The Heart of the Matter - Graham Greene [42]
‘Are you sure you’ve got everything?’ This was another variant which enabled them to sit there not eating but occasionally picking at something easily swallowed, going through all the things that might have been forgotten.
‘It’s lucky there’s only one bedroom. They’ll have to let you keep the house to yourself.’
‘They may turn me out for a married couple.’
‘You’ll write every week?’
‘Of course.’
Sufficient time had elapsed: they could persuade themselves that they had lunched. ‘If you can’t eat any more I may as well drive you down. The sergeant’s organized carriers at the wharf.’ They could say nothing now which wasn’t formal; unreality cloaked their movements. Although they could touch each other it was as if the whole coastline of a continent was already between them; their words were like the stilted sentences of a bad letter-writer.
It was a relief to be on board and no longer alone together. Halifax, of the Public Works Department, bubbled over with false bonhomie. He cracked risky jokes: and told the two women to drink plenty of gin. ‘It’s good for the bow-wows,’ he said. ‘First thing to go wrong on board ship are the bowwows. Plenty of gin at night and what will cover a sixpence in the morning.’ The two women took stock of their cabin. They stood there in the shadow like cave-dwellers; they spoke in undertones that the men couldn’t catch: they were no longer wives - they were sisters belonging to a different race. ‘You and I are not wanted, old man,’ Halifax said. ‘They’ll be all right now. Me for the shore.’
‘I’ll come with you.’ Everything had been unreal, but this suddenly was real pain, the moment of death. Like a prisoner he had not believed in the trial: it had been a dream: the condemnation had been a dream and the truck ride, and then suddenly here he was with his back to the blank wall and everything was true. One steeled oneself to end courageously. They went to the end of the passage, leaving the Halifaxes the cabin.
‘Good-bye, dear.’
‘Good-bye. Ticki, you’ll write every ...’
‘Yes, dear.’
‘I’m an awful deserter.’
‘No, no. This isn’t the place for you.’
‘It would have been different if they’d made you Commissioner.’
‘I’ll come down for my leave. Let me know if you run short of money before then. I can fix things.’
‘You’ve always fixed things for me. Ticki, you’ll be glad to have no more scenes.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Do you love me, Ticki?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Say it. One likes to hear it - even if it isn’t true.’
‘I love you, Louise. Of course it’s true.’
‘If I can’t bear it down there alone, Ticki, I’ll come back.’
They kissed and went up on deck. From here the port was always beautiful; the thin layer of houses sparkled in the sun like quartz or lay in the shadow of the great green swollen hills. ‘You are well escorted,’ Scobie said. The destroyers and the corvettes sat around like dogs: signal flags rippled and a helio flashed. The fishing boats rested on the broad bay under their brown butterfly sails. ‘Look after yourself, Ticki.’
Halifax came booming up behind them. ‘Who’s for shore? Got the police launch, Scobie? Mary’s down in the cabin, Mrs Scobie, wiping off the tears and putting on the powder for the passengers.’
‘Good-bye, dear.’
‘Good-bye.’ That was the real good-bye, the handshake with Halifax watching and the passengers from England looking curiously on. As the launch moved away she was almost at once indistinguishable; perhaps she