'I don't mink I've spoken to anybody else since you've been away, except the small boy and the cook. Oh, and Mrs Halifax.' Something in her voice told him that the danger point was reached. Always, hopelessly, he tried to evade it. He stretched and said, 'My G.o.d, I'm tired. The fever's left me limp as a rag. I think I'll go to bed. It's nearly half-past one, and I've got to be at the station at eight.'

She said, 'Ticki, have you done anything at all?'

'How do you mean, dear?'

'About the pa.s.sage.'

'Don't worry. I'll find a way, dear.'

'You haven't found one yet?'

'No. I've got several ideas I'm working on. It's just a question of borrowing.' 200,020,002 rang in his brain.

'Poor dear,' she said, 'don't worry,' and put her hand against his cheek. 'You're tired. You've bad fever. I'm not going to bait you now.' Her hand, her words broke through every defence: he had expected tears, but he found them now in his own eyes. 'Go up to bed, Henry,' she said, 'Aren't you coming up?'

'There are just one or two things I want to do.'

He lay on his back under the net and waited for her. It occurred to him, as it hadn't occurred to him for years, that she loved him. Poor dear, she loved him: she was someone of human stature with her own sense of responsibility, not simply the object of his care and kindness. The sense of failure deepened round him. All the way back from Bamba he had faced one fact - that there was only one man in the city capable of lending him, and willing to lend him, the two hundred pounds, and that was a man he must not borrow from. It would have been safer to accept the Portuguese captain's bribe. Slowly and drearily he had reached the decision to tell her that the money simply could not be found, that for the next six months at any rate, until his leave, she must stay. If he had not felt so tired he would have told her when she asked him and it would have been over now, but he had flinched away and she had been kind, and it would be harder now than it had ever been to disappoint her. There was silence all through the little house, but outside the half-starved pye dogs yapped and whined. He listened, leaning on his elbow; he felt oddly unmanned, lying in bed alone waiting for Louise to join him. She had always been the one to go first to bed. He felt uneasy, apprehensive, and suddenly his dream came to mind, how he had listened outside the door and knocked, and there was no reply. He struggled out from under the net and ran downstairs barefooted.

Louise was sitting at the table with a pad of notepaper in front of her, but she had written nothing but a name. The winged ants beat against the light and dropped then- wings over the table. Where the light touched her head he saw the grey hairs.

'What is it, dear?'

'Everything was so quiet,' he said, 'I wondered whether something had happened. I had a bad dream about you the other night. Pemberton's suicide upset me.'

'How silly, dear. Nothing like that could ever happen with us.'

'Yes, of course. I just wanted to see you,' he said, putting his hand on her hair. Over her shoulder he read the only words she had written, 'Dear Mrs Halifax'...

'You haven't got your shoes on,' she said. 'You'll be catching jiggers.'

'I just wanted to see you,' he repeated and wondered whether the stains on the paper were sweat or tears.

'Listen, dear,' she said. 'You are not to worry any more. I've baited you and baited you. It's like fever, you know. It comes and goes. Well, now it's gone - for a while. I know you can't raise the money. It's not your fault. If it hadn't been for that stupid operation ... It's just the way things are, Henry.'

'What's it all got to do with Mrs Halifax?'

'She and another woman have a two-berth cabin in the next ship and the other woman's fallen out. She thought perhaps I could slip in - if her husband spoke to the agent.'

'That's in about a fortnight,' he said.

'Darling, give up trying. It's better just to give up. Anyway, I had to let Mrs Halifax know tomorrow. And I'm letting her know that I shan't be going.'

He spoke rapidly - he wanted the words out beyond recall. 'Write and tell her that you can go.'

'Ticki,' she said, 'what do you mean?' Her face hardened. 'Ticki, please don't promise something which can't happen. I know you're tired and afraid of a scene. But there isn't going to be a scene. I mustn't let Mrs Halifax down.'

'You won't. I know where I can borrow the money.'

'Why didn't you tell me when you came back?'

'I wanted to give you your ticket. A surprise.'

She was not so happy as he would have expected: she always saw a little farther than he hoped. 'And you are not worrying any more?' she asked.

