The Power of One

SIX

The rugby field was on the edge of town, down a dusty road. By the time we arrived I could taste the dust in my mouth. We parked the ute with all the other cars and trucks under a stand of large old blue gums, their palomino trunks shredded with strips of grey bark. In the centre of the football field the men from the railway workshop had built a boxing ring that stood about four feet from the ground. The miners, who were responsible for the electrics, had rigged two huge lights on wire which stretched from four poles, each one set into the ground some ten feet from each corner of the ring.

Huge tin shades were fitted over the lights and in the gathering dusk the light spilled down so that it was like daylight in the ring. Hundreds of moths and flying insects spun and danced about the lights, tiny planets orbiting erratically around two brilliant artificial suns. The stands, which were really a series of stepped or tiered benches each about twenty feet long and twelve high, were arranged in a large circle around the ring. It meant everyone had a ringside seat. There looked to be about two thousand men packing the stands, while underneath them, looking through the legs of the seated whites, the Africans stood or crouched, trying to get a view of the ring as best they could.

Bokkie and Nels led us to a large tent, on the side flaps of which was stencilled Property of Murchison Consolidated Mines Limited. We entered to find Jackhammer Smit, his seconds and four other men, three of them ordinary size and one of them not much bigger than me. Hoppie whispered that they were the judges and that, ‘the dwarf is the referee’. I was fascinated by the tiny little man with the large bald head. ‘He may look silly, man. But take it from me, he knows his onions,’ Hoppie confided.

Jackhammer Smit had already changed into black shiny boxing shorts and soft black boxing boots. In the confines of the tent, lit by two hurricane lamps which cast a bluish light, he seemed bigger than ever. As we’d entered he’d turned to talk to one of his seconds. My heart sank, Hoppie was right, I had seen his stomach muscles as he had turned, they looked like plaited rope and his shoulders seemed to loom over the smaller men.

‘This is one big sonofabitch, Peekay,’ Hoppie said. ‘Moses was still blubbing in the bullrushes the last time he weighed in as a light-heavy.’ He clipped open his small suitcase, and taking off his shorts and shirt he quickly slipped on a jock strap. He looked tough, tightly put together, good knotting around the shoulders and tapered to the waist, his legs slight but strong. He slipped on his shiny red shorts and sat down on the grass of the tent floor to put on his socks and boxing boots.

Jackhammer Smit now stood in the opposite corner of the tent facing us, with the light behind him. He looked black and huge and he kept banging his right fist into the palm of his left hand. It was like a metronome, a solid, regular smacking sound that seemed to fill the tent.

The referee, who only came halfway up Jackhammer Smit’s legs, called the two boxers together. I wondered if all dwarfs had such deep voices. He asked them if they wanted to glove up in the tent or in the ring.

‘In the ring,’ Hoppie said quickly.

‘What’s blêrrie wrong with right here, man?’ Jackhammer shot back.

‘It’s all part of the show, brother,’ Hoppie said with a grin, ‘some of the folk have come a long way.’

‘Ja, man, to see a short fight. Putting on the blêrrie gloves is going to take longer than the fucking fight.’

‘Now, boys, take it easy.’ The referee pointed to a fairly large cardboard box. ‘Them’s the gloves, ten-ounce Everlasts from Solly Goldman’s gym in Jo’burg, specially sent, man,’ he said with obvious pride.

Bokkie walked over to the box and took the two pairs of gloves out, and moving over to Smit’s seconds he offered both sets to them. They each took a pair, examined and kneaded them between their knees before making a choice. The gloves were shiny black; they caught the light from the hurricane lamp and, even empty, they looked full of action.

Bokkie held the gloves out for Hoppie to inspect. ‘Nice gloves, not too light,’ he said softly.

‘No worries.’ Hoppie put a towel around his neck and then slipped into his dressing gown. Bokkie slung the gloves around Hoppie’s neck. ‘Let’s kick the dust,’ Hoppie said, moving towards the open tent flap.

Suddenly Jackhammer barked, ‘What you say, Groenewald, okay by you, winner takes all?’

Hoppie turned slowly to look at the big man. ‘I wouldn’t do that to you, Smit, what would you do for hospital expenses?’ He took my hand.

‘That kid of yours is gunna be a fucking orphan by the time I’m through with you t’night, you nigger lover,’ Jackhammer yelled at Hoppie’s departing back.

