'Come, Eddy,' she said softly, leading him the few paces across the room to the chesterfield, 'don't open your eyes, not until it's over.'
The plump goose had already begun to brown on the outside by the time Harriet's mother returned from Oxford where she'd gone to matins and stayed to attend the Christmas service at Christ Church Cathedral. And by the time Peekay, Bobby and E. W. arrived in the Ford Prefect, Hymie's goose, under Eddy's expert attention, was positively Dickensian in its perfection. It was a goose Tiny Tim's father would have been proud to serve to the Queen.
Hymie's hamper included two bottles of Chateau Margaux and a Chateau Palmer, both excellent vintages. They'd begun Christmas lunch with a bottle of Möet et Chandon. By the time Harriet's mother served the Christmas pudding everyone was pleasantly sozzled. The exceptional wine might well have been wasted on the three young boxers but E.W., who was a bit of a wine buff, held his glass up to the lamplight. 'In a great year there is a delicacy about a good Margaux and a sweet haunting perfume, which makes it undoubtedly the most exquisite claret of all.'
'There's brown ale brewed in the village I come from that I feel the same about,' Bobby declared.
They all toasted Hymie's excellent taste, the speedy recovery of his grandmother and finally, full to bursting, the four younger people staggered from the table to the chesterfield and the two welcoming armchairs. Made of sterner stuff, E.W. and Mrs Clive remained at the table and shared a bottle of excellent port that E. W. had brought with him. Harriet and Peekay sat on either side of the chesterfield and Eddy, wearing Harriet's father's old cardigan, sank deeply into one of the armchairs, while Bobby occupied the other. Too satisfied and happy to talk, they dozed.
Peekay, unaccustomed to so much wine, rose to empty his bladder. It had started snowing again and the kitchen garden was blanketed in fresh snow; the world around him was white and clean. To his delight he saw a white owl sitting on a bare branch of one of the oak trees. It sat so still, it seemed a part of the mute, ordered winterness of tree and landscape. If only Hymie was with us it would be perfect, Peekay thought. He returned to the warmth of the cottage, going first to the studio to gather up an armload of yew logs. He placed several logs on the hearth which immediately began to crackle and spit and, smiling at E. W. and Mrs Clive, who seemed remarkably happy in each other's company, he trimmed a hurricane lamp which had begun to smoke, before returning to the chesterfield.
The sharpness of the cold outside had cleared his head and heightened his senses. Peekay felt himself examining Harriet closely at the other end of the old chesterfield. She lay curled up in one corner of the large couch, her head snuggled into a bright green cushion. The light from the lamps caught her beautiful hair and gave her skin a soft, warm glow. Her eyes, closed in sleep, revealed her thick eyelashes which lay like tiny crescent moons on the brow of her cheekbones. She was achingly lovely and he felt a sudden pain just below the heart, right on the spot where you hit another boxer when you want to soften him up, so that later you can bring him slowly to his knees. Peekay had a sudden vision of an unclothed Harriet on her knees in front of him. He almost winced in an effort to rid the image from his head. 'Stop it!' he screamed in silence. 'Stop it! She's Hymie's!'
Thinking about his friend calmed Peekay down somewhat. Hymie would have arrived back in Pretoria on the day prior to the Levy's Carpet Emporium Christmas party. Peekay wondered how it had all gone, chuckling inwardly at the thought of Hymie's grandma moaning and clutching at her failing heart as the great Christian party took place in the garden outside. No doubt he'd hear all the lurid detail when Hymie returned at the beginning of the new term.
Hymie's dad's Christmas party grew more spectacular each year. Every year the Pretoria police warned that it created traffic congestion and would probably not be allowed to take place the following year. What they were really saying was that the people in the rich and influential suburb in which Hymie's parents lived had complained again that Africans had been arriving by the truckload with their families since early morning and the area wasn't safe. The police referred to the event among themselves as 'the Jew's kaffir party', but they knew it had been sanctioned 'at the very top' and that they were powerless to do anything about it unless trouble started.
Anywhere else in the world the party would have seemed a curious affair, but in South Africa it was normal enough. A fence was constructed more or less down the centre of the garden with a huge marquee on one side and a smaller one on the other, the former to serve the four thousand blacks and coloureds and the latter to accommodate the ninety white families who worked for Hymie's father. Two complete fair grounds with ferris wheel, rides and sideshows were 'set up, one on each side of the fence.
