He'd first seen 'the power' in his own father's eyes and then he'd watched as, one by one, it was passed from the embittered Boer farmer to his children. One moment he and his brothers and sisters were small, ragged innocents with dirt around their damp nostrils and the next, 'the power' had appeared in their eyes. They stopped playing with clay oxen and were no longer childlike.
It was simply a thing about growing up, it came to some sooner than others. It was a thing about realization, forged from the hard ways and the righteous beatings and the hunger and the deprivation and the constant, remorseless reminder of why things were the way they were for them, for the
boere volk.
One day, a day like any other, it would just appear, a sudden dawning realization that to survive, to live, you needed to hate. It was hate which kept you superior, which made you different from the kaffirs at the bottom and the British at the top. Not pride or heritage or superior intelligence, just hate. Hate kept you alive, kept you in control, kept you fierce. It armed you and made you strong, made you impossible to defeat, it gave you 'the power'.
The knowledge of what was missing in Peekay's armoury had come to him through Jake 'Spoonbill' Jackson's eyes. The camera held for a moment in a close-up on the black fighter's face and, like a burst of pain slamming into his consciousness, he felt the malice of the negro boxer's hate; and all his past anger at injustice, hunger, humiliation and despair tore at Smit's chest.
Captain Smit knew Jackson's hate was enough to win the fight. He thought about Peekay, about where he'd gone wrong, about the people who'd been around him, shaping him when was young. There was the library woman, Mrs Boxall, a genuine rooinek from England, whom he found so difficult to hate that he made a point of staying away from her. The mad old German professor who'd written a symphony around kaffir singing.
Here,
man, why would you do a thing like that, their singing always sounds just the same. Together with Miss Bornstein, the Jew teacher, these three had developed Peekay's learning intelligence. But he,
Kaptein Smit,
he'd been responsible for teaching Peekay a far more important thing, that hate comes with a power of its own. He now realized, because the kid was a rooinek, that he'd neglected this task, instinctively not wanting to give the alien child the power. He knew that hate was a fighter's sharpest sword; instead of constantly honing it, he'd allowed it to rust.
He
was the reason why Peekay had been defeated.
Peekay rose from the rock and climbed back into the car.
Gunning the V8 motor, he reversed and pointed the Chevvy's nose down into the winding mountain road and home. He entered the town, its shaded streets a splash of purple jacaranda blossom as he drove up the Sheba road to his grandfather's cottage on the Berea. His family had never possessed an automobile so no original provision had been made for one and he parked the car on the road outside the small house.
Nothing seemed to have changed much, though the golden shower spilling over one side of the roof had spread into an old Pride of India tree and now almost covered it, the brilliant orange of the invading creeper and the deep purple heads of the Pride of India competing for blooming space. The old man must be getting too old to climb a stepladder or he would certainly not have allowed the one to invade the breathing space of the other. Peekay decided he'd have to put time into the garden on his grandpa's behalf, to stamp his authority on it and show it once again who was the boss.
He wondered briefly about the rose garden which rose in five terraces behind the little house. Was the old man, who saw the garden as his work alone, still up to the pruning and cutting, digging and tending it took to keep a rose garden beautiful? Perhaps Dee and Dum now helped with the lawns and the edge-trimming and the digging of rose holes?
He walked up the front steps, noting the screen door needed new wire netting; but when he opened it, its snapback hinges, acting as a surrogate door bell, squeaked as loudly as ever. The sound brought his mother hurrying from the kitchen into the tiny front parlour. In the three years since he'd seen her she'd aged faster than he'd expected. Her hair was no longer grey but quite white, which made her nose and chin appear larger. She was wearing a new black dress with a white lace collar, heavy lisle stockings and, of course, her sensible black brogues; but she appeared happy to see him and hugged him fiercely, murmuring endearments.