Hoppie squeezed my hand and laughed softly. ‘I reckon that was worth at least another two rounds, Peekay.’ Pausing in the dark outside the tent, he took me by the shoulders. ‘Never forget, Peekay, sometimes, very occasionally, you do your best boxing with your mouth.’

A small corridor intersected the stands on either side of the brilliantly lit ring by which the patrons and the fighters entered. It at once became obvious that one semicircle contained only miners while the other only railway men, while smiling, excited African faces under the stands peered through gaps between the legs of the whites. I had never been at a large gathering of people before and the tension in the crowd was quite frightening. I held onto Nels’ hand tightly as he took me to the top tier of a stand and handed me over into the care of Big Hettie.

Big Hettie seemed to be the only lady at the fight. She was the cook at the railway mess and Hoppie had introduced us earlier at dinner. Big Hettie had given me a second helping of peaches with custard and Hoppie had said that I had better eat it even if I was full because Big Hettie was a genuine heavyweight who could take on two drunken railway men with one arm behind her back.

Big Hettie patted the place beside her. ‘Come sit here, Peekay. You and me is in this together. If that big baboon hurts Kid Louis we’ll go in and finish off the big bugger ourselves,’ she said, rocking with laughter.

Hoppie was seated on a small stool in the corner of the ring with Bokkie standing over him bandaging his hands. When Jackhammer Smit entered, he didn’t look up. Jackhammer paused in the middle of the ring and cocked two fingers in Hoppie’s direction, much to the delight of the miners who were cheering him like mad.

‘Ho, ho, ho, have we got a fight on our hands!’ Big Hettie said gleefully. Then she rose from her seat and in a voice that carried right over the ring she yelled, ‘I’ll give you two fingers, you big baboon, right up the arse!’

It was almost totally dark. The sound of a woman’s voice was unexpected and for a split second the stands were hushed and then both sides convulsed with laughter.

Big Hettie sat down again. Reaching into a large basket at her side she brought out a half-jack of brandy. She popped the cork from the slim, flat bottle and took a long swig, grimacing as she withdrew it from her lips as though it was really nasty muti. ‘That will fix the big ape,’ she said, thumping the cork back into the half-jack with the flat of her hand.

The fighters had both been gloved up and while Hoppie remained seated on the tiny stool. Jackhammer Smit continued to stand, looking big and hard as a mountain. While my faith and my love was invested in my beloved friend, I’d been around long enough to know the realities of big versus small. Big, it seemed to me, always finished on top and my heart was filled with fear for my new-found friend.

‘My God! Look at the sparrow fart!’ Big Hettie exclaimed, pointing to the tiny referee. ‘How the devil is he going to keep them men apart?’

‘Hoppie says he knows his onions, Mevrou Hettie,’ I ventured.

Jackhammer Smit began to shuffle around the ring throwing imaginary punches. He seemed to be increasing in size by the minute, while Hoppie, seated on his stool, looked like a small frog crouched in the corner of the ring. Nels was putting Vaseline over Hoppie’s eyebrows while Bokkie seemed to be giving him some last-minute instructions.

The tiny referee said something and the seconds left the ring and the fighters moved to the centre. The crowd grew suddenly still. Standing between the two men with his head thrown right back, the referee looked up at them and said something. They both nodded and touched gloves lightly and then turned and walked back to their corners. The crowd began to cheer like mad. The referee held his hands up, turning slowly in a circle to hush the crowd, his head only just showing above the top rope of the ring. Soon a three-quarter moon, on the wane, would rise over the Murchison range, though as yet the night was matt black with only a sharp square of brilliant light etching out the ring with the three men in it. It was as though the two fighters and the dwarf stood alone, watched by an audience of a million stars.

The referee addressed the stilled crowd, his surprisingly deep voice carrying easily to where we sat. ‘Dames en Here, tonight we are witnessing the great biblical drama of David and Goliath.’ He paused for his words to take effect.

‘Weeping Jesus! Sparrow Fart’s going to give us a Bible lesson,’ Big Hettie hissed at no one in particular. She took a quick swig from the half-jack as the referee continued.

‘Will history repeat itself? Will David once again defeat Goliath?’ The railway men went wild and the miners hissed and booed. The referee held his hands up for silence. ‘Or will Goliath have his revenge?’ The miners cheered like mad and this time it was the railway men who booed and hissed.

The little man held up his hands again and the audience calmed down.

