Fanwell lived with his grandmother, an aunt, and four siblings. His father, from whom the family had not heard in a long time, was now believed to be dead, and his mother was working in South Africa. She sent money home, but it was sporadic and could not be relied on. For the day-to-day needs of the family, it was effectively Fanwell’s pay that kept the household afloat, eked out by the grandmother with such tiny amounts as she could earn through her skills with crochet or as a potter. Fanwell never complained about this—not once—accepting that this was the way things were. “When they grow up,” he said, referring to the younger siblings, “then they will earn money too. Things will get better.”

Now, approaching the street corner on which their house stood, Fanwell noticed that there was somebody occupying the stool that his grandmother normally used when she sat out in the yard, working on her crochet. As he crossed the road to the house, the figure stood up and approached him, his hand extended in greeting.

“So, Fanwell, how goes it?”

It took Fanwell a moment or two to place the visitor. Then came the prompt: “Chobie, man. You remember me. Chobie, your friend.”

He did remember him. “Of course. Yes, Chobie.”

Fanwell took his friend’s hand and shook it.

“So,” said Chobie. “I’ve been waiting, man. I’ve been sitting here for two hours thinking, when’s my old friend Fanwell going to come home? That’s what I’ve been thinking. True as God.”

Fanwell smiled, but he felt nervous. He and Chobie had been at school together, and he remembered him as frequently being in trouble. There had been some row about something or other—he could not recollect what it was—and this had led to Chobie’s being sent away. It was a long time ago, of course, and one could not be expected to remember everything that happened.

Fanwell gestured for Chobie to follow him to the room that served as the kitchen—and as sleeping quarters for three of the children.

“You’ve got lots of children already,” Chobie said, gesturing to the sleeping mats stacked together in a corner.

Fanwell laughed. “Brothers and sisters, Chobie.”

Chobie winked. “Myself, I’ve got some sons. Don’t know how many, but more than two. Big boys.”

Fanwell acknowledged this confidence with a polite nod of his head. He looked at the shelf; there was very little food, but he could give Chobie a plain slice of bread and jam and some tea. He offered this, and Chobie accepted readily.

“That old lady …”

“My grandmother,” said Fanwell.

“Yes, her. She said to tell you she’s gone somewhere until seven o’clock. Then she’ll come back.” Chobie paused. “You look after her, Fanwell?”

“Yes.”

“That costs money, man.”

Fanwell admitted that it did. “But there’s nobody else, you see.”