'I'm not worrying any more. Are you happy?'

'Oh yes,' she said in a puzzled voice. 'I'm happy, dear.'

3.

The liner came in on a Sat.u.r.day evening; from the bedroom window they could see its long grey form steal past the boom, beyond the palms. They watched it with a sinking of the heart - happiness is never really so welcome as changelessness - hand in hand they watched their separation anchor in the bay. 'Well,' Scobie said, 'that means tomorrow afternoon.'

'Darling,' she said, 'when this time is over, I'll be good to you again. I just couldn't stand this life any more.'

They could hear a clatter below stain as Ali, who had also been watching the sea, brought out the trunks and boxes. It was as if the house were tumbling down around them, and the vultures took off from the roof, rattling the corrugated-iron as though they felt the tremor in the walls. Scobie said, 'While you are sorting your things upstairs, I'll pack your books.' It was as if they had been playing these last two weeks at infidelity, and now the process of divorce had them in its grasp: the division of one life into two: the sharing out of the sad spoils.

'Shall I leave you this photograph, Ticki?' He took a quick sideways glance at the first communion face and said, 'No. You have it.'

'I'll leave you this one of us with the Ted Bromleys.'

'Yes, leave that' He watched her for a moment laying out her clothes and then he went downstairs. One by one he took out the books and wiped them with a cloth: the Oxford Verse, the Woolfs, the younger poets. Afterwards the shelves were almost empty: his own books took up so little room.

Next day they went to Ma.s.s together early. Kneeling together at the Communion rail they seemed to claim that this was not separation. He thought: I've prayed for peace and now I'm getting it. It's terrible the way that prayer is answered. It had better be good, I've paid a high enough price for it As they walked back he said anxiously, 'You are happy?'

'Yes, Ticki, and you?'

'I'm happy as long as you are happy.'

'It will be all right when I've got on board and settled down. I expect I shall drink a bit tonight Why don't you have someone in, Ticki?'

'Oh, I prefer being alone.'

'Write to me every week.'

'Of course.'

'And Ticki, you won't be lazy about Ma.s.s? You'll go when I'm not there?'

'Of course.'

Wilson came up the road. His face shone with sweat and anxiety. He said, 'Are you really off? Ali told me at the house that you are going on board this afternoon.'

'She's off,' Scobie said. 'You never told me it was close like this.'

'I forgot,' Louise said, 'there was so much to do.'

'I never thought you'd really go. I wouldn't have known if I hadn't run into Halifax at the agent's.'

'Oh well,' Louise said, 'you and Henry will have to keep an eye on each other.'

'It's incredible,' Wilson said, kicking the dusty road. He hung there, between them and the house, not stirring to let them by. He said, 'I don't know a soul but you - and Harris of course.'

'You'll have to start making acquaintances,' Louise said. 'You'll have to excuse us now. There's so much to do.'

They walked round him because he didn't move, and Scobie, looking back, gave him a kindly wave - he looked so lost and unprotected and out of place on the blistered road. 'Poor Wilson,' he said, 'I think he's in love with you.'

'He thinks he is.'

'It's a good thing for him you are going. People like that become a nuisance in this climate. I'll be kind to him while you are away.'

'Ticki,' she said, 'I shouldn't see too much of him. I wouldn't trust him. There's something phoney about him.'

'He's young and romantic.'

'He's too romantic. He tells lies. Why does he say he doesn't know a soul?'

'I don't think he does.'

'He knows the Commissioner. I saw him going up there the other night at dinner-time.'

'It's just a way of talking.'

Neither of them had any appet.i.te for lunch, but the cook, who wanted to rise to the occasion, produced an enormous curry which filled a washing-basin in the middle of the table: round it were ranged (he many small dishes that went with it -the fried bananas, red peppers, ground nuts, paw paw, orange-slices, chutney. They seemed to be sitting miles apart separated by a waste of dishes. The food chilled on their plates and there seemed nothing to talk about except, 'I'm not hungry,' 'Try and eat a little,' 'I can't touch a thing,' 'You ought to start off with a good meal,' an endless friendly bicker about food. Ali came in and out to watch them: he was like a figure on a clock that records the striking of the hours. It seemed horrible to both of them that now they would be glad when the separation was complete; they could settle down when once this ragged leave-taking was over, to a different life which again would exclude change.