‘Introducing in the blue corner, weighing two hundred and five pounds and hailing from Murchison Consolidated Mines, the ex-light-heavyweight champion of the Northern Transvaal, Jackhammer Smit. Twenty-two fights, eleven knockouts, eleven losses on points, a fighter with an even stevens record in the ring. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for Jackhammer Smit!’ The miners cheered and whistled.

‘What’s eleven losses on points mean, Mevrou Hettie?’ I asked urgently.

‘It means he’s a pug, a one-punch Johnny, a slugger,’ she said, taking another swig and wiping the top of the bottle with the palm of her hand. ‘It means he’s no boxer.’

The referee turned to indicate Hoppie who raised his hands to acknowledge the crowd. ‘In the red corner, weighing one hundred and forty-five pounds, from Gravelotte, Kid Louis of the South African Railways, Northern Transvaal welterweight champion and the recent losing contender for the Transvaal title; fifteen fights, fourteen wins, eight knockouts, one loss.’ He cleared his throat before continuing. ‘Let me remind you that the fighter he narrowly lost to on points in Pretoria went on to win the South African title in Cape Town.’ He raised his voice slightly. ‘Let’s hear it for the one and only Kid Louis!’ It was our turn to cheer until the referee orchestrated us back to silence. Hoppie had once again calmly seated himself on the tiny stool, while Jackhammer Smit was snorting and throwing punches at an imaginary opponent soon to become Hoppie.

‘This is a fifteen-round contest, may the best man win.’ The referee had already assumed the authority of the fight and he didn’t look small any more. It was clear the crowd accepted him. He moved to the edge of the ring where the light spilled sufficiently to show three men seated at a small table. ‘Ready, judges?’ They nodded and he turned to the two fighters. ‘At the sound of the bell come out fighting, gentlemen.’

Out of the darkness the bell sounded for round one.

Hoppie jumped from the stool as Nels pulled it out of the ring and Jackhammer Smit stormed towards him. In the oppressive heat the air was as still as a dead man’s breath and the big boxer’s torso was already glistening with sweat. I had earlier unwrapped my first sucker, as usual licking the clear Cellophane clean. It was the yellow one the beautiful Indian lady with the diamond in her tooth had given me, and the wrapper tasted vaguely of pineapple, only even sweeter than a real pineapple.

Hoppie danced around the big man and Jackhammer Smit let go two left jabs and a right uppercut, all of which missed Hoppie by a mile. He followed with a straight left which Hoppie caught neatly in his glove as he was going away. Hoppie feinted to the right as Jackhammer tried to catch him with two left jabs, then he stepped in under the last jab and peppered Jackhammer’s face with a two-handed attack. Two left, then two stabbing rights to the head. The blows were lightning fast; Hoppie had moved out of reach by the time Jackhammer Smit could bring his gloves back into position in front of his face. Hoppie continued to backpedal most of the time, making Smit chase him around the ring. Occasionally he darted in with a flurry of blows to the head and then danced out of range again. Jackhammer came doggedly after him, trying to get set for a big punch, but Hoppie was content to land a quick left and a right and then move quickly out of harm’s way. The first round saw him land a dozen good punches, most of them just above Jackhammer’s left eye, while the big man only managed a long straight left that caught Hoppie on the shoulder as the welterweight was moving away.

It was clear that Jackhammer Smit was having trouble with the southpaw and was showing his frustration. The bell went for the end of the first round and the fighters returned to their corners. This time, like Hoppie, Jackhammer sat down, breathing heavily. He drank deeply, straight from a bottle of water one of his seconds held up to his mouth. The other second sponged him, dried him and smeared Vaseline above his left eye.

Hoppie looked composed, breathing lightly. He drank from a bottle with a tiny bent pipe coming out of it, rinsing his mouth and spitting the water back into a bucket Bokkie held for him. Nels was massaging his shoulders and Hoppie was nodding his head at something Bokkie was saying.

‘Is Hoppie winning, Mevrou Hettie?’ I asked anxiously.

‘It’s early times yet, Peekay. In the early rounds the Kid will be too fast for the big guy, but one thing’s for sure, Hoppie’s punches are too short to hurt Smit.’

The bell went for round two, a round much the same as round one except that Jackhammer Smit landed three punches to Hoppie’s head, all of them glancing blows, but each time the miners went wild. After the second round a red blotch began to appear above Jackhammer’s left eye. The next three rounds saw Hoppie leading Smit all around the ring making him throw punches that nearly always missed and then darting in with a quick flurry of blows before bouncing back out of harm’s way.

