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and went outside to his mine
bakkie
. He started the engine and gripped the steering wheel so hard he fancied he could almost snap it. He exhaled and rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to think coolly and not let the emotion rule him.
    It was a short drive from the mine to Barberton and he parked outside the facebrick house. It was larger than he expected, but when he walked up the stone-flagged path and knocked on the door a white woman, perhaps in her sixties, with her hair in curlers, answered. ‘
Ja
?’
    ‘Excuse me,
mevrou
. I must have the wrong address. I’m looking for Beauty Tshabalala.’
    ‘
Ag
she’s in the flatlet, out the back. Up the driveway.’ She looked at the logo above his breast pocket. ‘You’re from the mine. Is theretrouble? I was having second thoughts about letting the flatlet to them. But money’s short, so what can a widow do with the cost of things these days and –’
    ‘I need to see Mrs Tshabalala. Her husband has been killed.’
    The woman put her hand over her mouth. ‘My lord!’
    ‘Please.’
    She drew her housecoat closed and came out onto the
stoep
in her slippers. ‘I’ll take you to her.’
    Cameron followed the woman to the backyard and the modest, tired-looking flat. He wondered from its meagre size if it had been built as a domestic’s quarters. The woman knocked on the door. ‘Beauty?’
    A child screamed inside. The door opened and a slight woman, with red-rimmed eyes and an infant in her arms, opened the door. Her lip started to tremble when she saw Cameron.
    ‘Mrs Tshabalala, I’m Cameron McMurtrie, the general manager of Eureka Mine. I am so sorry for your loss.’
    Beauty opened her mouth to say something, but seemed unable to form the words. At the same time she staggered. Cameron took one of her arms and the landlady stepped past Cameron and gently took the child from her arms. Beauty felt listless in Cameron’s grasp. ‘Can I come in? You should sit down.’
    ‘There, there, my girl,’ said the woman, cooing to the child.
    Cameron took in the simplicity of the shack: a wooden table with two ageing aluminium-framed kitchen chairs, their upholstery cracked and oozing foam, and a double bed in the corner, neatly made. Cameron sat Beauty on the bed and took one of the chairs.
    ‘I’ll go to the house and make some
rooibos
, OK?’ the landlady said.
    ‘Thank you.’
    Beauty watched the woman walk out with her child, but said nothing at first. She turned her big eyes on Cameron and blinked. ‘He is truly dead?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Her bottom lip started to tremble, and she took a deep, rasping breath. ‘We have been married less than a year. You know, this was his first job. He was so excited.’
    Cameron nodded. ‘I interviewed your husband and I was very impressed by his attitude and his skills. He was with us for such a short time, but he was one of us.’
    She looked out the small window of the flatlet. ‘He was with all of us for a short time. We both just graduated from university.’
    ‘Do you have family? Is there someone who can care for you and the baby, Mrs Tshabalala?’
    She looked back at him and blinked. ‘Themba was an orphan. His parents died when he was in high school, yet he fended for himself and worked at nights and weekends to put himself through university. My mother is alive, but I am from Zambia. She lives in Ndola. She has nothing.’
    The enormity of her situation seemed to poleaxe the young woman and Cameron had to reach out to her and again take her arm as she slumped sideways. ‘How am I going to care for my baby?’ She started to sob. ‘My love is gone.’
    Cameron took out his handkerchief and passed it to her. ‘What did you study at university?’
    She dabbed her eyes and sniffed. ‘Marketing.’
    ‘You’ll be able to get a job, I’m sure.’
    She blew her nose and looked up at him, her limpid eyes now cold. ‘You know how bad the economy is. I have a baby and no family to take care of her and I am a