The only exception to the black and white dichotomy strictly observed in the Levy garden was a miniature railway track which ran around the periphery of the entire garden. Here the station was set up to cross over onto either side of the fence so children of both colours were forced to board the train together, mixing freely in the open carriages. Hymie's dad called it, 'The Freedom Train'. Dressed in his Father Christmas outfit he would get into the quarter-sized replica steam engine and drive it around the ground himself, toot-tooting happily as he passed through the white side of the garden, hugely amused at the faces of parents as they saw their children holding hands with black kids and having a high old time.
The tables in the marquees on both sides positively groaned with good things to eat, the only difference being the drinks. Only soft drink was served on the African side, as black people were not allowed to drink hard liquor outside a township beer hall. Huge turkeys and hams and roast suckling pig with potatoes and corn and all manner of other delicacies were served. The dessert tables were piled with trifles, cakes, jellies, custards, confections and dried fruits. Chefs in aprons and tall white caps served food all day long. On the black side several oxen were roasted on an open-air spit over a pit of hot coals; while on the white there was a
braai
with
baere wars,
steak and chops in a never-ending barbecue.
Solomon Levy spared no expense on presents for the kids; there were tricycles for the tots and dolls for the smaller girls and bicycles for the older boys and girls. All the expensive makes, like Raleigh and Hercules and Philips. These were a precious possession a black child could never possibly hope to buy. At the age of fifteen, childhood ended with the last of Solomon Levy's Christmas bounty, when every boy received a size twenty-eight adult bicycle and every girl a Singer sewing machine. For the black and coloured kids and for many of the poorer white ones, when they finally climbed into the lorries to be taken back to their homes in the various townships or suburbs, it was the happiest day of the whole year. For Solomon Levy it was the day every year when he paid his respects and gave thanks to Jehovah for sending him to the promised land.
It was also a day the
Broederbond,
'bond of brothers', noted. The white supremacist, Afrikaner secret society ruled by religious fanatics, whom some said were the true power within South Africa, resolved to do something about the Jew's kaffir party. A brilliant young police lieutenant, named Geldenhuis, a member of the
Broederbond,
who had made his reputation as head of SAT in Durban and who had recently been promoted and moved to Pretoria, had been given the task of compiling a dossier on the carpet king. The day would come when his Jew money would no longer protect him:
I am not mocked, saith the Lord.
Peekay grew to enjoy his Oxford tutor's company enormously. The tall, shambling English scholar, a Darjeeling man forced out of good faith to drink Ceylon, had become for Peekay the quintessential Christian gentleman and scholar. They were often seen together, always deep in discussion. The serious aspects of university life seemed to suit Peekay best; he had divided his everyday life strictly between study and training.
On one occasion, in Peekay's second year at Oxford, they had been discussing the role of the institution in public life. The tutorial had finally centred ground a specific example, that of Oxford itself. To Peekay's surprise, E.W. had been quick to point out the faults of the great university.
'You must immediately forget the lofty ideals talked about so often when people mistakenly eulogise this intellectual bone yard. The human values of honesty and decency belong equally to everyone and the rest is simply social layering.' E.W. paused to light his pipe before continuing. 'So, at best, there may be a scale of values which we at Oxford hold dear for our sons and daughters. These you will hopefully learn. Most importantly, you must learn the meaning of a bore.' An amused gleam showed in E.W.'s eyes. 'Regrettably this is often the most difficult lesson of all; being a bore is an affliction found commonly among undergraduates who take Oxford and themselves much too seriously. '
Peekay understood E. W.'s tactful. warning at once and blushed violently. Though, typically his tutor went on to observe, 'Alas, too often, they are aided and abetted by a certain class of don who swaddles them with catch-phrases, dogma and ready-made opinions so they gain information rather than understanding.'
'Are you saying there are no Oxford ideals?' Peekay asked, trying to conceal his embarrassment.
E. W. chuckled. 'We should always be on guard against institutional truths. Laws chipped in stone tablets belong only to God. If Oxford has a single task, it is to teach you how to think, not what to think.'
It was a nicely turned phrase, but E.W. could feel the young scholar was disappointed. Peekay wanted to believe in an ethos. It was why he had gone to the mines. The Oxford myth was a part of his dream. 'Ah, I see, you want value for your money?' E. W. teased.
Peekay flushed; as usual his tutor was right on the knocker. He'd turned down the offer of three scholarships to South African universities in order to worship at his particular shrine and now he wasn't anxious to learn that his blood, sweat and tears had been wasted. Oxford was a symbol, a milestone. It was a distance travelled with himself, a measure of his self-esteem. He didn't want it cut down to size.
'I am saddened by your disappointment, Peekay. You desire to become a pugilist of world stature. Did you not descend into the belly of earth and fire in order to attend this university?' Peekay had on one occasion described his job as a grizzly man in the mines to his tutor. Without waiting for Peekay's reply E.W. continued, 'These actions initiated by yourself will add to your sum as a man. I rather think it is you who may teach this institution a little of the process of character.'