The bell went for the sixth round and Jackhammer shuffled to the centre of the ring, his gloves rotating slowly in front of his chest. He was getting the hang of the southpaw and was going to make Hoppie take the fight to where he stood rooted to the centre of the ring.

Jackhammer dropped his gloves, leaving his head a clear target, knowing he could take anything Hoppie dished out. Hoppie was forced to move in close enough for Smit to hit him in the gut and around the kidneys. In this way Hoppie had to take a couple of vicious blows to the body every time he moved in to hit the spot above Jackhammer’s left eye. Jackhammer gave a grunt as he drove a left or a right into Hoppie’s body and the crowd responded as one man with an exclamation of pain. By the end of the sixth Jackhammer’s left eye was almost closed but deep red welts showed on Hoppie’s ribs where Jackhammer had caught him. Both men were breathing hard as they returned to their corners.

‘It’s not looking good for the Kid. The big ape has found his mark and he’s going to wear him down with body punches. You could of fooled me, he got more brains than I would have given him credit for,’ Big Hettie said. She didn’t show any emotion, appraising the progress of the fight as though she were simply an informed, though disinterested bystander.

‘Don’t let him have brains, Mevrou Hettie. Brains is one thing you’ve got to have to win,’ I said in anguish. Big Hettie was fanning herself with a brightly coloured Chinese paper fan, the perspiration running down the sides of her face and neck. ‘He hits awful hard, Peekay,’ she said absently.

The bell went for the seventh and Jackhammer shuffled back to the centre of the ring. The heat was plainly telling on him and his gloves were held even lower than before. This left enough of his body exposed for Hoppie to hit him at long range, getting a lot more power behind his punches. The left eye was closed and Hoppie was beginning to work on the right, jabbing straight lefts right on the button every time. Near the end of the round he attempted a right-cross to Jackhammers’ jaw just as the big man had moved back slightly to throw a punch. Hoppie missed with the right and was thrown slightly off balance as Smit followed through with an uppercut that caught the smaller man under the heart. You could hear his grunt as the punch landed and Hoppie’s legs buckled under him as he toppled to the canvas.

‘Oh, shit! One-punch Johnny has found the punch. Goliath wins in seven,’ Big Hettie said in dismay as the miners went wild. The tiny referee was standing over Hoppie and yelling at Jackhammer Smit to get into a neutral corner, but the big man just stood there his chest heaving, waiting for Hoppie to rise so that he could finish him off. The referee wouldn’t start the count and precious seconds passed as the big man stood belligerently over the fallen welterweight. Jackhammer’s seconds were screaming at him to move away and when finally he did so a good thirty seconds had passed.

The referee started to put in the count. Hoppie rose onto one knee and waited until the count of eight before rising and getting to his feet. The referee signalled for the fight to continue and Jackhammer Smit lumbered across the ring to finish Hoppie off. The almost forty-second respite had been enough to stave off disaster and Hoppie simply kept out of harm’s way as Jackhammer, energy leaking out of him with every assault, kept charging at him like an angry bull. The bell went just as Hoppie landed a hard left uppercut to Jackhammer’s eye when the big man tried another desperate charge.

‘Dammit, Peekay! That was lucky. Thank the Lord Jesus, Sparrow Fart knows the blêrrie rules, the Kid was out for a ten count for sure.’ Big Hettie removed a dishtowel that covered the basket and mopped her face and bosom. ‘Smit’s just another stupid Boer after all. All balls and no brains. Hoppie can thank his lucky stars for that.’

In all the excitement I had bitten the sucker clean off its stick and crunched it to bits, shortening its life by at least half an hour. I ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth, seeking the last of the pineappley taste. It could be a long time before another one came my way. Big Hettie took a Thermos flask from the basket and, using the silver lid which was shaped like a cup, poured it full of hot, sweet, milky coffee and handed it to me. Then she opened a large cake tin and handed me a huge slice of chocolate cake. My eyes nearly stood out on stalks, this was going to be a night to remember all right. If Hoppie, beloved Hoppie, could just keep away from the big gorilla. The way he danced around the big man, seemingly only to get out of the way of a punch at the last second, reminded me of how Granpa Chook used to dodge when stones were thrown at him. I only hoped that Hoppie had the same survival instinct. For an instant I grew sad. In the end even Granpa Chook’s highly developed sense of survival couldn’t save him, the big gorilla finally got him.

