down slowly at the table. She took a breath.
‘While you were away, I made up my mind. About my life.’
He started to say, Your life is with me – then stopped himself.
She said: ‘I’m going back to Rhodesia, Joe. You know my reasons …’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t like England. I don’t like this business you’re into. I want my work – my real work, teaching Africans. My own money—’ She paused. ‘I’ve written to the Education Department and asked for my job back. They’ve agreed, though I forfeited all my seniority because I left. I’ve also written to the university, enrolling in a part-time arts course.’
His heart was knocking. It was unreal.
‘You’re not taking Cathy away.’
She said, ‘I am. I’ve taken legal advice. A court will always give custody of an infant to the mother. You obviously couldn’t look after her.’ She turned around and faced him.
His heart was hammering, but he also felt a numbed, deadly calm. He did not think she had seen a lawyer, but she was right about Cathy. Time, he still had time to work on this. He said, ‘Rhodesia is not a safe place for Catherine.’
‘Nonsense, people are having babies out there all the time. The war is not in Salisbury. It’ll be over long before the fighting gets near town, you said that yourself. And why should anybody hurt me, I’ll be teaching their people …’ She dismissed that, then added uncomfortably: ‘We have to discuss money.’
He stared at her.
‘You want to talk about money at a time like this?’
She said defiantly: ‘I’m sorry, but we must clear the air. We don’t want to go through this again tomorrow. Besides, you’re flying tomorrow.’ She took a breath. ‘I own twenty-five percent of the shares in Redcoat. Admittedly you gave them to me, but didn’t I work, even while I was eight months pregnant?’ She took a breath and looked at him squarely. ‘I want your assurance that you’re going to support us.’
He was incensed. It crossed his mind to say that he wanted those shares, he would buy them from her, but, oh, maybe they were a key to keeping her and Catherine with him. He said softly, ‘You’re leaving me. You’re taking my child away, and you want to talk about money in the same breath?’
‘I’ve got to be my own person, Joe!’ she cut in tensely. ‘I’ll bring Cathy back for holidays. Or you can come and see us. Listen, you needn’t even send money; you’ve got thousands frozen in the bank in Rhodesia. Or you could sell the farm, and the safari lodge, and the boat. I’ll supervise it all for you.’
He could hardly believe she was saying this. For a moment he almost despised her.
‘I didn’t sell the farm because I couldn’t get anything like what it’s worth. And the situation is worse, now, and the safari shares aren’t worth anything.’
‘Please yourself. But the market can only get worse.’ She waited, guiltily defiant.
He sat there, feeling sick in the guts. Not yet the grief, the final pain; what he needed was time – to figure out if there was one last card to play.
‘Please sit down,’ he said.
‘My mind’s made up, Joe.’
‘Sit down, please.’
She did so. She had never looked so beautiful. He took a deep breath.
‘Please don’t interrupt me.’ He looked at her. He felt gaunt. ‘This has been coming a long time, and I have also reached a decision.’
She waited, grimly. He said, ‘Give us one more year, Shelagh. In one year the airline will be on its feet, we’ll have a good income, in foreign currencies. Then we can go back to Rhodesia, and take our chances. We won’t be dependent on frozen Rhodesian assets. You can go back to work then – to university – anything. But …’ He shook his head. ‘If you leave me now, it is finished, Shelagh. You cannot come back. I will give you only enough money to support Cathy properly. No more, no less. I will not pay you to desert me.’
Her eyes flashed, but he held up a hand. ‘Let me finish.’ He looked at her steadily. ‘If you leave, you must take everything of yours with you. I will pay for its freight. Anything of Cathy’s can stay here. But I want absolutely nothing of yours to remind me of you, especially not any pretty clothes, not even a hairclip.’
She flashed, ‘You’re trying to make it difficult for me!’
He said, ‘No, I’m trying to protect myself against pain.’
She jumped up. ‘Very well! I’ll go and start packing now.’
She strode out of the room.
He sat there, staring across the kitchen. It was still unreal. He felt exhausted. He got up, and walked slowly out of the kitchen. Through the living room. Up the stairs. He could hear Shelagh in the bedroom, pulling out suitcases. He walked on, into Cathy’s room.
She was playing on the floor, a mop of curls on her beautiful little head, and her infant face burst into smiles.
‘Hullo, my darling …’
He picked her up. He held her against him, her tiny arms around his neck, breath on his cheek; and he felt his heart turn over. And then up it came, the grief.
Flying. One of the best things to do when you are unhappy is to fly. Fly away into the sunset, every moment hurtling you further away from your pain, into a different world: the unreality of crossing continents, high mountains down there, seeing faraway lights and oceans; one moment flying through black cloud, the next through moonlight or sunshine, from the countries that have rain and snow to the countries that have sunshine and flowers; within hours, from great cities to countries that have only jungles and deserts; and you look down and realise there is an infinite amount of life apart from your own, all those millions of people down there living and dying and loving, and millions of other creatures whose lives are just as important to them – and the skies stretching on into infinity, not contained by anything, holding millions of other worlds: and you realise just how small one human being is, how unimportant one heart-break, and maybe for a moment you will almost glimpse the whole cosmic picture and what a minute, insignificant part of it your troubles are.
But flying is also one of the worst things when you are unhappy. Because there is nothing to do but sit there, and stare out of the perspex at the night, every moment your aeroplane hurtling you further away from the place you really want to be, your home and wife and child who are busy leaving you, and when you get back it’ll be two days nearer, and all you want to do is get this aeroplane to the other end and discharge the cargo and fly, fly back home before it is too late and walk in the front door and say …
Say what? Please don’t leave? … I love you? …
‘Hullo,’ he said.
‘Hullo. You’re back early! Have a good trip?’
‘Is
