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marriage to Joan. It will be difficult, but I must try.
Was it like this with Joan in the begi
years, that I do not know, he answered truthfully. All I have left from
those days are the pictures of places and the small heaps of
words that have struck where the wind and the pain could not blow them
away.
A beach with the sea mist coming in across it, a whole tree of driftwood
half buried in the sand and bleached white with the salt, a basket of
strawberries bought along the road, so that when I kissed her
I could taste the sweet tartness of the fruit on her lips.
I remember a tune that we sang together, "The mission bells told me that
I mustn't stay, South of the border, down Mexico way." I have forgotten
most of the words.
And I remember vaguely how her body was, and the shape of her breasts
before the children were born.
But that is all I have left from the good times.
The other memories are clear, stinging, whiplash clear.
Each ugly word, and the tone in which it was said. The sound of sobbing
in the night, the way it dragged itself on for three long grey years
after it was mortally wounded, and both of us using all our strength to
keep it moving because of the children.
The children! Oh, God, I mustn't think about them now. It hurts too
much. Without the children to complicate it, I must think about her for
the last time; I must end this woman Joan. So now finally and for all to
end this woman who made me cry. I do not hate her for the man with whom
she went away. She deserved another try for happiness.
But I hate her for my children and for making shabby the love that I
could have given Shermaine as a new thing. Also, I pity her for her
inability to find the happiness for which she hunts so fiercely. I
pity her for her coldness of body and of mind, I pity her for her
prettiness that is now almost gone (it goes round her eyes first,
cracking like oil paint) and I pity her for her consuming selfishness
which will lose her the love of her children.
My children - not hers! My children!
That is all, that is an end to Joan, and now I have Shermaine who is
none of the things that Joan was. I also deserve another try.
"Shermaine," he whispered and turned her head slightly to kiss her.
"Shermaine, wake up." She stirred and murmured against him.
"Wake up." He took the lobe of her ear between his teeth and bit it
gently. Her eyes opened.
"Bon matin, madame." He smiled at her.
"Bonjour, monsieur," she answered and closed her eyes to press her face
once more against his chest.
"Wake up. I have something to tell you."
"I am awake, but tell me first if I am still dreaming. I have a
certainty that this ca
sighed softly, and held him closer.
"Now tell me the other thing."
"I love you," he said.
"No. Now I am dreaming."
"In truth," he said.
"No, do not wake me. I could not bear to wake now."
"And you?" he asked.
"You know it-" she answered. "I do not have to tell you." "It is almost
morning," he said. "There is only a little time."
"Then I will fill that little time with saying it-" He held her and
listened to her whispering it to him.
No, he thought, now I am certain. I could not be that wrong.
This is my woman.
The drum stopped with the dawn. And after it the silence was very heavy,
and it was no relief They had grown accustomed to that broken rhythm and
now in some strange way they missed it.
As Bruce moved around the laager he could sense the uneasiness in his
men. There was a feeling of dread anticipation on them all.
They moved with restraint, as though they did not want to draw attention
to themselves.
The laughter with which they acknowledged his jokes was nervous, quickly
cut off, as though they had laughed in a cathedral. And their
eyes kept darting back towards the ring of jungle.
Bruce found himself wishing for an attack. His own nerves were rubbed
sensitive by contact with the fear all around him.
If only they would come, he told himself. If only they would show
themselves and we could see men not phantoms.
But the jungle was silent. It seemed to wait, it watched them.
They could feel the gaze of hidden eyes. Its malignant presence pressed
closer as the heat built up.
Bruce walked across the laager to the south side, trying to move
casually. He smiled at Sergeant Jacque, squatted beside him and peered
from under the truck across open ground at the remains of the bridge.
"Trucks will be back soon," he said. "Won't take long to repair that."
Jacque did not answer. There was a worried frown on his high intelligent
forehead and his face was shiny with perspiration.
"It's the waiting, Captain. It softens the stomach."
"They will
be back soon," repeated Bruce. If this one is worried, and he is the
best of them, then the others must be almost in a jelly of dread.
Bruce looked at the face of the man on the other side of Jacque.
His expression shrieked with fear.
If they attack now, God knows how it will turn out. An African can think
himself to death, they just lie down and die. They are getting to that
stage now; if an attack comes they will either go
berserk or curl up and wait with fear.
You can never tell.
Be honest with yourself - you're not entirely happy either, are you? No,
Bruce agreed, it's the waiting does it.
It came from the edge of the clearing on the far side of the laager. A
high-pitched inhuman sound, angry, savage.
Bruce felt his heart trip and he spun round to face it. For a second the
whole laager seemed to cringe from it.
It came again. Like a whip across aching nerves. Immediately it was lost
in the roar of twenty rifles.
Bruce laughed. Threw his head back and let it come from the belly.
The gunfire stammered into silence and others were laughing also.
The men who had fired gri
It was not the first time that Bruce had been startled by the cry of a
yellow hornbill. But now he recognized his laughter and the laughter of
the men around him, a mild form of hysteria.
"Did you want the feathers for your hat?" someone shouted and the
laughter swept round the laager.
The tension relaxed as the banter was tossed back and forth.
Bruce stood up and brought his own laughter under Control.
No harm done, he decided. For the price of fifty rounds of ammunition, a
purchase of an hour's escape from tension.
A good bargain.
He walked across to Shermaine. She was smiling also.
"How is the catering section?" He gri
culinary art is there for lunch?"
"Bully beef."
"And onions?"
"No, just bully beef. The onions are finished." Bruce stopped smiling.
"How much is left?" he asked.
"One case - enough to last till lunchtime tomorrow." It would take at
least two days to complete the repairs to the bridge; another day's
travel after that.
"Well," he said, "we should all have healthy appetites by the time we