One day I found some shillings and other coins in the pocket of Mr Blue’s trousers. I set them aside while I worked and from time to time I glanced at the little pile of money. There was quite a lot, enough to buy half a bag of rice. When Mr Blue came back I fetched his drink and stayed there while he took his first sip. He waved his hand at me, but I didn’t move. I bent in front of him, put my hand out to show him the coins.
‘Master,’ I said, ‘look at your money I found today.’
He took the coins and pocketed them, looking at me all the while. ‘Thank you, Josephine,’ he said. He reached out his hand and I stretched mine out to meet his. A coin dropped into the palm of my hand.
Small Boy set a penny down on the dirt between us. From the pocket on the front of his shirt he took something gnarled and yellow and placed it next to the penny. He said I could have whichever one I wanted. I reached for the penny. Small Boy laughed. He picked up the small lump of metal and tossed it in the air.
‘Take the penny. But this is worth many hundreds of pennies.’
Small Boy was the one who used to translate Mr Blue’s orders for me before I learned to understand, telling me Mr Blue was asking for this or that. He taught me everything I learned in that place. Every day Small Boy told Mr Blue that he needed four pence to buy the food, when I knew that what we bought could only come to three.
He placed the yellow metal in my hand, I felt its weight for a moment, but before I could close my fingers Small Boy snatched it away again.
The chief gave permission to the prospectors to come to our place. I was there when the chief came to the camp, accompanied by only two elders. I saw what happened.
They sat outside Mr Blue’s house, refused his whisky, instead I brought them cups of water. Balanced on a metal tray, the way I had learned. After a short time they stood and followed Mr Blue inside. Mr Blue was laughing a great deal as though something was very funny. The chiefs and the elders did not laugh, nor did they speak much. Instead they sat down and waited. Mr Blue called for Small Boy who came in bearing a tin box. I had seen it two nights before. It was full of money. Mr Blue walked around the back of the chief and leaned over him, putting his hands on both his shoulders. My eyes widened to see him do such a thing. But if he had taken offence, the chief did not let it show. Mr Blue asked Small Boy to open the box.
Well, to look at what was inside you would think it was more money than any of us had ever seen. And it was! All you could see was ten-shilling notes. The chief nodded and grunted. Waved for the box to be closed. Then he got up and left. Mr Blue said he would send the trunk down.
‘Josie! Come, come,’ he beckoned to me. I moved towards him. Mr Blue sat down on the seat vacated by the chief. He poured some whisky from the bottle into a cup and handed it to me. ‘Here you are, doll. Cheers!’ Touched the edge of his glass against mine and drank. I tipped the cup. The liquid burned my lips. I licked them and felt the heat transfer to my tongue. I stood holding the cup out in front of me. Mr Blue stared straight ahead of him for a few moments. He glanced my way, reached out and touched the back of my thigh, rubbing his thumb up and down. I did not move. Then he poured himself more and drank that, too.
I gave my cup to Small Boy in the place where we sat behind Mr Blue’s house. Small Boy laughed as he described the trick Mr Blue had played on the chief. Placing a few ten-shilling notes on the top of the box. Underneath them nothing but two-shilling notes. It worked every time.
‘Too greedy,’ laughed Small Boy, tipping the liquid down his throat like a fire-eater. ‘Too greedy. All of them. They trip up on their own greediness.’
Small Boy, who was the age of my uncles, arrived at the same time as the prospectors. He had travelled with them for many months, all across the country. Mornings, it was his job to shave Mr Blue, who sat in his chair with his head tipped backwards, coffee by his side, while Small Boy set to work lathering his chin and stroking the edge of the blade across Mr Blue’s face. I could hear the faint rasping noise of the hairs being cut, one by one.
It happened that on certain nights the miners stayed up late drinking, playing games of cards, swapping lies and stories. When one bottle of whisky was finished Mr Blue shouted for Small Boy to fetch another from the store. Small Boy’s job was to stay awake to serve them, but on this one night he fell asleep and did not hear our master calling. Mr Blue’s voice became impatient:
‘Where the hell is he?’
Footsteps in the dark. I reached across and shook Small Boy.
‘Get up!’ I whispered. ‘Mr Blue is calling.’
Small Boy jumped to his feet, forcing his eyes open, wide and round as marbles: ‘Yes, master. Yes, master. Here I am. See me now.’
Mr Blue waved the bottle in the air, jangled the store keys in his other hand like a bell. ‘Where in the hell have you been? Can’t you hear me calling you?’
‘I’m sorry, master.’ Small Boy reached for the bottle and took it from Mr Blue’s hand. He ran to the store and returned a short time after.
‘And ice. Bring ice.’ The truck had not delivered ice since two weeks before.
‘The ice is finished, master.’
I heard Mr Blue throw curses at Small Boy. They bounced off the walls of the houses. Silence. Small Boy made no reply.
‘Dumb fuck.’
‘Leave him alone, Blue. How could it be his fault?’ The woman’s voice, soft as a moth’s coat. Another silence followed, a sort of stop-start silence. You could almost hear Mr Blue wanting to speak and thinking better of it. He told Small Boy to pour the drinks. The woman refused any more, saying she was tired. I listened as she wished them all goodnight and her footsteps faded away. Small Boy must have made a move to leave then as well, because suddenly came Mr Blue’s voice:
‘You stay right there!’ He said he was hungry and told Small Boy to fetch something for him to eat. Of course there was nothing. The food had been cooked and eaten. What was left was for Small Boy and me. There was no fridge. Small Boy replied he would have to light a fire. ‘Well do it, damnit.’ Then: ‘Jesus. Oh, don’t be so bloody stupid. Do you think I’m serious? Bring that bottle over here.’
By now I was listening carefully from behind the hut, on the other side of the darkness. I heard Mr Blue’s voice: slack, slurred and yet stitched with something hard, as he set about provoking Small Boy. The other men laughed, enjoying it. From the manner of their laughter, I could tell this was something that had happened before. He instructed Small Boy to provide some entertainment, since he could produce neither food nor ice. Small Boy replied there were no entertainers to be found in the camp either.
‘Then you’d better entertain us yourself.’
Small Boy asked how he was to do so.
‘Let’s have a song,’ said one man.
‘Yes. A song,’ came another and began to sing himself.
‘No, no. We’ll sing. He’ll dance.’ Mr Blue again. ‘You can dance, can’t you?’
‘No master.’
‘Oh, come on. You lot can all dance. You’re born jigging around. It’s in your fucking blood.’
I imagined Small Boy standing there alone in front of Mr Blue and the other men. Alone in the middle of the night, underneath the stars. I wondered what was going to happen next.
Mr Blue begin to sing and the other men joined in. I heard him order Small Boy to dance. There was a small sound. Thud. Thud. Like that, the double thud like a stone being thrown. The same sound again. And then a clatter as the stone ricocheted off something in the distance. I heard the sound of Small Boy’s feet shuffling in the dirt. Of his breathing. Of the men clapping and cheering.