After a quick cup of tea, he went to the telephone, dialled long distance and gave the Fotheringays’ number. There was little traffic on the lines and within ten minutes he was put through. To his delight it was Kathy herself who answered: but of course she would be seated at the phone, waiting for his call.
“Kathy, it’s you! How are you, my dear?”
“Quite well, David. And most terribly busy. It’s so lucky you caught me. I was just rushing off to Edinburgh this very minute.”
Chilled slightly, he said: “What have you been doing?”
“Oh, everything. . . . Getting ready to go. . . . Like you, I suppose.”
“Yes, I’ve been busy too. It’s very near now.”
“Oh, it is. And I’m so happy and excited. I’ll be sending you all particulars of where we are to meet in London whenever I find a minute to write.”
“I was rather expecting a letter from you, dear.”
“Were you, David? I thought, as we were to be together so soon. . . . And I’ve worried about Uncle Willie. He’s been running quite a high temperature since we came here, and he’s due to give his talk this evening.”
“I’m sorry,” he said rather perfunctorily, thinking of his own troubles. “Give him my best wishes.”
“Oh, I will, David. And I’ll write you tonight, whenever we get back from Edinburgh.”
“I don’t wish to force you to write, Kathy.”
“But, David dear . . .”. She broke off. “Are you cross?”
“No, dear. Still, I will say I’ve felt rather lonely. I’ve been hard at it here. I’ve hurt my back. And through it all I’ve been longing to hear from you, just a word to say that you’re missing me.”
“Oh, I have missed you, dear . . .”. The catch in her voice made her words indistinct, “. . . just so busy, and Uncle Willie ill . . . I didn’t think . . .”.
“All right, my dear,” he said, mollified by her distress. “But if Willie is so ill, will he be able to leave on the twenty-first?”
“He will go, David,” she said confidently. “Even if he has to be carried on the plane on a stretcher.”
Much good he’ll be in that condition, he thought rather acidly, then regretted it, for he was devoted to Willie.
“I suppose you’ve seen that fighting has started in Kasai.”
“Yes, and it may be serious. But of course we’ve been expecting it. Now, dear, I really must go. I think I hear the bus. Uncle Willie is outside calling for me to come.”
“Wait, Kathy . . .”.
“If I don’t go, dear, we’ll miss the bus and Uncle Willie will be late for his lecture. Goodbye for just now, dear David. We’ll be together soon.”
She had gone, or at least had been obliged to go, leaving him disappointed and with a chilling impression of neglect. What an unsatisfactory talk it had been, making so much of Willie, so little of himself. No, no, he mustn’t think like that—quickly he banished his unworthy jealousy. Kathy loved him, the poor child had simply been rushed and harassed, and telephone conversations were never satisfactory. He found these excuses for her, but illogically the sense of slight persisted, remained with him all evening.
At bedtime, still upset, he decided to take a sleeping pill, a thing he had not done for weeks. Fifteen centigrammes of soneryl, followed by a glass of hot milk, sent him into a deep sleep which should have lasted for at least six hours. Unfortunately this was marred, broken in fact, by a frightful yet ridiculous dream.
He was lying on a camp bed in an unknown place behind high black rocks. The air, filled with the hum of insects, was insufferably hot—the humid heat of a tropical night. Darkness was everywhere, yet he could see faintly, and gradually became aware of the tall shadowy form of a man standing some paces away, gazing ahead. The man wore a khaki shirt and trousers and short gum-boots. Although the face remained invisible, he knew the man to be Willie. He tried to call to him, but although his lips formed the words no sounds emerged. Suddenly, to his horror, he saw three enormous beasts advancing from beyond. They were lions, at least they had the size and shape of lions, but to their appearance something preternatural had been added which gave to them a ferocity that paralysed him. Behind these beasts a line of Abatu tribesmen, armed with spears, stood outlined against the further darkness. He attempted vainly to rise. He wanted to get away—anything to escape this double danger. The futile effort made the sweat pour from him. Then, as he gave himself up for lost, the man who was Willie began to laugh and, picking up some pebbles, flipped them casually at the lions, like a boy taking random shots at an alley cat. Immediately the beasts stopped, hesitated for a moment, then came on again with a terrifying rush.
“The Lord is our shepherd,” Willie said. “A silver collection will be taken later.”
Immediately the charge ceased. The lions faced about and sat up on their haunches in a begging attitude, whereupon the black soldiers began to mark time and clap their hands. Then, with disharmony resembling that of the Markinch choir, they boomed out the hymn “Onward, Christian Soldiers.”
The grotesque and ridiculous vision was too sudden a release. Moray tried to laugh, to howl with laughter, and finally let out a shout that woke him up.
Exhausted, yet relieved by the reality of his own bedroom, he lay for a long time gloomily pondering the reasons for this absurd and painful fantasy. What rankled most of all was his own behaviour. Was he as weak as that? God, no—he would not admit it. He set his teeth and shook the thing off. Obviously, he decided, a subconscious conflict between his admiration for Willie’s heroic and self-sacrificing life and his own past indifference towards religion. With that he got up. The luminous dial of his Gubelin bedside-clock showed three o’clock. Feeling around, he stripped off his wet pyjama jacket and, having rubbed himself down, put on a fresh one and returned to bed. After turning uneasily for more than an hour he got off to sleep.
Chapter Seventeen
Next morning when he awoke, only half rested, he was bitterly annoyed with himself. He rose hurriedly, prompted by a sense of shame, welcoming as a corrective the discomfort of his strained back which now seemed definitely worse. Ranging about the house, restlessly awaiting Madame von Altishofer’s arrival, he checked and rechecked his preparations: the inventory was complete, all his papers were in order, the bank had been notified, his appointment with Stieger definitely arranged for the following day. All that remained, then, was to finish off his packing, impatiently, his ears alert for the sound of the Dauphine, he looked at his watch: past ten o’clock. Why on earth did she not come? Punctuality had always been outstanding amongst her many virtues. He was on the point of telephoning when, with a disproportionate sense of relief, he heard her step on the gravel drive. The door bell rang. He answered it himself.
“You didn’t drive. I wondered why you were late. Come along in. I’ll take your coat.”
“Thank you, no. I will not come in. Or at least only to the hall.”
He stared at her, blankly, as she took a bare step forward across the threshold. She was not wearing her usual grey working outfit, but the faded russet costume and the bersagliere hat in which she went walking. Yet it was her expression, calm yet firm, that astonished him most of all, and caused him, fearing some disaster, to exclaim: “What’s wrong, Frida?”
She did not immediately answer; then, gazing at him almost pityingly with those remarkable yellow eyes, she said: “My friend, despite my great wish to help you, I have decided I must not see you now, or ever again.”
“What!” In his confusion he brought out the word with difficulty. “But why? You promised. I’m relying on you to do the porcelain.”