Tim said, in a low tone: "Probably he only speaks Afrikaans," and then, raising his voice again, he called out: "Gooie more, meneer."
Surprisingly, charmingly, the huge old man swept off his hat, with a tremendous courtesy, bowed to Kathy, and returned the greeting:"Gooie more." His voice was a deep rumbling bass, and his mane of white hair gleamed like a halo before he put his hat on again.
"That's all I know, damn it," said Tim, aside to Kathy. He came forward, smiling as broadly as he could, and gestured round the clump of trees; as his arm moved, the dog growled, and half rose on its haunches. Tim tried to convey with his gesture and in his expression a triple idea—that they knew they were on the old man's land, that they thought it was very beautiful, and that they would like to stay there, if they could have his permission. The synthesis would have taxed the most highly competent actor; but it was possible that he did succeed in communicating some of it, for after a long moment, during which the old man let his steady gaze wander from the car to the picnic baskets, from Tim to Kathy, and from the baking sunshine to the cool shade of the trees, he took off his hat again, bowed, and prepared to move on. The old Negro, whose face was shrunken to a tiny birdlike mask, raised a skinny arm in salute, said something that sounded like "Ow!", and followed him; and the dog, heaving itself up stiffly, drew back a lolling tongue and padded after them.
"Whew!" said Tim, in relief, as soon as the cavalcade was out of earshot. "That's better! I thought they'd come down to throw us out."
"You mean, this is his land? He didn't look as if he had a cent to his name!"
"He probably owns every mile you can see from here."
"But what a terrific old man!" Kathy looked after their late visitor as he made his way slowly up the hillside towards the distant farmhouse. "He must have been at least eighty. Didn't he bow beautifully?"
"They have wonderful manners, the old Afrikaners," agreed Tim. "Wonderful hospitality, too. Some of the younger South Africans are terrible thugs—we've had some on board, they talk like I imagine Hitler used to—but the old folks, the old Boers, are real charmers."
"Talking of hospitality," prompted Kathy.
"Coming, madam," said Tim, with a fair-to-middling caricature of the Chief Steward, and started to break out the picnic baskets. But he took his time about it; returning solitude seemed once more to have eased them of all cares; they were sure of their day, they could enjoy it lazily, happily, at a pace incomprehensible to the outside world.
The Alcestis kitchens had done them well; there was a chicken, half a ham, Russian salad, plovers' eggs, fruit, cheese, some coffee in a hot Thermos and some Vichyssoise in a cold one. "So this is where the profits go," commented Kathy, as she surveyed the feast spread out on one of the dining-room's spotless table-cloths. "No wonder your fares are so high."
Tim was about to reply when his eye was caught by a far-away movement, up the slope near the farmhouse. But it was not the old man and his small procession; they had already disappeared; it seemed to be a younger man, more agile, running towards them with long loping strides.
"We might as well be in Piccadilly Circus," Tim grumbled. But he was intrigued none the less.
As the runner drew nearer he could be seen to be a boy, clad in ragged shorts and a torn brown jersey. He was carrying something with great care—a box or a basket, held out in front of him like a votive offering. When he reached the edge of the dam he broke stride, and walked the last few yards. He was pale-skinned—a Cape Coloured, probably—with curious reddish hair and a brilliant grin. As soon as he reached them he bobbed and bowed, jumping from one foot to the other, and then set down his burden on the ground. Then he laughed, very merrily, and turned and ran away, with never a backward glance.
"This must be one of those days," said Tim dubiously, and pulled the box towards him. It was cardboard; it had once held soap-flakes. But packed inside there were now two fruits, like melons, only glowing golden and orange, and a dripping bottle without a label on it.
"What are they?"
"Paw-paws," answered Tim. "They have a funny taste—a cross between a melon and a soapy kind of marrow, only much nicer than that sounds. And this—" he drew the cork from the bottle, which was cold to his hand, and sniffed at the contents. Then he poured some out, and sipped it. It was white wine, cool and tart, like thin cider.
"Well," he said, astonished, "this really is our day. Instead of being thrown out, we're given wine to drink and paw-paws for dessert."
"What lovely presents," said Kathy. "And what a sweet thought. Aren't people nice to us? He must have liked us after all."
"It's probably his own wine, too," said Tim. He poured out two tumblers of it, and they drank inquiringly. "Tastes rather like Rhine wine, only thinner."
Kathy sipped hers. "It's just about the nicest thing that ever happened, anyway," she said, happily. "Do you think it's strong?"
"Oh, I hope so."
It was like Christmas, with the presents, and New Year's Day, with the promise of the future close at hand; and all in the middle of a South African desert within sight of a dam, which in the noonday sun shone like a burnished mirror. The sun filtered down through the leaves overhead, dappling their bodies with just-moving shadows; they ate and drank, and talked lazily, and looked at each other, and felt happy on the edge of love. Kathy found herself sinking slowly back into a slothful, sensual peace; there could be only one thing to happen now, one way of taking their delight after the wine and the meal; she was ready for it, she did not quarrel with it, she wanted it. But she knew more of the man already; she knew that he would not, even now, make love to her except by direct invitation. Of course he wanted her, under the trees, in the shade; his eyes were saying it, there was even a message from his body, across the few feet between them. But he would not take her, he would only be received and welcomed. . . . She put down her empty glass, and said:
"Oh dear! What a huge lunch. I'm going to sleep, I think. Perhaps we should both do that."
"Yes."
She looked behind her at the trees. "If we went farther in, we'd have more shade."
"Yes." There was a tremor in his voice; he had his invitation now; the enormous joy was beginning to possess him.
"Let's move before we get too lazy."
He stood up. "Do we need a rug?"
She looked up at him. He was smiling gravely, but his lower lip was trembling a little. She smiled back, with an equal joy, and said: "Obviously."
Walking before him into the deeper shadows, her knees already a little weak, she suddenly wondered, like a young girl on the very threshold, how sailors made love.
Sailors made love, she found, with shattering eloquence; a blend of sensuality, competence, and tender adoration which brought its own tempestuous end. Now that they were agreed, she was in his hands, and presently she was overjoyed to be so. He asked, before they lay down, "Am I the first?" and when she shook her head (with an absurd sense of disappointment) and answered: "No— the second," he nodded to himself, and then to her, as if this were the answer he had expected, a natural part of the day's progress. After that, he said: "You know I love you," and after that they were lost. But through it all she was conscious of direction, of control; even when he was on the edge of delight, he took care that she was there too. She had not been wrong; it was what she had guessed when she watched him securing the lifeboat, during the storm near Cape Town. Sailors were men, not boys, and this sailor was a true man among them.
After their love-making he thanked her, with glowing eyes which might have held tears a moment before, and they dozed off and slept deeply, while the sun drew round to the westward, and the shadows of their arbour began to slant away from them. When they awoke they swam again, rejoicing in freshness, shedding their languor; and then they made love once more, their bodies still cool and only half-dry—but this time it was a kind of happy frolic, light-hearted, laughing—they made each other smile, even as they made each other wild—they knew enough to be confident now, they could drop the guard and take loving chances. And then, too soon, the sun began to go down, and it grew cool, and they would have to go— indeed, they would have to drive like the wind if they were to be back in time.