The girls jumped rope. Some of the boys played with a ball. It was a pink rubber ball. One of the boys threw the ball, the other missed. The ball went over the other’s head; it went into the open drain. There was some shouting—some curse words were exchanged. The open drain was dirty, the ball would be dirty. No one wanted to go to the drain, to pick up the ball. And there he was—the shoe-polish boy. He must have been standing in the corner (or perhaps in the shadows). He must have seen it all. He came to the front. He walked—quietly, simply—to the open drain. He picked up the ball—picked it up between his thumb and his forefinger. He carried the ball—the water dripping from it—carried it this way for a few feet. Then he squatted on the ground. He took the ball, he rubbed it in the dirt. He rubbed it, he rubbed it—he did this almost for a minute. The others looked at him—looked in awe. They were afraid. He was a brave boy. He was not afraid. “Well done! Well done!” one of them said at last. “Yes, yes, well done!” said another. Now all the others joined in as well. A boy came from the far end of the alley. He was pushing a bicycle tire—pushing the inner rim of the tire with a stick. He pushed the rim with such interest—with such concentration. But when he saw the boy with the ball, he paused. He held the rim with one hand. He seemed to be filled with admiration—even he. The boy—the shoe-polish boy—was not quite done. He reached into his kit, he took out a small towel (it was torn, it was green). He rubbed the ball with that now, rubbed it vigorously. Back and forth; back and forth. “It is clean now,” he said at last. “The ball is clean.” A cheer—another cheer—rose from the children. One of the children came running. He went to the ball, grabbed it. He held the ball in the air. “Time for pithoo!” he said (a popular game). The other children watched him, they cheered as well. “Time for pithoo!” they said. The boy ran with the ball—ran into the distance. The other children went running after him. The scene was forgotten, the children had moved on. And there he stood, the shoe-polish boy (the “hero”). He stood by himself. I emerged from the shadows, I walked towards him. He saw me—did he recognize me? Some seconds passed. “I will clean the towel, sir,” he said at last. He was referring to the towel he had used to clean the ball. “I will not use it for shoe polish. I will clean it, sir—I will, I will.” “I will, I will.” Was I some kind of policeman, some inspector? Did he 46 theMeadow
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