A Helping Hand

A Short Story by Arne Schaefer

The icy wind swept off the Knersvlakte, through the lean to where Hans worked. He turned his massive, grey, jersey clad back to the chill and shivered. Gnarled hands caressed the olivewood table on the crowded workbench. Experimentally he spat on the surface, smoothed the spittle with his fingers and admired the convoluted grain of the wood. He stepped back against the side of his battered car, then sat down on the running board, ponderously deliberating which finish he should apply to the table.

A loud roar and a series of rattles, coming closer, interrupted his reverie. He peered over the long, coffin like bonnet to see a truck boulder hopping along his farm track in a cloud of dust. He rose expectantly. As the hazy monster clattered closer, Hans's craggy features broke into a broad smile.

" Brother Servaas," he warmly greeted the lanky figure that emerged. The greeting was barely returned. Servaas was boiling mad even on this crackling winter morning. His normally pale face was suffused and blotched with purple, his veins corded his forehead like mole-runs, and foam flecked his lips.

"The bastards the rotten, no good bastards," he panted.

"Who?" asked Hans, calmly.

"The government, that's who," snarled Servaas venomously, "and that inspector in particular. If I ever see that traitor over the sights of a rifle, it's a bullet in the head for him."

Hans judged that his brother needed some calming sustenance, so he ushered him into his rough home with a muscular arm that brooked no resistance. "Sit down, while I make some coffee, then you can tell me all about it." He pushed Servaas into a straight backed chair at the kitchen table. He fed a few sticks of wood into the cavernous cast iron stove, moved the kettle over the flame and prepared the makings. "Tell me what is troubling you, brother."

Servaas made as if to rise, sat down again, turned the chair to face his brother, gripped the table with bony hands and started his passionate tale.

He had left his farm that morning, intending to buy some necessities in Calvinia. The Saturday Market would be open for fresh produce and he wanted to exchange his meagre petrol coupons for some of the precious stuff. A few miles out of town, two men standing next to a car by the side of the road, had flagged him down. Townsmen, obviously, they said they'd got lost during the night on the ill signposted roads of Namaqualand now they were out of petrol. Couldn't he help?

"Ou broer, the more I told them it was against the law, the more persistent they got."

Hans plonked a chipped enamel mug full of coffee in front of his brother, poured out another and lowered himself onto a creaking chair. He nodded encouragingly.

Servaas lowered the steaming level in his mug by a few thirsty gulps. He continued his tale of woe. He had pleaded poverty upon which the spokesman of the two had pulled out a brand new pound note he had protested that he was low on petrol himself, still the men wheedled and begged. Finally they had appealed to him as a fellow Afrikaner; what did he care for the Rooinek government which was sending their sons to some far country to fight a man called Hitler; who was it that wasted the people's petrol on a cause which had nothing to do with them anyway?

Servaas, in whom early memories of the Boer War still rankled, had his resistance sapped by the latter argument. The man conjured up an empty gallon tin, while he found a length of rubber hose under his car seat. In no time half a gallon of the illicit liquid had changed hands.

"To think that I even got my mouth full of petrol for the swine," Servaas spat onto the peachpip floor and swilled some more coffee to erase the bitter memory. The men had pressed a pound into his hand, which he had accepted, considering that the strangers drove an almost brand new Ford, compared to his sinkplaat and baling wire Tin Lizzie.

"Then, ou broer, as I held out my hand to wish them Godspeed do you know what they did"? Servaas leaned forward with a bewildered expression on his face. Hans shook his head slowly and gestured with his mug for Servaas to proceed. "The verdomde verraaier pulled out a pad of paper and gave me a spot fine for contravening the fuel restrictions. Twenty five pounds man, that's almost more money than I see in a month," he screamed at Hans, mortally wounded by such treachery.

Hans cleared his throat a few times, while a hint of a smile flickered across his placid face. He made a few non committal grunts while extracting a fat calabash pipe from underneath his jersey and filling it with crumbly tobacco from a grey drawstring bag. Servaas jumped up and stomped round the kitchen, waving his hands about and mumbling incoherently. Hans could see that this perfidiousness and the loss of money had deeply affected his brother. "Did they move off after you left?" He enquired.

"No. They bragged that they could easily catch a few more lawbreakers like me this morning, so they're probably still there." Snorted Servaas.

Hans ruminated over this information for a moment; an almost impish gleam came into his eyes. "Brother, you're calmer now, go on into town. I think I'll come in myself a little later. We can meet at the widow Swanepoel's. I've been invited there." He levered himself out of the chair, tossed the coffee grounds through the open window and turned to Servaas. "There's nothing you can do to fight this, but I've got a little idea for something that might square the account. Leave it to me."

Servaas took some persuading, but his elder brother soothed and jollied him out of the door, into his truck and stood waving him farewell as he disappeared down the rutted track.

Hans moved swiftly into action. He got his car keys off the hook behind the front door and went round the house to the lean to, opened the dusty old Plymouth's door, switched it on and checked the fuel gauge. "Should be enough for what I need," he murmured to himself. Next he moved to the rear and rummaged under the dickey seat, emerging with an old oil tin, which he shook. It sloshed. He nodded and restowed it carefully. A length of black rubber hose was also found and the dust blown out of it. He was about to climb into the car when a thought struck him. He walked back into the kitchen and took his mug off the table. Neatly he rinsed the spatter of coffeegrounds out of it in the bucket, then, with the mug dangling from his finger he returned to the car, closing the front door of the house.

