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‘What’s the matter, my dear, don’t you feel well? The sun, perhaps. Better not come with us round the plantations? Eh?’
Walters was solicitous. Mrs Crozier had better go back to the house and rest. He called to a man a little distance away.
‘Mr Arden – Mrs Crozier. Mrs Crozier’s feeling a little done up with the heat, Arden. Just take her back to the house, will you?’
The momentary feeling of dizziness was passing. Deirdre walked by Arden’s side. She had as yet hardly glanced at him.
‘Deirdre!’
Her heart gave a leap, and then stood still. Only one person had ever spoken her name like that, with the faint stress on the first syllable that made of it a caress.
She turned and stared at the man by her side. He was burnt almost black by the sun, he walked with a limp, and on the cheek nearer hers was a long scar which altered his expression, but she knew him.
‘Tim!’
For an eternity, it seemed to her, they gazed at each other, mute and trembling, and then, without knowing how or why, they were in each other’s arms. Time rolled back for them. Then they drew apart again, and Deirdre, conscious as she put it of the idiocy of the question, said:
‘Then you’re not dead?’
‘No, they must have mistaken another chap for me. I was badly knocked on the head, but I came to and managed to crawl into the bush. After that I don’t know what happened for months and months, but a friendly tribe looked after me, and at last I got my proper wits again and managed to get back to civilization.’ He paused. ‘I found you’d been married six months.’
Deirdre cried out:
‘Oh, Tim, understand, please understand! It was so awful, the loneliness – and the poverty. I didn’t mind being poor with you, but when I was alone I hadn’t the nerve to stand up against the sordidness of it all.’
‘It’s all right, Deirdre; I did understand. I know you always have had a hankering after the flesh-pots. I took you from them once – but the second time, well – my nerve failed. I was pretty badly broken up, you see, could hardly walk without a crutch, and then there was this scar.’
She interrupted him passionately.
‘Do you think I would have cared for that?’
‘No, I know you wouldn’t. I was a fool. Some women did mind, you know. I made up my mind I’d manage to get a glimpse of you. If you looked happy, if I thought you were contented to be with Crozier – why, then I’d remain dead. I did see you. You were just getting into a big car. You had on some lovely sable furs – things I’d never be able to give you if I worked my fingers to the bone – and – well – you seemed happy enough. I hadn’t the same strength and courage, the same belief in myself, that I’d had before the War. All I could see was myself, broken and useless, barely able to earn enough to keep you – and you looked so beautiful, Deirdre, such a queen amongst women, so worthy to have furs and jewels and lovely clothes and all the hundred and one luxuries Crozier could give you. That – and – well, the pain – of seeing you together, decided me. Everyone believed me dead. I would stay dead.’
‘The pain!’ repeated Deirdre in a low voice.
‘Well, damn it all, Deirdre, it hurt! It isn’t that I blame you. I don’t. But it hurt.’
They were both silent. Then Tim raised her face to his and kissed it with a new tenderness.
‘But that’s all over now, sweetheart. The only thing to decide is how we’re going to break it to Crozier.’
‘Oh!’ She drew herself away abruptly. ‘I hadn’t thought –’ She broke off as Crozier and the manager appeared round the angle of the path. With a swift turn of the head she whispered:
‘Do nothing now. Leave it to me. I must prepare him. Where could I meet you tomorrow?’
Nugent reflected.
‘I could come in to Bulawayo. How about the Café near the Standard Bank? At three o’clock it would be pretty empty.’
Deirdre gave a brief nod of assent before turning her back on him and joining the other two men. Tim Nugent looked after her with a faint frown. Something in her manner puzzled him.
Deirdre was very silent during the drive home. Sheltering behind the fiction of a ‘touch of the sun’, she deliberated on her course of action. How should she tell him? How would he take it? A strange lassitude seemed to possess her, and a growing desire to postpone the revelation as long as might be. Tomorrow would be soon enough. There would be plenty of time before three o’clock.
The hotel was uncomfortable. Their room was on the ground floor, looking out on to an inner court. Deirdre stood that evening sniffing the stale air and glancing distastefully at the tawdry furniture. Her mind flew to the easy luxury of Monkton Court amidst the Surrey pinewoods. When her maid left her at last, she went slowly to her jewel case. In the palm of her hand the golden diamond returned her stare.
With an almost violent gesture she returned it to the case and slammed down the lid. Tomorrow morning she would tell George.
She slept badly. It was stifling beneath the heavy folds of the mosquito netting. The throbbing darkness was punctuated by the ubiquitous ping she had learnt to dread. She awoke w
hite and listless. Impossible to start a scene so early in the day!
She lay in the small, close room all the morning, resting. Lunchtime came upon her with a sense of shock. As they sat drinking coffee, George Crozier proposed a drive to the Matopos.
‘Plenty of time if we start at once.’
Deirdre shook her head, pleading a headache, and she thought to herself: ‘That settles it. I can’t rush the thing. After all, what does a day more or less matter? I’ll explain to Tim.’
She waved goodbye to Crozier as he rattled off in the battered Ford. Then, glancing at her watch, she walked slowly to the meeting place.
The Café was deserted at this hour. They sat down at a little table and ordered the inevitable tea that South Africa drinks at all hours of the day and night. Neither of them said a word till the waitress brought it and withdrew to her fastness behind some pink curtains. Then Deirdre looked up and started as she met the intense watchfulness in his eyes.
‘Deirdre, have you told him?’
She shook her head, moistening her lips, seeking for words that would not come.
‘Why not?’
‘I haven’t had a chance; there hasn’t been time.’
Even to herself the words sounded halting and unconvincing.
‘It’s not that. There’s something else. I suspected it yesterday. I’m sure of it today. Deirdre, what is it?’
She shook her head dumbly.
‘There’s some reason why you don’t want to leave George Crozier, why you don’t want to come back to me. What is it?’
It was true. As he said it she knew it, knew it with sudden scorching shame, but knew it beyond any possibility of doubt. And still his eyes searched her.
‘It isn’t that you love him! You don’t. But there’s something.’
She thought: ‘In another moment he’ll see! Oh, God, don’t let him!’
Suddenly his face whitened.
