Doc Caldwell

KEITH MATTISON

1968 Dec 31. New Year’s Eve 1968 is a bittersweet memory. My father had died unexpectedly In November, so the “festive season” was a tough number for my mother, my sister and me. The show must go on, and the party was at the Vaughans’ huge Crown Mines home, with lots of old family friends, and I’d been organised a blind date. To my delight, Ross and Tish James were unexpected guests: I’d barely seen Ross since he was senior to me at school. They had in tow Keith and Ruth Mattison, round-the-world travellers from Canada, who’d arrived in South Africa that very day. I was impressed with Keith’s prowess at the piano, and so was my Mom, who bravely gave her rare O Boereplaas party-piece to see the old year out. I was even more impressed with his child-bride, Ruth, to the neglect but surely not regret of my date.

Next day there was tennis and swimming at the Tompkins, and the Mattisons were by now part of the family. Keith was introduced to cricket in style at a Wanderers test match within a couple of days, where the picnic hamper came out and Granny Vaughan cracked the “shampers”. To this day he is the only Canadian in history (apart from those in BC who can’t translate Canada c'est pas un pays: c'est l'hiver!) who understands the ethos of five-day cricket. Despite his passion for the game from then on, he also remains the worst cricketer I have ever known.

1969: Keith and Ruth moved into a flat on Florida Lake, there were picnics at Little Falls, and Keith played the squash-box at parties at my mother’s flat in Florida Hills.

July 20: Watched the moonwalk on the radio, over Woodstock made no fuss, did Simon bridge those troubled waters, Garfunkel to do with us: lyrics from a song for my class of ’69 reunion 25 years later. Keith and I sat up late in their flat on a pre-SATV winter’s night, gazed at the moon, and at long-last heard Neil Armstrong’s immortal crackly words. We avoided dehydration.

Sept 27: Keith was the organist at my sister Pat’s wedding to John Lees in Johannesburg: recessional How do you solve a problem like Maria? Pat and John moved into the same block of flats on the lake, as did Melly & John von Klemperer. There was an epidemic of pregnancies in the precinct, puzzling to me as a medical student: hadn’t they heard of vaccinations?

1970 March 9. Birth of Kevin Mattison: I was honoured to become a godfather for the first time. 1971 March 15: Patrick Lees born, making me an uncle, and godfather again.  A little von Klemperer appeared too. The christenings were serious affairs on the lakeside, with the male adults sustaining serious internal baptisms, and then voluntary immersions in the lake, resulting in a near-drowning on one of these occasions.

1971 July-ish: By now Keith and Ruth and Kev had moved to Cape Town, but somehow managed to travel to Kob Inn, our favourite Transkei holiday resort. Keith had to head for work in Johannesburg, so Ruth and tiny Kevin & I travelled back to Cape Town in my Anglia, in one plenty-hours hit, stopping for arbitrary reasons in Grahamstown and The Crags. Ruth kept us both awake, negotiating Sir Lowry’s Pass, teaching me the rudiments of bridge, which somehow did not penetrate into the memory bank. Next morning an excited Voetsak, the Mattison faithful brak, gashed his side on the bumper of the Triumph Spitfire, so it was Sunday with the vet.

Cape Town 73-77: I moved back to Cape Town, and lived in Tokai near the Mattison’s Moosejaw and saw them often. Keith and Ruth provided lots of “ideal matches” for an eager bachelor, but none found me the least suitable. Then I joined the Philharmonic Choir, where Keith was accompanist and committee member. One became aware of being ogled by a soprano with long blonde hair (she insists it was vice versa but with my squint it could have been an alto further along the row). I did take the precaution of asking Keith to divulge her phone number, knowing that Patricia Preston was also a committee member. He told me not to bother as she already had a boyfriend, but gave me the number anyway. The boyfriendproved an obstacle for a while, but Pat and I are coming up for our 38^th wedding anniversary. Thanks again for that inside information, Mr Mattison sir.

The Blue Route, now the M3 Highway, opened at about this time, enabling one to get to Tokai much more quickly, but also providing hidey-holes for traffic cops. Keith sped into a trap in the racing-green Triumph Spitfire one day, decided that Formula 1 flamboyance was the better part of discretion and put foot to floorboard. I gather they finally caught up with Keith in the lanes of Tokai, where he was embracing an unsuspecting housewife, whispering that she should tell the cops that she was about to deliver their baby. Something like that anyway.

1977 and beyond. We left Cape Town and saw the Mattisons only sporadically, on return trips, whilst remaining good friends. Visits to the Members’ Stand at Newlands with Keith were lively occasions. I had succumbed to a midlife crisis of clowning and crooning on stage, with frequent relapses, and against his better judgment Keith would be my keyboard accompanist for Western Cape performances, and also on the Fringe at the Grahamstown Festival. He somehow forgave my not infrequent five or three to a four-beat bar. Only once did I upstage him as to showbiz decorum when insisting that we played to an audience of three in Knysna, including the bouncer and the critic from the Argus. His inclination (and theirs) would have been the wiser one. I’ll never forget Keith inserting a snatch of O Canada into a World Cup rugby sketch, and standing to attention whilst he played it. Post-performance refreshments at the Mount Nelson, Cathcart Arms etc. were great fun.

1998 December 12: My niece Kate Lees’s wedding-day, St Stithians School chapel, Johannesburg. Keith was to play the organ as he had done at her parents’ wedding almost three decades earlier. I fetched him from the airport the previous afternoon, and as we approached the school for a rehearsal the most almighty Highveld thunder-storm hit. There was water above ankle-deep by the time we parked near the chapel, which pretty soon was also flooded, with rainwater pouring into the organ-pit. We called for reinforcements, but the headmaster and other personnel were far more concerned about matric exam papers becoming waterlogged, so it was Keith and I who did most of the bailing, squeegee-ing and mopping-up, Keith’s yachtsmanship coming to the fore. Somehow the electrics survived the semi-immersion, and despite sections of the organ not functioning, the Widor Toccata sounded magnificent next day, sun shining brightly and aisle-carpeting only slightly damp.

2012-14: Despite the onset of his illness, Keith stepped up to the plate as guest- accompanist when I performed at Kalk Bay Theatre in 2012, and remarkably did a full run of Guys & Dolls, so appropriate to his Salvation Army roots, towards the end of last year. I was privileged to attend the first night as Keith and Ruth’s guest. Keith was on fine form, returning to the stage, with interest, a newspaper that had been casually tossed into the orchestra pit.

Pat and I saw Keith and Ruth at home in March, for tea and then a beer. Keith knew that it was time for an oxygen machine: but he wasn’t complaining. Harry was thrilled with all his grandchildren, Ruth’s great support, and his ability to captain his yacht with crews willing to do the sailing, even though the Rio Race had required the decision to head for home at an early stage, fortunately in the event.

This is a long way of saying what a huge influence Keith and Ruth Mattison have had on my life, and Pat’s. What fun we’ve had, Keith: nary a dull moment, that’s for sure. The slow movements of Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata and of Shostakovich’s 2^nd Piano Concerto will always remind me of you and your sensitive playing. I salute you, brave bearded Canadian friend and generous warrior, who, with Ruth, has embraced South Africa so thoroughly since your arrival more than 45 years ago.

Much love, ATB

Doc Caldwell, Hilton, KZN