Food’s nearly ready, then you get some sleep.” Bruce glared at him, opening his mouth to snarl a retort, and then closed it again. He turned and strode out of the camp into the forest.
He found a fallen tree, sat down and lit a cigarette. It was dark now and there were only a few stars among the rain clouds that blackened the sky. He could hear the faint sounds from the camp but there were no lights - the way he had ordered it.
The fact that his anger had no focal point inflamed it rather than quenched it. It ranged restlessly until at last it found a target, -
himself. He recognized the brooding undirected depression that was descending upon him. It was a thing he had not experienced for a long time, nearly two years. Not since the wreck of his marriage and the loss of his children. Not since he had stifled all emotion and trained himself not to participate in the life around him.
But now his barrier was gone, there was no sheltered harbour from
the storm surf and he would have to ride it out.
The anger was gone now. At least anger had heat but this other thing was cold; icy waves of it broke over him, and he was small and insignificant in the grip of it.
His mind turned to his children and the loneliness howled round him like a winter wind from the south. He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against the lids. Their faces formed in the eye of his mind.
Christine with pink fat legs under her frilly skirt, and the face of a thoughtful cherub, below soft hair cropped like a page boy.
“I love you best of all,” she said with much seriousness, holding his face with small hands only a little sticky with ice cream.
Simon, a miniature reproduction of Bruce even to the nose. Scabs on the knees and dirt on the face. No demonstrations of affection from him, but in its place something much better, a companionship far beyond his six years.
Long discussions on everything from religion, “Why didn’t Jesus used to shave?” to politics, “When are you going to be prime minister, Dad?” And the loneliness was a tangible thing now, like the coils of a reptile squeezing his chest. Bruce ground out the cigarette beneath his heel and tried to find refuge in his hatred for the woman who had been his wife. The woman who had taken them from him.
But his hatred was a cold thing also, dead ash with a stale taste.
For he knew that the blame was not all hers. It was another of his failures; perhaps if I had tried harder, perhaps if I had left some of the cruel things unsaid, perhaps - yes, it might have been, and perhaps and maybe. But it was not. It was over and finished and now I am alone.
There is no worse condition; no state beyond loneliness. It is the waste land and the desolation.
Something moved near him in the night, a soft rustle of grass, a presence felt rather than seen. And Bruce stiffened.
His right hand closed over his rifle. He brought it up slowly, his eyes straining into the darkness.
The movement again, closer now. A twig popped underfoot. Bruce slowly trained his rifle round to cover it, pressure on the trigger and his thumb on the safety. Stupid to have wandered away from the camp; asking for it, and now he had got it. Baluba tribesmen! He could see the figure now in the dimness of starlight, stealthily moving across his front. How many of them, he wondered. If I hit this one, there could be a dozen others with him. Have to take a chance. One quick
burst and then run for it. A hundred yards to the camp, about an even chance. The figure was stationary now, standing listening. Bruce could see the outline of the head - no helmet, can’t be one of us. He raised the rifle and pointed it. Too dark to see the sights, but at that range he couldn’t miss. Bruce drew his breath softly, filling his lungs, ready to shoot and run.
“Bruce?” Shermaine’s voice, frightened, almost a whisper.
He threw up the rifle barrel. God, that was close. He had nearly killed her.
“Yes, I’m here.” His own voice was scratchy with the shock of realization.
“Oh, there you are.”
“What the hell are you doing out of the camp?” he demanded furiously as anger replaced his shock.
“I’m sorry, Bruce, I came to see if you were all right. You were gone such a long time.”
“Well, get back to the camp, and don’t try any more tricks like that.” There was a long silence, and then she spoke softly, unable to keep the hurt out of her tone.
“I brought you something to eat. I thought you’d be hungry. I’m sorry if I did wrong.” She came to him, stooped and placed something on the ground in front of him. Then she turned and was gone.
“Shermaine.” He wanted her back, but the only reply was the fading rustle of the grass and then silence. He was alone again.
He picked up the plate of food.
You fool, he thought. You stupid, ignorant, thoughtless fool.
You’ll lose her, and you’ll have deserved it. You deserve everything you’ve had, and more.
You never learn, do you, Curry? You never learn that there is a penalty for selfishness and for thoughtlessness.
He looked down at the plate in his hands. Bully beef and sliced onion, bread and cheese.
Yes, I have learned, he answered himself with sudden determination.
I will not spoil this, this thing that is between this girl and me.
That was the last time; now I am a man I will put away childish things, like temper and selfpity.
He ate the food, suddenly aware of his hunger. He ate quickly, wolfing it. Then he stood up and walked back to the camp.
A sentry challenged him on the perimeter and Bruce answered with alacrity. At night his gendarmes were very quick on the trigger; the challenge was an unusual courtesy.
“It is unwise to go alone into the forest in the darkness,” the sentry reprimanded him.
“Why?” Bruce felt his mood changing. The depression evaporated.
“It is unwise,” repeated the man vaguely.
“The spirits?” Bruce teased him delicately.
“An aunt of my sister’s husband disappeared not a short throw of a spear from my hut. There was no trace, no shout, nothing. I was there. It is not a matter for doubt,” said the man with dignity.
“A lion perhaps?” Bruce prodded him.
“If you say so, then it is so. I know what I know. But I say only that there is no wisdom in defying the custom of the land.”
Suddenly touched by the man’s concern for him, Bruce dropped a hand on to his shoulder and gripped it in the old (expression of affection.
“I will remember. I did it without thinking. He walked into the camp. The incident had confirmed something he had vaguely suspected, but in which previously he had felt no interest. The men liked him. A
hundred similar indications of this fact he had only half noted, not caring one way or the other. But now it gave him intense pleasure, fully compensating for the loneliness he had just experienced.
He walked past the little group of men round the cooking fire to where the Ford stood at the head of the convoy.
Peering through the side window he could make out Shermaine’s blanket-wrapped form on the back seat. He tapped on the glass and she sat up and rolled down the window.
“Yes?” she asked coolly.
“Thank you for the food.”
“It is nothing.” The slightest hint of warmth in her voice.
“Shermaine, sometimes I say things I do not mean. You startled me. I nearly shot you.”
“It was my fault. I should not have followed you.”
“I was rude he persisted.
“Yes.” She laughed now. That husky little chuckle. “You were
rude but with good reason. We shall forget it.” She placed her hand on his arm. “You must rest, you haven’t slept for two days.”
“Will you ride in the Ford with me tomorrow to show that I am forgiven?”