rose before his family to tidy the living room. This was completed eventually with about a dozen sweeps of the broom across the rammed earth floor. Then he put six handfuls of maize porridge in a pot on the Primus stove, found the bowls, and hunted for the golden syrup. He discovered it in a tin inside another tin that had water in the bottom to keep the ants off. Miriam was a resourceful wife, as her lacy tablecloth of cleverly scissored newspaper showed. And, having domestic details now forced upon him by circumstance, Zondi also admired how she had fashioned a new handle for her flatiron from cotton reels. Miriam, who took in washing and mending, hoped one day—when the electricity was put in—to have saved enough for a steam presser.
The porridge popped and bubbled, breaking his reverie.
Zondi lowered the flame and went into the other room, clapping his hands loudly to wake the five children. He regretted this as he did so, because it would have been good to study their faces in repose. They saw little of each other.
But hungry offspring rouse quickly. The twins were up in an instant, and had not even rolled away their mattress before the others, in the big parental bed, started fighting.
“ Hau , hau , hau ! What nonsense is this?” Zondi scolded. “Put on the rest of your clothes and I will feed you some breakfast. You! Not so fast!”
He grabbed the cheekier twin by his ear.
“But I am dressed already!”
“Slow down.”
“But I want my porridge! Last night you didn’t—”
“Your porridge you will eat here.”
All the children looked at him rather shocked, right down to the youngest one struggling with her hand-me-down bloomers. This feeling for propriety surprised him.
“In here ?” queried the quieter twin, who was more like his mother.
“You are not going into the other room now. I’ve cleaned it for when Mama comes home—none of you.”
“Even to go to school, my father?”
“No. You will all go out by this window! I have seen what a mess you can make quick as quick! You see? Then I will have only one more room to clean.”
“That is a good idea,” said the eldest girl, who was now helping with the housework and hating it. “Our father is clever!”
“Lick his toes, lick his toes!” the others chorused.
“Stop the noise,” Zondi boomed, “or I take off my belt!”
“Then your pants will—”
The cheekier twin took his painful ear into a corner, complaining that his homework had been too hard to understand without help.
He went unheeded. Zondi was standing very still, trying to recapture an idea which seemed like the key to the lightning robberies. It had been suggested to him only moments before— by either something said, or something done.
No good; it was gone.
Klip Marais was also up at that hour, not having been to bed. This wasn’t the fault of his stomach—for he was actually in excellent health, having rushed from the dressing room merely to be sick—but because his mind kept on racing like a mad thing.
His attitude to Kramer had undergone quite a change once he had realized he was being given a chance to vindicate himself, only he was very unsure of how to go about it.
Especially as, during the small hours in the dispassionate solitude of his single-man’s quarters, he had been forced to admit the evidence was flimsy. He looked again at his list. It was a new one—he relied a lot on setting down his problems in an orderly manner. This attempt read:
1. Clothing—too good for occasion
2. Calls—too soon after CID notified
3. Character—too flustered (W/O Gardiner says)
4. Comprehension—too quick to understand boy
Marais was also partial to alliteration, having passed his exams largely by the help of mnemonics, which only he found less difficult to memorize than the original material.
Points 1 and 2 had lost their impact; they were too much a matter of opinion, and could be simply part of the man’s normal drive to boost his image and
The porridge popped and bubbled, breaking his reverie.
Zondi lowered the flame and went into the other room, clapping his hands loudly to wake the five children. He regretted this as he did so, because it would have been good to study their faces in repose. They saw little of each other.
But hungry offspring rouse quickly. The twins were up in an instant, and had not even rolled away their mattress before the others, in the big parental bed, started fighting.
“ Hau , hau , hau ! What nonsense is this?” Zondi scolded. “Put on the rest of your clothes and I will feed you some breakfast. You! Not so fast!”
He grabbed the cheekier twin by his ear.
“But I am dressed already!”
“Slow down.”
“But I want my porridge! Last night you didn’t—”
“Your porridge you will eat here.”
All the children looked at him rather shocked, right down to the youngest one struggling with her hand-me-down bloomers. This feeling for propriety surprised him.
“In here ?” queried the quieter twin, who was more like his mother.
“You are not going into the other room now. I’ve cleaned it for when Mama comes home—none of you.”
“Even to go to school, my father?”
“No. You will all go out by this window! I have seen what a mess you can make quick as quick! You see? Then I will have only one more room to clean.”
“That is a good idea,” said the eldest girl, who was now helping with the housework and hating it. “Our father is clever!”
“Lick his toes, lick his toes!” the others chorused.
“Stop the noise,” Zondi boomed, “or I take off my belt!”
“Then your pants will—”
The cheekier twin took his painful ear into a corner, complaining that his homework had been too hard to understand without help.
He went unheeded. Zondi was standing very still, trying to recapture an idea which seemed like the key to the lightning robberies. It had been suggested to him only moments before— by either something said, or something done.
No good; it was gone.
Klip Marais was also up at that hour, not having been to bed. This wasn’t the fault of his stomach—for he was actually in excellent health, having rushed from the dressing room merely to be sick—but because his mind kept on racing like a mad thing.
His attitude to Kramer had undergone quite a change once he had realized he was being given a chance to vindicate himself, only he was very unsure of how to go about it.
Especially as, during the small hours in the dispassionate solitude of his single-man’s quarters, he had been forced to admit the evidence was flimsy. He looked again at his list. It was a new one—he relied a lot on setting down his problems in an orderly manner. This attempt read:
1. Clothing—too good for occasion
2. Calls—too soon after CID notified
3. Character—too flustered (W/O Gardiner says)
4. Comprehension—too quick to understand boy
Marais was also partial to alliteration, having passed his exams largely by the help of mnemonics, which only he found less difficult to memorize than the original material.
Points 1 and 2 had lost their impact; they were too much a matter of opinion, and could be simply part of the man’s normal drive to boost his image and
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