The Power of One (10 page)

Hoppie Groenewald put the canvas mailbag on the platform, and, bending down, he grabbed me under the armpits and hoisted me high into the air and through the door to land inside the carriage.

“No worries, little brother, I too have fallen up those verdomde steps many a time. I, who am a guard and soon to be a conductor, and who should know better.”

He retrieved the mailbag and put it next to my suitcase. Then he hopped up the steps without even looking and unhooked a neatly rolled green flag from above the door of the carriage. He unfurled the flag, absently pulled at a chain attached to a button on his navy serge waistcoat, and withdrew a large silver whistle from his fob pocket.

“Watch the kaffirs get a fright,” he said with a grin. He showed me how to hold onto the handrail inside the door and lean out of the carriage so I could see down the full length of the train to the third class carriages. He then jumped back onto the platform and began to wave the flag, giving a long blast on his whistle.

You should have seen the kerfuffle. Africans who had left the train to stretch their legs or have a pee scrambled frantically to get through the doors of the carriages as the train began slowly to move, laughing and yelling and climbing on top of one another. Hoppie Groenewald gave two more short blasts on his whistle and hopped aboard the train.

“Good-bye, Mevrou. Thank you,” I shouted, waving at her.

“Keep your tackies on, you hear!” Mevrou shouted back.

It was a dry-eyed farewell on both sides. I ardently hoped the
rooinek
and Mevrou would never have to see each other again.

Hoppie Groenewald closed the carriage door as the train began to gather momentum. He quickly refurled the flag and clicked it back into its holder next to a red one above the door. Then he picked up my suitcase and opened the door to the nearest compartment. The train was moving along smoothly now, and I enjoyed the comforting, predictable lickity-clack, lickity-clack of the carriage wheels.

The empty compartment had two bright green leather seats facing each other, each seat big enough for three adults. A small table was positioned between the two windows. The rest of the compartment seemed to be paneled in highly varnished wood, and immediately above each green leather seat was a glass frame about ten inches high running the length of the seats. Inside the frames were lots of photographs. It was all very posh. Before it got completely dark, Hoppie Groenewald turned on the compartment lights and all seemed very cosy ... just like the beginning of a proper adventure.

“It's all yours until we get to Tzaneen. After that, who knows? No worries, Hoppie will take good care of you.” He looked down at my tackies; bits of newspaper were sticking out of the sides and up past my ankles.

“The old cow can't get you now, take them off,” the guard said. I tugged the canvas shoes off. My feet were hot and uncomfortable and had turned black from the newsprint rubbing off on them. It felt delicious to squiggle my toes again. Hoppie Groenewald stuck his hand out. “Shake a paw. You know my name but I haven't had the pleasure?”

I'd already thought about what Harry Crown had said and had decided to take his advice and call myself Peekay. “Peekay,” I said tentatively. I pronounced it in English, the way Harry Crown had; so it sounded like a proper name.

I suddenly felt new and clean. Nobody ever again would know that I had been called Pisskop. Granpa Chook was dead and so was Pisskop, the first two South African casualties in the Second World War.

“All the best, Peekay. We will be pals.” He took his cap off and put it on my head. I wondered if he was a Nazi. He didn't seem to know I was English, so why tempt fate?

“Thank you for taking care of me, Mr. Groenewald,” I said politely and handed him back his cap.

“Ag,
man, just call me Hoppie.” He grinned as he replaced his cap.

Hoppie left to check the tickets in the African carriages but promised he would return soon.

It was almost totally dark outside as I sat alone in a lighted room, flying through the African night, lickity-clack, lickity-clack. I had defeated the Judge and his Nazi storm troopers, survived Mevrou, and grown up and changed my name, lickity-clack, lickity-clack.

Opening my suitcase, I took out one of Harry Crown's green suckers. Carefully removing the cellophane wrapper, I licked the bits of green sugar that had stuck to it. The faint taste of lime transferred to my tongue, a sweet promise of the main event when I would begin on the sucker itself.

