Брайс Кортни - The Power of One

Jackhammer had been helped to his feet by his seconds and was standing in the centre of the ring supported by them as the referee called Hoppie over. Holding Hoppie’s hand up in victory he shouted, ‘The good book tells the truth, little David has done it again! The winner by a knockout in the thirteenth round, Kid Louis!’ The railway men cheered their heads off and the miners clapped sportingly and people started to leave the stands.

As the boxers left the ring, Jackhammer still supported by his seconds, Gert, the waiter who took bets in the dining car on the train, entered the ring and began to settle bets. It had been a tremendous fight and even the miners seemed happy enough and would stay for the braaivleis and tiekiedraai afterwards.

It took four big railway men to get Big Hettie down from the top of the stand where we had been sitting. She had finished one half-jack of brandy and was well into the next and so was in no state to make it to the bottom on her own.

‘We showed ’em. Our boy sure socked the bejesus out of the big Palooka! Jaysus, Peekay, what a fight, heh? A darlin’ boy with the heart of a lion.’ Big Hettie was speaking in a soft accented English, which came as a surprise. ‘Oops!’ she said as she nearly missed her step and fell heavily against two of her helpers who were laughing almost fit to burst.

We walked over to the ring where Gert was paying out.

Big Hettie had one hand resting on my shoulder as though I were a sort of human walking stick. ‘I always speak the Irish tongue when I’ve had toomush brandy. Me darlin’ father, God rest his soul, he used to say, “M’dear, only the Irish tongue is made smooth enough fer a dacent drinkin’ man when he’s had a few.” And he was right, you cannot get properly sozzled speaking the verdomde taal!’

I said nothing. Hoppie must have told Big Hettie I was a Rooinek, but I wasn’t taking any chances and my camouflage remained intact. I saw no point in letting her know there was an enemy or even a friend in her midst.

At the ringside the men were lining up to be paid. As we drew closer Big Hettie, reverting back to Afrikaans, shouted at Gert, ‘You good for nothing skelm ! Where’s my fiver?’ Speaking Afrikaans seemed to have an immediate sobering effect on her. She moved imperiously to the head of the queue where Gert took five one-pound notes from his satchel and handed them down to her.

‘Thank you for your business, Hettie,’ Gert said politely.

Big Hettie squinted up at him, ‘And don’t you forget our little business either, my boy. Three cases of Crown Lager for the mess tomorrow night. Bring them early so I can put them on ice.’

‘You said only two,’ Gert whined.

‘The Afrikaner in me said two, but it was such a good fight, the Irish in me says three. You won big anyway, the odds were against Hoppie Groenewald winning.’

‘Scheesh! I didn’t win so big, there was a last-minute rush to bet on Hoppie.’

‘Pig’s arse! You won’t eat steak till next Christmas if it isn’t three cases for my boys.’ By this time Big Hettie seemed completely sober.

‘A man might as well not make book with you around, Hettie.’ Gert grinned and turned back to his other customers.

Hoppie came out of the tent just as we reached it and was immediately surrounded by railway men. He looked perfect, except for a large piece of sticking plaster over his left eye where Jackhammer Smit had butted him. Well, not absolutely perfect, in the light you could see his right eye was swollen and was turning a deep purple colour.

Bokkie and Nels were with him. Neither could stop talking and throwing punches in the air and replaying the fight. I was too small to see Hoppie as more and more railway men crowded around him. Big Hettie grabbed me and lofted me into the air. ‘Make way for the next contender,’ I heard Hoppie shout. Hands grabbed hold of me and carried me over the heads of the men to where he stood.

Hoppie pulled me close to him and put his hand around my shoulder. ‘We showed the big gorilla, heh, Peekay?’

‘Ja, Hoppie.’ I was suddenly a bit tearful. ‘Small can beat big if you have a plan.’

Hoppie laughed. ‘I’m telling you, man, I nearly thought the plan wasn’t going to work tonight.’

‘I’ll never forget, first with the head and then with the heart.’ I hugged him around the top of the legs. Hoppie rubbed his hand through my hair. The last time someone had done this, it was to rub shit into my head. Now it felt warm and safe.

It was almost three hours before the train was due to leave and most of the crowd had stayed behind to meet their wives after the fight at the tiekiedraai dance. Miners and railway men, as well as the passengers travelling on, all mixed together, the animosity during the fight forgotten. Only the Africans went home because they didn’t have passes and wouldn’t have been allowed to stay anyway.

With a slice of Big Hettie’s chocolate cake already in me I could scarcely manage two sausages and a chop. I even left some meat on the chop which I gave to a passing dog, who must have thought it was Christmas because, from then on, she stayed with me. She was a nice old bitch, although she looked a bit worn out from having puppies and her teats hung almost to the ground. She walked slowly, like old bitches do, and after a while I felt we’d always known each other. One ear was torn and her left eye drooped, probably from a fight or something. She was a nice yellow colour with a brown patch on her bum.

It had been a long day and I was beginning to feel tired. I’d never been up this late when I was happy. Hoppie found me and the dog sitting against a big gum tree nodding off. Picking me up, he carried me to the utility. I was too tired to notice if the old yellow bitch followed us.

Big Hettie was sitting in the back of the truck, her huge body almost filling it. She had a fresh half-jack and was using it to conduct herself in song, ‘When Irish eyes are smilin’ sure it’s like the mornin’ breeeeze!’ I was amazed at her raucous sound. I had never before encountered a woman who couldn’t sing.

‘Shhh! Hettie, the next contender wants to sleep,’ Hoppie said.

Big Hettie stopped, the brandy bottle poised mid-stroke. ‘Me darlin’ boy, come and give Hettie a big kiss.’ It was the last thing I remember. Big Hettie was speaking Irish again. I guess she must have gone back to being drunk.

I woke at dawn to the by now familiar lickity-clack of the carriage wheels. From the colour of the light coming through the compartment window I could see it was the time Granpa Chook would come to the dormitory window and crow his silly old neck off. I supposed he had conditioned me to waking at first light.

The light which fled past the compartment window was still soft with a greyish tint; soon the sun would come and polish it till it shone. The landscape had changed in a subtle way. Yesterday’s rolling grassland was now broken by an occasional koppie, rocky outcrops with clumps of dark green bush, each no more than a hundred feet high. Flat-topped fever trees were more frequent and in the far distance a sharp line of mountains brushed the horizon in a wet, watercolour purple. We were coming into the true lowveld.

I sat up and became aware of a note pinned to the front of my shirt. I undid the safety pin to find a piece of paper with a ten-shilling note attached to it. I was a bit stunned. I’d never handled a banknote and it was difficult to imagine it belonged to me. If one sucker cost a penny, I could buy one hundred and twenty suckers with this ten shillings. On the piece of paper was a carefully printed note from Hoppie.

Dear Peekay,

Here is the money you won. We sure showed that big gorilla who was the boss. Small can beat big. But remember, you have to have a plan – like when I hit Jackhammer Smit the knock-out punch when he thought I was down for the count. Ha, ha. Remember always, first with the head and then with the heart. Without both, I’m telling you, plans are useless!