the last dance and the band played the sugary romantic Poinciana', she laid her velvet-soft cheek against his, but when he tried to press his lower body against hers, she allowed it for only moments before she arched her back, and when he tried to kiss her at the cabin door she held him off with both hands on his chest and gave him that low tantalizing laugh.
The silly little witch is totally frigid,, Shasa told his reflection in the shaving mirror. She probably has an iceberg in her knickers. Thought of those regions made him shiver with frustration, and he resolved to break off the chase. He thought of the five or six other females on board, not all of them young, who had looked at him with unmistakable invitation in their eyes. I could have any or all of them instead of panting along behind Miss Tin Knickers, But an hour later he was partnering her in the mixed doubles deck quoit championships, or smoothing suntan oil on that flawless finely muscled back with fingers that trembled with agonized desire, or trying to keep level with her in a discussion of the merits and demerits of the government's plans to disenfranchise the coloured voters of the Cape Province.
He had discovered with some dismay that Tara Malcomess had a highly developed political conscience, and that even though it was vaguely understood between him and Mater that Shasa would one day go into politics and parliament, his grasp of and interest in the complex problems of the country was not of the same calibre as Tara's. She held views that were almost as disturbing to him as her physical attractions.
I believe, as Daddy does, that far from taking the vote away from the few black people who have it, we should be giving it to all of them. All of them! Shasa was appalled. You don't really believe that, do you? Of course I do. Not all at once, but on a civilization basis, government by those who have proved fit to govern. Give the vote to all those who have the right standards of education and responsibility. In two generations every man and woman, black or white, could be on the roll. Shasa shuddered at the thought, his own aspirations to a seat in the house would not survive that, but this was probably the least radical of her opinions.
How can we prevent people from owning land in their own country or from selling their labour in the best market, or prohibit them from collective bargaining? Trade unions were the tools of Lenin and the devil. That was a fact Shasa had taken in with his mother's milk.
She's a bolshy, but, God, what a beautiful bolshy! he thought, and pulled her to her feet to break the unpalatable lecture. Come on, let's go for a swim. He's an ignorant fascist, she thought furiously, but when she saw the way the other women looked at him from behind their sunglasses, she wanted to claw their eyes out of their faces, and at night in her bunk when she thought about the touch of his hands on her bare back, and the feel of him against her on the dance floor, she blushed in the darkness at the fantasies that filled her head.
If I just let it start, just the barest beginning, I know I won't be able to stop him, I won't even want to stop him, I and she steeled herself against him. Controlled and aloof, she repeated, like a charm against the treacherous wiles of her own body.
By some extraordinary coincidence it just so happened that Blaine Malcomess had shipped his Bentley in the hold, alongside Centaine's Daimler.
We could drive to Berlin in convoy, Centaine exclaimed as though the idea had just occurred to her, and there was clamorous acceptance of the idea from the four younger members of the party, and immediate jockeying and lobbying for seats in the two vehicles. Centaine and Blaine, protesting mildly, allowed themselves to be allocated the Bentley while the others, driven by Shasa, would follow in the Daimler.
From Le Havre they drove the dusty roads of north-western France, through the town that still had the ring of terror in their names, Amiens and Arras. The green grass had covered the muddy battlefields where Blaine had fought, but the fields of white crosses were bright as daisies in the sunlight.
May God grant that mankind never has to live through that again, Blaine murmured, and Centaine reached across and took his hand.
in the little village of Mort Homme they parked in front of the auberge in the main street, and when Centaine walked in through the front door to enquire for lodgings, Madame behind the desk recognized her instantly and screeched with excitement.
Henri, viens vite! Cest Mademoisefle de Thiry du chateau, and she rushed to embrace Centaine and buss her on both cheeks.
A travelling salesman was ousted, and the best rooms put at their disposal; a little explanation was needed when Centaine and Blaine asked for separate accommodation, but the meal they were served that night was exquisitely nostalgic for Centaine, with all the specialities - terrines and truffles and tartes, with the wine of the region, while Madame stood beside the table and gave Centaine all the gossip, the deaths and births, the marriages and elopernents and liaisons of the last nineteen years.
In the early morning Centaine and Shasa left the others sleeping, and drove up to the chateau. It was rubble and black scorched walls, pierced with empty windows and shell holes, overgrown and desolate, and Centaine stood in the ruins and wept for her father who had burned with the great house rather than abandon it to the advancing Germans.
After the war the estate had been sold off to pay the debts that the old man had accumulated over a lifetime of good living and hard drinking. It was now owned by Hennessy, the great cognac firm; the old man would have enjoyed that little irony, Centaine smiled at the thought.
Together they climbed the hillock beyond the ruined chAteau and from the crest Centaine pointed out the orchard and plantation that marked the old wartime airfield.
That is where your father's squadron was stationed, on the edge of the orchard. I waited here every morning for the squadron to take off, and I would wave them away to battle. They flew SE5a's didn't they? Only later. At first it was the old Sopwiths. She was looking up at the sky. Your father's machine was painted bright yellow. I called him le petit jaune, the little yellow one, I can see him now in his flying helmet. He used to lift the goggles so I could see his eyes as he flew past me.
Oh Shasa, how noble and gay and young he was, a young eagle going up into the blue. They descended the hillock and drove slowly back between the vineyards. Centaine asked Shasa to stop beside a small stone-walled barn at the corner of North Field. He watched her, puzzled, as she stood for a few minutes in the doorway of the thatched building and then came back to the Daimler with a faint smile on her lips and a soft glow in her eyes.
She saw his enquiring look and told him, Your father and I used to meet here. In a clairvoyant insight Shasa realized that in this rickety old building in a foreign land he had been conceived. The strangeness of this knowledge remained with him as they drove back towards the auberge.
At the entrance to the village in front of the little church with its green copper spire, they stopped again and went into the cemetery. Michael Courtney's grave was at the far end, beneath a yew tree. Centaine had ordered the headstone from Africa but had never seen it before. A marble eagle, perched on a tattered battle standard, was on the point of flight, with wings spread. Shasa thought it was a little too flamboyant for a memorial to the dead.
