CHARMAIN NAIDOO: Manners maketh the despot go quietly

It was always a source of utter amazement to my dear ex-husband and me, how his stepmother – even in the throes of dementia – kept her impeccable good manners.

Good manners. Hmmm. It’s the last thing to go, apparently, an incredulous Francois would say.

Mrs C (on the arm of a long suffering nurse in the end) would personally answer the door to their once very grand Westcliff, Johannesburg mansion, now Miss Havisham dusty with the stale smell of old age and wet dog.

She’d usher us into the stygian gloom of her sitting room with its closed tapestry curtains, the only light coming from a dim bulb under a tattered ochre lampshade.

I’d never known this room, this house, in its glory days, but I’d heard tales of parties that rocked the mountain side on which this palatial home sat, overlooking the canopy of trees that is Johannesburg’s man-made forest down below, overlooking the zoo. On a clear day, you could see lion and elephant, hear them roar and trumpet. It felt Hollywood grand.

I was once asked to fetch Mrs C a shawl from her wardrobe, and gasped with pleasure at the retro racks from which hung exquisitely preserved frocks and trouser suits and scarves and hats and feather boas dating back to the 60s.

A lot of them still encased in clear plastic coverings, some labelled with the date they were last worn.

White go-go boots by Andre Courrege; mini skirts with matching jackets in psychedelic colours by Mary Quant; Guy Laroche, Paco Rabanne; top designers from the 60s and 70s.

Shimmering evening dresses with matching gloves and clutch bags covered in the same fabric. Big bold platforms, kitten heels, PVC boots.

She’d been something of a fashion plate with her perfect body, a designer’s dream hangar on which to drape very expensive haute couture.

There had also been a rather large fortune that ensured she was able to keep up with every new trend. Judging by her wardrobe, she did.

There were wigs and well-worn handbags, their leather stiff and gnarled from years of non-use. Nearly 40 years later, Mrs C still favoured the Bob hairstyle made fashionable by Vidal Sassoon in the 60s. On this helmet of hair she’d place pill box and flying saucer hats and embellished berets… Mrs C was a hat fancier.

Good manners then, and vanity, are the last things to go when the mind does.

Mrs C’s hair was kept clean and chestnut brown by weekly trips to the salon; her nails were covered in pale pink – ballet slipper I think the nail varnish is called. It’s the colour favoured by WASP debutantes, a hint of gloss on the nails, but nothing so garish as an actual colour.

The entrance hall to the Westcliff home was large enough to house a family of four and jam-packed with wicker baskets filled with firewood, an umbrella stand, a coat and hat stand, a tall armoire with brass inlay and stinky baskets for the dogs. It was when we were in this vestibule that Mrs C’s good manners kicked in.

“Who are you again?” she’d ask, her head tilted to one side so that the front part of her bob formed a curtain that swept across one shoulder.

When I told her I was her stepson’s wife, she always said: “How nice. Have you come to play tennis? Has anyone offered you a drink?”

This ritual – introduction, offer of tennis/a swim/ a drink – recurred throughout the course of the visit.

Mrs C remembered nothing. But she was affable.

I suppose it’s a generational thing. My mother, too, was incredibly polite. Even in the most trying circumstances.

Mum hated being surprised. She liked to think she was super organised and took everything in her stride, but she was a worrier and couldn’t bear for her routine to be upset.

I’m a bit (maybe a lot) like that. I’m easily flummoxed if something unexpected happens. Only, unlike my mother, my manners slip into a growl. I’m trying to change, but I have to admit it’s hard.

Looking back on it now, my mother was right to be annoyed by what was incredibly rude behaviour. My father’s  relatives, both distant and close, passing through our hometown Ladysmith (on their way somewhere to a funeral/ wedding/ birth/ party) would arrive on our doorstep without notice.

It was (is?) customary to offer guests a meal, no matter the time of day. Lunch, dinner, breakfast or tea would have to be served.

It was customary too, for the guests to protest: they’d just eaten; they had to hurry off; they couldn’t stay. No really, they had to go, to which it was expected that my parents would persuade them to eat a meal before they went on their way. Please. Please stay. It’s no problem at all…

In the end, seemingly reluctantly, they’d agree to “just a bite then”.

At this point my mother would have to defrost lamb/chicken from the freezer (pre-microwave days remember) and produce a perfect meal with all the accoutrements; a hearty curry, at least two vegetable side dishes, white fluffy rice, a grated carrot, onion and cucumber salad drenched white spirit vinegar. And dessert of course.

My mother did not operate well under pressure.

But her manners through the extreme discomfort of having to be hospitable were impeccable.

This was pre take-away days; there was no pizza to be ordered in; no fast food to be fetched in case of an emergency. Corner cafes sold no fresh protein – in fact if it was a Sunday, the shops were closed.

Most families I knew had a fridge with a freezer, for immediate family use. And then, usually in the garage, there was a chest freezer with Just In Case supplies.

I still don’t know how she did it: dealing with the considerable pressure and being polite and charming through it. She’d put up a spirited argument as to why the guests should stay for lunch or dinner or tea, even as her stomach churned and she wondered if her pantry would produce under the strain of 5/6/7 people.

And so I was not surprised when I heard ousted 90-something-year-old President Robert Mugabe’s priest describe him as a man who “glowed” after he signed his letter of resignation. Of course he wasn’t going to show he was angry or disappointed or upset!

Going graciously. That seemed to be what he (and his advisers) wanted the world to see. Mugabe giving up power with a smile on his face. Good manners, good behaviour to the end. No ranting and raving; no kicking and screaming. Polite, well mannered Bob going graciously, even though he was forced from office, ousted from what I guess he’d considered his position for life.

Zimbabwe’s Sunday Mail quoted Jesuit priest, Father Fidelis Mukonori, as saying Mugabe was far from a bitter man.

There it is again; that obsession with appearances.

The reality of it, apparently – as told by the state-run Standard newspaper – is that the devout Catholic Mugabe held a rosary as he lamented how “people are chameleons”.

Good manners, in certain people of a certain age, it seems is really something that never dies.