Mrs. Tillotson seemed to think so.
"Yes, we've certainly enjoyed this cruise," she said, as if Kathy had asked a question and she were answering it. "Do you know, I had a terrible time getting him to take it. He likes to work, and he likes to sit at home, and that's really all. It sounds dull, doesn't it? —dull but safe. ... I don't think anything will ever really change that, but if it did, he'd probably regret it very much. Almost immediately." There was a step on the stairs behind her, and she turned. "And here he is, bless him, looking after me as usual. My dear—" her hand rested briefly on Kathy's arm, "—don't tell him I said so, but I just hope that when the time comes, you get as good a husband as mine."
Tillotson approached, balancing a loaded tray. "Sorry to be so long, dear," he said. "They tried to tell me the bar-supplies were locked up. Imagine!" Handing them their drinks, he looked from one to the other; his eyes dwelt on Kathy with a curiously varied expression, half confederate, half withdrawn. "Well, have you settled the affairs of the world?"
"Some of the affairs," said Mrs. Tillotson. She raised her glass, almost gaily. "I guess the rest will keep."
Tense yet listless, shaken by doubts, fatally aware of misgiving, Kathy knew she would not sleep. She sat on in the darkened sun-room after the Tillotsons left her—they went off arm-in-arm, without a backward glance—and watched the moon go down and the lights of Cape Town grow pale and spectral, and was conscious of nothing but a wretched isolation. She had to do a job for Carl, and she had started on it at last, well enough; and then she had suddenly hated it, felt shame instead of satisfaction—she doubted, now, if she could make love with Tillotson, unless it was pitch-dark and they were both drunk. ... It left her nowhere, nowhere in anyone's world. She was no good to Carl, and less than no good to herself.
Her thoughts went round, in a dreary endless circle; it was after two o'clock when she rose, stiffly, and began to make her way three decks below to her cabin. Turning a corner of the stairway, at the A-deck level, she saw a shadow move and heard footsteps, light and brisk, coming up towards her. She stopped, uncertainly, hoping it was no one she knew, hoping above all it was not Tillotson returning to clinch the deal; she was dead tired, and absolutely spiritless. The shadow broadened and lengthened, and then the owner was standing three steps below her, as startled as she. It was Tim Mansell.
She looked at him, without saying anything. He was out of uniform, wearing a sports jacket and grey flannels; in unfamiliar colours, he still seemed broad and young and tough, and infinitely confident. She went down the three steps, and stood before him; a head shorter than he, her slim body drooping, her face pale.
His expression, which had been cheerful, as if he were en route to a party or a special rendezvous, grew grave as he stared at her.
"You look sad," he said unexpectedly.
"I am sad."
He did not ask why. He said: "You should really be in bed, shouldn't you?"
She smiled wanly. "So should you."
"But I've just got up!" Cheerfulness broke through again, as if he had suddenly remembered where he was going, and how much he was looking forward to it. "This is my day off, so I thought I'd start early. I've got a whole twenty-four hours, and I've only wasted two of them in sleep."
"Where are you going?"
"For a drive, a long drive. I've hired a car—it's down on the quay. I'm going up to the Karroo."
She repeated the unfamiliar word. "Karroo?"
"It's a kind of desert, but it's beautiful." Suddenly and, she guessed, bravely, he took a step forward. "Why not come with me?"
She smiled at that—it was so like him, shy and impetuous and quite unconnected with graver matters. "Now how could I do that?"
"Easily!" And he looked as if it would indeed be easy, the easiest thing in the world, presenting no problems at all to people like themselves. "It's only three hundred miles or so. Six hours, probably less—the South African roads are wonderful. I was going to spend the day there, picnicking, and be back by midnight tonight. In fact, I have to be back. Sailing tomorrow—remember?" He was young and not-so-young at the same time, full of careless ways of spending his energy, but equipped to trim them down to a disciplinary size. He would be back in time, and sleep like a puppy after it. . . . He said again, on a note which held something of compassion for her: "Come with me."
Suddenly it was the only thing to do.
"All right," she said, on the impulse. "I'll go and change. Ten minutes?"
He nodded; his face now had an extraordinary lightness and happiness in it. "Ten minutes.... Bring a coat; it's cold now. And a bathing-suit."
"You bring the pretzels, I'll bring the beer."
"Beer?" he repeated, puzzled.
"It's a song," she said.
Presently it was.
3
"Keep warm, curl up, and go to sleep," he commanded, as soon as they were settled in the car; and she was glad to obey so reasonable an order. She had a fleeting impression of long gloomy lines of dock sheds, the squeak of opening gates at the Customs checkpoint, and a large blond policeman peering in at her as if she were some luscious form of contraband; then they were moving up the broad main thoroughfare which she knew as Adderley Street, and thereafter she dozed off and fell into grateful sleep. He was obviously a careful driver; she trusted him.
It was his hand which awakened her, touching her shoulder gently, without intrusion, until she opened her eyes. She looked round her, puzzled, and then remembered where she was and how she had got there. She became aware that it was light outside—a paleness in the gloom which had already overcome the beam of their headlights. Then he slowed down the car, and stopped it at the side of the road, by a low wall.
"This is the first good view," he said.
Opening the door, and stretching her stiff limbs, she asked:
"How long have I been asleep?"
He smiled. "Two whole hours. It's just getting light. This is the top of the first pass—Du Toit's Kloof. I wouldn't have woken you up, but it's worth waking for."
She had only to look briefly about her before exclaiming: "Oh yes!" And then, without thinking, charmed by new-minted magic: "Always wake me."
They were indeed at the top of a pass; over the rough stone wall beside the car, the slope fell away in a sheer drop of hundreds of feet, crossed and recrossed by the winding road they had climbed which now snaked its way down to the misty Cape Flats. The dawn was already creeping across the enormous spread of the valley beneath them, but the plains were still shrouded by the night mist; nearer to their vantage point, delicate drifts of spider's web matched the luminous white carpet below. They were still within sight of the coast; away to seaward, a lighthouse was feebly blinking at the dawn; there were lone yellow farms, noble mountains, birds wheeling and calling, rock-rabbits peeping timidly at the new day. The two of them seemed to stand at the very top of the world, flanked by purple hills, gazing down on a broad private kingdom. They were ahead of the day, ahead of everyone. . . . And as if showing them how to keep ahead, behind them the road cut through a slim passageway between two outcrops of rock, and disappeared downwards into the next valley.