'Mickey darling, please don't call me Mater any longer. It's so terribly bourgeois. Call me either Mummy or Tara, but not that.' 'All right. It will be a little bit strange at first, but okay. I'll call you Tara.' 'It's almost lunch time,' Tara announced blithely. 'I asked cook to make a bread and butter pudding, I know it's one of your favourites, Mickey.' 'I'm not awfully hungry, Mater -- Tara,' Isabella announced. 'And it must be jet-lag or something, but --' Michael pinched her sharply. 'That's lovely, Tara. We'd love to stay for lunch.' 'I just have to look into the kitchen - make sure it's all under control - come along.' As they entered the kitchen a child came running to Tara. He must have been helping the Irish cook, for his hands were white with flour to the elbows. Tara hugged him, happily heedless of the flour that rubbed off on her sweater.
A mat of short woolly curls covered his pate, and his skin was a clear light toffee colour. His eyes were huge and dark, and he had appealing gamine features. He reminded Isabella of any one of the dozens of children of the estate workers on Weltevreden. She smiled at him, and he gave back a cocky but friendly grin.
'This is Benjamin,' Tara said. 'And these, Benjamin, are your
! ',!!i brother and sister - Mickey and Isabella.' Isabella stared at the child. She had tried to discount and for all that Lothar had told her, and in some measure she had succeede But now it all came rushing back, the words roaring in her ears ll flood waters.
'Your half brother is an attractive coffee colour,' Lothar had to her and she wanted to scream, 'How could you, Mater, how cou you do this to us?' But Michael had recovered from his obvious su prise, and now he held out his hand towards the child and said, 'Hi there, Ben. It's fine that we are brothers - but how about yc and me being friends also?' 'Hey, man - I like that,' Benjamin agreed instantly. To add Isabella's dismay and confusion, he spoke in a broad south Londc accent.
Isabella spoke barely a dozen words during lunch. The pea sou was thickened with flour that had not cooked through and it stuc to the roof of her mouth. The boiled silverside lay limply in its ov watery gravy, and the cabbage was cooked pink.
They sat at the table with Phineas, the receptionist, and five oth of Tara's guests, all black South African expatriates, and the boisteJ ous conversation was almost entirely conducted in left-wing jargo The government of which Isabella's beloved father was a minist was always referred to as the 'racist regime' and Michael joine cheerfully in the discussion about the redistribution of wealth an the return of the land to those who worked it after the revolutioz had succeeded and the People's Democratic Republic of Azania ha.
been established. Isabella wanted to scream at him, 'Damn you Mickey, they are talking about Weltevreden and the Silver Rive Mine. These are terrorists and revolutionaries - and their sole purpose is to destroy us and our world.' When the bread-and-butter pudding was served, she could take i no longer.
'I'm sorry, Tara,' she whispered. 'I have a splitting headache, an I simply have to get back to the Dorchester and lie down.' She wa so pale and discomforted that Tara made only a token protest and genuine noises of concern. Isabella refused to let Michael escort her 'I won't spoil your fun. You haven't seen Mater - Tara - in ages. I'l just grab a taxi.' Perhaps it really was fatigue that had weakened her, but in the cal: she found herself weeping with chagrin and shame and fury.
'Damn her! Damn her to hell,' she whispered. 'She has disgraced and dishonoured all of us, Daddy and Nana and me and all the family.' As soon as she reached her room she locked her door, threw herself on the bed and reached for the telephone.
'Exchange, I want to put a call through to Johannesburg in South Africa--' She read the number out of her address book.
The delay was less than half an hour and then a marvellously homey Afrikaans accent said, 'This is police headquarters, bureau for state security.' 'I want to speak to Colonel Lothar De La Rey.' 'De La Rey.' Despite the thousands of miles that separated them, his voice was crisp and clear, and in her imagination she saw him again naked on the beach in the dawn, like a statue of a Greek athlete but with those glowing golden eyes, and she whispered, 'Oh God Lothie, I've missed you. I want to come home. I hate it here.' He spoke quietly, reassuring and consoling her, and when she had calmed he ordered her, 'Tell me about it.' 'You were right. Everything you said was true - even to her little brown bastard, and the people are all revolutionaries and terrorists.
What do you want me to do, Lothie? I'll do anything you tell me.' 'I want you to stay there, and stick it out for the full two weeks.
You can telephone me every day, but you must stay on. Promise me, Bella.' 'All right - but, God, I miss you and home.' 'Listen, Bella. I want you to go to South Africa House the first opportunity you have. Don't let anybody know, not even your brother Michael. Ask for Colonel Van Vuuren, the military attach.
He will show you photographs and ask you to identify the people you meet.' 'All right, Lothie - but I've told you twice already how much I miss you, while you, you swine, haven't said a word.' 'I have thought about you every day since you left,' Lothar said.
'You're beautiful and funny and you make me laugh.' 'Don't stop,' Isabella pleaded. 'Just keep talking like that.' Adrian Van Vuuren was a burly avuncular man, who looked more like a friendly Free State farmer than a secret service man. He took her up to the ambassador's office and introduced her to His Excellency who knew Shasa well and they chatted for a few minutes.
His Excellency invited Isabella to the races at Ascot the coming Saturday but Colonel Van Vuuren intervened apologetically.
'Miss Courtney is doing a little job for us at present, Your Excellency. It might not be wise to make too much public display of her connections to the embassy.' 'Very well,' the ambassador agreed reluctantly, 'But you will come to lunch with us, Miss Courtney - not often we have such a pretty girl at our gatherings.' Van Vuuren gave her the short tour of the embassy and its a treasures, which ended in his office on the third floor. 'Now, my dear, we have some work for you.' A pile of albums was stacked on his desk, each full of head-an shoulder photographs of men and women. They sat side by side or Van Vuuren flicked through the pages, picking out the mug shots the people she had met at the Lord Kitchener Hotel.
'You make it easier for us by knowing their names,' Van Vuurc remarked, and turned to a photograph of Phineas, the hotel recei tionist.
'Yes, that's him,' Isabella confirmed, and Van Vuuren looked u his details in a separate ledger. 'Phineas Mophoso. Born 194 Member of PAC. Convicted of public violence 16 May 1961. Violate bail conditions. Illegal emigration late 1961. Present location believe U.K.' 'Small fry,' Van Vuuren grunted, 'but small fry often shoal wit big fish.' He offered to provide an embassy car to drive Isabella bac to the Dorchester.
'Thank you, but I'll walk.' She had been alone at Fortnum & Masons and when she got bac to the hotel Michael was frantic with worry.
'For heaven's sake, Mickey. I'm not a baby. I can look arte myself. I just felt like exploring on my own.' 'Mater is
