Zondi woke at six, shook his head to see if Mama Bhengu’s gin had done any damage, felt nothing, and slipped out of the double bed that he shared with his wife Miriam and their three youngest. Placing his feet carefully, for the next ones up had graduated to sleeping on mattresses spread on the rammed-earth floor, he made his way over to the door leading into the other room of their house, the kitchen. The twins, so big and strong now, were stretched out one under the table and the other on the settee that the Widow Fourie had given them. She had also given them an old electric kettle and an old electric iron; only the latter was any use—although it didn’t retain heat too well, it could be warmed up on the stove—but they had not returned them for fear of hurting her. It was really, mused Zondi, as he glanced at them with Bradshaw on his mind, a little like displaying upside-down antiques. Then, humming to himself, his mood sweetened and made proud by the beautiful faces of his sleeping children, he gave the Primus stove a few pumps and lit it.
What do You think about The Blood Of An Englishman?