The eighth round saw another change in the fight. Jackhammer Smit had chased Hoppie too hard and too long. The gorilla’s great strength had been sapped by the heat and he was down to barely a shuffle, both eyes nearly closed. Hoppie was hitting him almost at will and Jackhammer pulled the smaller man into a clinch whenever he could, causing the tiny referee to stand on the tips of his toes and pull at his massive arms, yelling ‘Break!’ at the top of his voice.

The ninth and the tenth rounds were much of the same but Hoppie didn’t seem to have the punch to put Jackhammer away. Early in the eleventh Smit managed to get Hoppie into yet another clinch, leaning heavily on the smaller man. As the referee moved in to break them up, Jackhammer Smit stepped backwards into him, sending the tiny referee arse over tip to the floor. Still holding Hoppie, Smit head-butted him viciously. On the railway side of the ring we saw the incident clearly, but all the miners, like the ref, saw was Hoppie’s legs buckle and the welterweight crash to the floor as Jackhammer Smit broke out of the clinch.

This time Smit moved quickly to the neutral corner and the referee, bouncing to his feet like a rubber ball, started to count Hoppie out.

Pandemonium broke loose. The railway men, shouting ‘Foul!’, began to come down from the stands shaking their fists. At the count of six the bell went for the end of the round and Bokkie and Nels rushed into the ring to help a dazed and wobbly Hoppie to his corner.

A score of railway men had reached the ring and were shouting abuse at Jackhammer. The miners were yelling and coming down from their stands and, I’m telling you, the whole scene was a proper kerfuffle.

Jackhammer sat in his corner vomiting into a bucket and Bokkie and Nels were frantically trying to bring Hoppie round, holding a small bottle under his nose. I had begun to cry and Big Hettie drew me into her bosom while hurling abuse at Jackhammer Smit. ‘You bastard, you dirty bastard, come into my kitchen tomorrow and I’ll de-knacker you, you sonofabitch!’ she screamed.

I could hear her heart going boom, boom, boom and the smell of brandy on her breath was overpowering. I can tell you, I stopped crying quick smart, her arm was pinning me to her heaving bosom so tightly that I was beginning to feel faint. Thank God she released me so she could stand up and shake her fist.

Several fights had started around the base of the ring and the judges’ table had been overturned. The referee stood in the centre of the ring, his hands raised, his head shining like a beacon. He didn’t move and this seemed to have a calming effect on the crowd. Others rushed in to stop the ringside brawling, pulling their mates away. Not until there was complete silence did the referee indicate that both fighters should come to the centre of the ring. Hoppie, meanwhile, seemed fully recovered while Jackhammer, huge chest still heaving and both eyes puffed-up slits, looked a mess. The referee took Hoppie’s arm and raised it as high as he was able. ‘Kid Louis on a foul in the eleventh,’ he shouted.

The railway men went wild with excitement while the miners started to come down from their stands again. ‘Shit, it’s going to be one-for-one-and-all,’ Big Hettie said.

Hoppie jerked his arm away and started an animated argument with the ref, pointing his glove at the near-blind Jackhammer. Finally the referee held his hands up for silence. ‘The fight goes on!’ he shouted and both boxers moved back to their corners. The bell began to clang repeatedly and in a short while the ringside fighting stopped and the men, walking backwards still shaking their fists at each other, returned to their seats.

‘That Hoppie Groenewald is mad as a meat axe,’ Big Hettie declared. ‘He had the blêrrie fight won and he wants to start all over again!’ She wiped away a tear with the dishcloth. ‘Jesus, Peekay, he has guts, that one is a real Irishman!’

Ten minutes passed before the bell went for round twelve, by which time Hoppie was good as gold and Jackhammer’s seconds, in between his bouts of vomiting, had managed to half open his left eye. The closed lids of his right eye extended beyond his brow so that he was forced to hunt Hoppie with only half a left eye.

It was no contest. Hoppie darted in and slammed two quick left jabs straight into the half-open eye and closed it again. The rest of the round was a shambles, with Jackhammer simply covering his face with his gloves and Hoppie boring into his body. The years behind a jackhammer were counting and Jackhammer Smit simply leaned on the ropes and took everything Hoppie could throw at him. He grunted as Hoppie ripped a blow under his heart and Jackhammer opened his gloves in a reflex action. Hoppie saw the opening and moved in with a perfect left uppercut that landed flush on Jackhammer’s jaw. The big man sank to the canvas just as the bell went for the end of the round.

