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Authors: Nadine Gordimer
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friend he’s teaching me very nice.—
—I saw. You didn’t say you were going to learn to drive. You never said you wanted to learn.—
—In town?—He was affable, deprecating his own ability, or reminding that they knew he had known the limits of his place.
—Here. Here.—
He leaned forward confidentially, using his hands. —Is no good someone else is driving the car, isn’t it? Is much better I myself I’m driving.—
—If they catch you, without a licence …—
He laughed. —Who’s going to catch me? The white policeman is run away when the black soldiers come that time. Sometime they take him, I don’t know … No one there can ask me, where is my licence. Even my pass, no one can ask any more. It’s finished.—
—I’m still worried that someone will come to look for us here because of the bakkie.—
—The bakkie? You know I’m tell them. I get it from you in town. The bakkie it’s mine. Well, what can they say?—
Only a colourless texturing like combings from raw wool across the top of his head from ear to ear remained to Bam—he had begun to go bald in his twenties. The high dome reddened under the transparent nap. His eyes were blue as Gina’s shining out of dirt. —Is it yours, July?—
All three laughed in agitation.
—They hear me. They must know, if I tell them I take it from you.—
A wave of red feeling—it seemed to flash from Bam’s fine pate to her—sent her backing them all away at a warning. Again, she gained foothold, spoke from there. —Martha’s given me something for the children’s coughs. She makes it out of herbs—at least, she showed me some plants she was boiling—
July’s eyes at once screwed up. —What? She’s give you what? That stuff is no good. No good.—
—But she gave it to the baby. Your baby. That’s how I could show her I wanted something for Gina and Royce—Royce never stops, all night, although he doesn’t wake up.—
His face was flickering with something suppressed: annoyance with his wife, irritation at responsibility—he was not a simple man, they could not read him. They had had experience of that, back there, for fifteen years; but then they had put it down to the inevitable, distorting nature of dependency—his dependency on them. —That medicine is no good for Royce. You don’t give that for Royce. You give it already?—
—No, I thought tonight. I thought maybe it’s something that makes you sleepy—
—It’s—you know … It’s not for white people.
—She was smiling as if he knew better. —Ju-ly … your baby is given it. Don’t tell me it can do any harm.—
—What do they know, these farm women? They believe anything. When I’m sick, you send me to the hospital in town. When you see me take this African medicine?—
—Well, all right. But even in town plants are used for some cough medicines. It might have helped. I haven’t anything to give him.—
—Me, I’m try next time I’m go to the India shop.
—Bam put an end to an academic argument. —There won’t be medicines. Grandpa Headache Powders, maybe.—
—No, he’s right, they’ll quite likely have some sort of cough syrup, think of all the chest troubles rural people get, living like this. It’s possible.—
—Royce he’s coming warm enough in the night? I think I bring blanket I got there in my house.—
She shook her head, smiling thanks. Swiftly, she placed—not a request, an assumption. —I’m going to put the rubber floor-mat from the bakkie under where he sleeps.—Her hand was out.
—I wanted to fetch it this morning, but you’ve kept the keys.—Bam did not raise his voice; had never shouted for him, back there. The white man (Bam saw himself as they would see him) would walk out into the yard, reasonably, when there was a reproach to lay at the door of his room, where his friends, so well-dressed on their days-off, sat gossiping.
—Who will go to the shop to get things for you? Who can bring your matches, your
—I saw. You didn’t say you were going to learn to drive. You never said you wanted to learn.—
—In town?—He was affable, deprecating his own ability, or reminding that they knew he had known the limits of his place.
—Here. Here.—
He leaned forward confidentially, using his hands. —Is no good someone else is driving the car, isn’t it? Is much better I myself I’m driving.—
—If they catch you, without a licence …—
He laughed. —Who’s going to catch me? The white policeman is run away when the black soldiers come that time. Sometime they take him, I don’t know … No one there can ask me, where is my licence. Even my pass, no one can ask any more. It’s finished.—
—I’m still worried that someone will come to look for us here because of the bakkie.—
—The bakkie? You know I’m tell them. I get it from you in town. The bakkie it’s mine. Well, what can they say?—
Only a colourless texturing like combings from raw wool across the top of his head from ear to ear remained to Bam—he had begun to go bald in his twenties. The high dome reddened under the transparent nap. His eyes were blue as Gina’s shining out of dirt. —Is it yours, July?—
All three laughed in agitation.
—They hear me. They must know, if I tell them I take it from you.—
A wave of red feeling—it seemed to flash from Bam’s fine pate to her—sent her backing them all away at a warning. Again, she gained foothold, spoke from there. —Martha’s given me something for the children’s coughs. She makes it out of herbs—at least, she showed me some plants she was boiling—
July’s eyes at once screwed up. —What? She’s give you what? That stuff is no good. No good.—
—But she gave it to the baby. Your baby. That’s how I could show her I wanted something for Gina and Royce—Royce never stops, all night, although he doesn’t wake up.—
His face was flickering with something suppressed: annoyance with his wife, irritation at responsibility—he was not a simple man, they could not read him. They had had experience of that, back there, for fifteen years; but then they had put it down to the inevitable, distorting nature of dependency—his dependency on them. —That medicine is no good for Royce. You don’t give that for Royce. You give it already?—
—No, I thought tonight. I thought maybe it’s something that makes you sleepy—
—It’s—you know … It’s not for white people.
—She was smiling as if he knew better. —Ju-ly … your baby is given it. Don’t tell me it can do any harm.—
—What do they know, these farm women? They believe anything. When I’m sick, you send me to the hospital in town. When you see me take this African medicine?—
—Well, all right. But even in town plants are used for some cough medicines. It might have helped. I haven’t anything to give him.—
—Me, I’m try next time I’m go to the India shop.
—Bam put an end to an academic argument. —There won’t be medicines. Grandpa Headache Powders, maybe.—
—No, he’s right, they’ll quite likely have some sort of cough syrup, think of all the chest troubles rural people get, living like this. It’s possible.—
—Royce he’s coming warm enough in the night? I think I bring blanket I got there in my house.—
She shook her head, smiling thanks. Swiftly, she placed—not a request, an assumption. —I’m going to put the rubber floor-mat from the bakkie under where he sleeps.—Her hand was out.
—I wanted to fetch it this morning, but you’ve kept the keys.—Bam did not raise his voice; had never shouted for him, back there. The white man (Bam saw himself as they would see him) would walk out into the yard, reasonably, when there was a reproach to lay at the door of his room, where his friends, so well-dressed on their days-off, sat gossiping.
—Who will go to the shop to get things for you? Who can bring your matches, your
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