'Are you sure you've got everything?' This was another variant which enabled them to sit there not eating but occasionally picking at something easily swallowed, going through all the things that might have been forgotten.

'It's lucky there's only one bedroom. They'll have to let you keep the house to yourself.'

'They may turn me out for a married couple.'

'You'll write every week?'

'Of course.'

Sufficient time had elapsed: they could persuade themselves that they had lunched. 'If you can't eat any more I may as well drive you down. The sergeant's organized carriers at the wharf.' They could say nothing now which wasn't formal; unreality cloaked their movements. Although they could touch each other it was as if the whole coastline of a continent was already between them; their words were like the stilted sentences of a bad letter-writer.

It was a relief to be on board and no longer alone together. Halifax, of the Public Works Department, bubbled over with false bonhomie. He cracked risky jokes: and told the two women to drink plenty of gin. 'It's good for the bow-wows,' he said. 'First thing to go wrong on board ship are the bowwows. Plenty of gin at night and what will cover a sixpence in the morning.' The two women took stock of their cabin. They stood there in the shadow like cave-dwellers; they spoke in undertones that the men couldn't catch: they were no longer wives - they were sisters belonging to a different race. 'You and I are not wanted, old man,' Halifax said. 'They'll be all right now. Me for the sh.o.r.e.'

'I'll come with you.' Everything had been unreal, but this suddenly was real pain, the moment of death. Like a prisoner he had not believed in the trial: it had been a dream: the condemnation had been a dream and the truck ride, and then suddenly here he was with his back to the blank wall and everything was true. One steeled oneself to end courageously. They went to the end of the pa.s.sage, leaving the Halifaxes the cabin.

'Good-bye, dear.'

'Good-bye. Ticki, you'll write every ...'

'Yes, dear.'

'I'm an awful deserter.'

'No, no. This isn't the place for you.'

'It would have been different if they'd made you Commissioner.'

'I'll come down for my leave. Let me know if you run short of money before then. I can fix things.'

'You've always fixed things for me. Ticki, you'll be glad to have no more scenes.'

'Nonsense.'

'Do you love me, Ticki?'

'What do you think?'

'Say it. One likes to hear it - even if it isn't true.'

'I love you, Louise. Of course it's true.'

'If I can't bear it down there alone, Ticki, I'll come back.'

They kissed and went up on deck. From here the port was always beautiful; the thin layer of houses sparkled in the sun like quartz or lay in the shadow of the great green swollen hills. 'You are well escorted,' Scobie said. The destroyers and the corvettes sat around like dogs: signal flags rippled and a helio flashed. The fishing boats rested on the broad bay under their brown b.u.t.terfly sails. 'Look after yourself, Ticki.'

Halifax came booming up behind them. 'Who's for sh.o.r.e? Got the police launch, Scobie? Mary's down in the cabin, Mrs Scobie, wiping off the tears and putting on the powder for the pa.s.sengers.'

'Good-bye, dear.'

'Good-bye.' That was the real good-bye, the handshake with Halifax watching and the pa.s.sengers from England looking curiously on. As the launch moved away she was almost at once indistinguishable; perhaps she had gone down to the cabin to join Mrs Halifax. The dream had finished: change was over: life had begun again.

'I hate these good-byes,' Halifax said. 'Glad when it's all over. Think I'll go up to the Bedford and have a gla.s.s of beer. Join me?'

'Sorry. I have to go on duty.'

'I wouldn't mind a nice little black girl to look after me now I'm alone,' Halifax said. 'However, faithful and true, old fidelity, that's me,' and as Scobie knew, it was.

In the shade of a tarpaulined dump Wilson stood, looking out across the bay. Scobie paused. He was touched by the plump sad boyish face. 'Sorry we didn't see you,' he said and lied harmlessly. 'Louise sent her love.'

4.