“Sweet potatoes.”
“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 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?” I pointed to the picture above his head.
Hoppie turned around to look. “It’s just pictures showing where South African Railways go, but we are not going there, Peekay.” He started to study all the pictures. “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.”
“No, 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. 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.
“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 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. 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. 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 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. Time, speed and footwork, in boxing they are everything. To be a welterweight is perfect. Not too big to be fast, not too small to pack 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. “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 punch from a big gorilla and it’s all over, man. Kids are best to fight in their own division.” He looked at me. “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. I wanted to tell him about the Judge and his Nazi storm troopers, but Hoppie Groenewald didn’t know I was a Rooinek and he might think differently if he found out. “It’s all over now,” I said, handing him the sucker.
He 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. “I can see you could be a good boxer; your arms are strong for a little bloke. Let me see your legs.”
I stood up on the seat again. “Not bad, Peekay, nice light legs, you could have speed. With a boxer speed is everything. 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 halfway up to my elbows. “Feels good, hey?” he said, tying the laces.
My hands in the gloves were just as lost as my feet had felt in the tackies. Only this was different. The gloves felt like old friends, big, yes, and very clumsy, but not strangers.
“C’mon, kid, hit me,” Hoppie said, sticking out his jaw. I took a jab at him and his head moved away so my glove simply whizzed through the air. “Again, hit me again.” I pulled my arm back and let go with a terrible punch that landed flush on his chin. Hoppie fell back into the seat opposite, groaning and holding his jaw. “Holy macaroni! You’re a killer. A natural-born fighter.” He sat up rubbing his jaw and I began to laugh. “That’s the way, little boetie, I was beginning to wonder if you knew how to laugh,” he said with a big grin.
And then I started to cry, not blubbing, just tears that wouldn’t stop rolling down my cheeks. Hoppie Groenewald picked me up and put me on his lap and I put my arms with the boxing gloves around his neck and buried my head in his blue serge waistcoat.
“Sometimes it is good to cry,” he said softly. “Now tell old Hoppie what’s the matter.”
I couldn’t tell him, of course. It was a dumb thing to cry like that, but it was as far as I was prepared to go. I got off his lap. “It’s nothing, honest.”
Hoppie picked up the sucker and held it out to me. “You finish it. It will spoil my appetite for my mixed grill. You’re still going to have a mixed grill with me, aren’t you?”
I reached for the sucker but the gloves were still on my hands and we laughed together at the joke. He pulled the gloves off.
“No worries, Peekay. When you grow up you’ll be the best damn welterweight in South Africa and nobody … and I mean no-bod-ee, will give Kid Peekay any crapola. I’m telling you, man.”
When we reached Tzaneen, to my amazement Hoppie pulled down a bunk with blankets and sheets concealed in the wall above my head. From a slot behind the bunk he took out a pillow and a towel. He put my suitcase on the bed to reserve it, in case other folk came into the compartment at Tzaneen.
Opposite the station was a lighted building with a big window on which Railway Café was written. Inside were lots of little tables and chairs.
A pretty young lady behind the counter looked up as we entered and gave
Hoppie a big smile. “Well, well, look who’s here. If it isn’t Kid Louis, champion of the railways.” An older woman came up to Hoppie, wiping her hands on her apron, and he gave her a big hug.
“So when’s your next fight, champ?” the young lady asked.
“Tomorrow night at the railway club in Gravelotte. It’s the big time for me at last.” Hoppie smiled.
The pretty young lady giggled. “Put two bob on the other bloke for me.” One or two of the other customers laughed, but in a good-natured way. The older woman was clearing a table for us. Hoppie turned toward me, and held my arm aloft. “Hello, everyone. I want you to meet Kid Peekay, the next welterweight contender,” he said.
I dropped my eyes, not knowing what to do.
The pretty young woman smiled at me. “How would the contender like a strawberry milk shake?” she asked.
I looked at Hoppie. “What’s a milk shake, please, Hoppie?”
“A milk shake is heaven,” he said. “Make that two.” He turned to the older woman. “Two super-duper mixed grills, please, ounooi.”
