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missing, now she would be able to put salt in the water in which she boiled the meal.
    People—black people—would certainly have seen him at the store, in possession of the yellow bakkie.
    —So he turns up there as if the millennium has already arrived.—
    She was stirring the meal thickening on the Primus. Spoon dripping in her hand, she looked at Bam, considering what could be done for him rather than what he had said. —But jam will be good—a dollop of jam with this …—She stirred as if to shift their energies. —He did bring things.—

Chapter 8
     
    There was the moment to ask him for the keys. But it was let pass.
    They stood in the midday sun and watched, over at the deserted dwelling-place, the yellow bakkie being reversed, bucking forward, leaping suddenly backwards again; kicking to a stop. July was at the wheel. His friend was teaching him to drive.
    After days of rain hot breath rose from everything, the vegetation, the thatch, the damp blankets of all patterns and colours hung out over every bush or post that would spread them. Submission to the elements was something forgotten, back there. You shivered, you had no dry clothes to replace wet ones. The hearth-fire that filled the hut with smoke was the centre of being; children, fowls, dogs, kittens came as near to it as the hierarchy of their existence allowed. The warmth that food brought—blood chafing into life—came from it, where the clinkers of wood, transparent with heat, made the porridge bubble vigour. Bam and Maureen had longed for cigarettes, for a drink of wine or spirits, their children had craved for sweet things; but in the days of rain, the small fire they never let die satisfied all wants.
    A shimmer of heat like a flock of fast-flying birds passed continually across the movements of the vehicle. He was getting the hang of it.
    When the lesson petered out he and his friend sat about on their hunkers—too far away to make out what they were doing; just talking, no doubt, July stimulated and eager to communicate, as everyone is when acquiring a new skill, the stages at which mastery eluded or came to him. Walking back through the valley, he waved jubilantly when he was near enough to recognize and be recognized.
    —I would never have thought he would do something like that. He’s always been so correct. —Bam paused to be sure she accepted the absolute rightness, the accuracy of the word. —Never gave any quarter, never took any, either. A balance. In spite of all the inequalities. The things we couldn’t put right. Oh, and those we could have, I suppose.—
    Gratitude stuffed her crop to choking point. —We owe him everything.—
    Her husband smiled; it didn’t weigh against the keys of the vehicle, for them.
    Oh, she didn’t deny that. She was setting out the facts before herself, a currency whose value had been revised. It was not only the bits of paper money that could not supply what was missing, here.
    —I’d give him the keys any time. I could teach him to drive, myself—he hasn’t asked me. All right—someone has to get supplies for us …—
    —As long as the money lasts.—
    —The money! We’ll be out of here, with plenty of money.—Habit assumed the male role of initiative and reassurance—something he always had on him, a credit card or cheque-book. She would not look at him, where it had passed from him, and remark his divestiture.
    July’s wave had been innocent. He came with their supply of wood—all still so damp, the whole settlement was hazed bluish from everyone’s cooking-fires, once more established outdoors. Bam spoke up with independent pleasantness. —You shouldn’t bother. I’ve told you. I can chop my own wood. You mustn’t do it.—
    —The women bring the wood. You see all the time, the women are doing it.—It was an issue not worth mentioning; he was enthusiastic about his prowess with the vehicle. —You know I’m turning round already? I’m know how to go back, everything. My