Life Times Stories - By Nadine Gordimer Page 0,60

was arrested, at least – to a prison in the next town, they had stood about outside the big prison door for hours while they waited to be told where she had been moved from there. At last they had discovered that she was fifty miles away, in Pretoria. Jimmy asked Bamjee for five shillings to help Girlie pay the train fare to Pretoria, once she had been interviewed by the police and had been given a permit to visit her mother; he put three two-shilling pieces on the table for Jimmy to pick up, and the boy, looking at him keenly, did not know whether the extra shilling meant anything, or whether it was merely that Bamjee had no change.

It was only when relations and neighbours came to the house that Bamjee would suddenly begin to talk. He had never been so expansive in his life as he was in the company of these visitors, many of them come on a polite call rather in the nature of a visit of condolence. ‘Ah, yes, yes, you see how I am – you see what has been done to me. Nine children, and I am on the cart all day. I get home at seven or eight. What are you to do? What can people like us do?’

‘Poor Mrs Bamjee. Such a kind lady.’

‘Well, you see for yourself. They walk in here in the middle of the night and leave a houseful of children. I’m out on the cart all day, I’ve got a living to earn.’ Standing about in his shirtsleeves, he became quite animated; he would call for the girls to bring fruit drinks for the visitors. When they were gone, it was as if he, who was orthodox if not devout and never drank liquor, had been drunk and abruptly sobered up; he looked dazed and could not have gone over in his mind what he had been saying. And as he cooled, the lump of resentment and wrongedness stopped his throat again.

Bamjee found one of the little boys the centre of a self-important group of championing brothers and sisters in the dining room one evening. ‘They’ve been cruel to Ahmed.’

‘What has he done?’ said the father.

‘Nothing! Nothing!’ The little girl stood twisting her handkerchief excitedly.

An older one, thin as her mother, took over, silencing the others with a gesture of her skinny hand. ‘They did it at school today. They made an example of him.’

‘What is an example?’ said Bamjee impatiently.

‘The teacher made him come up and stand in front of the whole class, and he told them, “You see this boy? His mother’s in jail because she likes the natives so much. She wants the Indians to be the same as natives.” ’

‘It’s terrible,’ he said. His hands fell to his sides. ‘Did she ever think of this?’

‘That’s why Ma’s there,’ said Jimmy, putting aside his comic and emptying out his schoolbooks upon the table. ‘That’s all the kid needs to know. Ma’s there because things like this happen. Petersen’s a coloured teacher, and it’s his black blood that’s brought him trouble all his life, I suppose. He hates anyone who says everybody’s the same, because that takes away from him his bit of whiteness that’s all he’s got. What d’you expect? It’s nothing to make too much fuss about.’

‘Of course, you are fifteen and you know everything,’ Bamjee mumbled at him.

‘I don’t say that. But I know Ma, anyway.’ The boy laughed.

There was a hunger strike among the political prisoners, and Bamjee could not bring himself to ask Girlie if her mother was starving herself too. He would not ask; and yet he saw in the young woman’s face the gradual weakening of her mother. When the strike had gone on for nearly a week one of the elder children burst into tears at the table and could not eat. Bamjee pushed his own plate away in rage.

Sometimes he spoke out loud to himself while he was driving the vegetable lorry. ‘What for?’ Again and again: ‘What for?’ She was not a modern woman who cut her hair and wore short skirts. He had married a good plain Muslim woman who bore children and stamped her own chillies. He had a sudden vision of her at the duplicating machine, that night just before she was taken away, and he felt himself maddened, baffled and hopeless. He had become the ghost of a victim, hanging about the scene of a crime whose motive he could