"It always does that."
"O.K., professional! But it's new to me."
He grinned. "I can't help being a sailor."
"I suppose now you're going to tell me you've wrung more sea water out of your socks than I've ever sailed on."
"Now where on earth," he asked, startled, "did you hear a thing like that?"
"I heard one of the deck sailors say it."
He shook his head, mock-serious. "You really mustn't listen to what the deck sailors say. Particularly when they don't know you're there."
"Oh, I'm tough."
He looked at her, gravely, searching her face for clues, for answers. "No, you're not."
"Not today, anyway." Now she in turn was looking at him; their eyes were held fast, exchanging signals, forming alliances. She thought: He wants to kiss me. Perhaps he would try to, perhaps she would let him. Nothing would have been more natural, alone in the sunshine. But it was not quite the moment for kissing. Not yet.
She turned away, staring at something, anything, and said: "What now? How much farther?"
"Fifty miles or so." His voice was constrained, but he was bringing it under control. "Then we'll picnic, and bathe, if we're lucky."
"Bathe?"
"There's a dam, off the road. Or there was, last year. It shouldn't be dried up now."
"Let's go, then."
It was only when he had already started the engine, and put the car in gear, that he said: "I love you."
They drove in silence for five miles or more. She did not know what to say; one thing was following another, but though she could guess the outlines of the pattern, she could not really see it clearly. It was a day for love, and a place for it also. But somehow it was too early. She wanted more things to happen, more things to be said and felt, before his arms were round her. If that was where they were going to be.
It was Tim who broke the silence. "Don't tell me," he said—and there was blessed laughter in his voice—"that you didn't hear."
"Oh, I heard, all right." She put her hand on top of his, and it rested there comfortably. "Girls always hear that."
"What do girls answer?"
She affected to treat the question seriously. "Some girls say: 'Who— little me?' Some girls say: 'Cut it out.' Some girls say: 'Uh huh!' Some girls say: 'So do I.' "
"I like the last girl best."
She shook her head. "Much too forward. In and out of juvenile court, all the time."
After a silence, he spoke in a different voice; the appeal in it was very strong. "Kathy?"
"Yes?"
"What does this girl say?"
She took her hand away from his, but gently, not making it a matter of denial. "I don't know at all. . . . Let's not talk about it now. I want that bathe, and that picnic."
"I want them too. I want everything."
"I know."
She liked, very much, the way he could straightway break the tension, to suit her mood exactly, and answer: "We will now do things in the proper order."
He was making, he said, for a turn-off marked "Mooikraal", though the "beautiful village" was now no more than a deserted ring of ancient mud huts. Presently they reached their cross-roads, and branched off on to a bumpy track leading uphill towards a clump of trees. A couple of miles away, they could see a pink-and-white farmhouse, with four windmills turning lazily in the faint breeze; the clump of trees, when they reached it, marked the edge of a small dam. The brown earth surrounding it was cracked and dry, and as the car stopped a drift of their yellow dust moved past them and away, losing itself in the parched ground. But miraculously there was water in the dam, quite a lot of water; it shimmered in the heat, and sparkled where it caught the sun; it might have been trapped there for their delight.
"It's our lucky day," said Tim, and edged the car into the shade. When they were at rest, he turned towards her, but he made no other movement; he really was doing things in the right order. "Bathe now? It looks just what we want."
She nodded. "Try and keep me out of that water."
"Change in the car," he said. "I'll try the trees."
Within minutes she was wading into the dam. The water was warm, almost hot, and muddy where her feet stirred it; but the soft feel of it was a blessing. When Tim joined her, she was already swimming round and round in lazy circles.
"Slow," she called out.
"I like to give a lady a fair start."
He had a beautiful body, as she had already observed on more formal occasions at the ship's pool; lithe, muscular, the hips narrow, the chest deep and firm. He had developed also a handsome tan, as she had herself; when presently they waded out again, and sat on the edge of the dam to dry out, there could be no denying his strong physical appeal. It was clear that he felt the same about her, and she was glad of it; he must have seen, many times on board, the brief green swim-suit she wore, and the contours of her body candidly displayed by it, but now he admired them frankly, and let her see him doing so. She felt that this was entirely right; if they were young animals in the sun, let them give this pleasure to each other, without furtiveness, without peeping. . . . She lay back, crossing her slim legs, and when he had enjoyed this, and the lift of her breasts under the clinging material, he said, as she had hoped he would:
"You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."
She smiled back at him, without guile. "When you look at me like that, I feel it."
"Do you mind?"
"No."
"We're doing all right today, aren't we?"
"Extremely well."
"I was afraid we wouldn't."
"Why not?" But she knew exactly what he meant. "You mean, the ship and everything might still be here?"
"Yes. But it's not, is it?"
"Nothing's here."
Tim smiled, in pure joy, and leant across and touched her shoulder. His hand was strong, but the grip was as tender as a girl's. He said: "Are you hungry yet?"
"Absolutely ravenous. What is there?"
"Iron rations," he answered. "But well up to Alcestis standards. I know the Chief Steward."
He pulled her to her feet, without making a production of it, and they walked back to the shade of the trees, hand in hand. On the way, she asked:
"How old are you, Tim?"
"Just the right age."
She thought: This is hardly fair. . . .
But just as he was manhandling two very large wicker baskets, and a carrier-bag which clinked agreeably, from the back seat of the car, there came a most odd interruption, one they could have done without. It was other people.
They were walking in procession along the edge of the dam towards them; an old man with a white beard, an old Negro, and an old dog, all moving very gently at a pace suited to age and authority. Close to, the old man was a tremendous sight. He was very tall, even with his stoop; he wore a wide-brimmed sun-hat, and under it his lined face was like a hawk's, proud and watchful. He had wrinkled yellow trousers, and a bush shirt of faded khaki, and dusty veldschoen, and he carried a long staff as bent and gnarled as himself.
He stopped when he came opposite to them, and surveyed them unwinkingly. His eyes were blue, with a far-away fierceness. The old Negro also stopped, a pace behind him, and scratched the grey-white wool of his head. The dog, a ridge-back hound with enormous sinewy shoulders, growled once, and lay down stiffly in the middle of the pathway.
It was time for someone to speak. "Good morning!" Tim called out, with more confidence than he felt. "I hope we're not trespassing."
The old man said nothing; he continued to stare at them, as did the gaunt black man and the dog. Standing outlined against the sky, he had an infinitely patriarchal air; when his eyes shifted from Tim to Kathy, and took in—though without impertinence—her slim body and tiny swim-suit, it would not have surprised her if, then and there, he had called down a Mosaic curse on such a fleshly display.