'Welcome home, son-boy! It's been such a long, long time, just two weeks in five years. My goodness you've grown, filled out.' She sighed, frowning slightly. 'Will you stay longer this time?' Peekay realized she'd carefully husbanded the time he'd been away. First the copper mines and then England. It was not time away, but the time spent at home that was important to her.
'Hello, mother. Yes, I hope to, I need a good rest.'
'I should jolly well think so. I am your mother after all; we are your people.' His mother's tone was a familiar mixture of concern and hurt and Peekay felt the distance they'd always maintained between each other beginning to return. 'I have prayed every day since you've been away that the Lord would bring you back to us unharmed and now I can give thanks and praise to His precious name.'
Peekay grinned. 'Well not quite unharmed. A little battered in body and spirit, but nothing a month in the hills won't cure!'
'Oh, the hills?' she sounded disappointed. 'Will you ever stop wandering around in your silly mountains?'
'And, of course, time spent with you and grandpa,' Peekay added. He pushed her gently from him, looking towards the door. 'Where is everyone, mother? Grandpa, Dee and Dum?'
'I've asked them to remain on the back stoep where we'll have tea. Those two little black imps have had tea and scones laid out since dawn. I'm sure we've used up an entire packet of Five Roses making a fresh pot every half an hour, just in case you arrived early. They've even baked a fresh batch of scones less than an hour ago, your favourite, pumpkin. They're quite beside themselves and have been impossible for days!'
'I must say I've missed them awfully, more than I can say.'
Peekay's mother cleared her throat and looked stem, an abrupt change of facial expression which made her look even older. 'There is something I want to talk to you about and I thought, if you don't mind, that we ought to get it out of the way from the start.' Without waiting for his agreement she walked over and sat primly on one of three bentwood chairs placed around Doe's Steinway which had been brought from his cottage after his death and which almost completely filled the tiny parlour. Peekay's mother sat stiffly, as one might do outside the bank manager's office, her legs together, her hands clasped on her lap.
'Whatever can it be, mother? Can't it wait?'
'No son, the Lord can't be kept waiting.'
Peekay groaned inwardly and moved to lean against the old Steinway. 'Please sit down properly. We still like to behave like nice people, even if we are country bumpkins.' Then she added primly, 'You come from very good stock, you know.'
Peekay found himself blushing. Nothing had changed.
He'd taken his law degree at Oxford, fought for the championship of the world, but nothing had changed. His mother was as irksome as always. The Lord was obviously up to His neck in all this, up to His old tricks, His name used like a rapier in the dialogue about to transpire.
Peekay wanted to tell the Lord to go to buggery, to leave him alone until he felt a little stronger and better able to cope. But he knew this was impossible. When his mother brandished the sword of righteousness she had a way of pinning him down like a small winged insect on display. It surprised him that he was still capable of feeling anger and resentment, the same helpless, trapped, tight feeling in his throat and chest he always experienced when she combined with the Lord to direct his life.
He wanted to see his grandpa, but even more, he wanted to hold Dee and Dum, hug them, feel their coarse mattressticking shifts against him and recall the faint sweet smell of their skin mixed with a whiff of blue carbolic soap. He longed suddenly to have them giggle and weep at the same time, both hands knuckling away the tears from their darling shiny round black faces.
'Despite the fact that you have always hardened your heart to Him, you know the Lord loves you, don't you?' his mother began. Without waiting for his reply she continued, 'Loves you and cares for you. It was His will that you should go to Oxford and His hand which has been held above your head and which has guided you while you were there. Your glory has been to His greater glory. Without His love and guidance we are nothing.'
