‘Good...’ Hennie said, ‘Make yourself at home, but keep the door locked...like so,’ he demonstrated to Fires, ‘...and when I come off shift, I’ll knock...like this...’
Hennie rapped four times on the metal door with his huge hairy knuckled fist, grinned widely, and then ducked out through the hatch, closing it behind him.
Fires dogged the hatch, climbed back up onto the top bunk and then stretched out on the mattress, gazing up at the ceiling of the cabin, his belly full of broth and his mind full of so many questions that he hardly knew where to begin.
He would ask Hennie more when he came back from his duties.
Fires looked across to his right, first at the book shelves and then at the maps that adorned the walls, and began tracing his index finger over the route from Durban to Bombay.
He was amazed to see the distance that he’d actually covered on his journey from Pretoria down to Durban.
There was a scale at the bottom of the map and he started to work out exactly how far he had travelled using part of a metal slide rule from the desk below.
It was nearly four hundred miles...a long way for such a little man.
Hennie returned four hours later with his secret knock and with more food...this time it was a thick beef curry with some aromatic rice and Fires wolfed it down, making Hennie laugh.
‘For such a skinny kid, you can sure move that cutlery around the plate...I don’t know where you put it all. Now, we still have a few hours left to kill before I need to sleep, so we’ll make a start on teaching you some English, eh...?’
Fires was reluctant at first, but realised that Hennie was actually trying to help him and so he soon settled down to his lessons.
It would be rude to throw such kindness back in Hennie’s face.
Fires was an avid pupil and a quick learner, but although Hennie could teach him spoken English, he could not help with reading and writing.
‘I’m not much good with that sort of thing...’ Hennie shrugged apologetically, ‘Well...not good enough to teach you in the short time we have...and I’m going to leave that all to Mohanlal and the school system in Bombay...’
‘Mohanlal...?’ Fires asked, rolling the strange name off his tongue, ‘What’s a Mohanlal, Hennie?’
Hennie roared with raucous laughter.
‘Mohanlal is not a “what”, lad...Mohanlal’s a good friend of mine in Bombay. Mohanlal Valjee. He’s a talented goldsmith and a not very devout Hindu man. He made this for me...’
‘Hindu man...?’ Fires asked him, but Hennie ignored the question, unbuttoned his shirt and pulled out a small medallion on a gold filigree chain, showing it to the boy.
‘It’s Saint Christopher...patron saint of travellers, boetie,’ Hennie said proudly, ‘and the man who probably looked after you on your trek from Pretoria to Durban...’
Fires scrutinised the small disc and seemed very impressed by the delicate workmanship.
He looked forward to meeting this Mohanlal Valjee, despite not knowing what a Hindu man was, would be or look like, but now Hennie was eager to get back to their lessons.
‘Engels praat...? Awww...Ek het keen idée, Hennie...’
‘You will have soon enough, lad. You will...’
The days passed very quickly, with Hennie disappearing to take the regular four to eight watch, bringing Fires food and drink, teaching him spoken English for a couple of hours before grabbing some well earned shut-eye in readiness for the next watch.
The realization struck Fires that, after fifteen days at sea, they were now almost ready for docking in Bombay, his new home.
With all of the hustle and bustle caused by unloading and loading of cargo, crew members racing around on deck and stevedores onshore, it was relatively easy for Hennie to smuggle Fires from the ship, and they were soon weaving their way from the quayside through the crowds.
Fires’ senses were assailed relentlessly by the rich vibrant colours, the constant strident noises and the wonderfully thick and cloying aromas that permeated the air.
Fires gaped at the urban sprawl as they travelled up the Kalbadevie Road and into Kalbadevie district itself, his mouth hanging wide in sheer astonishment at how busy it all seemed. This was a far cry from anything he ever encountered back home, and even Pretoria seemed tame by comparison.
Trams and horse-drawn, or cattle-drawn, carts jostled for street space and everywhere teemed with life.
