GOODBYE MR HUSBANDS

Harry Husbands was the consummate “outsider” in a very cliquey Cape Town of the 1930s and 1940s. A wizard at figures, he sat at his desk in the far corner of an open plan office as an actuarial clerk, but with a window offering a panoramic view of an engineering marvel that was unfolding in the city. A slim, tall, immaculately attired figure, he would occasionally look up from his paperwork in which he would make sense of rows of figures, and gaze at the land reclamation project that was under way, pushing back the sea and giving way to the new foreshore development. His office window was on one of the top floors of the Mutual Building, built in 1939 and officially opened in 1940 as the tallest building in Cape Town – a position it clung to for the next twenty-three years.

Harry was an odd character and kept very much to himself, in a workplace filled with the cheerful banter of young people barely out of their teens and making their way through the statistical maze of actuarial work so pivotal to the success of the insurance industry. Groups would huddle around the coffee tables and exchange pleasantries, but Harry could not acceptably pronounce the password “Shibboleth” which would gain him admission to the ranks of any of these clusters. Somehow, he was comfortable with his identity as an Ephraimite in this world of Gilead as the account in the Biblical book of Judges spells it out. His co-workers could set their watches by him as he shifted in behind his secluded desk at precisely six-thirty every weekday. He would busy himself with the reams of numbers in front of him, helping himself to tea from a flask brought from home and at lunchtime would consume a single sandwich, self-styled with a chunk of cheese betwixt the slices of government bread. That would be sufficient sustenance to see his slender frame through the day until he presumably took supper at home.

In the twenty-first century, fixated on naming psychological and sociological conditions, he would probably have been ranked on the autistic spectrum, or be classified as being somewhat afflicted with a mild form of Savantism. A genius at statistical analysis, but lacking social skills, he was nevertheless indispensable to the actuaries that served the insurance industry from their nook in the building on Darling Street.  As his fingers traversed the pages of numerical data, he would occasionally lift his fountain pen, always filled with dark blue ink and resembling a quill of old, to jot down an observation, a total or an equation that would record some permutation or degree of probability that his agile mind would have calculated with ease.

On the occasions he lifted his eyes from the pages and peered over the rim of his half-moon reading spectacles, out of the window and into the distance, he would have seen the city transformed. The explosive reduction of piers to rubble, the dredging by the Hollandse Aanneming Maatschappij (adept as the Dutch were at constructing dykes in their country that is largely below sea level), the construction of the new station complex alongside the row of palm trees which still marks the original shoreline today, and eventually the excavation and building of Duncan Dock – would have been a riveting vista. Here at his desk he would plod all day at a workspace kept scrupulously tidy until five minutes past six in the evening and scurry to the station for the short trip to Mowbray on the “six twenty-five” train from which he would alight at six-forty. Those were the days that trains ran on time and were safe to travel on. Muggings and train accidents were both rare events.

Mr Husbands, unbeknownst to his colleagues, lived in a rented room in a house run by a Mrs. Williams largely for the convenience of students and oddballs like Harry. She ran a tight ship and a nutritious supper was served at seven sharp. Morning breakfast would be at five-thirty. Lateness was not tolerated by this large framed lady with an apron and a voice to match her cantankerous nature. Nevertheless, she earned her keep by renting out rooms in a spotless establishment – an arrangement that suited Harry perfectly, given his predilection for cleanliness and tidiness. Over weekends Mr Husbands, who was ironically a bachelor, would be cloistered in his room, emerging only for three meals a day, served in the communal dining room. A bookish type, he would seemingly read until the wee hours of the morning before retiring to bed. He would make his way with an awkward gait to a corner table away from the chatter of the students and seemed content with his own company.

Never did Harry call in ill. Never did he take the leave to which he was entitled – not in the two decades he worked in Cape Town’s tallest building. His actuarial firm stayed on in the building on Darling Street even when the main insurance client eventually moved its headquarters to Mutual Park near Pinelands. He owed no-one a penny, had no friends and apparently disowned relatives – if there happened to be any. Ostensibly there weren’t.

Despite being a loner par excellence, Mr Husbands was always impeccably dressed. Ne’er would he venture out without a well-starched collar, Windsor-knotted tie, and matching suit, socks and shiny shoes. Off to work, this outfit would be topped with a bowler hat and in the winter months, a brolly in hand. 

Usually as he passed his colleagues on his way to his desk he would politely nod, but not engage in idle chatter. Should he encounter them in the street, he would tip his hat (and if it were a lady – doff it). His odd demeanour was not an indication of ill-will or any hint of nastiness. Social awkwardness he had in abundance.

One Friday afternoon his behaviour shifted a trifle. That day he went around to all in the office to wish them a good weekend before he tootled off to catch his train. 

Monday morning arrived, but not Mr Husbands. His dismayed boss instantly launched an investigation as to his whereabouts. With the good offices of Mrs. Williams and a spare key to his room, they entered to find him fully dressed, neat as ever, in repose upon his bed. He had expired a few minutes before breakfast on that Monday morning. 

It was concluded without any shadow of doubt that the cause of his demise was natural. Given his strange behaviour the Friday before he slipped away much as he’d lived – quietly – the natter around the coffee table at the office that day turned to foreknowledge. Had this actuarial clerk been so shockingly accurate in his premonition as to predict the very day he would cease to be. Having worked his whole life with the quirks of probability, had he somehow applied this to his own sojourn on this earth?

Harry left no friends. No family. No traceable relatives. No debt. A vast fortune saved during the course of a frugal existence. And he left no will. His entire estate reverted to the State. 

In his cupboard were 100 shirts, neatly folded  - as purchased – and never worn. He had a multitude of starched collars and dozens of ties. Many suits. One bowler hat, a brolly, and some other bits and pieces of clothing. Every item found was clean and ironed. Even the seams on the suit trousers were pressed to perfection. On shelves were neatly stacked a plethora of books – mainly non-fiction.

An amiable priest agreed to conduct his funeral, attended by the meagre number of acquaintances who had fleetingly passed by this solitary figure at the office – and Mrs. Williams.

“All flesh is like grass and all its glory like the flower of grass. The grass withers, and the flowers fall …” (1 Pet 1:24)

©Paul M Haupt