Above — the road there was a great, raw gash of newly-exposed rock and rubble. It ran from the very top of the sheer hill-slope, broadening out as it swept down, and disappeared beyond the next rise of the road. I stood there, my chest heaving, my whole body suddenly paralysed at what I saw. It was a landslide, and I was rooted to the spot by fear of what I should find when I topped the final rise.
Jan joined me. He didn’t say anything, but just stood there beside me, breathing heavily. There was nothing to be said. I started forward again, slowly now, reluctantly. As we climbed the rise, more and more of the hillside became exposed, showing a broader, more chaotic tumble of heaped-up debris. And then, suddenly, we were over the rise and the full extent of the disaster was revealed. A quarter of a mile ahead of us the road ceased, swept away and overlaid by tons of wet, red earth and rock. The Mission had vanished utterly, blotted out as though it had never been. And where the olive trees had stood and the children’s playground and the stables I had built for sick donkeys, there was nothing — nothing but raw, broken earth.
The landslide had swept over it all, obliterating five years’ work and all my hopes.
I didn’t know what to do. I seemed suddenly without feeling. It just didn’t seem real to me. This spot was my home, my whole life. It had been beautiful — a long, whitewashed building looking out across the olive groves to the valley and across to the mountains. It was as much a part of me as my body.
I stared uncomprehendingly at the gang of labourers with their long-handled shovels already at work on the road. They were like pygmies trying to shift a mountain. I felt I must have come to the wrong place, that this couldn’t really be Enfida, couldn’t be Le Mission Anglais — the Dar el Mish’n.
I followed the great red sweep of the landslide down the slopes to the valley bottom and understood why the river had seemed so brown. It was pouring in a white cascade over the base of the landslide.
I felt dazed — bewildered by the violence, the utter ruthlessness of it all. If it had left something — a wall, part of a building … But there was nothing; not a tree, not a stone, not a single vestige of the place. All my personal things were gone, my books, my notes, my clothes, George’s pictures, the medical stores, the van… every single thing completely and utterly vanished below that ghastly, piled-up chaos of broken hillside.
Jan touched my arm. ‘It’s no good looking at it,’ he said quietly. ‘Better come down to the auberge and have a drink.’
No good looking at it! That was true. ‘I never want to see the damned place again,’ I said savagely. ‘All the time, all that effort! You’d think if God…’ I stopped myself there and pushed my hand through my hair. Then I turned my back abruptly on the spot that had been my home and walked slowly down with Jan to the inn.
And that was where we met Julie, by the piled-up heaps of olives in the open space by the inn. She came towards us, walking slowly, her black hair hanging limp, her face white and strained. I was too dazed by the disaster of it all to notice then how desperately tired she was. I only knew I was glad she was there.
‘You’ve seen?’ she asked as she reached us.
I nodded, afraid to trust myself to speak.
‘I was hoping to catch you before you went up there, to break it to you gently. But you didn’t tell me you were coming back today.’ Her voice sounded flat and lifeless.
‘When did it happen?’
‘Two days ago; just after three o’clock in the afternoon.’
‘Thank God you weren’t in the house,’ I said. ‘Where were you? Did you see it?’
She nodded, her lip trembling. She was suddenly on the verge of tears. ‘I was at the caravan, turning out a drawer. George … George was doing a painting of the house. He was sitting at his easel down near the donkey stable. He wanted the house and the hills in shadow behind it. It was to be a surprise for you, Philip. A welcome-home present. And then…’ She closed her eyes and shook her head, the tears welling slowly, uncontrollably from between her tight-pressed eyelids.
‘You mean — George?’ I was too horrified to move.
She nodded slowly. ‘He was there — just below the house. I saw him.’ She opened her eyes, staring at me. ‘There was a sort of rumble … like thunder. I went to the door. I thought it might be another heavy downpour and I had some washing out. But it was clear and sunny. I heard George shout. He shouted to me and then he began to run and I looked up and saw the whole hillside pouring down. I couldn’t run. I just stood there and saw the first wave of rocks pour over the roadway, down to the house and then … then George fell and the whole ghastly landslide rolled over him. And then it hit him and… and suddenly he wasn’t there any more.’
I said something. I don’t know what it was, but she was suddenly clinging to me, sobbing hysterically. ‘It was horrible. Horrible. And I couldn’t do anything.’ She was trembling and all I could do was stroke her head the way you do a sick animal.
Gradually she stopped trembling and her grip on my arm relaxed. ‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was steadier, more controlled. ‘It happened two days ago. I should have got used to it by now.’ She straightened up and dried her eyes. ‘It was just that there was nobody …’ She blew her nose hard. ‘Ever since it happened I’ve just felt screwed up tight inside. And then, when I saw you …’ She shook her head as though trying to shake the picture out of her mind. ‘I’m all right now.’
‘Where are you staying — at the auberge?’ I asked her.
She shook her head. ‘No. I’m still living in the caravan. I didn’t want to see any strangers. I wanted my own things round me. Oh, Philip — why did it have to be George? Why did he have to choose that afternoon?… He’d been painting up in the hills for days.’
I took her arm. She was still trembling. ‘I think perhaps some tea would help.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She nodded, clutching at the suggestion. ‘If you come back to the caravan I’ll make you some.’ As she turned, she came face-to-face with Jan. I don’t think she’d noticed him till then. The sight of a stranger seemed to brace her. ‘You must be Dr Kavan.’ Her voice was steadier as she held out her hand to him. ‘I’m sorry. This isn’t a very pleasant welcome….’ She let her hand drop to her side.
He didn’t say anything and she turned quickly and led us down to the caravan.
The bus had been converted into two rooms with a shower bath and kitchenette between. She led us through into the front half, which was bedroom, living-room and studio combined and which merged into the driver’s seat. It had been George’s room. His things were everywhere, his clothes, his paints, the inevitable stack of canvases. It was impossible not to imagine that he was away painting somewhere in the hills and would return today or tomorrow or the next day.
I sat down, feeling dazed, thinking how senseless it was. There were hundreds of square miles of mountains. Why did it have to be here, in this exact spot? I looked up and stared out through the windscreen. The bus was parked facing towards Enfida. I was looking out on to a pattern of silver grey against the sky with the holes of the olive trees dark streaks in the shade. But the tranquillity of the scene only sharpened the memory of that broken slash of rubble lying over the Mission.
Julie came in then with the tea. ‘It’s no good brooding over it, Philip,’ she said in a small, taut voice. ‘We must think of the future, both of us. Think of the new Mission you’ll build.’
‘The new Mission?’ I stared at her. She didn’t understand. ‘There won’t be any new Mission,’ I said. ‘I’ve no money to start again.’
‘But weren’t you insured?’ Jan asked.
‘Against fire and theft. Not against an Act of God.’
‘But your Mission Society?’ His voice was suddenly tense. ‘Surely they will help — ‘
‘Why should they? I put up most of the capital. The Society isn’t really interested in a Mission here.’ And then I realised what was worrying him. ‘You’ll be all right,’ I added. ‘You’re a doctor. They need doctors out here in Morocco.’