splitting along the creases from constant refolding. It was a long
letter, much of it devoted to detailed description of the clumsy
sparring along the Tugela laver in which Butler's army was now
engaged.
There was one reference to the headaches from which the writer
periodically suffered as a result of his wound which was now externally
healed, and many more to the deep gratitude that Saul felt for him.
These embarrassed Sean to such an extent that when re-reading the
letter he scowled and skipped each one as he came to it.
But there was one paragraph to which Sean returned each time, and read
slowly, whispering it to himself so that he could savour each word: I
remember telling you about Ruth, my wife. As you know, she escaped
from Pretoria and is in Pietermaritzburg staying with relatives of
hers. Yesterday I had a letter from her that contained the most
wonderful tidings. We have been married four years this coming June,
and now at last as a result of our brief meeting when she arrived in
Natal-I am to become a father! Ruth tells me she has determined on a
daughter (though I am certain it will be a son!) and she has selected a
name. It is a most unusual name, to be charitable-I can see that it
will require a great deal of diplomacy on my part to make her change
her mind. (Among her many virtues is an obstinacy reminiscent of the
rock of ages.) She wants to name the poor waif -Storm'@-Storm
Friedman-and the prospect appauls me!
Although our faiths differ, I have written to Ruth asking her agree to
your election as
'Sandek'-which is the equivalent of godfather. I can foresee no
objection from Ruth (especially in view of the debt which we both owe
you) and it needs now only your consent.
Will you give it?
At the same time I have explained to Ruth your present situation and
address (co Greys Hospital!) and asked her to visit you there so that
she can thank you personally. I warn you in advance that she knows as
much about you as I do-I am not one to hide my enthusiasms!
Lying with the letter clutched in his hand, Sean stared out across the
lawns into the sunlight. Beneath the bedclothes, swelling up like a
pregnant belly, was the wicker basket that cradled his leg. 'Storm!'
he whispered, remembered the lightning, playing blue and blinding white
upon her body.
'Why doesn't she come?' Three weeks he had waited for her. 'She knows
that I am here, why doesn't she come to me?'
'Visitors for you. ' The sister paused beside him and straightened the
bedclothes.
'Who? ' He struggled up on to his good elbow, with the other arm still
in its sling across his chest.
'A lady.' And he felt it surge through him. 'And a small boy. ' The
cold backwash of disappointment, as he realized it was not her.
Then immediately guilt, Ada and Dirk, how could he hope it was someone
else?
Without the beard Dirk did not recognize him until he was ten paces
