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southeaster tosses high the blond pigtails and silvery laughter of girls walking by. They do not see me. Will I spend the dinner breaks hiding in lavatories?
    I wish I could make this day more joyful for Pa but I do not know how. It is no good running after him now. It is too late.
    The tall boy has imperceptibly extended his marching ground. Does he want to get closer to the policeman or is he taking advantage of Father’s absence? I watch his feet, up, down, and the crunch of his soles on the sand explodes in my ears. Closer, and a thrilling thought shoots through the length of my body. He may be looking at me longingly, probing; but I cannot bring my eyes to travel up, along his unpressed trousers. The black boots of the policeman catch my eye. He will not be imitated. His heavy legs are tree trunks rooted in the asphalt. His hand rests on the bulge of his holster. I can no longer resist the crunch of the boy’s soles as they return. I look up. He clicks his heels and halts. His eyes are narrowed with unmistakable contempt. He greets me in precise mocking English. A soundless shriek for Pa escapes my lips and I note the policeman resuming his march before I reply. The boy’s voice is angry and I wonder what aspect of my dress offends him.
    â€˜You are waiting for the Cape Town train?’ he asks unnecessarily. I nod.
    â€˜You start at the white school tomorrow?’ A hole yawns in my stomach and I long for a biscuit. I will not reply.
    â€˜There are people who bury dynamite between the rails and watch whole carriages of white people shoot into the air. Like opening the door of a birdcage. Phsssh!’ His long thin arms describe the spray of birdflight. ‘Perhaps that is why your train has not come.’
    I know he is lying. I would like to hurl myself at him, stab at his eyes with my blunt nails, kick at his ankles until they snap. But I clasp my hands together piously and hold, hold the tears that threaten.
    â€˜Your prayer is answered, look, here’s Fa-atherrr,’ and on the held note he clicks his heels and turns smartly to march off towards his friends.
    Father is smiling. ‘She’s on her way, should be here any second now.’ I take his arm and my hand slips into his jacket pocket where I trace with my finger the withered potato he wears for relief of rheumatism.
    â€˜No more biltong, girlie,’ he laughs. The hole in my stomach grows dangerously.
    The white platform is now bustling with people. Porters pile suitcases on to their trolleys while men fish in their pockets for sixpence tips. A Black girl staggers on to the white platform with a suitcase in each hand. Her madam ambles amiably alongside her to keep up with the faltering gait. She chatters without visible encouragement and, stooping, takes one of the bags from the girl who clearly cannot manage. The girl is big-boned with strong shapely arms and calves. What can the suitcase contain to make her stagger so? Her starched apron sags below the waist and the crisp servant’s cap is askew. When they stop at the farend of the platform she slips a hand under the edge of the white cap to scratch. Briefly she tugs at the tip of her yellow-brown earlobe. My chest tightens. I turn to look the other way.
    Our ears prick at a rumbling in the distance which sends as scout a thin squeal along the rails. A glass dome of terror settles over my head so that the chatter about me recedes and I gulp for air. But I do not faint. The train lumbers to a halt and sighs deeply. My body, all but consumed by its hole of hunger, swings around lightly, even as Father moves forward with a suitcase to mount the step. And as I walk away towards the paling I meet the triumphant eyes of the tall boy standing by the whitewashed gate. Above the noise of a car screeching to a halt, the words roll off my tongue disdainfully:
    Why you look and kyk gelyk,
    Am I miskien of gold gemake?

A CLEARING IN THE BUSH
    Tamieta, leaning against the