He was undoubtedly versatile in all mediums and subjects, from simple pencil sketches to bold landscapes, figure portraits making up the bulk of the work. I stood for a long time looking at a water-colour rendering of a pair of suspended acrobatic nudes; the male with one hand gripping a rope secured somewhere above, the other embracing the dusky girl whose legs were entwined around his, her one arm around his neck, the other around his waist, her head resting on his chest, her long hair cascading over her shoulder and breast, the two bodies around the centre-line of the taut rope above them and merged under the action of gravity.
I became conscious of him observing my fixation with the definition, the striking fleshly colours and muted eroticism of the work, and my turn toward him broke his own reverie as he quickly said, ‘This one is almost finished.’ He ran his fingernail over her calf as if to remove a speck but perhaps to hide some embarrassment at being caught staring. ‘I then have to start the second one, a companion piece. The pair was commissioned by a salon in town.’

‘ Pete, you have surely missed your vocation! What are you doing working down the mine when you are capable of this superb work - this masterpiece – and being successful, too?’
He looked at me appreciatively, resuming the look I had disturbed a moment earlier.
I have tried to define that look since then; at the time it reflected the deepening friendship of a very talented companion.

The work at 45c proceeded smoothly, encouraged by the positive appraisal of Jimmy during his visits. We had a deadline to meet, requiring our diligent application, at times toil and sweat which was always expended in industrious camaraderie. And our work was punctuated by the times of enjoyable discussion, some frivolous, some serious, during which our friendship grew. Both Pete and I were aware of this – that repeated look of his reflected it – to the extent that we tried not to think of the inevitable end when the work would be complete and I would leave the shaft.

He spoke sadly of his abusive father whom he had not seen for ten years, divorced from his mother after a long time of abuse, and legally restrained because of his repeated assault of his wife and children. Pete had thought of making contact with him but in deference to his mother, and with vivid memories of the violence and beatings, he had decided against it. My heart ached for him as he reminisced on the stolen years, as he put it, without a Dad.

He had attended a high-school not far from my own and we speculated on whether we had ever had contact in the inter-school events. Though active in sport, he loved the arts. He remembered getting a prize for an illustration of a poem that had opened up the world of poetry for him. The poem was, ‘Abou Ben Adhem’ and when I pressed him, he flawlessly recited, the story of an angel who appeared to devout Ben Adhem. I was enthralled by his interpretation, so well complemented by the expressive movement of his hands and body throughout.

One day he asked me if I had ever heard the word orizons.
“You’re dropping your haitches,’ I said. “You surely mean horizons?’
‘No; the word is orizons. Listen to these lines from a young poet, Wilfred Owen, writing during the Great War;
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orizons.
No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.’

Again I marveled at his fluency as I listened to his recital, moved by his articulation of the forlorn words in a way that inspired me to memorise the poem and can thus repeat them now. I would never have thought that this young electrician, my fellow workman in a mine, was so eloquently capable of making the poet’s verse come alive as it did in that memorable moment.
I asked him why he had taken up electrical work when there were so many other things he might have done. He explained that one of the few sensible things he could remember his Dad saying was, ‘A man must have a trade that he can fall back upon!’ Perhaps it was this that led him to be indentured, though he had come to enjoy the work, particularly recently, he said as he looked directly at me with genuine sincerity, because I was showing how much more there was to it all. I was gratified and told him so.

We had opportunity to talk about many things; local politics, sport and the Korean War; and inevitably came to sexual matters. He asked whether or not I was in any relationship and, with his characteristic frankness, whether I was still a virgin. His candour was completely inoffensive and totally disarming.