Hoppie was right, a strawberry milk shake is heaven. When the mixed grill arrived I couldn’t believe my eyes. Chop, steak, sausage, bacon, liver, chips, a fried egg and a tomato. What a blowout! I was quite unable to finish it, although I slurped the milk shake, in its aluminum shaker, right down to the last gurgling drop.
I had never been up as late as this before and my eyelids felt as though they were made of lead.
The next thing I remembered was Hoppie tucking me into my bunk between the clean, cool sheets and the pillow that smelt of starch. “Sleep sweet, old mate,” I heard him say.
The last thing I remembered before I fell asleep again was the deep, comforting feeling of my hands in the boxing gloves. “The equalizers,” Hoppie had called them. Peekay had found the equalizers.
FIVE
I woke early and lay in my bunk listening to the lickity-clack of the rails. Outside in the dawn light lay the gray savannah grasslands; an occasional baobab stood hugely sentinel against the smudged blue sky with the darker blue of the Murchison range just beginning to break out of the flat horizon. The door of the compartment slid open and Hoppie came in carrying a steaming mug of coffee.
“Did you sleep good, Peekay?” He handed me the mug.
“Ja, thanks, Hoppie. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay awake.”
“No worries, little boetie, there comes a time for all of us when you can’t get up out of your corner.”
I didn’t understand the boxing parlance but it didn’t seem to matter. To my amazement Hoppie then lifted the top of the compartment table to reveal a washbasin underneath.
“When you’ve had your coffee you can have a wash and then I’ll take you to breakfast,” he said.
“It’s okay, Hoppie, I have my breakfast in my suitcase,” I said hastily.
Hoppie looked at me with a grin. “Humph, this I got to see. In your suitcase you have a stove and a frying pan and butter and eggs and bacon and sausages and tomato and toast and jam and coffee?” He gave a low whistle. “That’s a magic suitcase you’ve got there, Peekay.”
“Mevrou gave me sandwiches for the first three meals because my oupa didn’t send enough money. I should have eaten the meat one last night,” I said in a hectic tumbling out of words.
Hoppie stood looking out of the carriage window; he seemed to be talking to himself. “Sandwiches, eh? I hate sandwiches. By now the bread is all turned up at the corners and the jam has come through the middle of the bread.” He stooped down and clicked open my suitcase and removed the brown paper package.
“As your manager, it is my duty to inspect your breakfast. Fighters have to be very careful about the things they eat.” He unwrapped the parcel. He was right, the bread had curled up at the corners. He removed the slice of bread uppermost on the first sandwich and sniffed the thin slices of meat. He dug down to the bottom two sandwiches; the jam had oozed through the bread.
He looked up at me. “I have sad news for you, Peekay. These sandwiches have died a horrible death. We must get rid of them immediately before we catch it ourselves.” With that, he slid down the window of the compartment and hurled the sandwiches into the passing landscape. “First-class fighters eat first-class food. Hurry up and wash, Peekay, I’m starving and breakfast comes with the compliments of South African Railways.”
I flung the blanket and sheet back and looked down at my headless snake in horror. Hoppie had removed my pants before putting me to bed. My heart pounded. Maybe it had been dark and he hadn’t noticed I was a Rooinek. If he found out, everything was spoiled, just when I was having the greatest adventure of my life.
“C’mon, Peekay, we haven’t got all day, you know.”
“I am still full from the mixed grill last night, Hoppie. I can’t eat another thing.” I quickly pulled the blanket back over me.
“Who you trying to bluff?” He ripped the blanket and sheet off me in one swift movement. My hatless snake was exposed. I cupped my hands over it but it was too late, I knew that he knew.
“I’m not the next welterweight contender, Mr. Groenewald, I’m just a verdomde Rooinek,” I said, my voice breaking as I fought to hold back my tears.
