James McCure - The Steam Pig

“No Shoe Shoe,” he said. “His wheelbarrow is round the back of the City Hall but not one fellow knows where he is.”

“You asked plenty?”

“Oh yes, boss,” Zondi licked his knuckles.

The wind had gone. It was very cold and very early in the morning.

“Get in, I’ll take you home.”

“How come? We can go out to Peacehaven, boss.”

“Not tonight-I’ll explain why. Move it.”

As Kramer drove out to Kwela Village, he filled in on all that had happened. If that was the Colonel’s attitude, then he could not expect them to miss another night’s sleep.

Zondi lived with his wife and three children in a two-roomed concrete house which covered an area of four table-tennis tables and had a floor of stamped earth. He always had to direct Kramer to it as there were several hundred other identical houses in the township. All that distinguished his home was a short path edged with upturned condensed-milk cans too rusty to catch the car’s headlights.

“Go for Gershwin Mkize in the morning,” Kramer instructed him after they had stopped. “He should know where his merchandise has got to. Maybe Shoe Shoe’s sick? I’ve got to see the Colonel and Mr Perkins, then I’ll be in the market square if you’re not back in the office by ten.”

“Right, boss, see you.”

Kramer waited with his lights on the door so Zondi would not fumble the key, and then started off down the hill into town again.

Lucky man, that wife of Zondi’s was a good woman with a fine wide pelvis. Kramer caught himself wondering if it was not time he got lucky; he liked the idea of a loyal woman and he liked children. But no, he was a man of principle. It was not fair taking on such a responsibility in his job-you never knew when you might fetch up grinning at Strydom with your stomach. Anyway, he had found himself a widow with four kids. She would love a surprise guest.

For the second time running, Kramer awoke startled and lashing out. He was being kneed in the groin.

“Hey, watch what you’re doing!” someone yelled.

He pulled the sheet off his face. A delighted boy of five was advancing up him on all fours.

“Good morning, Uncle Trompie,” the child said, grinning round at his mother who stood by the wardrobe.

“You nearly took poor Piet’s head off,” chided the Widow Fourie.

“I don’t mind, Ma,” Piet said generously.

And the noise brought his siblings scrambling into the room to bounce on their Uncle Trompie. They were all older and that much bonier, but Kramer would have willingly put up with it for longer than their mother.

“What’s all this?” she demanded. “Out you go and let your Ma dress in peace. She’ll be late for work in a minute.”

“How long is a minute, Uncle Trompie?” asked Marie, the eldest, who knew anyway.

“Out!” shouted Widow Fourie.

“Hold it,” said Kramer, sitting up and reaching for his cigarettes. He had bought them from a machine and there was some change slipped into the cellophane wrapping. He added it to what was in his trouser pocket.

“Yes?” Marie moved eagerly forward.

“If you can tell me how long a minute is, then all of you can have a fizzy drink down at the Greek shop, it’ll be open by now.”

“Sixty!”

“Seconds! Right first time-now you lot get out of here and don’t come back till you’re burping.”

The flat emptied like a greyhound trap.

“You spoil them, Trompie.”

“I spoil myself.”

Unwarily, the Widow Fourie had wandered too close in a search for her stockings. One hand was all Kramer needed for the wrist lock which brought her tumbling on top of him.

“Hey! You bloody police think you can do what you like!”

“Don’t you like it then?”

She giggled and nuzzled.

“I’ve been late twice through you.”

“I’ll give you a lift.”

“That’s lovely,” she said as she went under.

Lust was a many-splendoured thing, Kramer decided, as he watched the enchanting ritual of a full-bodied woman jigging her way back into a tight corset. Pure lust that was, none of your permissive society muck the Government banned from the news stands. He had seen a Playboy magazine once in the Vice Squad’s office and it left him thinking of dogs watering lamp-posts to excite other dogs they would never know. Filthy, degrading muck. But real lust-

“Isn’t it about time you started thinking about getting up?”

“Uhuh.”

“Just because you’re mad at the Colonel doesn’t mean I’ve got to be late for work, after all. Marie will have to give the kids their breakfasts as it is.”

“Uhuh.”

“Come on, Trompie, there’s a razor I use for my legs in the bathroom.”

With a groan, Kramer staggered out of bed and went through into the bathroom. The Widow Fourie threw his underpants in after him and was gratified to hear the sound of the wash-basin taps running. She hooked up her bra and looked around for her stockings again.

“Seen my nylons?” she called.

Kramer appeared in the doorway, scrubbing his chin with a bar of laundry soap in a final bid to get a good lather. He had his underpants over one shoulder.

“What colour are they?”

“Pink,” she answered, hurriedly pulling on her spare overall-she would never have time to change in the locker room at Woolworth’s.

“Pink,” Kramer repeated. “That’s not for stockings.”

“Fat lot you know. We’re all wearing them in haberdashery, the counter’s so high the customers can’t see.”

And then the thought struck him. Kramer dropped both soap and underwear in his rush across the room. The Widow Fourie glanced up irritably.

“Come on,” said Kramer. “Undo your buttons.”

“Keep your hands off me, they’re wet!” she protested. “Have you gone crazy, Trompie?”

“Undo them!”

She looked frightened, which he regretted, but the matter was too important to waste words.

“This must be how they see you,” she said softly as her fingers worked down the row of large white buttons on the plain blue uniform. “Please don’t do it again, that thing with your mouth.”

Kramer was not listening. He was intent on examining her undergarments as they appeared longitudinally in the gap. The low bra was a brilliant red, trimmed with a black lace frill with a dot sewn into it. The corset was scarlet with a bold pattern in deep crimson. The panties were an odd pair in poster green, cut very high at the hip and embroided on the more substantial areas with yellow roses.

The Widow Fourie was standing stiffly as if she expected to be touched where her flesh would crawl.

“Relax,” mumbled Kramer, finding a smile.

“I just wanted a look.”

“Oh, yes?”

She began rebuttoning. Her expression was grim and obviously her mind made up.

“I think we must have a talk in the car.”

“Tell me something: why do you wear those things? It’s very important.”

Now she was completely taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“Why such fancy stuff? Why not the ordinary white you see in the shop windows?”

“I dunno. I suppose it’s because I have to wear this uniform all day long.”

“Go on.”

Kramer scooped the stockings off the floor right at her feet and handed them over.

“Oh, ta. Well, all the assistants at Woolworth’s wear the same one and it’s a horrible blue. Drab, I call it.”

“Yes?”

“ Ach, work it out for yourself, man.”

“You tell me.”

“If you wear the bright undies you like then-even though no one can see them-you’re still different. That’s it: I put them on because they make me feel more the person I really am.”

Bull’s-eye.