The town I knew to be about two miles from the school. ‘Maybe we could visit the railway station as well as Harry Crown’s shop?’ I suggested tentatively.
‘It is enough that I do this for you, Pisskop. What do you want? Blood from a stone? Tonight I must do it all over again for you. There is nothing at the station to see, only sleeping Kaffirs waiting for the train.’
For the remainder of the journey we said nothing. Mevrou walked three paces ahead of me all the way to town. Her huge shape sort of rocked along, stopping every once in a while to catch her breath. The early afternoon sun beat down on us. By the time we arrived Mevrou was very hot and bothered and her special smell was worse than ever.
Harry Crown’s shop was closed and nothing much seemed to be happening in the main street. Mevrou took a large red doek from her basket and proceeded to wipe her face. ‘Everyone is still having their lunch, we must wait,’ she explained. With great effort she climbed the five steps up to the stoep of the shop and sat down on a bench beside the padlocked door. ‘Go and find a tap and wash your feet,’ she panted.
I crossed the street to the garage which had a sign that read Atlantic Service Station. It had two pumps outside a small office and workshop bay. Just inside the bay was a tap. The whole place smelt of oil and grease. I washed my feet and walked back across the road on my heels so as not to dirty my feet. Half a dozen Africans were asleep at the far end of the verandah where there was a second entrance to the shop. Above this entrance was written ‘Blacks Only’. I wondered briefly why whites were not allowed to enter.
Flies, flying heavy in the heat, settled on sleeping eyes and every now and again a desultory black hand would come up and brush at them, its owner seemingly still asleep.
One black man with his left eye missing remained awake and sat with his back against the shop wall. His cupped hands and mouth concealed a Jew’s harp which twanged an urgent rhythm.
‘The Jew is late, who does he think he is?’ Mevrou said impatiently. She half turned and addressed the African playing the Jew’s harp. ‘Hey, Kaffir! Where is the baas?’
The black man jumped to his feet, removing the tiny harp and placing it in the pocket of his ragged pants. He said nothing, not understanding Afrikaans.
‘Do you work here? I asked him in Shangaan.
‘No, small baas, I also, I am waiting. The big baas for the shop will be here soon I think. When the hooter goes for the saw mill he will surely come.’
‘He doesn’t work for Mr Crown, Mevrou.’
Just then a hooter sounded. We were familiar with the saw mill hooter, which blew at one o’clock and again at two.
Almost on the dot a big, black Chevrolet drove up and parked outside the shop. It was the most beautiful car I had ever seen. I had never imagined a motor car could be as shiny and powerful. The man inside it revved the engine before he cut the ignition and it roared as though alive. Obviously being a Jew was a very profitable business. Maybe I could be one when I grew up.
Harry Crown was a fat man in his late fifties. He wore his trousers high so that his entire tummy and most of his chest were covered with trouser top, held up by a pair of bright red braces. His white open-neck cotton shirt seemed to extend no more than eight inches from his collar before it was swallowed by his trousers. He was almost completely bald and when he smiled he showed two gold front teeth.
‘A thousand apologies, Mevrou. Have you been waiting long?’ he said, making a fuss of unlocking the padlocked doors to the shop.
‘Ag, it was nothing. Not even a few minutes,’ Mevrou said, all smiles for the fat, bald man.
In the part boarded off for white customers, two large ceiling fans whirred softly overhead and the shop was dark and cool. Mevrou heaved herself gratefully onto a chair beside the counter and Harry Crown poured her a cup of coffee from a pot he removed from a small hotplate on a shelf behind the counter.
‘What can I do for you, Mevrou?’ he asked, then turning to me he bowed slightly. ‘And for you, Mister?’ he said solemnly.
I was not used to jocularity so, not knowing what to do, I dropped my eyes to avoid his gaze.
Observing my shyness he turned from me to a large glass jar on the counter and from it produced a raspberry sucker, its ruby head wrapped in Cellophane. He held the sucker out for me to take. I looked at Mevrou who took a polite sip from her coffee cup and then nodded. I took the delicious prize and put it into my shirt pocket.
‘Thank you, Meneer,’ I said softly.
‘Ag, eat it now, boy. When we have finished business you can have another one.’ He paused. ‘A green one maybe, huh?’ He turned to Mevrou. ‘I have had this shop for thirty years and I can tell you with God’s certainty that children like raspberry first and green second. If I know nothing for certain in this life, of this one thing I am sure.’ He snapped his braces with his thumbs and gave a loud, happy snort.
I had never met a man who laughed and carried on like this and I felt intimidated, so I left the raspberry sucker in my pocket where I hoped it was safe.
‘What is your name, boy?’ Harry Crown asked.
‘Pisskop, sir,’ I replied.
Harry Crown’s shiny bald head jerked back and he looked down at me in consternation. ‘Pisskop? Pisskop! That is a name for a nice boy?’ he asked in alarm. ‘Who calls you this name?’
Mevrou interrupted sharply. ‘Never mind his name, what have you got in tackies? The boy must have some tackies. He is going on the train alone tonight to his oupa in Barberton.’
Turning momentarily to acknowledge he had heard her, Harry Crown turned back to me and gave a low whistle. ‘Barberton eh? That is in the lowveld in the Eastern Transvaal. Easy two days away in the train, a long journey alone for a small boy.’ He moved around from behind the counter and was looking at my feet. ‘We have nothing so small, Mevrou. I don’t have much call for tackies. The Boere round here don’t play much tennis.’ He chortled loudly at his own joke, which was completely lost on Mevrou and me.
‘Show me what you got, Mr Crown. His oupa did not send enough money for boots, only tackies.’
‘It makes no difference, boots, smoots, tackies, smackies, the boy’s foot is too small.’ He moved back behind the counter where he pulled a battered cardboard box from the shelf. From it he withdrew a pair of dark brown canvas shoes.
‘Let the boy try them,’ Mevrou said.
‘It is useless, Mevrou. These tackies are four sizes too big for him. It is a miracle I have these, but they are too big already.’
‘The boy will grow,’ Mevrou said, a trifle impatiently.
‘Ja certainly, Mevrou. Maybe in five or six years they will fit him like a glove. In the meantime they will fit him like the clown in a circus.’ He slapped his stomach. ‘Very amusing,’ he said to himself in English.
‘We will try them on. With newspaper we can fix them.’
‘Mevrou, with the whole Zoutpansberg Gazette we couldn’t stuff these tackies to fit. He has very small feet for a Boer child.’
‘He is not a Boer child. He is a Rooinek!’ Mevrou said, suddenly angry. She put the cup of coffee down on the counter, and leaning over grabbed the tackies and turned to me. ‘Put your foot up here on my lap, child,’ she ordered.
The first tackie slipped around my foot without touching the sides. With my heel on Mevrou’s lap the canvas shoe seemed to reach almost up to my chin.
Mevrou pulled the laces tightly until the eyelets overlapped. ‘Now the other one,’ she said.
I stood there, rooted to the floor, not daring to move and not knowing what to do next. The tackies seemed to extend twice the distance of my feet.
‘Walk, child,’ Mevrou commanded.
I took a tentative step forward and the left tackie stayed behind on the floor, though I managed to drag the right one forward by not lifting my foot.