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went about their little tasks, and though neither one spoke, Miriam sang softly to herself, a tune that had begun as an old standard but which was being improvised into something longer and sweeter. Omar glanced narrowly at her, being careful not to move his head, or she would see him and stop singing, assuming that she was irritating him. This singing of hers was another thing that he remembered from that balcony in Bombay. He frowned at himself. He was not a man given to sentimentality or nostalgia, but today these memories kept pushing back into his mind. He had gone out on the balcony on the second day to smoke and she had been above him again, singing quietly, unaware that below her someone was listening intently. With a sudden burst of decision, and with the soft tones of her voice still lingering in his head, he had gone back into the apartment and had demanded to know who that girl was.
     
    His aunt had raised her eyes from her sewing. “What girl?”
     
    “The one that lives above us,” he had said. “The one that sings and hangs the washing.”
     
    His aunt had shaken her head. “She is a very pretty girl. But she is not for you.”
     
    He had waited, with impatience, for her to explain herself.
     
    “Her family is very humble,” she had added at last.
     
    “Humility is a good thing.”
     
    “Very poor,” she had emphasised.
     
    And Omar had waved his cigarillo dismissively. “Are they our people?”
     
    “Yes.”
     
    “Then I want her.”
     
    When eventually they heard the approaching rumble of the first truck, they looked up at each other and Miriam moved with the practice of routine out across the shop floor to prop open the door with a small bag of flour.
    The truck was driven by Mr Wessels, the foreman of the Van Wingen farm, and he ground the pick-up slowly up the track to the shop. The back of the truck was fully weighed down by his worker. There were perhaps twenty or thirty men crowded onto the back-sitting piled high and hanging over each of the sides, draped over the back like banners, their bodies moving like fluid with the rough movements of the truck. They jumped off lightly when it stopped, a slow overflowing of bodies, mostly clad in worn trousers and shirts. Mr Wessels was already in the shop, shaking hands with Omar, tipping his hat to “the missus”, and telling them it was “hot as the breath of hell out there,” before handing over his own list of groceries to be boxed up. Miriam set to work on these, while the foreman bounded out to the porch and beckoned his men inside.
     
    In they poured, moving slowly, filling every corner, while Robert watched them, a mixture of welcome and warning on his face. He had been told by Omar to watch carefully for anyone who might shoplift, and he took his duty seriously. The men milled about the shop, selecting their purchases and then stepping up to the counter to have them rung up on the huge metal cash register. A few bought only cold drinks and sat outside on the steps, talking and watching the dust from the truck settle around them.
     
    Omar spoke to Mr Wessels occasionally throughout, but rarely to any of the Africans, except to give a price or clarify a request, although few of the workers asked him anything – often they looked more easily to Miriam to help them. One asked the price of some cloth for a dress for his daughter. When she told him, he shook his head and said it was too much, and could she bring the price down? She lowered it by two pennies as she knew she could, but he held out his poor salary in one roughened hand, and asked her how could he pay so much? She looked at the money in his palm and could not answer him. Miriam glanced at Omar to ask if she might take the price lower, but he looked across at her as he rang up the till and shook his head. She looked helplessly to the man, but he too had seen her husband’s response and was already gone.
     
    Robert also helped serve behind the counter, and he chatted