I walked quietly round the stalls till I had a view of the house, and saw a man of about fifty, undernourished-looking, in khaki shorts and shirt. He was standing on a box by the drawing-room window. He had his hand on the curtain, parting it, and was looking steadily into the empty room.
“Go down to the river and warn them,” I said to the boy.
He turned to go, but “Boy!” shouted the man. The house-boy in his green-and-white clothes rapidly went towards the voice.
I got down to the river just as they were landing. Sonia was dressed in pale blue. Her new parasol was blue. She looked specially fabulous and I noticed her very white teeth, her round brown eyes and her story-book pose, as she stood dressed up in the middle of Africa under the blazing sun with the thick-leaved plants at her feet. Frank, looking nice in tropical suiting, was tying up the punt. “Your husband has returned,” I said, and ran fearfully back to my car. I started it up and made off, and as I sped past the house over the gravel I saw Jannie Van der Merwe about to enter the house, followed by the servant. He turned to watch my car and spoke to the native, evidently asking who I was.
Afterwards the native deposed that Jannie went all through the house examining the changes and the new furniture. He used the lavatory and pulled the chain. He tried the taps in both bathrooms. In Sonia’s room he put straight a pair of her shoes which were lying askew. He then tested all the furniture for dust, all through the house, touching the furniture with the middle finger of his right hand and turning up his finger to see if it showed any dust. The house-boy followed, and when Jannie came to an old oak Dutch chest which was set away in a corner of one of the children’s rooms – since Sonia had taken against all her father’s old furniture – he found a little dust on it. He ordered the native to fetch a duster and remove the dust. When this was done Jannie proceeded on his tour, and when he had tried everything for dust he went out and down the path towards the river. He found Sonia and Frank at the ox-stalls arguing about what to do and where to go, and taking a revolver from his pocket, shot them. Sonia died immediately. Frank lingered for ten hours. This was a serious crime and Jannie was hanged.
I waited all the weeks ahead for Richard to make the first suggestion that we should move away. I was afraid to suggest it first lest he should resent the move all his life. Our long leave was not due for another year. Our annual leave was not due for some months. At last he said, “I can’t stand it here.”
I wanted to return to England. I had been thinking of nothing else.
“We can’t stay here,” I said, as if it were a part in a play.
“Shall we pack up and go?” he said, and I felt a huge relief.
“No,” I said.
He said, “It would be a pity to pack it all in when we’ve both gone so far in tropical diseases.”
In fact I left the following week. Since then, Richard has gone far in tropical diseases. “It’s a pity,” he said before I left, “to let what’s happened come between us.”
I packed up my things and departed for dear life, before the dry season should set in, and the rainy season should follow, and all things be predictable.
BANG-BANG YOU’RE DEAD
At that time many of the men looked like Rupert Brooke, whose portrait still hung in everyone’s imagination. It was that clear-cut, “typically English” face which is seldom seen on the actual soil of England but proliferates in the African Colonies.
“I must say,” said Sybil’s hostess, “the men look charming.”
These men were all charming, Sybil had decided at the time, until you got to know them. She sat in the dark room watching the eighteen-year-old film unrolling on the screen as if the particular memory had solidified under the effect of some intense heat coming out of the projector. She told herself, I was young, I demanded nothing short of perfection. But then, she thought, that is not quite the case. But it comes to the same thing; to me, the men were not charming for long.
The first reel came to an end. Someone switched on the light. Her host picked the next film out of its tropical packing.
“It must be an interesting experience,” said her hostess, “seeing yourself after all those years.”
“Hasn’t Sybil seen these films before?” said a latecomer.
“No, never – have you, Sybil?”
“No, never.”
“If they had been my films,” said her hostess, “my curiosity could not have waited eighteen years.”
The Kodachrome reels had lain in their boxes in the dark of Sybil’s cabin trunk. Why bother, when one’s memory was clear?
“Sybil didn’t know anyone who had a projector,” said her hostess, “until we got ours.”
“It was delightful,” said the latecomer, an elderly lady, “what I saw of it. Are the others as good?”
Sybil thought for a moment. “The photography is probably good,” she said. “There was a cook behind the camera.”
“A cook! How priceless; whatever do you mean?” said her hostess.
“The cook-boy,” said Sybil, “was trained up to use the camera.”
“He managed it well,” said her host, who was adjusting the new reel.
“Wonderful colours,” said her hostess. “Oh, I’m so glad you dug them out. How healthy and tanned and open-necked everyone looks. And those adorable shiny natives all over the place.”
The elderly lady said, “I liked the bit where you came out on the veranda in your shorts carrying the gun.”
“Ready?” said Sybil’s host. The new reel was fixed. “Put out the lights,” he said.
It was the stoep again. Through the French windows came a dark girl in shorts followed by a frisky young Alsatian.
“Lovely dog,” commented Sybil’s host. “He seems to be asking Sybil for a game.”
“That is someone else,” Sybil said very quickly.
“The girl there, with the dog?”
“Yes, of course. Don’t you see me walking across the lawn by the trees?”
“Oh, of course, of course. She did look like you, Sybil, that girl with the dog. Wasn’t she like Sybil? I mean, just as she came out on the veranda.”
“Yes, I thought it was Sybil for a moment until I saw Sybil in the background. But you can see the difference now. See, as she turns round. That girl isn’t really like Sybil, it must be the shorts.”
“There was a slight resemblance between us,” Sybil remarked.
The projector purred on.
“Look, there’s a little girl rather like you, Sybil.” Sybil, walking between her mother and father, one hand in each, had already craned round. The
