The abscess had burst, the poison drained, and he was ready to heal.
“Bruce, Bruce, where are you?” She came out through the door; he did not answer her for she had seen the glow of his cigarette and she came to him. Standing close in the darkness.
“Shermaine-” Bruce said, then he stopped himself. He wanted to
hold her, just hold her tightly.
“Yes, Bruce.” Her face was a pale round in the darkness, very close to him.
“Shermaine, I want-” said Bruce and stopped again.
“Yes, me too,” she whispered and then, drawing away, “come, let’s go and see what your doctor is doing now.” She took his hand and lea him back into the building. Her hand was cool and dry with long tapered fingers in his.
Mike Haig and Father Ignatius were leaning over the cradle that now stood next to the table on which lay the blanket-covered body of the Baluba woman. The woman was breathing softly, and the expression on her face was of deep peace.
“Bruce, come and have a look. It’s a beauty,” called Haig.
Still holding hands Bruce and Shermaine crossed to the cradle.
“He’ll go all of eight pounds,” announced Haig proudly.
Bruce looked at the infant; newborn black babies are more handsome than ours - they have not got that half-boiled look.
“Pity he’s not a trout,” murmured Bruce. “That would be a
national record.” Haig stared blankly at him for a second, then he threw back his head and laughed; it was a good sound. There was a different quality in Haig now, a new confidence in the way he held his head, a feeling of completeness about him.
“How about that drink I promised you, Mike?” Bruce tested him.
“You have it for me, Bruce, I’ll duck this one.” He isn’t just saying it either, thought Bruce, as he looked at his face; he really doesn’t need it now.
“I’ll make it a double as soon as we get back to town.” Bruce glanced at his watch. “It’s past ten, we’d better get going.”
“I’ll have to stay until she comes out from the anaesthetic,” demurred Haig.
“You can come back for me in the morning.” Bruce hesitated. “All right then. Come on, Shermaine.” They drove back to Port Reprieve, sitting close together in the intimate darkness of the car. They did not speak until after they had reached the causeway, then Shermaine said:
“He is a good man, your doctor. He is like Paul.”
“Who is Paul?”
“Paul was my husband.”
“Oh.” Bruce was embarrassed. The mention of that name snapped the silken thread of his mood. Shermaine went on, speaking softly and staring down the path of the headlights.
“Paul was of the same age. Old enough to have learned understanding - young men are so cruel.”
“You loved him.” Bruce spoke flatly, trying to keep any trace of jealousy from his voice.
“Love has many shapes,” she answered. Then, “Yes, I had begun to love him. Very soon I would have loved him enough to-” She stopped.
“To what?” Bruce’s voice had gone rough as a wood rasp.
Now it starts, he thought, once again I am vulnerable.
“We were only married four months before he - before the fever.”
“So?” Still harsh, his eyes on the road ahead.
want you to know something. I must explain it all to you. It is very important. Will you be patient with me while I tell you?” There was a pleading in her voice that he could not resist and his expression softened.
“Shermaine, you don’t have to tell me.”
“I must. I want you to know.” She hesitated a moment, and when she spoke again her voice had steadied. “I am an orphan, Bruce. Both my Mama and Papa were killed by the Germans, in the boi-nbing. I was only a few months old when it happened, and I do not remember them. I do not remember anything, not one little thing about them; there is not even a photograph.” For a
second her voice had gone shaky but again it firmed. “The nuns took me, and they were my family. But somehow that is different, not really your own. I have never had anything that has truly belonged to me, something of my very own.” Bruce reached out and took her hand; it lay very still in his grasp. You have now, he thought, you have me for your very own.
“Then when the time came the nuns made the arrangements with Paul
Cartier. He was an engineer with Union Mime du Haut here in the
Congo, a man of position, a suitable man for one of their girls.
“He flew to Brussels and we were married. I was not unhappy, for although he was old - as old as Doctor Mike yet he was very gentle and kind, of great understanding. He did not-” She stopped and turned suddenly to Bruce, gripping his hand with both of hers, leaning towards him with her face serious and pale in the halfdarkness, the plume of dark hair falling forward over her shoulder and her voice full of appeal. “Bruce, do you understand what I am trying to tell you?” Bruce stopped the car in front of the hotel, deliberately he switched off the ignition and deliberately he spoke.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Thank you,” and she flung the door open and went out of it and up the steps of the hotel with her long jeaned legs flying and her hair bouncing on her back.
Bruce watched her go through the double doors. Then he pressed the lighter on the dashboard and fished a cigarette from his pack. He lit it, exhaled a jet of smoke against the windscreen, and suddenly he was happy. He wanted to laugh again.
He threw the cigarette away only a quarter finished and climbed out of the Ford. He looked at his wristwatch; it was after midnight.
My God, I’m tired. Too much has happened today; rebirth is a severe emotional strain. And he laughed out loud, savouring the sensation, letting it come slowly shaking up his throat from his chest.
Boussier was waiting for him in the lounge. He wore a towelling
dressing-gown, and the creases of sleep were on his face.
“Are all your preparations complete, monsieur?”
“Yes,” the old man answered. “The women and the two children are asleep upstairs. Madame
Cartier has just gone up.
“I know,” said Bruce, and Boussier went on, “As you see, I have all the men here.” He gestured at the sleeping bodies that covered the floor of the lounge and bar-room.
“Good,” said Bruce. “We’ll leave as soon as it’s light tomorrow.”
He yawned, then rubbed his eyes, massaging them with his finger tips.
“Where is my officer, the one with the red hair?”
“He has gone back to the train, very drunk. We had more trouble with him after you had left.” Boussier hesitated delicately. “He wanted to go upstairs, to the women.”
“Damn him.” Bruce felt his anger coming again. “What happened?”
“Your sergeant major, the big one, dissuaded him and took him away.”
“Thank God for Ruffy.”
“I leave reserved a place for you to sleep.” Boussier pointed to a comfortable leather armchair. “You must be exhausted.”
“That is kind of you,” Bruce thanked him. “But first I
must inspect our defences.”
Bruce woke with Shermaine leaning “over the chair and tickling his nose. He was fully dressed with his helmet and rifle on the floor beside him and only his boots unlaced.
“You do not snore, Bruce,” she congratulated him, laughing her small husky laugh. “That is a good thing.” He struggled up, dopey with sleep.
“What time is it?”
“Nearly five o’clock. I have breakfast for you in the kitchen.”
“Where is Boussier?”
“He is dressing; then he will start moving them down to the train.”
“my mouth tastes as though a goat slept in it.” Bruce moved his tongue across his teeth, feeling the fur on them.
“Then I shall not kiss you good morning, mon capitaine.” She straightened up with the laughter still in her eyes. “But your toilet requisites are in the kitchen. I sent one of your gendarmes to fetch them from the train. You can wash in the sink.” Bruce laced up his boots and followed her through into the kitchen, stepping over sleeping bodies on the way.