E.W. puffed at his pipe, silent for a while. 'If you must have your money's worth, may I offer you a creed? A creed is not an institutional truth and it should never be offered gratuitously or it is immediately in danger of becoming one. There are three things I will allow that Oxford may give you.' He hesitated. 'I hope you won't find them too old-fashioned or pompous; even good creeds have the ability to sound somewhat headmasterish.' He placed his pipe into the large brass ashtray at his feet. 'The three things are these. We will endeavour to teach you to be right but not righteous, to be accurate but not dull; truth-seeking without being a pedant, accepting always that some other truth may equally exist.'
But as the year progressed Peekay became concerned about his life at Oxford. Though the principles which the great institution of learning attempted to imbue in him were noble in themselves, he sensed they were not enough for what lay ahead of him. Oxford was largely about the
game
of life and he knew the life which lay ahead of him couldn't under any circumstances be thought of as a game. He" felt almost guilty thinking this way, but his instincts told him that Africa was different, that he should not be too quick to discard the ways of his childhood and the instinctive caution which is part of the survival mechanism of the continent.
The physical side of Peekay's new life was less complicated. Holland decided to take Peekay into the professional ranks immediately, though Peekay had delayed this a couple of months to meet a university obligation. Holland was certain that no amateur welterweight in Britain could go two rounds with Peekay, and he wanted to iron out several of the fighting habits amateurs acquire which do not serve them well in the professional ranks.
Peekay's stance in the ring was rather too peek-a-boo, that is to say, he held his gloves too high in the amateur way, where scoring more points than your opponent is the sole objective. Dutch Holland wanted more power in both hands, which meant Peekay had to open up his gloves in order to punch with more authority. Holland liked his boxers to know that both their hands could be relied upon to put an opponent onto the deck. A sprained or broken hand is a common enough occurrence in the ring and, after a good defence, a 'sleep-maker' in either hand is the best insurance a boxer can have. Peekay also had to learn to pace himself over ten rounds of boxing, a far more arduous task than fighting a three-rounder.
There wasn't a lot Holland could teach Peekay about the art or the skill of boxing and so he concentrated on adding power to his punch as well as teaching him other techniques he would need if he was to survive in the professional ring.
This included the basic psychology of fighting, such things as how to look at the referee if your opponent is using his head to rough you up in a clinch or even, if the referee seems blind or determined to ignore this basic form of fouling an opponent, how to return the compliment in a number of subtle ways.
A charming heavyweight named Podman, from Pembroke, the president of the university boxing club, had persuaded Hymie to let Peekay box against Cambridge and Peekay had delayed turning professional to do so. There seemed nothing against the idea and it gave him a chance to win his boxing blue. But as the match drew closer Peekay became anxious.
He'd trained with the university boxers and their standard; to say the least, wasn't high. Even though Oxford wasn't favoured to win, Peekay was doubtful that the light blues would be a lot better. Hymie spoke to Podman, but the big man practically begged him to allow Peekay to remain in the team. The university club included a Welsh bantamweight named Dai Rees from Oriel College, who he believed could win. This meant Peekay, as a welterweight, came soon afterwards on the card. Two wins early in the programme might just inspire the Oxford team sufficiently to pull off the match. To persist any further would have seemed churlish and Peekay agreed to fight for the dark blues.
The match was at Oxford and Harriet attended with E.W. Dressed in a simple black dress and black court high-heeled shoes she looked older and a lot more sophisticated. Her alabaster skin needed almost no make-up, but she'd added a little dark eyebrow pencil and eyeliner together with grey eyeshadow to accent her eyes and had heightened the result by wearing a bright red, rather risque lipstick.
The large hall was packed with sporting gentlemen from both universities, though most were from Oxford. The first fight, a lightweight bout, started soon after Hymie had seated Harriet at the ringside with E.W. Immediately afterward she had excused himself to follow Peekay to the changing rooms. By the time the two of them emerged again, Dai Rees, the bantamweight from Oriel, had narrowly beaten his opponent on points. The teams shared a win each, the lightweight decision having gone to Cambridge. It was up to Peekay to put the home side one ahead.
Peekay had gone to great pains not to talk about his boxing at Oxford, though, inevitably, the way these things happen, the knowledge of his boxing prowess and the fact that he was about to turn professional seemed to be known to most of the home crowd. There was an excited murmur as Peekay climbed through the ropes into the ring, though only sporadic clapping. In fact, it was the Cambridge man who received rather more applause than might have seemed a sporting away-from-home welcome. The Cambridge boxer, surprised and delighted at his reception, turned and smiled at the crowd. He wasn't dissimilar in type to Peekay, with light hair, hazel eyes and an engaging smile. In fact, Hymie - who'd done the usual research - had discovered he'd been to Harrow and was the opening bat for Cambridge. Boxing was his not-to-be-taken-too-seriously winter sport, more a chance to gain a double blue than anything else.