There were well-dressed ladies sporting frilly cotton parasols to shade them from the sun, people were carrying goods on their heads like the kaffirs back home, and everywhere he looked there was a crooked jumble of buildings looming out into the streets.
He expected dirt and dust, perhaps elephants too, with little boys riding high on their haunches, like the ones that he had seen in the books in Hennie’s cabin, but there were none. This was truly amazing, and it excited him to think that he would be living here.
He knew that this was going to be something far better than farm life on the Veldt. He felt a sudden hurtful pang of longing for home, yearning for his mother and father, but they were both dead and he was alone, and all around him was life; life that was richly colourful, but also noisy and exciting, with the enticing smells of spices that he had never encountered before.
They met Mohanlal Valjee in the open market square and Fires was impressed by him immediately they shook hands, despite his lack of stature.
‘And who is this you bring to me, Hennie Lubner?’ he said quite enthusiastically nodding down at the boy.
Mohanlal was a squat little man, overly plump, but soft-spoken and courteous, and like Hennie, he sported a large dark moustache and a large yellow cloth around his head.
Hennie told Fires that it was called a turban and that it was to keep his hair clean.
‘This, my friend, is Janse ‘Fires’ Van Vuuren, ex South Africa, ex Pretoria and now resident of Bombay, assuming you can take him, Mohanlal...?’
‘Of course I can take him, Hennie,’ he responded enthusiastically and then held out his hand for the boy to shake, ‘I’m immensely pleased to meet you, young sir, and I look forward to finding out all about you...Tell me, how old are you, Fires?’
Fires frowned momentarily and then looked across to Hennie and asked him in Afrikaans what the date was.
Hennie rubbed his chin, making the stubble rasp as he thought for a second or two and then answered in English,
‘Today is Tuesday, the 7th of April...’
Fires began to smile,
‘Then today is my birthday, Hennie,’ and, looking up at Mohanlal, Fires added, ‘and I am eleven years old, sir...’
Mohanlal’s round brown face split with a welcome winning smile as he congratulated Fires on his anniversary and Hennie put his meaty fist on the lad’s shoulder to squeeze it gently.
Mohanlal’s dark sparkling eyes darted around furtively as the two men shook hands, but ultimately met Hennie’s grey ones and a glance passed between the two of them that Fires could not quite understand, but he would...in a short space of time.
For the moment, the two men walked and talked together as Fires followed silently in their wake, still gawping like a tourist at the wonderfully busy life that surrounded him.
His command of English was reasonable, but not yet good enough to eavesdrop on their conversation, or understand much of what was being said, but Fires put this down to Mohanlal’s thick accent.
Once they were outside the Valjee residence, Fires was even more impressed with the man. The house was almost palatial in size and Fires could hardly believe that soon he would be living here.
Hennie crouched in front of him, put his huge hands on the boy’s shoulders and gazed into his soft brown eyes.
‘Listen here, boetie. This is where we say our fond farewells to one another, but Mohanlal is a good man and he will take good care of you. Be respectful to him at all times. Do as you are told and be a good son to him.’
Fires nodded but said nothing.
�
�Mohanlal will see to it that you go to school, get an education, a trade and want for nothing, you understand...?’
Fires nodded again and then looked across over Hennie’s shoulder to Mister Valjee’s smiling face.
‘You promise me, Janse Van Vuuren?’
‘I promise you, Hennie Lubner...and may God bless you.’
Hennie reached up around his bull neck with those huge hairy fists and unclasped the medallion’s delicate filigree chain, then placed it around Fires’ neck and refastened it.
‘There...You keep this now, lad...Happy birthday...’
Fires was about to voice his objection to being given the gift, but Hennie pressed a sausage like index finger to the youngster’s lips and silenced him.
‘It’s kept me safe for all these years and now I want you to have it, Fires. No arguments. Please just take it and wear it, and think of old Hennie now and again, okay? It’s for good luck and it’s an old sea dog custom, so you’d better take it...and besides, that way, you will remember me every time it’s your birthday...’
