along
of grey blankets and a hard coir mattress with a stained and torn cover. On top of it all lay Shasa Courtney.
It was a few minutes before noon and he was still asleep.
An almost empty bottle of whisky and a tumbler stood on the sandy floor within reach of Shasa's dangling arm. He wore only a pair of old rugby shorts and his body was burned to the colour of oiled mahogany, a dark beachcomber's tan; the hair on his arms was sun bleached to gold, but on his chest it remained dark and curly. It was obvious that he had not shaved in many days and his hair was long and unkempt on the dirty pillow. Yet the deep tan covered all the more obvious signs of debauchery.
He slept quietly, no sign on his face of the turmoil which must have driven him from Weltevreden to this squalid shack. He was still in all respects but one a magnificentlooking young man, that was why the left eye was even more shocking. The top ridge of the eye-socket was depressed on the outside corner where the bone had shattered; the scar through his dark eyebrow was shiny white and ridged. The empty eye-socket was sunken, and the eyelids drooped apart, exposing wet red tissue in the gap between his thick dark lashes.
It was impossible to look on the hideous injury without feeling pity, and it took Blaine a few seconds to steel himself to what he had to do.
Shasa! He made his voice harsh. Shasa groaned softly and the lid of his empty eye twitched.
Wake up, man. Blaine went to the bunk and shook his shoulder. 'Wake up. We've got some talking to do. Go away, Shasa mumbled, not yet awake. Go away and leave me alone. Wake up, damn you! Shasa's good eye flickered open and he peered up at Blaine blearily. His eye focused and his expression altered.
What the hell are you doing here? He rolled his head away, hiding the bad eye as he groped amongst the tangled bedclothes until he found a scrap of black cloth on a black elastic band. With his face still averted, he fitted the patch over the damaged eye and looped the band over his head k before he turned back to look at Blaine again. The eye-patch gave him a piratical panache, and in some perverse way highlighted his good looks.
Got to pump ship, he blurted and tottered out onto the stoep.
While he was away Blaine dusted one of the stools and set it against the wall. He sat down on it, leaned back, and lit one of his long black cheroots.
Shasa came back into the shack, pulling up the front of his rugby shorts, and sat down on the edge of the bunk, holding his head with both hands. My mouth tastes like a polecat pissed in it, he muttered, and he reached down for the bottle between his feet and poured what remained of the whisky into the glass, licked the last drop from the neck and trundled the empty bottle across the floor in the general direction of the overflowing garbage bucket beside the stove.
He picked up the glass. Offer you one? he asked, and Blaine shook his head. Shasa looked at him over the rim.
That look on your face can mean only one of two things, Shasa told him. Either you have just smelled a fart or you don't approve of me. I take it the coarse language is a recent accomplishment, like your new drinking habits. I congratulate you on both.
They suit your new image. Bugger you, Blaine Malcomess! Shasa retorted defiantly, and raised the glass to his lips. He swished the whisky through his teeth, rinsing his mouth with it. Then he swallowed and shuddered as the raw spirit went down his throat and he exhaled the fumes noisily.
Mater sent you, he said flatly.
She told me where I could find you, but she didn't send me. 'Same thing Shasa said, and held the glass to his lips, letting the last drop run onto his tongue. She wants me back, digging diamonds out of the dirt, picking grapes, growing cotton, pushing paper damn it, she just doesn't understand., She understands much more than you give her credit for. Out there men are fighting. David and my other mates.
They are in the sky, and I am down here in the dirt, a cripple, grovelling in the dirt. You chose the dirt. Blaine looked around the filthy shack scornfully. And you are doing the whining and grovelling Get the hell out of here, sir! Shasa told him.
You'd better Before I lose my temper. A pleasure, I assure you. Blaine stood up. I misjudged you. I came to offer you a job, an important war job, but I can see that you are not man enough for it. He crossed to the door of the cottage and paused. I was going to issue an invitation as well, an invitation to a party on Friday night.
Tara is going to announce her engagement to marry Hubert Langley. I thought it might amuse you, but forget it. He went out with his long determined stride and after a few seconds Shasa followed him out onto the stoep and watched him climb the cliff path. Blaine never looked back once, and when he disappeared over the top, Shasa felt suddenly abandoned and bereft.
He had not until that moment realized how large Blaine Malcomess bulked in his life. How much he had relied on Blaine's good counsel and experience, both on and off the polo field.
I wanted to be like him so much, he said aloud. And now I never will be. He touched the black patch over his eye.
Why me? He gave the eternal cry of the loser. Why me? And he sank down onto the top step and stared out over the calm green waters to the entrance of the bay.
Slowly the full impact of Blaine's words sank home. He thought about the job he had offered, an important war job then he thought about Tara and Hubert Langley. Tara, he saw her grey eyes and smoking red hair, and self-pity washed over him in a cold dark wave.
Listlessly he stood up and went into the shack. He opened the cupboard above the sink. There was a single bottle of Haig left. 'What happened to the others? he asked himself.
Mice? He cracked the cap on the bottle, and looked for a glass.
They were all dirty, piled in the sink. He lifted the bottle to his lips, and the fumes made his eye smart. He lowered the bottle before he drank and stared at it. His stomach heaved and he was filled with a sudden revulsion, both physical and emotional.
He tipped the bottle over the sink, and watched the golden liquid chug and spurt into the drainhole. When it was gone, once it was too late, his need for it returned strongly and he was seized by dismay. His throat felt parched and sore and the hand that held the empty bottle began to shake. The desire for oblivion ached in every joint of his bones, and his eye burned so that he had to blink it clear.
He hurled the bottle against the wall of the shack and ran out into the sunshine, down the steps to the beach. He stripped off the eye-patch and his rugby shorts and dived into the cold green water and struck out in a hard overarm crawl. By the time he reached the entrance to the cove, every muscle ached and his breathing scorched his lungs.
He turned and without slackening the tempo of his stroke headed back to the beach. As soon as his feet touched bottom he turned again, and swam out to the headland, back and forth he ploughed, hour after hour, until he was so exhausted that he could not tift an arm clear of the surface and he was forced to struggle back the last hundred yards in a painful side-stroke.
He crawled up the beach, fell face down on the wet sand and lay like a dead man. it was the middle of the afternoon before he had recovered the energy to push himself upright and limp up to the shack.
He stood in the doorway and looked around at the mess he had created. Then he took the broom from behind the door and went to work.
It was late afternoon before he had finished. The only thing he could do nothing about was the dirty bed linen. He bundled the soiled blankets with his dirty clothes for the dhobi waRah at Weltevreden to launder. Then he drew a kettle of fresh water from the rainwater tank beside the back door and heated it over the stove.