The Power of One (16 page)

“Come, boy, I will take you to breakfast, your ticket says you get breakfast.”

Breakfast was another feast of bacon and eggs with toast, jam, and coffee. It was too early for the other passengers, and a waiter called Hennie Venter served us. He was pleased as punch with himself because he had won five pounds on the fight. Forgetting what he had said to me about losing one pound ten, Pik Botha proceeded to give him a long lecture on the sin of fighting and the even greater evil of gambling. He ended by asking Hennie if he was ashamed and ready to repent.

Hennie put down a plate of fresh toast covered with a linen napkin to keep it warm. “No, Meneer Botha, gambling is only a sin if you lose because you didn't back your own kind but bet on the other side.” He lifted the silver coffeepot and commenced to fill the conductor's cup.

“Hmmph! He's only a grade two railwayman and look how cheeky he is already. Young people don't know their place anymore. Bring more coffee, man, can't you see this pot is cold?” Pik Botha cried.

We returned to the compartment to find Big Hettie still whistling and snorting away. Pik Botha, a little mellowed from breakfast, did not prod her with the toe of his shiny boot. “She's not a true Afrikaner, you know. Her father was an Irishman who was too fond of the bottle. Drink is a sin that is passed on. The Bible says the sins of the father shall be passed unto the third and fourth generations.” Now he gave Big Hettie a nudge. “Here lies a good example of God's terrible vengeance.”

“Balls!” Big Hettie said suddenly, opening one eye and looking backward up at us. “Pig's arse! You are a miserable Bible-bashing, two-faced bastard, Pik Botha. You probably already had a good look up my dress, heh? Get me up, you self-righteous little shit! Get me up at once!”

“I did not! How could I? A person would have to climb over you to get such a look, and you have also a blanket over you,” Pik Botha whined.

“Mother of Jesus! My head hurts. I must have water, my mouth tastes like the splashboard of an Indian lavatory in the mango season.”

“Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain,” Pik Botha spluttered.

Big Hettie ignored him. “I must have a glass of water, Peekay, or I shall die.”

“I will have to climb over you, Mevrou Hettie. The glass and the washbasin are on the other side.”

“Climb over, darling. Take also the blanket off me, I am burning up.” I climbed over Big Hettie, and when I got to the empty bunk I pulled the blanket off her. Crawling to the end of the bunk, I removed a glass from the chrome metal loop where it rested on the wall, and, lifting the lid off the washbasin, I half filled the glass with water. I had to sit on Hettie's chest to give it to her, and she drank greedily. She had three half glasses full before she'd had enough. “Thank you, darling,” she smiled, “you've saved my life for sure.”

“The wages of sin is death!” Pik Botha spat out.

Half turning her head toward him, Big Hettie said, “Oh my God, to think I may die on the floor of a second class compartment of the South African Railways under the incompetent management of that sniveling arsehole Pik Botha.” She paused for a moment. “Who, by the way, calls himself a man and then bets against his fellow railwayman in boxing matches!”

“It's a free world! How was I to know that big ape had a glass jaw?” he protested in his whining voice.

“Glass jaw! What do you mean, glass jaw? Glass jaw, my arse! Hoppie Groenewald knocked him out fair and square!” Big Hettie's face had turned purple with indignation and her head bobbed up and down on the pillow. “Oh, oh, my head, get me a wet towel, Peekay, I think it's going to explode.”

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 fiat on the corridor floor, Pik Botha edged into the compartment backward. 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! Qh 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 shithouse. 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 wrist 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 realize that we were in a real pickle. The effort to cooperate 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 shriek 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.

I bundled up his coat and threw it over to Hennie Venter, who draped it over the hapless Pik Botha's shoulder. With one hand carrying his boots and the other clutching his waterworks, he hobbled away down the corridor toward the guard's van.

Hennie Venter turned out to be the practical sort. He made me fetch a second pillow, which he added to the first one to prop Big Hettie's head up as far as she could go. He even managed to get her to drink a cup of coffee by herself. He inspected the situation carefully and then announced that there was no way of lifting Big Hettie without first removing the lower bunks.

“Sorry, Hettie,” he said, shaking his head, “we're going to have to wait until we get to Kaapmuiden.” He started to pour Hettie another cup of coffee.

“No damn fear!” she said quickly, “unless you want to cut a blery hole in the floor.”

Hennie Venter scratched his head, giving Big Hettie a quizzical look. “What the hell are you doing on this train, anyway?”

Big Hettie half turned to look backward and up at him, her mouth in a pout of annoyance. “Do you think for one moment that I would let this poor child travel all the way to Kaapmuiden on his own?” she asked.

Hennie Venter persisted. “You were also a little drunk, maybe?”

“Pissed as a newt, drunk as a skunk,” she giggled. “What a fight it was, eh, Hennie?”

“You can say that again, Hettie,” Hennie said happily. “I won two weeks' wages with a ten-bob bet.
Magtigf
What a fighter that Hoppie Groenewald is. A real white man!”

Big Hettie looked up at me sheepishly. “I came to look after you, Peekay.” She grinned suddenly, “Anyway, man, let's make the most of a bad situation, heh? I always say, if you can't change things then you have to make sure you're riding on the front elephant and not walking with the poor people at the back. It's time for breakfast, and I must say I'm starving.” She looked back at Hennie Venter. “Off you go, you
skelm,
six sausages, six rashers of bacon, nice ‘n' crisp mind, five hard-boiled eggs to constipate me, and half a loaf of toast cut thick with lots of butter. No more coffee, you know what coffee does to a person. I'm going to have to cross my legs as it is. For Peekay, the same, only half.”