Hoppie’s shoulders sagged as he walked back to his corner. It was clear to us all that he was exhausted, fighting more by instinct than by conscious will. Jackhammer’s seconds climbed into the ring and helped him to his feet, leading the almost blind fighter to his corner.

‘Sweet Jesus, they gotta throw in the towel!’ Big Hettie said in elation. ‘Hoppie’s got it on a TKO.’ My heart was pounding fiercely. It seemed certain now that small could beat big, all it took was brains and skill and heart and a plan. A perfect plan.

But we were wrong. The bell went for the thirteenth and Jackhammer Smit rose slowly to his feet, half-dragging himself into the centre of the ring. Hoppie, too exhausted to gain much from the rest between rounds, was also clearly spent. He hadn’t expected Jackhammer Smit to come out for the thirteenth and his extreme fatigue sapped his will to continue. It was as though both moved towards the other in a dream. Hoppie landed a straight left into Jackhammer’s face, starting his nose bleeding again. He followed this with several more blows to the head but his punches lacked strength and Jackhammer, unable to reply, his pride keeping him on his feet, absorbed the extra punishment. He managed to get Hoppie into a clinch, leaning hard on the smaller man in an attempt to sap what strength was left. When the referee shouted at the two men to break he pushed at Hoppie and at the same time hit him with a round arm blow to the head that carried absolutely no authority as a punch. To our consternation and the tremendous surprise of the miners, Hoppie went down. He rose instantly to one knee, his right hand on the deck to steady him. Jackhammer, sensing from the roar of the crowd that his opponent was down, dropped his gloves and moved forward. Through his bloodied fog he may not have seen the punch coming at him. The left from Hoppie came all the way from the deck with the full weight of his body to drive the blow straight to the point of Jackhammer Smit’s jaw. The giant wobbled for a split second then crashed unconscious to the canvas.

‘Timber!’ Big Hettie screamed as the crowd went berserk. I had just witnessed the final move in a perfectly wrought plan where small defeats big. First with the head and then with the heart. To the very end Hoppie had been thinking. I had learned the most important rule in winning… keep thinking.

For a moment Hoppie stood over the unconscious body of his opponent, then he brought his glove up in an unmistakable salute to Jackhammer Smit. He moved slowly to the neutral corner and the referee commenced to count.

At the count of ten Jackhammer Smit still hadn’t moved. Hoppie moved over to his corner and then, turning to us, he held his arms up in victory. His legs were wobbling as Nels pushed the stool into the corner for him to sit down.

In my excitement I was jumping up and down and yelling my head off. It was the greatest moment of my life. I had hope. I had witnessed small triumph over big. I was not powerless. Big Hettie grabbed me and held me high above her head. In the bright moonlight we must have stood out clearly. Hoppie stood up unsteadily and, grinning, he waved one glove in our direction.

Jackhammer had been helped to his feet by his seconds and was standing in the centre of the ring supported by them as the referee called Hoppie over. Holding Hoppie’s hand up in victory he shouted, ‘The good book tells the truth, little David has done it again! The winner by a knockout in the thirteenth round, Kid Louis!’ The railway men cheered their heads off and the miners clapped sportingly and people started to leave the stands.

As the boxers left the ring, Jackhammer still supported by his seconds, Gert, the waiter who took bets in the dining car on the train, entered the ring and began to settle bets. It had been a tremendous fight and even the miners seemed happy enough and would stay for the braaivleis and tiekiedraai afterwards.

It took four big railway men to get Big Hettie down from the top of the stand where we had been sitting. She had finished one half-jack of brandy and was well into the next and so was in no state to make it to the bottom on her own.

‘We showed ’em. Our boy sure socked the bejesus out of the big Palooka! Jaysus, Peekay, what a fight, heh? A darlin’ boy with the heart of a lion.’ Big Hettie was speaking in a soft accented English, which came as a surprise. ‘Oops!’ she said as she nearly missed her step and fell heavily against two of her helpers who were laughing almost fit to burst.

We walked over to the ring where Gert was paying out.

