Only Lucinda and I are awake. We are waiting for Bertil to come back after walking Vanessa home. We are listening to music and talking. She has her head on my shoulder. It seems to my susceptible mind that she is happy to be close to me.
‘Where do you think the lovebirds are?’ I ask.
‘Lovebirds? Don’t be an old fogy. But snogging on the beach would be my guess. Don’t panic, Dad.’
‘I want to go to bed.’
‘I will wait up for them. I am quite happy here.’
I kiss her.
‘Thanks. That’s kind. Goodnight, darling. Don’t forget to put the alarm on when Bertil comes in.’
‘I won’t. It was such a lovely wedding, Dad. And you made a great speech.’
‘Thanks, my darling.’
I pop into Isaac’s room to see if he is all right. He has a small room of his own now. He is sleeping, clutching his teddy bear. For a moment his hands are opening and clenching. There is something magical about a child’s bedroom. Isaac’s hair spreads out on the pillow, framing his face, so that he has some of the aspects of an icon. I can’t let him go.
As I slide into bed, Nellie, half asleep, whispers, ‘Hello, darling, it’s so good to see you again. My husband. I love to say that.’
Her breath is warm and enticing. I want to tell her to look at the moon on the water; it is like pewter, gleaming rather than shining. But I don’t suggest it because I know I am too ready to push people to admire a view or the birds or the protea bushes or even – as the other day – little tongues of water advancing across the parched earth. Georgina’s diagnosis is that I am an insecure colonial, always too ready to make a point: It’s not English, Frank. Believe me it really isn’t. Even now I can hear the contempt in her voice.
The pleasure of curling up with Nellie, my wife, is intense. I kiss her and she smiles, half asleep. We don’t speak; we don’t need words at this moment, as if we have made a fair exchange of our essences.