Harry Crown was right, of course; the green ones were a very close second to the raspberry. I examined the sepia-toned photographs above the seats. One was a picture of a flat mountain with a streak of white cloud resting just above it. The caption underneath read “
WORLD FAMOUS TABLE MOUNTAIN WEARING ITS RENOWNED TABLECLOTH
.” There was a big white cloud above it, but I couldn't see a renowned tablecloth. Another showed a big city seen from the air with the caption “
CAPE TOWN, HOME OF THE FAMOUS CAPE DOCTOR
.” I wondered what the doctor had done to be famous and rich enough to own a big town for his home. He must have been richer even than Harry Crown. Years later I discovered that the Cape Doctor was a wind that blew in early spring to clean out the flu germs and general accumulated nasties that had gathered during the winter. Another photograph of the table mountain was captioned “Truly one of the world's natural wonders.” The last picture showed a big white house, and it said, “Groot Constantia's famed and spacious cellars, the home of superb wine.”

“Well,” I thought, “this will be a pretty good journey if we visit all those places!” I decided I'd ask Hoppie about them when he came back.

Hoppie returned after what seemed ages but probably wasn't very long. On a train, with the darkness galloping past, time seemed to disappear. The lickity-clack of the wheels on the track gobbled up the minutes.

He plonked himself wearily on the seat opposite me.
“Sis,
man, those kaffirs stink!” he declared, then gave me a big grin and a light, playful punch to the point of my chin. “When we get to Tzaneen in an hour we'll have some dinner. We stop for forty-five minutes to take on coal and water and there's a cafe across the road from the station. From Tzaneen I'm only the guard and another conductor takes over. What's your favorite food, Peekay?”

“Sweet potatoes,” I answered.

“Sweet potatoes, maybe and maybe not. I've never asked for sweet potatoes at that cafe. How about a mixed grill? A two-bob special, heh?”

“I've only got a shilling, and it's for emergencies. Is a mixed grill an emergency?” I asked.

Hoppie laughed. “For me it is. Tonight I'm paying, old mate. The mixed grills are on me.”

I didn't want to ask him what a grill was and how it was mixed, so I asked him about the pictures on the wall. “When are we going to see table-mountain-one-of-the-natural-wonders-of-the-world?”

“Huh, come again?”

I pointed to the picture above his head. “When do we go there?”

Hoppie turned around to look at the picture, but he didn't laugh when he worked out what I was talking about. “It's just stupid pictures showing where South African Railways go, but we are not going there, Peekay.” He started to study all the pictures as if he'd noticed them for the first time.

“I almost went to Cape Town last year to fight in the finals but I was beaten in the Northern Transvaal championships. Split decision, but the referee gave it to the fighter from Pretoria. I'm telling you, man, I beat the bastard fair and square. It was close, I've got to admit that, but I knew all the time I had him on points.”

I listened, astonished. What on earth was he talking about?

Hoppie looked me straight in the eyes. “You're almost looking at the railways boxing champion of the Transvaal, you know.” He brought his finger and thumb together in front of my face. “That close and I would of been in the National Railway Boxing Championships in Cape Town.”

“What's a boxing champion?” I asked.

It was Hoppie's turn to look astonished. “What a
domkop
you are, Peekay. Don't you know what boxing is?”

“No, sir.” I dropped my eyes, ashamed of my ignorance.

Hoppie Groenewald put his hand under my chin and lifted my head up. “It's nothing to be ashamed of. There comes a time in everything when you don't know something.” He grinned. “Okay, man, settle down, make yourself at home. We're in for a long talk.”

“Wait a minute, Hoppie,” I said excitedly. I clicked open my suitcase. “Green or red?” I asked, taking out a sucker of each color. I had decided that I would have one sucker in the morning and one at night, that way they would last me the whole journey. But a friend like this doesn't come along every day, and I hadn't heard a good story since Nanny.