Big Hettie had one hand resting on my shoulder as though I were a sort of human walking stick. ‘I always speak the Irish tongue when I’ve had toomush brandy. Me darlin’ father, God rest his soul, he used to say, “M’dear, only the Irish tongue is made smooth enough fer a dacent drinkin’ man when he’s had a few.” And he was right, you cannot get properly sozzled speaking the verdomde taal!’

I said nothing. Hoppie must have told Big Hettie I was a Rooinek, but I wasn’t taking any chances and my camouflage remained intact. I saw no point in letting her know there was an enemy or even a friend in her midst.

At the ringside the men were lining up to be paid. As we drew closer Big Hettie, reverting back to Afrikaans, shouted at Gert, ‘You good for nothing skelm! Where’s my fiver?’ Speaking Afrikaans seemed to have an immediate sobering effect on her. She moved imperiously to the head of the queue where Gert took five one-pound notes from his satchel and handed them down to her.

‘Thank you for your business, Hettie,’ Gert said politely.

Big Hettie squinted up at him, ‘And don’t you forget our little business either, my boy. Three cases of Crown Lager for the mess tomorrow night. Bring them early so I can put them on ice.’

‘You said only two,’ Gert whined.

‘The Afrikaner in me said two, but it was such a good fight, the Irish in me says three. You won big anyway, the odds were against Hoppie Groenewald winning.’

‘Scheesh! I didn’t win so big, there was a last-minute rush to bet on Hoppie.’

‘Pig’s arse! You won’t eat steak till next Christmas if it isn’t three cases for my boys.’ By this time Big Hettie seemed completely sober.

‘A man might as well not make book with you around, Hettie.’ Gert grinned and turned back to his other customers.

Hoppie came out of the tent just as we reached it and was immediately surrounded by railway men. He looked perfect, except for a large piece of sticking plaster over his left eye where Jackhammer Smit had butted him. Well, not absolutely perfect, in the light you could see his right eye was swollen and was turning a deep purple colour.

Bokkie and Nels were with him. Neither could stop talking and throwing punches in the air and replaying the fight. I was too small to see Hoppie as more and more railway men crowded around him. Big Hettie grabbed me and lofted me into the air. ‘Make way for the next contender,’ I heard Hoppie shout. Hands grabbed hold of me and carried me over the heads of the men to where he stood.

Hoppie pulled me close to him and put his hand around my shoulder. ‘We showed the big gorilla, heh, Peekay?’

‘Ja, Hoppie.’ I was suddenly a bit tearful. ‘Small can beat big if you have a plan.’

Hoppie laughed. ‘I’m telling you, man, I nearly thought the plan wasn’t going to work tonight.’

‘I’ll never forget, first with the head and then with the heart.’ I hugged him around the top of the legs. Hoppie rubbed his hand through my hair. The last time someone had done this, it was to rub shit into my head. Now it felt warm and safe.

It was almost three hours before the train was due to leave and most of the crowd had stayed behind to meet their wives after the fight at the tiekiedraai dance. Miners and railway men, as well as the passengers travelling on, all mixed together, the animosity during the fight forgotten. Only the Africans went home because they didn’t have passes and wouldn’t have been allowed to stay anyway.

With a slice of Big Hettie’s chocolate cake already in me I could scarcely manage two sausages and a chop. I even left some meat on the chop which I gave to a passing dog, who must have thought it was Christmas because, from then on, she stayed with me. She was a nice old bitch, although she looked a bit worn out from having puppies and her teats hung almost to the ground. She walked slowly, like old bitches do, and after a while I felt we’d always known each other. One ear was torn and her left eye drooped, probably from a fight or something. She was a nice yellow colour with a brown patch on her bum.

It had been a long day and I was beginning to feel tired. I’d never been up this late when I was happy. Hoppie found me and the dog sitting against a big gum tree nodding off. Picking me up, he carried me to the utility. I was too tired to notice if the old yellow bitch followed us.

Big Hettie was sitting in the back of the truck, her huge body almost filling it. She had a fresh half-jack and was using it to conduct herself in song, ‘When Irish eyes are smilin’ sure it’s like the mornin’ breeeeze!’ I was amazed at her raucous sound. I had never before encountered a woman who couldn’t sing.

‘Shhh! Hettie, the next contender wants to sleep,’ Hoppie said.

Big Hettie stopped, the brandy bottle poised mid-stroke. ‘Me darlin’ boy, come and give Hettie a big kiss.’ It was the last thing I remember. Big Hettie was speaking Irish again. I guess she must have gone back to being drunk.