Hennie, stood, tousled the boy’s hair one last time before turning his back and walking away.
‘See you both the next time that I’m in port...’ he shouted over his shoulder without looking back.
‘He’s a fine man.’ Mohanlal said softly as Hennie disappeared into the crowds, and then added, ‘Well, boy, let’s get you inside, bathed and fed...We have to sort out your schooling tomorrow...’
Back onboard ship, Hennie went straight to the tool room to tidy up and to make sure that the place was ready for duty on the next voyage back down to the Cape, removing any traces of his recent guest’s stay.
He noticed the pile of oily rags under the bench, tutted his disgust and bent to pick them up.
As he did so, he noticed Fires’ crumpled old knapsack, discarded in the corner, and reached in to pick it up.
It moved.
His hand hesitated slightly and his eyes narrowed to slits.
He’d imagined it...Surely?
He must have...but it moved again.
Then, the hunched and bloated body of a rat lurched out at him, hardly able to move under its own steam. It was obviously sick, but still started hissing at him and baring its sharp incisors.
‘Feisty little fucker, aren’t you?’ he mumbled, ‘but old Hennie’s got something for you to think on...’
He wrapped the rags around the rodent and despite its weakened and bloated state it still managed to put up a struggle.
Hennie squeezed the bundle until he felt the snap of its spine, then squeezed even harder until the skull finally collapsed.
‘You don’t want to fuck around with Hennie Lubner, ratty...’
He dropped the bundle into the knapsack and took it to the boiler house, pulled open the creaky furnace door and dropped it onto the smouldering coals, watched it smoke for a few seconds before igniting and burning brightly, eradicating all traces of Janse Van Vuuren and the rat forever...
Their rodent host was sick and dying and the fleas were choking on blood, vomiting and regurgitating it, but still desperately biting at its hide.
Then the host was being smothered and mercilessly crushed and they hurriedly left the corpse to find new prey, working their way through the coarse material and out onto the pink hairy creature nearby. They bit down hard through the tough skin but failed to draw in any sustenance. Then they felt the heat and fled, hopping off to die on the cold metal floor...
Three days after burning the bloating rat corpse and old knapsack, Hendricke ‘Hennie’ Lubner felt decidedly unwell for the first time since he had been a child.
It started with a blinding headache and bouts of feeling cold, even though he was bathed in perspiration, then vomiting and giddiness, so he took some medication and tried to sleep it off.
By the sixth day, it worsened to incessant severe abdominal pains, diarrhoea that was bloody and so painful to pass that he also burst blood vessels in his eyes – petechiae was what his battered copy of the ship’s medical journal called them.
He would have gone to see the ship’s sawbones about it, but by the time he came to that decision, he had already developed painful swellings in his armpits, on his neck, and, worse still, in his groin, making it almost impossible for him to walk, so he laid on his bunk, pulling the coarse heavy navy blankets even tighter around his fevered frame and letting unconsciousness wash over him.
He never woke up.
Once his body was discovered by another crew member, the ship was immediately quarantined, then fumigated and cleansed before leaving port later for British Guiana instead of the Cape.
By the time Hennie Lubner died and his body was cremated, Fires had been enrolled at the Fort Proprietary School in Bombay.
He was already settling into his new life with Mohanlal Valjee and his son, Mohinder, whom Fires soon began to call ‘Mo’ for short, and ultimately regard as his brother.
The school curriculum was filled with mathematics, the sciences and languages, so he was finally learning English properly, as well as French, German and Gujarati at home.
He was also beginning to learn the art of the goldsmith.
Mohanlal Valjee was devastated to learn of Hennie’s death, caused by the same horrendous plague that had claimed the innocent lives of his wife, daughter and youngest son back in 1897, and although he was tempted to keep this distressing news from his new charge, he felt it was his duty to tell the young boy.