'Christ! He's the full amateur,' Hymie commented from Peekay's corner. They'd already laced up and he was rubbing a little vaseline around Peekay's eyes. 'He looks as though he should be sitting in the centre of a photograph with his arms folded wearing an embroidered cap with a gold tassel.'
Peekay tried to grin. Hymie's remark was wonderfully apt, but he felt nervous about the fight. 'We should have refused Podman; I can sense the crowd are not happy with me.'
'Forget it, Peekay, just think of it as your Oxford blue.'
The Cambridge man sat in his corner, thumping his gloves together and smiling. When the referee called the two boxers together he leapt from his stool and danced towards the centre of the ring, seeming anxious to get underway. He smiled at Peekay, pushing his arm out before remembering he was wearing gloves. 'Russellâ¦Jonathan Russell, how do you do?'
Peekay returned his smile and touched the extended glove. He noted the complete lack of aggression in the other man's face. 'Peekay. Nice to know you, Jonathan.' He measured the outstretched arm with his eyes, precisely calculating the Cambridge boxer's reach.
The ref, a somewhat overweight Colonel Blimp type with a ginger moustache and a clipped military accent, went through the usual catechism and wished them luck. The two boxers touched gloves for a second time and the bell sounded for the first round.
The Cambridge boxer danced round Peekay for a few moments before predictably leading with his left and then followed with a right, both punches taken on the gloves. Peekay countered with a straight left and a right cross which brought a murmur from the crowd and knocked the other boxer back a couple of paces. Peekay slammed another left into his face so that he stepped backwards into a neutral corner. The other man was' wide open and Peekay hit him hard under the heart with a left-right combination, then stepped back to let the Cambridge boxer get out of trouble. It would have been too easy to put a Geel Piet eight combination together and quite possibly end the fight.
Peekay threw a desperate glance at Hymie, who answered with a shrug. The Cambridge boxer lunged forward and Peekay almost absently avoided the blow, taking it on the gloves. It was a disastrous mis-match and Peekay tried to think of ways of making the Cambridge man look good so he wouldn't be humiliated. He kept him away by pushing his left hand into his face but restrained himself from hitting his wide-open opponent with a right, even though his right hand ached to be used. Once in a while he allowed himself to be backed into the ropes where he closed up his defence, allowing the other boxer to waste a flurry of punches to the back of his arms. At least it made the light-blue boxer look busy. Towards the end of the round he pulled the Cambridge man into a clinch and as the referee stepped forward to break them up Peekay said, 'For God's sake, sir, stop the fight before this man gets hurt!'
The referee parted the two boxers and turned to the Cambridge man. 'You all right, old chap?' he asked in his polo-club accent.
'Fine thank you, sir,' the Cambridge boxer panted, grinning at the referee.
'Good show!' the referee replied.
'Please, sir?' Peekay pleaded with the referee.
'Box on, Mrâ¦er, Peekay,' the big man said firmly.
Peekay shrugged and moved quickly to the centre of the ring. The crowd were beginning to boo and a slow handclap had started in the back of the hall. The Cambridge man followed after Peekay, throwing out a left which tipped Peekay's chin, allowing him to measure the precise distance to the other man's jaw.
The right hook landed precisely where it was intended. Travelling hard and upwards, it landed an inch from the centre of the Cambridge man's chin. Then the light-blue boxer staggered momentarily before dropping like a stone to the canvas.
Peekay moved quickly to go to a neutral corner so the count could commence, but the bell for the end of the round sounded before he could reach it, and he turned and ran over to the Cambridge boxer, who hadn't moved. Kneeling down beside him, he could see the stunned look in the other man's eyes as he passed in and out of consciousness.
Peekay felt sure he hadn't hurt the Cambridge boxer. The punch which took him out had landed so precisely on the point of the jaw that it would hardly be felt by the other man. When a golfer or a cricket or tennis player hits the sweet spot on the club or the bat or racquet, the timing is perfect, the stroke effortless and the result amazing; Peekay's punch was similarly skilful. At the very worst, to remind him he'd been in the ring, the Cambridge boxer would have a slightly tender jaw in the morning. It had been the best way Peekay could possibly have ended the fight without hurting his opponent. But to the onlookers it had seemed as though the Oxford boxer with the big reputation had chopped the Cambridge man down without mercy.