The car gave a little trouble starting. By the time he chugged out of the yard, he was breathing heavily from the exertions of swinging the starting handle. He took a roundabout route onto the main road, along a connecting track through a neighbour's farm. This would bring him onto the road further from town.

Well shaken he rolled onto the comparatively smooth main route between Calvinia and Niewoudville some ten minutes later. He sped off towards town, enjoying the fresh morning sunshine over the sparsely covered veld, though the wind coming in through the open window had a bite to it. Far in the distance he saw a black dot by the roadside. He peered ahead expectantly.

Yes, it must be the inspector's car. There were two men in long coats standing next to it, leaning out into the road and holding up their hands to stop him. A low chuckle escaped him, then he composed his face to a mien of grave concern as he coasted to a halt.

"Trouble ?" He asked as the man ducked down to speak into the open window of the car.

"Ja nee, Oom, you can say that again," the latter replied with a wry grin." We got a bit lost last night, coming from Cape Town. Now we've run out of petrol. Visagie's the name, and my friend's Willem Swart."

"Duvenage," Hans replied shortly. They shook hands awkwardly through the window.

Hans thought it might be more polite to talk to the strangers on their own level, so he opened the door and heaved his bulk out of the car and stretched a little, as if he had come a long way.

"What are you fellows doing up here then ?"

"We're sheep buyers, oom," replied Swart, a young man, with an open, pleasing face. He pulled a silver cigarette case out of his breast pocket and flipped it open, offering the contents to Hans. Hans peered suspiciously at the tailor mades and held up his hand, half shaking his head. He hauled out his pipe and stuck it into his mouth, unlit.

"Doesn't look as if you've had much experience at this sort of thing," he remarked pityingly," only greenhorns get lost hereabouts."

The pair looked suitably shamefaced at this, and admitted that they might have been a little careless due to fatigue. Would the uncle be so kind as to let them have a little petrol so that they could make it into town. Hans bridled at the suggestion.

"You don't know the roads, now you want to tell me you don't know the laws either. It's against regulations to give away petrol. Only the other day my neighbour was caught tapping petrol out of his car to put into his donkey engine on the borehole. Someone reported him and he had a devil of a job trying to convince the magistrate to believe him. No, no, boys, I can't take that risk. I'm a poor man, I've got neither time nor money to get dragged into court for something like this."

Their faces fell. They pleaded with him, using the same arguments as they had used with Servaas. Hans remained unmoved.

"Look, I'd tow you into town with my old skidonk here, but she'll boil before I've gone a mile. I think it would be better if you two took a walk to Gert Aucamp's place, over there," he pointed with his pipe stem in the vague direction of some koppies in the middle distance,"he can maybe bring a few donkeys and drag you into town."

Visagie shied away from the idea like a skittish horse. "But oom, by the time we get into town, the stock sale will be over. We won't get any sheep and we'll have to return to Cape Town empty handed. Our boss will fire us if we come back with nothing."

Hans let himself be visibly impressed by this argument. He wavered. Visagie pressed his advantage. He pulled out a wallet, opened it and let a thick wad of petrol coupons be seen.

"We'll give you a coupon and pay for any petrol you give us," he urged," it's the sort of thing any hospitable Namaqualander would do for a stranger."

Hans pretended to chew this over as the two hovered around him, counterfeit hope on their faces. He relented. "Nou ja, let's see if we can get you rolling again." He allowed a wintery smile to escape him. "Just keep a lookout for any other cars on the road.” He moved round to the dickey seat, while Swart positioned himself in the middle of the road, making a big show of spying out any approaching traffic. Visagie was all too eager to assist with the extraction of the tin from under the seat. Hans shouldered him aside, telling him not to get his fine coat dirty. It didn’t matter for himself, he said with a small sneer – he was just a poor farmer.

As the hose came out and Hans prepared to suck some of the precious fluid to start off the siphon, he caught a satisfied smirk passing between the two men. “Hold the tin up, man,” he commanded, as he stuck the business end of the pipe into the gleaming car’s filler inlet. A satisfying rush of liquid cascaded into the tank. “Hey, leave a little for emergencies,” he cautioned. Visagie pulled an inch of hose out of the tin. A slurping sound indicated that the desired level had been reached. Hans hastily grabbed the tin and made a show of shaking the last drops out of the pipe, before removing it from the tin and the filler.

“That should sort you out,” he said contentedly.

He screwed the cap back onto the can, walked over to his car and proceeded to get in, still holding the tin on his lap. Swart and Visagie followed, triumph dawning on their faces. Visagie held out a pound note and a petrol coupon to Hans, who accepted both with a grim smile. As soon as the exchange had been effected, Visagie’s face grew stern. He whipped out a small black wallet, flipped it open and exhibited an official-looking card.

“Inspector, Ministry of Transport,” he said without a trace of friendliness in his voice.” You have sold and disposed of petrol in direct contravention of paragraphs two and three, article seven of the law on petrol rationing of 1940. Mr Swart here will be my witness.”

Hans reached over lazily, picked up an enamel mug from the passenger seat, unscrewed the cap from the oil tin and poured some of the contents into the mug. Looking straight into Visagie's eyes, he drank it down and sighed contentedly.

"Man, it's dry around here this year. I needed that. I hope your car does too."

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