‘ Do you have to ask?’ I joked. ‘Every night is spent in debauchery, in wild abandon. And that’s why I have to leave all the important work to you’
He smiled, shaking his head. ‘And, Anton, pigs fly.’
I enlightened him; ‘Pete, I can’t afford any complications at this stage of my life, what with hours of study and looming exams and, as to whether It has ever happened, no, not yet. What about you, my friend?’
‘I was steady with a girl who has now moved to the coast,’ he said. ‘We were pretty close but now simply correspond – less and less as time goes by. She is beautiful
and - ,’ he paused, mentally searching for the word, ‘I think you would say, puritanical. I think, like me, she wanted to but said no and I loved her the more for her determination despite my frustration – it was a close thing at times.’ He looked at me, searchingly, then went on, ‘I get the impression that her missionary interests are her priority and, would you believe it, she apologises in her letters. I’m glad it didn’t happen, not only for her sake, but for my sake too, and I reassure her on that score.’
‘For your sake …?’ I asked, warming to his frankness, the emotion he elicited as he spoke.
He looked distantly at me for a long moment, and then at his hand. ‘I don’t think I could ever marry.’ After a further long pause, he went on, ‘That close call would have been impetuous self-gratification. Since then I realize It has to be more than that, it has to be something of which, Anton, I don’t think I’m capable or could maintain.’
‘How do you know? You can’t judge your future capability by youthful, inexperienced impetuosity, to use your word. Surely we grow in these things provided there is real love – you did love her, didn’t you?’
He was about to say something but was quiet. I sensed a struggle within him and changed the subject. Perhaps I did him a disservice by not continuing in that vein, but at that point we surfaced from our seriousness and were soon bright again and ready to get on with things.

The day came when 45c was about to be commissioned and Mr van Wyk, the Electrical engineer would be visiting the site. He was a tall, cadaverous man, slightly stooped and graying and with eagle-eye, and was accompanied by Tom and Jimmy during the inspection. While I was answering the engineer’s questions on the settings I had selected for the protective relays, Tom and Jimmy were examining the transformers and cables. Though Pete and I had made this our show-case we watched them scrutinizing our work with some trepidation. Tom had arranged for the shaft electrician to close the switch when he called and, the inspection over, he made the call. Returning from the telephone, he nodded that I should close the incoming and transformer circuit breakers in turn, which I did, and the sub-station was energized, the new lights brightly illuminating the place and causing smiles all round.

‘On a scale of one to ten, Tom,’ asked Mr van Wyk, ‘what would you give this work?’
‘About two,’ said Tom with a straight face but a twinkle in his eye.
‘Tom, does that mean you haven’t forgiven me?’ piped up Pete. I knew that Pete had been thinking about his juvenile remark those few weeks earlier and realized he wanted to make amends. The Engineer looked at Tom quizzically.
“Sometimes this young man has a lot to say,’ Tom explained. ‘I should ask him to repeat his little joke,’ he said, as he winked at Jimmy.
“Not on your life!’ expostulated Pete, shaking his head in some embarrassment. Mr van Wyk raised his eyebrows in continuing interest as Tom playfully poked Pete on the arm and said, ‘It’s a pity your tongue doesn’t match your cablework, young man,’ and then, pre-empting any further enquiry from the Engineer, said, ‘On second thoughts I’ll raise that to – nine.’
“I’ll go along with that,’ said the engineer, wisely letting the matter rest. ‘What about the log-book?’
Pete and I hadn’t forgotten this and I retrieved it from behind a panel.
“ We’re waiting for a desk from the carpenter,’ I explained. I opened it and asked if I should make the first entry. He nodded and, down on my haunches, I recorded the event and then asked him to do the honour of signing it. He rested the book on my back, read the entry and did so.

‘Congratulations on a fine job, chaps – completed in good time.’ He smiled, shaking our hand and as the three made their exit Jimmy patted me on the shoulder, extending his own approval to both Pete and me.
After their departure Pete and I looked at each other, smiled, and shook hands heartily. He laughed, mimicking Mr van Wyk, ‘Congratulations on a fine job, chaps.’ Gripping my hand a little harder, he said, ‘Seriously, Anton, it has been great working with you.’
‘Pete, the feeling’s mutual,’ I responded and then, thinking of the career demands upon me, half-seriously said, ‘We make a great team; we could go into business together.’
He widened his expressive eyes, looking at me for a conscious moment. ‘Say, that’s a good idea!’ and, doubtless also aware of the improbabilities but, I thought, intrigued by such a prospect, he released my hand slowly, reluctantly.

We had a few days remaining before I was due to leave the shaft, sufficient time to put the finishing touches to 45c. I was sorry that this period in my pupilage was coming to an end and would certainly miss Tom and his team – especially Pete, though he and I were determined to maintain our friendship, surprisingly forged so strongly during the relatively short time working together. He made me promise that I would keep in touch and visit him at his house. I warmed to his sincerity as he spoke, our affection resonating intensely. He seemed distracted and I caught him gazing wistfully in my direction during the last day, unashamed of the melancholy his manner conveyed.