Hoppie stood in front of me, saying nothing until his silence forced me to raise my eyes and look at him. His eyes were sad; he shook his head as he spoke. “That’s why you’re going to be the next champ, Peekay, you’ve got the reason.” He smiled. “I didn’t tell you before, man. You know that bloke who beat me for the title in Pretoria? Well, he was English, a Rooinek like you. He had this left hook, every time it connected it was like a goods train had shunted into me.” Hoppie lifted me out of the bunk and put me gently down beside the washbasin. “But I think you’re going to be even better than him, little boetie. C’mon, wash up and let’s go eat.”
I can tell you things were looking up, all right. Hoppie took me through to the dining car, which had a snowy cloth on every table, silver knives and forks and starched napkins folded to look like dunces’ caps. The coffee came in a silver pot. A man with a napkin draped across his arm said good morning and showed us to a table. He asked Hoppie if it was true that the light-heavy he was to fight that night had a total of twenty-seven fights with seventeen knockouts to his credit?
Hoppie said it was the first he’d heard of it. Then he shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “First he’s got to catch me, man.” He asked him about something called odds and the man said two to one on the big bloke. Hoppie laughed and gave the man ten bob and the man wrote something in a small book.
The man left and soon returned with toast and two plates of bacon and eggs and sausages and tomato, just the way Hoppie said it would happen. I decided that when I grew up the railways were most definitely for me.
“Are you frightened about tonight?” I asked Hoppie. Although I couldn’t imagine him being frightened of anything, it was obvious the man he was going to fight was to him just as big as the Judge was to me.
Hoppie washed the sausage he was chewing down with a gulp of coffee. “It’s good to be a little frightened. It’s good to respect your opponent. It keeps you sharp. In the fight game, the head rules the heart. But in the end the heart is the boss,” he said, tapping his heart with the handle of his fork. I noticed he held his fork in the wrong hand and he later explained: a left-handed fighter is called a southpaw. “Being a southpaw helps when you’re fighting a big gorilla like the guy tonight. Everything is coming at him the wrong way round. It cuts down his reach, you can get in closer. A straight left becomes a right jab and that leaves him open for a left hook.”
Hoppie might as well have been speaking Chinese, but it didn’t matter: like the feel of my hands in the gloves, the language felt right. A right cross, a left hook, a jab, an uppercut, a straight left. The words and the terms had a direction, they meant business. “You work it like a piston, with me it’s the right, you keep it coming all night into the face until you close his eye, then he tries to defend wha
t he can’t see and in goes the left, pow, pow, pow until the other eye starts to close. Then whammo! The left uppercut. In a southpaw that’s where the knockout lives.”
“Do you think I can do it, Hoppie?” I was desperate for his confidence in me.
“Piece sa cake, Peekay. I already told you. You’re a natural.” Hoppie’s words were like seedpods with wings. They flew straight out of his mouth into my head, where they germinated in the fertile soil of my mind.
The remainder of the morning was taken up with Hoppie writing up some books in the guard’s van, where he had a bunk, table and washbasin all to himself. Attached to a hook in the ceiling was a thing he called a speedball, for sharpening your punching. I was too short to reach it but Hoppie punched it so fast he made it almost disappear. I was beginning to like the whole idea of this boxing business.
Hoppie explained that at Gravelotte the train had to take on antimony from the mines. There would be a nine-hour stop before the train left for Kaapmuiden at eleven o’clock that night. “No worries, little boetie. You will be my guest at the fight and then I will put you back on the train.”
At lunch my eyes nearly popped out of my head. We sat down at the same table as before and the man who had been at breakfast, whose name turned out to be Gert, brought Hoppie a huge steak and me a little one.
“Compliments of the cook, Hoppie. The cook’s got his whole week’s pay on an odds-on bet with four miners. He says it’s rump steak, red in the middle to make you mean.”
At lunch the dining compartment was full and everyone was talking about the fight. Gert was moving from table to table, and in between serving was taking ten-shilling and pound notes from passengers and writing it down in his book.
Hoppie looked up at me. “You a betting man, Peekay?”
I looked at him confused. “What’s a betting man, Hoppie?”
Hoppie explained about betting. He signaled for Gert to come over. “What odds will you give the next welterweight contender?” he asked, pointing at me.
The Power of One Page 6
