I have so many memories of Bill who, when he phoned, would always announced himself as “William”.
Although he and Colleen, with their son, Gareth, lived around the corner from my parents in Grahamstown, I didn’t meet him “properly” until 1992. I still vividly remember, it was at the end of a March day during which I’d been doing fundraising training with ECD workers. I had been detailed by colleagues in Johannesburg, because I would be in Grahamstown, to discuss the Grassroots track for the 2nd International Fundraising Conference with Bill. It was also an auspicious time in South Africa. It was the day of that referendum, and I went from that meeting, to vote.
At the end of a long, hot day, I parked outside Dr Davies' Rhodes University office – a house in Prince Alfred Street. The front door was open to a long passage. All was quiet, but there was a presence in the room, first right. I poked my head in and timidly said to the man poring over papers at a table filled with books and more papers – piles of them, “Bill Davies?”
“Who wants to know?” he asked in capital letters. A man with wild, wiry hair, a scrawny beard and blue eyes that pierced through his glasses.
“Ahem…Fiona Cameron. We have an appointment.”
“Oh, that’s alright then. COME IN!”
Other than being offered Fruit Sparkles, I remember little about that meeting, other than it did give rise to a dedicated track at the conference, on which we worked together. The following year I moved to Queenstown, and it was Bill who introduced and mentored me into community work - and self-employment. It was a time in South Africa’s history when things were quite fraught. For the two years I lived there, Bill was a frequent, expected and unexpected visitor. He’d arrive with an almost screech of tyres – in a hired car – red if he had his way. The front door was never shut let alone locked, so he’d march down the hall and either into my study, or if there was a cricket match, into the lounge, fling his briefcase on to the coffee table and turn on the television. The cricket score and playing with the kittens (then a tabby and a black) were much more important than work and the niceties.
Over the next couple of years, until I moved to Cape Town, we worked together – a lot. He was a gentle but firm, funny mentor. We hared around the Eastern Cape, from the mountains to the sea, in snow and sun, at a time when South Africa was on the cusp of democracy. When work was done, often in dingy, rundown buildings in townships, we’d re-cap the day over dinner and wine (for me) and whisky (for him).
One of our more memorable trips was to the Eastern Cape town of Molteno. In the height of winter, it’s one of the coldest places in South Africa, and it’s also the heart of sheep farming country. The project on which we were working involved housing and ensuring that the bulk infrastructure was in place, coupled with the establishment of a governance structure comprising the "real" locals. The terrain was rocky, both physically and in other ways. The surface was bedrock, making it impossible to lay pipes for water, let alone sewage. We were working with folk who understood none of this other than the hope of houses of their own.
This type of work always meant long evening meetings and overnight stays. We were booked into the Molteno Royal Hotel. Hotel, perhaps. Royal, most definitely not. The rooms, although they were “en suite”, were reminiscent of some 19th-century institution. My room had a single bed, made up with sheets and thin blankets. The floor was bare. The bathroom had a shower, washbasin and toilet – with a pull chain. Nothing cosy about that. After work, the absence of anywhere else, Bill and I headed to the bar where, at least, there was a roaring fire, not to mention ribald commentary and conversation from the local farmers. We were frozen from having been sat in a cold community hall. We desperately needed something to eat, but the kitchen was closed, so our meal consisted of crisps, biltong, droë wors* and Old Brown Sherry – out of wine glasses. The time that we stumbled to our respective rooms remains forever a mystery. The following morning, neither of us had warmed up much, but we had slept.
Exchanging experiences over a happy, hearty country breakfast and copious cups of awful coffee, Bill had had a much more comfortable time than I. During the night, said toilet cistern with the pull chain in my bathroom, had leaked. All over the floor - into the bedroom which had gone from being bare and cold, went to being bare and cold, and covered with water and icicles. Discovered as I put my besocked feet out of the not-so-warm bed. How he laughed at me as I described the antics that followed!
Our friendship and collegiality continued after I left the Eastern Cape and although we didn’t see each other frequently, we remained in touch. In his retirement he rekindled his interest in philately and in my desk drawer, I still have an envelope of franked stamps destined for his collection. I was waiting to collect a few more before posting them to him.
I have fond memories of visiting Bill and Colleen in their Kidds Beach home. The last time was with The Husband. Those memories stay with us: lunch at the Tea Room, a walk along the beach and the river with Goldie the dog, and after a sunny day, an evening of rugby and braaivleis.
Good memories of a special man.
**biltong is spiced dried meat, rather like jerky, and droë wors is a spicy sausage, also dried
Post Script: I have no photographs of Bill. I do, though, have many happy pictures of him that remain in my head and heart. Always vividly remembered he will be.
Until next time, be well
Fiona
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa
Photo: Selma
Post script
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