Peekay now felt slightly foolish at the anger he'd felt a moment before. She was on again about him not embracing the Lord and becoming a born-again Christian. It was the old guilt she'd always found so easy to evoke in him. He relaxed, what the hell, he hadn't been much of a son, he'd spent two weeks in five years at home. He had written dutifully, though no more than once a month. She in turn wrote him her two annual letters, for his birthday and for Christmas; and he hadn't had a tongue lashing from the Lord for nearly three years. He hoped the warning that he was a sinner and his soul was in danger of hellfire everlasting might be over quickly. He was tired from the long drive and his ribs hurt, but past experience told him that the Lord's messages were always preceded by an overture of filial love and usually took some time to come to the point. If the Lord took as long with every other sinner, it was a bloody good thing He had eternity to work with.
'I have prayed for you, for your safety and your success every day you've been away. Not just me, but the entire prayer circle at the Apostolic Faith Mission. We have prayed that the Lord would hold His hand above you, so you would walk always in His shadow. "I will walk in the shadow of the Lord and he will comfort and guide me, and be my strength",' his mother quoted smoothly.
'When you wrote to say you'd done well, we gave special thanks to Him and praised Him, for the credit was His and it was His spirit which guided you and made you successful.'
'Well, I did put in a bit of work on my own, mother,' Peekay offered with a small grin.
'Do not blaspheme, son, "I am not mocked saith the Lord.'" The warning of God's retribution was clear in her voice.
'Mother, I really am very tired, it hasn't been an easy few weeks.'
'Exactly!' his mother replied. 'Your grandfather said you didn't look well when he saw you in the bioscope. I must say you don't look too well now.'
'Mother, grandpa saw me on a movie screen at the end of fifteen rounds of boxing! It's hardly surprising I wasn't at my most chipper. My hand was broken, my ribs had been smashed, my eyes were closed and every part of my body felt as though I'd been put through a meat mincer. I was fighting against one of the world's hardest-hitting, most skilful welterweights. I was completely battered!' Merely recalling the fight brought tears to Peekay's eyes.
His mother seemed not to hear the distress in his voice.
'Ah, yes, you see the Lord was angry. He made you in His own image and you chose to defile that image. He guided you at Oxford and you returned his guidance and his compassion by entering a boxing ring and fighting a savage!'
Peekay was suddenly angry. 'Mother! How can you possibly say that? If the Lord is filled with compassion for the sinner, then he has the same compassion for the boxer as he has for the student. Besides, my opponent was no more a savage than you or I.'
His mother looked up, her expression bland, unchanged. She chose to ignore his outburst. 'He sent us a sign. We asked Him for a sign and he gave us one. In his infinite compassion and mercy He gave us a sign to use in your guidance.'
Peekay, realizing he'd only been home a few minutes, swallowed hard, holding back his anger. What was it about his mother which hurt him so much? Her confrontation was inappropriate. She'd not even allowed him to greet the others. She was treating him like a small child who'd come home late. 'Mum,' he said, trying to soften his voice, 'I'm twenty-two years old. Don't you think I am old enough to guide my own life? Don't you think I ought to be allowed to see grandpa and Dum and Dee before this ridiculous conversation goes any further?'
'Oh, you find the Lord ridiculous?'
'No, mum, I find the situation you've placed me inâ¦well, awkward.'
Peekay's mother looked at him and sighed. 'I'm not being cruel, son-boy. I love you very much. You are the most precious thing in my life. But the Lord cannot,
must
not be denied. He sent us a sign and I must deliver it now before you properly enter this house.'
Peekay remained silent, but his mother, sensing his irritation and impatience, went on, 'Do not harden your heart against the Lord, son, He too loves you even more than I do.'
Peekay sighed. 'A sign? What sort of a sign?' His words substituted for the ones in his mind which, had he said them, would have hurt her.
'It happened at the Friday night prayer meeting, the night before you were to fight theâ¦er, black boy. All that day I'd been sorely troubled, my heart was heavy for you in America. Heavy as it has always been because of your boxing. The Lord has been against your boxing from the beginning, but I was weak and failed Him by allowing you to take lessons when I should have refused. Now, the Lord showed me quite clearly how the devil had taken possession of you and you were hurting people for money, just like a common thug!'