Fires wept openly, unashamedly and uncontrollably at these bad tidings, mourning and moping for weeks afterwards, but gradually grief seemed to subside and he knuckled down to his school work and domestic chores in the Valjee household. He would help his brother Mohinder fetch and carry, chop firewood and cook at supper times. Then they would all settle for the evening and Fires would teach them Afrikaans in exchange for lessons in Gujarati, French and even some Russian, which surprised and delighted the young man. Mohanlal soon learned that Fires showed an aptitude and flair for languages.
He proved to be a diligent scholar when it came to the business of manipulating gold for smithing as well, upon which art the Valjee’s had built a healthy reputation and a large client base.
Mohanlal was impressed by the way Fires had integrated, accepted their way of life, except for their religious beliefs, and the way that the boy had come to see Mohinder as his elder brother.
His grades at the Proprietary School were always above average, if slightly lower than Mo’s, and this seemed to spur him on to try to match his adopted sibling’s success.
The economic situation in India, and Bombay in particular, was, however, gradually deteriorating over time, and despite the quality of their workmanship and the gold goods that they were busy manufacturing, no-one seemed to have money to spend anymore, and there were vague rumours of more recurrent disease outbreaks spreading throughout the country.
People were beginning to gather their possessions and move on, becoming what were known as free or passenger Indians, and then setting sail for Natal, which is why Mohanlal had been so eager to encourage Fires to teach them Afrikaans.
They had learned a little from Hennie Lubner in the past, though he was the first to admit that teaching was not his strong point, but if you gave him a tool kit and a problem to solve, then you’d better stand back and keep out of his way.
Mohanlal balked at the prospect of never seeing Hennie again and remembered the ease with which Hennie had repaired the small lost wax casting facility that their business relied upon and which prompted him to make Hennie the Saint Christopher medallion as a gesture of his gratitude.
Fires now wore it constantly with pride.
By the middle of May in 1905, Mohanlal Valjee decided to pack up and leave their home in Bombay, and move to Natal.
Fires was fifteen years of age, Mohinder seventeen, and Mohanlal decided that he would treat them both as adults and discuss this notion with the two of them, rather than springing it upon them as a fait accompli
.
Neither of the young men had any particular objections, although Fires seemed reluctant and slightly reticent at the prospect of being back in his homeland.
South Africa still held far too many unpleasant memories for him to feel entirely happy about returning there, but over the course of a few weeks, the paperwork was sorted out by their solicitor, the household, or as much of it as they could reasonably afford to take with them, was carefully packed into crates, and they booked their passage to leave Bombay.
Fires was delighted to find that his paperwork had been made out in the name of Janse Van Valjee and giggled hysterically when Mo had shown it to him after supper.
‘Kyk, Mo...My naam is Janse Van Valjee...’
Mo replied in his best Afrikaans,
‘O! Dis goed! Wat is jou beroef, boetie?’
‘No, Mo...It’s not pronounced “beroef”, it’s “beroep”...Wat is jou beroep...? What do you do for a living...?’
They laughed about Mohinder’s struggle with Afrikaans for a little while, and then cleared the supper table and washed the crockery, still having the occasional uncontrollable snigger together over Fires’ new name.
‘Janse Van Valjee, Mo...Imagine that?’
‘Yes...and a scruffy little specimen of a Valjee you are too...Look at that filthy brown fuzz on your face. We will have to clean you up before we leave.’
Fires ran his nimble fingers through the faint dark wisps of short hair on his upper lip and chin.
‘Yes, Mo...Will you show me how to shave?’
Mohinder nodded and smiled.
He was a little taller than Fires and must have inherited his build from his mother rather than his father, as Mohanlal was short and plump, whereas Mohinder was tall, lean and lithe.
Fires had seen pictures of Mohinder’s mother, sister and younger brother hung around the house and could clearly see that only the youngest of the brothers had been like their father in looks.
Orphan (Hunger Book 1) Page 4
