Bill Gill’s shoes
Having a 65 year old loud mouth semi-vagrant as a constant companion was once an irritation in my life. The name of the vagrant was Bill Gill, a rather flamboyant personality. His life story was such, that from a well-to-do upbringing in Johannesburg growing up riding ponies and adventuring around the city at will, he grew into a rebellious and anarchistic youngster. His wildness included flagrantly breaking the Apartheid segregation laws and after finding out that he was wanted by the dreaded security police he had fled towards Cape Town.
On a bicycle.
The Karoo desert was apparently somewhat of a trial but he made it. A life of adventuring lay in front of him and he gripped it with passionate fervor. From whaling on schooners in the South Seas to rowing tourists out to treacherous islands off the west coast of Ireland he had survived craggy and cheerful through a series of human and natural storms. One of the peculiarities of Bill was that he always looked like an eccentric but truly authentic local. Tall, dark browed with a rather Lady Chatterley’s Lover look about him as a young man he must have cut quite a dash where ever he went. There must be hundreds of photographs of him in mouldering albums around the world labelled ‘Bullfighter resting’ or ‘Shepard in foothills of Alps’ or ‘ Stonemason in rural Ireland’ . Now I’d just like to point out that he would not have been working at any of these things at the time either just pootling about staring at sheep or leaning on a wall. He was deeply fond of many things but actual work was not one of them.
He was fond of people, women especially, strong cigarettes, coffee, ducks, any form of stimulants and raucous escapism. It was his gift to the world that he never gave a whit about what people thought and led others on jaunts into wildness on a regular basis. A trademark leather cowboy hat with a feather, purple silk shirt and a jaunty bandana around his grizzled old turkey neck completed his look. He looked rather like an ancient musketeer, rakish and garrulous. Not a shy man, Bill Gill. In public he would delightedly suck up the attention that his quirky attire and ebullient manner would attract. Being a sort of straight Quentin Crisp suited him. Everybody was called ‘Darling’. Attractive women were called ‘Lotus Blossom of Desire’ or ‘Delicious nubile’ in a voice that was a mixture of gravel and deep rolling bass-tones. Men were also called ‘Darling’ this was not always greeted with delight. Bill however carried on doling out lavish terms.
At the time of this particular story he was living in a tent right beside my temporary home (which was in a Volkswagon van) helping me to build a house in the valley in the Eastern Free State of South Africa. The word ‘helping’ can only be used in the loosest possible sense. I hadn’t asked him to move in he had just arrived. My dear friend Helen (known as H) came to help too but unlike Bill she worked like a fiend.
Each morning at 6am I woke to the bellow of ‘COFFEE, DARLING?’ and the be-wrinkled visage and toothy mouth of Bill leering in at the window. My usual response was a yelp of fright followed by a shudder. I’m not a squeamish person but the sight of Bill’s open mouth had me deep in the throes of horror. He was a dental hygienists nightmare. Decades of smoking Texan Plain cigarettes and tens of thousands of cups of strong coffee had turned his maw into a cavern of hell. His wreck of a car was parked up nearby, a dark navy Peugeot, fondly known as ‘The French Harlot’. It was held together by baling twine, duct tape, spit and most importantly by regular tinkerings by Johnny the dodgy mechanic who adored Bill because he recognised a fellow slacker in the game of life.
Each day after countless cups of coffee Bill would meander around my house-site giving bizarre directives to the bemused building crew of two and then stalk off on his long thin cowboy legs to make more coffee. Occasionally he would pick up a hammer and wield it furiously. Then I would come along and re-do whatever he had just done. It was a bit like having a large three year old with an extensive vocabulary to look after.
One particular day I was going to the local town which was 30kms away. Bill wanted to come along. The French Harlot was out of action as he had punctured a tyre driving her up a mountain in an attempt to seduce the latest ‘nubile’ with his 4x4 driving skills. I really didn’t want Bill to come with me. He was looking particularly tatty that day. His hat had gone missing, his jeans were filthy and he wasn’t wearing any shoes. The town inhabitants thought we were a crazy bunch as it was and my middle-class sensibilities were offended by this. Bill would just make things worse and I wasn’t in the mood for his inane and relentless jocularities.
I told him tersely that he couldn’t come. He moaned and harassed me with the skill of a spoilt child in a sweetshop and I finally succumbed. But on one condition; this was that he didn’t come near me when we were in town. I also mentioned that the bar where we would meet up would not allow him inside as he wasn’t wearing shoes. We drove into town in silence. He jumped out on the outskirts and bid me a throaty farewell. After a few hours of hard-ware stores and supply buying I made my way to the bar we had agreed to meet at. A cold beer was agreeably making its way down my throat when I gagged suddenly.
Bill was walking up the road in the distance past the shops and people were looking out windows, giggling and waving. His gait was very peculiar and I could only see his top half as it moved in a swaying fashion. Was he drunk? Had he just had a stroke and was struggling to walk? I leapt up and rushed to the door and peered out with anxiety.
As he got closer I could begin to see the reason for the consternation he was causing. On his previously unshod feet were two boxes. Shoe-boxes. Bright yellow shoe-boxes to be precise, that were taped onto his calloused tootsies. He marched proudly past me into the bar and gallantly ordered a beer. Waddling over to a bench with a very smug expression on his face, beer in hand, he sat down and proudly said ‘Look!’ . I gazed down at his feet and noticed that not only had he got matching boxes but they each had a picture of very smart two-tone brogues on them. ‘Charming, aren’t they darling?’ growled Bill as he reclined conspicuously on the bench and ordered a beer on my account.
A little girl being led past began tugging on her mothers hand and saying’ But Mummy! That man has got boxes on his feet!’ her mother, not bothering to turn around snapped ’ Don’t be ridiculous dear; people don’t do silly things like that’.
(When my house was finished Bill moved to Cape Town and lived in a movie warehouse with a small pride of cats. He attended film premieres, pretended to be a film director, was the oldest groupie of a young up and coming band and attended operas frequently using his old age pensioners pass to get in cheaply. He did get some new teeth thanks to some stalwart friends. One of his finest pick-up lines was “Come on darling, it might be my very last time”. This apparently worked infrequently but somehow miraculously.
Bill died in 2012. I would say I miss him very much but I will never say it out loud as he might somehow magically appear. There are a few legendary people in everybody’s lives. Bill always reminded me to keep laughing, stay light and flirt with anything that could possibly respond. The best legends are the most randy apparently. I’ll go with that as inspiration.
