'It was wrong, Dirkie. It was a terrible thing. We mustn't even think
about it again.
She walked to the door.
'Mary.
'Yes.' She stopped without turning, her whole body poised like a bird
on the point of flight.
'I won't tell anyone, if you come again tonight.'
'No,' she hissed violently.
'Then, I'll tell Granny.
'No. Oh, Dirkie. You wouldn't. ' She was beside the bed and
kneeling, reaching for his hand. 'You mustn't, you mustn't. You
promised me.
'Will you come?' he asked softly. She peered into his face, into the
serene perfection of warm brown skin and green eyes with the black silk
of his hair curling on to the forehead.
'I can't, it's a terrible, terrible thing that. we did.'
'Then I'll tell,' he said.
She stood up and walked slowly out of the cubicle, her shoulders
slumped forward in the attitude Of surrender, He knew she would come.
In a hired carriage Sean arrived punctually at the Goldberg residence.
He arrived like a column of wise men from the east.
The seats of the carriage were piled with fancy wrapped packages.
However, Sean's limited knowledge of a three, year, old female's tastes
were reflected in his choice of gifts , Every single package contained
a doll. There were large china dolls that closed their eyes when
reclining, smart dolls with blonde hair and squawked when its stomach
was squeezed, , a doll that passed water, dolls in a dozen national
costumes and dolls in swaddling clothes.
Mbejane followed the carriage leading the gift which Sean considered a
master stroke of originality. It was a piebald Shetland pony, complete
with a hand, fashioned English saddle and a tiny martingale and
reins.
The gravel drive was crowded with carriages. Sean was forced to walk
the last hundred yards, his arms filled with presents.
Under these circumstances navigation was a little difficult. He took a
fix on the hideously ornamented roof of the mansion, he could just see
over the top of his load, and set off blind across the lawns. He was
aware of the continuous and piercing shrieking which grew louder as he
proceeded, and finally of an insistent tugging on his right trouser
leg. He stopped.
'Are those my presents? ' a voice from somewhere above the level of
his knee asked. He craned his head out to one side and looked down
into the upturned face of a miniature Madonna.
Large shining eyes in an oval of innocent purity framed with shiny dark
curls. Sean's heart flipped over.
'That depends what your name is,' he hedged.
'My name is Miss Storm Friedman of The Golds, Chase Valley,
Pietermaritzburg.
Now are they my presents?
Sean bent his knees until he squatted with his face almost on a level