At the end of my last shift, Pete and I were crushed together among so many others in the ascending cage which carried 120 men at a time to the bank from the thousands of feet below the surface. It was a familiar scene; there was little talk in the darkness as the cage ascended, the silence broken only by the swish of the runners in the guides and the repetitive echo of the passing steelwork, the men thinking of getting to the surface, to home, to family and friends, and the evening’s activities. Some seconds after we started moving I became aware of Pete’s head on my shoulder, and then his open hand stealing up and being placed upon my chest. His position would not have been noticed in view of the cramped conditions, though there was no secretiveness in his action. Surprised, I nevertheless savoured the moment of intimacy and again wondered at this dichotomy in Pete, in this so likeable a person, so confident, talented and self-assured and yet evincing in those moments both a winsome vulnerability and warm tenderness. Too soon, I thought, his hand dropped away as the light gradually increased with our approach to the bank, when his lips brushed my ear as he whispered, ‘Quo Vadis, Anton’. Our foreheads touched as I replied, ‘A bright future, Pete’

I required to complete my final administrative tasks and made my way to the workshop while Pete headed off towards the changehouse. It was later as I was showering, avoiding soap getting into my eyes, that I heard Pete’s voice and then became aware of him standing nearby, dressed, his motor bike helmet and bag at his feet. I thought he had been there for some minutes and, as I turned toward him, he offered me my towel.
‘Anton, I thought I …’ he said, hesitating as he seemed to look through me.
I waited, eyeing him above the towel, and then prompting him, said, “You were going to say?’
‘I…I’m looking forward to tomorrow evening. You’ll be at my place at about six ?’
I scrutinized his face. ‘Definitely; but you wanted to say something else?’
‘I… it can wait until then, Anton – so much to talk about.’ He picked up his helmet and bag.
‘Are you sure it must wait until then?’ I asked, wondering again about what seemed to be this new facet of his persona, first becoming apparent in his action in the cage. Did his hesitant approach relate to this; did he wish to explain it? It was still fresh in my mind as a pleasing experience though awkward for me to broach. He was now irresolute, different to the customary bright, self-confident Pete though, to me, just as appealing.
He smiled and turning toward the door, waved with his free hand. ‘It can wait – see you tomorrow.’

There would be no tomorrow in this life for Pete. I recall what seemed to be an insistent urgency in the tone of the telephone. Upon hearing Cecile’s voice I knew that something terrible had happened, her words were almost unintelligible, wrung from the depths of unutterable grief. Pete was dead; killed on his way home when a drunken driver skipped the stop street and rammed into his motorcycle, crushing him against a lamppost. I cannot recall the fifteen minutes it took me to reach their house, distracted and oblivious to the route along which I sped, careless in my actions as mental images of my friend intruded upon my mind, relegating all else to irrelevancy. Upon arriving, I rushed through the front door and made my way through the small, sombre crowd of relatives and friends to the back of the sofa where Cecile and Joan were seated and, leaning over them and rendered speechless by the tightness of my chest, drew them within my arms and cried silently with them.

I thought of going to the mortuary but changed my mind. The Pete I wished to remember was the vital friend I had made during those days completing 45c, the irrepressible, talented and increasingly dear companion, taken away so suddenly but who would forever be within the recesses of my mind.
I was not surprised at the number of his workmates who attended the funeral, for Pete was well-liked by all. I greeted sad-eyed Tom Reay who was seated near the front of the chapel behind Pete’s family. I sat beside him and felt his heavy hand on my shoulder; he knew how close I was to my friend. I wept. On the coffin was a framed photograph of Pete, half smiling and head slightly cocked. I knew the attitude so well; how often during the past weeks I had been close to that head, close enough in animated discussion to feel his breath upon my face, close enough in the cage to hear his whisper, ‘Quo Vadis, Anton.’ I pondered these words as the organ music stirred my emotions, perhaps to irrational thought. Could his utterance have expressed some subliminal presentiment, some inchoate requiem to a talented life that was not to be?

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So many years have passed. After my mental sojourn through those happy and sad days I gaze again at the stark headgear that stands like a faithful, forgotten sentinel guarding the erstwhile scene of endeavour, industry and - friendship. Silhouetted against the shadowy evening light it has seen another day but its recurring vigil is no more enduring or insistent than my remembrance of my friend Pete with whom I walked beneath its shadow.
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