stepped through a minefield of words before he chose what to say. —Who drove the bakkie?—
—I got someone he’s drive for me. One time he’s working there in Bethal, for the dairy, he’s driving truck. He knows very well to drive for me. I’m bring paraffin, salt, tea, jam, matches, everything—when it’s stopping to rain you come with me, we fetch from down there.—And he patted the car keys in his pocket.
—Did you have money?—She knew it was impossible that he could have made free of the still-thick swatch of notes, lying swollen as the leaves of a book that has got wet and dried again, in the suitcase on which Gina, cross and unaware of anyone, as she always was in the early mornings, was sitting.
—Is fifteen rand thirty-five.—So it was he would announce the cents owed him when he had paid, out of his own pocket, the surcharge on a letter delivered by the postman while the lady of the house was out.
—Bam, we must pay July.—She shooed Gina off the suitcase.
—We’ll pay. We’ll pay. Did anyone see you—I mean, say anything? Ask any questions? What’s happening there?—
He smiled and gave his customary high-pitched grunt of amusement when asked something obvious, to him. —Plenty people is know me. I’m from here since I’m born, isn’t it? Everyone is greet me.—
—Is it quiet there? No fighting?—
He laughed. —But they tell me at the mine there’s plenty trouble. People are coming home from there, they don’t want to stay, they say there’s burning, the houses, everything. Like in town. And the India’s coming too expenses. This it’s short, that it’s short. Sugar … Even box matches, you must fight for get it.—
—The mine?—
Bam answered her. —There’s an asbestos mine about sixty kilometres in the other direction—west. I suppose a lot of the men sign up to work there.—
—Some soldiers was coming by the shop. They tell me, last week. The India he’s run away when he see them.—
—So who keeps the shop open?—
—No—(he was amused)—when the soldiers they went, the India’s come back. He’s there, there, in the shop.—
The little boy Royce made a dash from the bed and gained the pillar of July’s thigh. Holding on, leaning, in confused regression to babyhood, he stopped his mouth with his thumb and confronted his parents with the lowered gaze of some forgotten defiance. The black man lifted and carried the child back to bed. The parents were amiably given an order. —Just now when the rain is coming slow, I call you. I send someone, you come.—He put on the raincoat and was digging in the pockets. —Here, I bring for you—He tossed up in his palm and presented to her two small radio batteries.
—Oh how marvellous. How clever to remember.—He had heard her say it all when friends brought her flowers or chocolates.
He grinned and swayed a little, as they did. —Now you listen nice again.—It was the small flourish of his exit.
She considered the batteries in her hand; smiled at the well-meaning—not even a new battery would bring the voices from back there if the radio station should be hit.
—Put them where it’s dry.—
There was only the suitcase, and even that was stained with damp moving up from where it rested on the floor. —If we could find a couple of bricks to raise it on.—But bricks were a cherished commodity; in every hut, they were used to raise beds. Where was Bam to find bricks for her? She found her own solution. —Ask July.—
She was quite competent at making porridge, now. It was the little community’s own meal, grown by them and stamped by the women in big wooden jars. It looked more like bits of coarse broken yellow china than the sugar-fine grains commercially milled. It tasted better, too, than the packaged stuff, rough as it was. Everyone knew that; it was sold in health shops and eaten by white food-faddists with honey and butter … Salt! He had brought salt, at least. That was what had been
—I got someone he’s drive for me. One time he’s working there in Bethal, for the dairy, he’s driving truck. He knows very well to drive for me. I’m bring paraffin, salt, tea, jam, matches, everything—when it’s stopping to rain you come with me, we fetch from down there.—And he patted the car keys in his pocket.
—Did you have money?—She knew it was impossible that he could have made free of the still-thick swatch of notes, lying swollen as the leaves of a book that has got wet and dried again, in the suitcase on which Gina, cross and unaware of anyone, as she always was in the early mornings, was sitting.
—Is fifteen rand thirty-five.—So it was he would announce the cents owed him when he had paid, out of his own pocket, the surcharge on a letter delivered by the postman while the lady of the house was out.
—Bam, we must pay July.—She shooed Gina off the suitcase.
—We’ll pay. We’ll pay. Did anyone see you—I mean, say anything? Ask any questions? What’s happening there?—
He smiled and gave his customary high-pitched grunt of amusement when asked something obvious, to him. —Plenty people is know me. I’m from here since I’m born, isn’t it? Everyone is greet me.—
—Is it quiet there? No fighting?—
He laughed. —But they tell me at the mine there’s plenty trouble. People are coming home from there, they don’t want to stay, they say there’s burning, the houses, everything. Like in town. And the India’s coming too expenses. This it’s short, that it’s short. Sugar … Even box matches, you must fight for get it.—
—The mine?—
Bam answered her. —There’s an asbestos mine about sixty kilometres in the other direction—west. I suppose a lot of the men sign up to work there.—
—Some soldiers was coming by the shop. They tell me, last week. The India he’s run away when he see them.—
—So who keeps the shop open?—
—No—(he was amused)—when the soldiers they went, the India’s come back. He’s there, there, in the shop.—
The little boy Royce made a dash from the bed and gained the pillar of July’s thigh. Holding on, leaning, in confused regression to babyhood, he stopped his mouth with his thumb and confronted his parents with the lowered gaze of some forgotten defiance. The black man lifted and carried the child back to bed. The parents were amiably given an order. —Just now when the rain is coming slow, I call you. I send someone, you come.—He put on the raincoat and was digging in the pockets. —Here, I bring for you—He tossed up in his palm and presented to her two small radio batteries.
—Oh how marvellous. How clever to remember.—He had heard her say it all when friends brought her flowers or chocolates.
He grinned and swayed a little, as they did. —Now you listen nice again.—It was the small flourish of his exit.
She considered the batteries in her hand; smiled at the well-meaning—not even a new battery would bring the voices from back there if the radio station should be hit.
—Put them where it’s dry.—
There was only the suitcase, and even that was stained with damp moving up from where it rested on the floor. —If we could find a couple of bricks to raise it on.—But bricks were a cherished commodity; in every hut, they were used to raise beds. Where was Bam to find bricks for her? She found her own solution. —Ask July.—
She was quite competent at making porridge, now. It was the little community’s own meal, grown by them and stamped by the women in big wooden jars. It looked more like bits of coarse broken yellow china than the sugar-fine grains commercially milled. It tasted better, too, than the packaged stuff, rough as it was. Everyone knew that; it was sold in health shops and eaten by white food-faddists with honey and butter … Salt! He had brought salt, at least. That was what had been
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