“You choose first, Peekay. What's your favorite?”

“No, you choose, Hoppie. You're the one who is going to tell the story, so you get first choice,” I said with great generosity.

“Green,” he said. “I like green, my mother had green eyes.” He took the green sucker and I put the raspberry one back and clicked the suitcase shut.

“I've just had one,” I said, grateful that I had two of the best raspberry ones left for the next two days.

“We will share, then,” he said. “You lick first because I'm going to be too busy doing the talking.” He watched me as I unwrapped the cellophane and licked it clean. “When I was your age I used to do the same.” He looked at his watch. “One hour to Tzaneen, just about time for a boxing lecture and maybe even a demonstration.”

I settled back happily into the corner of the large green leather seat and proceeded to lick the sucker. One and a half suckers in less than an hour was an all-time happiness, and having a real friend was another. What an adventure this was turning out to be!

“Boxing is the greatest sport in the world,” Hoppie began, “even greater than rugby.” He looked up, ready to defend this last statement if necessary, but saw that I was prepared to accept his premise. “The art of self-defense is the greatest art of all, and boxing is the greatest art of self-defense. Take me, a natural welterweight, there isn't any man I have to be afraid of, not even a big animal like a front-row forward. I'm fast and I can hit hard and in a street fight a little bloke like me can take on any big gorilla.” He jabbed once or twice into the air in front of him to demonstrate his lightning speed.

“How little can beat how big?” I asked, getting excited.

“Big as anything, man, if you've got the speed to move and can throw a big punch as you're moving away. Timing, speed, and footwork, in boxing they are everything. To be a welterweight is perfect. Not too big to be slow, not too small to lack a punch. A welterweight is the perfect fighter, I'm telling you for sure, man!” Hoppie's eyes were shining with conviction.

I stood up on the seat and lifted my hand about another eight inches above my head. Which, of course, was about the height of the Judge. “A little kid like me and a big kid, big as this?”

Hoppie paused for a moment; he seemed to be thinking.
“Ja,
now, you see, with small kids it's a bit different. Small kids don't have the punch. Maybe they're fast enough to stay out of the way, but one stray punch from a big gorilla and it's all over, man. Kids are best to fight in their own division.” He looked at me, “Who you want to fight, hey? What big kid gave you a bad time? Just you tell me, Peekay, and he'll have to reckon with Hoppie Groenewald. I'm telling you, man, nobody hurts a friend of mine.”

“Just some boys at school,” I replied, delighted that even though this was the wrong place and time, I now had someone strong in the world who was on my side. I wanted to tell him about the Judge and his Nazi storm troopers, but I wasn't prepared to go the whole way. Hoppie Groenewald didn't know I was a
rooinek
and he might think differently about me if he found out.

“Well, you just tell them next time they'll have to reckon with me,” Hoppie growled.

“It is all over now,” I said, handing him the sucker.

He took the sucker and started to lick it absently.

“Peekay, take my advice. When you get to Barberton, find someone who can teach you to box.” He looked at me, squinting slightly. “I can see you could be a good boxer, your arms are strong for a little bloke. Hey, stand up again, let me see your legs.” I stood up on the seat. “Not bad, Peekay, nice light legs, you could have speed. With a boxer speed is everything. Hit and move. Hit and move, one, two, one, a left and a left again and a right.” He was sparring in the air throwing lightning punches at an invisible foe. It was scary and exciting at the same time.

“Wait here,” he said suddenly and left the compartment. He returned in a couple of minutes carrying a pair of funny-looking leather gloves.

“These are boxing gloves, Peekay. These are the equalizers. When you can use them well, you need fear no man. In the goods van I have a speedball, tomorrow I will show you how to use it.” He slipped the huge gloves over my hands, which disappeared into the gloves halfway up to my elbows. “Feels good, hey?” he said, tying the laces.