Брайс Куртенэ - The Power of One

‘I’ve never been ashamed of anything in my life, except when I was made to feel that way the first time I went to boarding school. It’s… well, it’s just that I don’t want any Christian gentleman feeling sorry for me because my mum hasn’t two bob to her name.’

Hymie jumped to his feet and grabbed me by my blazer lapels. ‘You bloody fool! They’d do anything to be like you. So would I. To have done the things you’ve done, led the life you’ve led. Believe me, being rich in a Jewish household isn’t a lot of fun. Everything is overdone. Too much love, too much money, too much food, too much care, too much reminding you that you’re different, that you’re Jewish. I’ve been bored since I was five years old! Bored by the predictability of being born into a wealthy middle-class Jewish home. You can have my twelve bedrooms and six bathrooms. I’ll swap you my old man’s five cars and three chauffeurs for a fortnight with Doc.’

I suddenly realised that I was making far more of a meal over his indiscretion with my past than he had made when he thought I had accused him of cheating.

‘Okay, we’re quits, you smooth-talking bastard,’ I said, grinning. ‘Now, get on with the story. How, for instance, did telling him all this talk him into giving you the number one spot?’

‘I simply told him that I was a Jew, which I suppose he knew already but it didn’t hurt to remind him. That my father was enormously rich. That I had enjoyed and would continue to enjoy every possible privilege. That I would be sent to Oxford where I would read law and well blah, blah, blah. The future for me was all sewn up.’

‘So?’

‘This is the worst part. I told him that if I was selected to Sinjun’s People and you were not, that I wished to forfeit my spot in your favour.’ He looked at me querulously, waiting for my anger.

I was silent. I knew with a sudden certainty that Hymie, after hearing the results of my interview with Singe ’n Burn, had grown concerned that my boxing obsession would eliminate me from Sinjun’s People. That he’d ridden to the rescue, prepared to sacrifice any chances he might have had to ensure my inclusion. In the process he had read Singe ’n Burn brilliantly and had capitalised handsomely on the situation.

‘You’d have done that anyway, wouldn’t you? You’d have been prepared to give up your chances even if the scam hadn’t been there.’

‘Hell no! No bloody fear!’ he said in alarm. ‘Christ, Peekay, it’s a dog-eat-dog world, where would the Jews be if all of a sudden they started making sacrifices for the bloody Christians!’

‘Thanks, Hymie,’ I said.

‘Don’t insult my intelligence, Peekay. If you’re trying to tell me I wasn’t doing all this for mercenary motives I resent it. Don’t you think I’m capable of thinking up a ploy as good as this one turned out to be?’

‘On the contrary, you had it figured out so that whatever happened you influenced the game.’

Hymie blushed, which I’d never seen him do before. ‘No point in leaving things to chance; much too risky,’ he said with a deprecating grin.

‘Christ, the number one spot always belonged to you anyway.’

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Look, why don’t we take a tenner each for the holidays?’ He handed me a ten-pound note. ‘I’ll put the rest in the bank, I’ve got big plans for next term we’ll talk about after the holidays.’

Going home at the end of each term was like sloughing a skin. The joy of a small town lies in its unchanging nature. Except for Doc, Mrs Boxall, Miss Bornstein, old Mr Bornstein, the guys at the prison and of course, my mother, Granpa, Marie and especially Dum and Dee, people would look up when you entered a shop and enquire casually, ‘Goodness, hols again, Peekay? How’s life in the big city? Are you playing in the Easter concert? What can I do for you?’ They’d say this almost in one breath, not because they were bored and felt compelled to be polite, but mostly because time has a sameness in a small town, which the coming and going of people doesn’t disturb. I liked the idea of nothing ever changing in Barberton, it gave me a sense of belonging. Now that the war was over and the military camp no longer a part of the town’s economy, Barberton settled back into its favourite old scuffed leather armchair and went to sleep again. Even the prison warders seemed to fit into the community more easily and for the last two concerts they had remained while ‘God save the King’ was played, though Mrs Boxall reported that they still protested in their own way by not standing to attention. This made Mr Hankin of the Goldfields News mad as usual, but it rated a paragraph, not a leader or the entire editorial like the good old days.

Mrs Boxall had become a firm favourite at the prison. The Kommandant, who had become a colonel because of Doc’s concert, decided he liked prison reform and had allowed her to start a Sunday morning school for the prisoners. She had negotiated with the Kommandant to reward progress with King Georgies. The Pentecostal missionaries, who had agreed to do the teaching in return for a fifteen-minute sermon every Sunday, disagreed violently with the distribution of tobacco to students who excelled. Their God was neither a consumer of strong drink nor a user of tobacco. They were forced to conclude that God worked in mysterious ways when attendance and scholastic effort increased markedly with the introduction of King Georgies as an incentive. A prisoner would study for every limited moment he had during the week for the reward of one cigarette. With the result, many blacks left prison able to read, write and do simple arithmetic. Mr Bornstein, Miss Bornstein’s father, had converted the Earl of Sandwich Fund into the Sandwich Foundation and already one little old lady had left it a bequest of two thousand pounds. The letter writing sessions still continued, and during the holidays I’d take over from the missionaries and Marie’s father’s tobacco leaf would once again be fitted into the folds of the tracts and given out with every letter. In fact during every school holiday letters to King George, which of course we never posted, became very popular again. The Tadpole Angel was back in town and Gert used to swear that trouble in the prison was almost non-existent during these periods.

Gert, with encouragement from Mrs Boxall, had tackled English and now spoke it fairly well. He’d become very attached to Doc and Mrs Boxall and made sure that the repairs around Doc’s cottage or Mrs Boxall’s house were done and that Charlie’s motor was kept going. Every time I’d get home it would be the same thing, ‘I’m telling you, man, only chewing gum and axle grease is holding that old tjorrie together, one day I’m just going to have to take it to a cliff top, say a prayer and push it over. Only it won’t be able to make it up the hill in the first place!’ But under Gert’s concerned and tender care Charlie kept going.

Klipkop had been transferred to Pretoria and Gert, to his enormous surprise, had been given the job of assistant to Captain Smit. As a consequence he had earned his corporal’s stripes. He was now the prison heavyweight and would be fighting for the vacant title at the next championships. The giant Potgieter, who had continued to beat Gert in the final of the two subsequent championships after Gert’s original defeat in Nelspruit, had turned professional.

The Lowveld Championships had been expanded and were now known as the Eastern Transvaal Championships, bringing in some of the bigger towns and making it tougher for the Barberton Blues. As they always occurred during the December school holidays, it was important to Captain Smit that I take part as a member of the Blues.