Брайс Куртенэ - The Power of One

I scrambled over to the basin, and removing the hand towel from where it was hanging at the side of the basin, I rinsed it in cold water.

‘Wring it out well, you hear,’ Pik Botha shouted. ‘I can’t have wet towels. These towels are the property of South African Railways and you are supposed to use them for drying yourself, not for wetting yourself.’

‘Ja, Meneer Botha,’ I replied. I was suddenly grateful for the Judge’s iron-bar torture because I was able to wring the small towel out quite well. I sat on Hettie’s chest, and folding the wet towel to the right size I laid it across her forehead.

‘ Dankie, liefling ,’ she said. She half turned her head again to Pik Botha. ‘So? Have you thought of a plan to get me up, domkop?’

‘Please do not talk to me like this, Hettie. I am a grade one conductor with seventeen years’ service in the railways. This whole train is under my command and all the people in it must do as I say. I demand more respect!’ Pik Botha seemed on the verge of tears. ‘I will have to get first inside the compartment and that is impossible without climbing over you.’

‘Well take your boots off first.’

Pik Botha crouched down in the corridor and began to untie the laces of his boots. From where I sat I could see him pull off his boots and line them up against the outside wall of the compartment, toes pointing into the corridor.

He stretched his leg over Big Hettie’s body in an attempt to reach the bunk without having to climb over her. His toes inside a well-darned black sock were wiggling like a pig’s snout, trying to find the edge of the bunk. A larger man with longer legs might have made it, but Pik Botha’s exploring big toe was well short of its mark. ‘It’s not possible, Hettie,’ he said mournfully.

‘Do it backwards, stupid! Come in backwards with your legs first.’

With his hands flat on the corridor floor, Pik Botha edged into the compartment backwards. He placed one foot on one of Big Hettie’s breasts, then he followed with the other. He inched his way over her belly until he was obliged to put both his hands on her shoulders, his head only inches from her face. Big Hettie suddenly let go an enormous burp. The blast of foul air took all the strength out of Pik Botha’s arms and he collapsed into the mountain of flesh below him.

Big Hettie let out a gasp. ‘Excuse me!’ she said, then she began to giggle, wobbling like a jelly mountain. ‘Oh Christ! Oh Jesus! Ha… ha… ha, hee hee, hee, Lord have mercy, hee, hee… ha… ha… ha, are you trying to love me… hee, hee, or help me? Tee, hee, hee… ha… ha… ha… snort, ha… hee, hee, either way you’re doing… hee… hee… a terrible job!’ Big Hettie gave two more snorts and her head fell back onto the pillow exhausted. ‘Oh, oh, I’m dying,’ she moaned, and lifting the arm that pinned Pik Botha down she wiped away her tears. Sensing freedom, Pik Botha pushed off Big Hettie’s shoulders with both hands and raised his torso. He managed to get his hands around the raised edge of the bunk on either side of Big Hettie, and inserted one foot between Big Hettie’s calves while the other foot rested on the edge of the bunk.

Panting furiously he raised himself to a standing position. ‘God will punish you for this. “He who plucks one hair from the head of a child of mine, it is as though he doeth this to me, thus sayeth the Lord”.’ Pik Botha was shaking his finger at Big Hettie and panting away like the old yellow bitch I had met the previous night.

‘Keep your preaching for the next prayer meeting at the Apostolic Faith Mission, you miserable little shit house. Here, give me your hand.’ Big Hettie stretched her arm out, offering her hand to Pik Botha. He shied away in alarm. ‘Grab it dammit, man!’

‘No damn fear, you’ll only pull me back again,’ Pik Botha said in terror.

‘Do not flatter yourself, man. Use both hands. I can’t stay like this all day unless you can cut a hole in the floor,’ she threatened.

That was enough to spur him to action. He grabbed Big Hettie around the waist with both hands while she grabbed onto his arm with her own hand. Grimacing with the effort, he started to pull. Big Hettie’s freed shoulder wobbled a little in response but no other part moved. ‘Pull, man!’ she shouted, but soon it was obvious that nothing was going to happen. ‘Give Tarzan here a hand, Peekay. Show him what a real man can do,’ she said in some despair.

There wasn’t any space to stand so I sat astride Big Hettie’s hips, my feet not quite reaching the edge of the bunk on either side. The idea was to get Big Hettie’s torso into an upright position, which might then enable us to get under her arms from the back to lift her up. I grabbed her around the wrists with both hands which failed to meet, but nevertheless gave me quite a good grip. Pik Botha was forced to bend over so that he could grab Big Hettie higher up her arm. ‘Now get your backs into it, men. I’m going to count to three, on three give it all you’ve got, you hear? One, two, three!’ We both pulled with all our might. After about five minutes of repeating such efforts she hadn’t budged an inch.

‘It’s no use,’ Pik Botha gasped. We were all beginning to realise that we were in a real pickle. The effort to co-operate had cost Big Hettie dearly and she lay there panting in a lather of sweat, her face as red as an old turkey cock’s. Pik Botha stood with one foot still balanced on the edge of the bunk and the other inserted between Big Hettie’s calves, wiping his sweaty hands on the shiny backside of his navy serge pants. He had taken off his jacket and thrown it on the top bunk. On his silver tie clip ‘Witnessing for the Lord’ was written. I wondered briefly what it meant.

‘One last try. Just one more go. This time it will work for sure,’ Big Hettie panted, her voice not sounding too hopeful. She made me clasp my hands together and she then grabbed me around both wrists, thus allowing Pik Botha to get a better two-handed grip around her wrists. He had also managed to get his bum up against the washbasin which gave him a much better pulling purchase.

‘One, two, three. Pull!’ Big Hettie commanded. We both pulled like mad, Pik Botha grunting with effort behind me. Big Hettie’s way of holding me wasn’t such a good idea, her hands were wet with perspiration and I could feel my own hands beginning to slip from her grasp. Suddenly they squeezed out like a wet pumpkin pip and I was catapulted violently backwards, the back of my head slamming hard into Pik Botha’s crotch. He gave a loud scream and both his hands shot down between his legs.

Despite her discomfort, Big Hettie let out a scream of delight. ‘You’ve knackered him, boy! she roared. ‘You’ve taken what was left of his manhood!’ Her laughter filled the compartment, causing her great body to shake up and down.

‘Coffee! Coffee! Early morning coffee!’ It was Hennie Venter, the waiter from breakfast, doing the morning wake-up call. He paused at the open door of our compartment. ‘Coffee?’ he asked, starting to bring the tray down from his shoulder. His eyes widened in disbelief as he observed Big Hettie pumping up and down with laughter and Pik Botha moaning and clutching his genitals. He only just managed to lower the tray to the corridor floor before he burst into laughter. ‘Pik Botha! You dirty old bastard! Sis, man! The door is not even closed.’

The sudden appearance of the waiter seemed to bring Big Hettie around. ‘Hennie Venter, not a moment too soon !’ she declared.

Hennie, convulsed with laughter, appeared not to hear her. ‘A cup of coffee, Mevrou?’ he asked and then burst into renewed laughter.

They calmed down and with some difficulty Hennie Venter managed to pull the still groaning Pik Botha over Big Hettie’s body and through the compartment door. He stood in the corridor almost doubled up, his face as white as a ghost. He winced, sucking the air through his brown teeth, as he bent down further to recover his boots.