Chapter Four

CLIO WAS IN BED, awake and smelling of perfumed fresh sweetness underlain with gin, and looking desirable in her usual nightwear of cotton briefs. She had not been in long herself, from the club, she told me, turning away dismissively. ‘Hurry up and get to bed. I’m knackered!’

Not a single question about how my evening had gone, but I suddenly found I was glad. I did not want to tell her of my final humiliation, nor of the amazing events which had led up to it. In fact, as I lay in the dark beside her restlessly twisting body and carelessly flailing limbs, I grew increasingly alarmed at the thought of her finding out. But surely the Evans wouldn’t want to disclose anything? My anxieties became purely personal once more, as I worried about how on earth we could even face each other, what on earth we could say.

Of course, as I might have guessed, it was not even referred to by Dave. His manner towards me changed. He was curt, his veneer of friendliness dropped, especially around the school compound, but he was even more unctuously friendly towards Clio, and in her presence treated me with a familiar contempt disguised as jovial banter. ‘I think he fancies me,’ Clio grinned. But then she said that about most of the menfolk, and she was probably right.

I was even more troubled as to what Mags’s reaction would be, but again I was surprised when, after avoiding her as long as I could, we met in brief privacy, and she said, with a lightness belied by the increased colour in her already tanned face, ‘By the way. Sorry about the other night. You know. I’m bloody hopeless when I’ve had too much. Can’t remember much about it, but Dave told me I made a right arse of myself!’

Arse is the word! I reflected, and reran the mental image branded on my brain. Meanwhile, I made all the dutiful right noises. ‘Don’t remember much about it either, to be honest. I’ve a feeling I was a bit of a prat myself.’ Haw-haw!

She seemed relieved. And funnily enough, it led to a greater level of rather exclusive intimacy between the two of us, all perfectly innocent, of course. A few days after our little chat, Mags approached me again. I taught English Language and Literature, and also did some Drama with the students. Amateur dramatics was one of Mags’s keen interests, as well as sport, and she enlisted my help in starting a play reading circle among the small expat community. I was keen, and the group soon became quite large, 20 members or so. Ambition grew, until we decided to put on a play, and perhaps, if we were good enough, take it “on tour” to various other upcountry clubs, maybe even for a performance up in the purpose-built theatre in the capital, 200 miles away.

‘You’ll be at home with all the other lovies, dahling!’ Clio teased. She of course refused to have anything to do with it. ‘It’s good for you to have some interest. I’m all in favour. After all, you’re not at all sporty, are you?’ Nearly everyone, male and female, seemed to be mad on golf, or tennis, or hockey, and the hearty, hairy guys travelled hundreds of miles each weekend to play rugger or soccer. ‘You do your thing and I’ll do mine!’ Clio teased maliciously. And I was beginning to realise, from all the smirks and sniggers and innuendo, the risquéremarks and knowing looks, just what her thing was. So I flung myself into “am dram” with a vengeance, glad of the distraction from private angst it provided, and, as such, developed my own little special relationship with Mags. It never reverted to the closeness of the dinner party night: my face driven worshipfully between her thighs, pressed to her bared pubis, or her resplendent nakedness rearing over me with her foot on my palpitating bollocks. But it was intimate enough, in its own innocent way. It was she who first introduced me to Jan.

Jan Thoroughgood. Raven-haired beauty, best and loveliest woman in the township, in the province, in the country, and in the whole world! In my unbiased opinion. I hadseen her before, at some of the special formal dances at the club, or on the occasional Saturday night in the crowded bar, but not often, and never to talk to beyond a smiling, nodding acknowledgement. In any case, I could never have got near for the crowd of eager blokes, tongues hanging out as they surrounded her, when she and her husband, Patrick, made one of their rare appearances. They both taught at a Roman Catholic Mission school, a good 30 miles away from the township, hence the infrequency of their appearance in town. They were both young, in their early 20s, and the story was they were childhood sweethearts – first and only boyfriend and girlfriend, married after they both graduated. And straight to their isolated posting out in the bush. ‘What a waste!’ bachelors and husbands sighed, and dreamed libidinously.

Patrick Thoroughgood was good looking too. Tall, athletically built, dark and brooding; a sort of Heathcliff character, with a personality to match. So rumour had it. ‘God knows why he’s such a miserable sod, married to a cracker like that!’ But maybe that was why, I thought, with all these Lothario characters sniffing about. He certainly didn’t seem keen to bring his bride into town, and I could empathise with him. Clio was giving me more than enough cause to feel an affinity with him.

But the fair and demure-looking Jan must have put her dainty foot down with some measure, unlikely as that might seem (and the more I got to know her the unlikelier it appeared!). She turned up one evening at one of our Dram Soc Meetings, literally arm in arm with a proudly beaming Mags, who introduced her as our latest recruit. And a damned fine one too! She rapidly gained the status of star of our little show, and, to my unconfined, dizzy rapture, I found myself sharing a leading romantic role with her in a Look Back in Angerlookalike, kitchen sink, angry young man drama steamy enough to be considered daring. Mags Evans was the producer, and took Jan under her wing – in fact, once rehearsals got underway seriously, Jan seemed to be spending half the week and most of the weekend on our compound, staying with the Evans. I felt I ought to offer to share the burden of putting her up, but chickened out when I contemplated facing Clio with such a request. Besides, Mags seemed in raptures over having Jan as a semi-permanent guest, and Jan was like a kid at Christmas.

In some ways I got to know her pretty well. ‘For God’s sake!’ Mags exploded one night, in her living room, when we were getting down to the nitty-gritty with the passionate scenes Jan and I had to enact. ‘You’re madly in love! You’re kissing like a curate and his maiden aunt. Get to grips with it! You’re going to be banging away like fury as soon as you get off stage! That’s what the audience must think. Get stuck in! Get your bellies grinding away. Open your mouths, snog each other. A bit of tongues! Get your hand on her cute little arse, Marty! Act, for Christ’s sake! You should have a stiffy to hang a towel on!’

I giggled hysterically. We both crimsoned, and Jan looked as if she would burst into tears. But like true troupers we girded, and ground, our loins together, and clamped our mouths together, open, lips scraping and even a timorous little flickering effort (though more of a pretence) at “tongues”. I even got my hand timidly on her left hip and extended my fingers to the top of her tight little buttock clad snugly in her jeans. It was a great effort, and we broke finally, gasping, sighing, our faces still blazing red. Jan looked close to crying, in spite of the embarrassed, unsteady laughter.

Mags’s dark eyes shone. I couldn’t quite place the look on her face. Anger? Jealousy? But jealous of whom? Suddenly I recalled Clio’s laughing description of the assault in the club showers, and my fecund, deviant imagination worked overtime. Could this possessive friendship Mags displayed towards Jan mean something more? Then my dark fancy got to work again, replaying the scene in this very room, the light a lot dimmer, Dave stripping his wife in front of me, me kneeling with my face driven between her thighs, her naked form poised over me, like a triumphant gladiator, foot on my infirm prick. Which was it? Mags and this beautiful young girl in a lesbian liaison, or poor Jan caught in the midst of a triangular attachment, getting the best (or the worst?) of both worlds? Both these scenarios, real or unreal, fed my fantasy and my libido in the increasing solitude which I endured, or enjoyed, as my wife grew ever more blatant in her determination to seek solace or excitement with others more capable of supplying it.

At least I got to get to grips with Jan, even if it was only in simulation. I was excited by it, encouraged as we were by Mags choreographing our every clinch. She seemed to get as big a thrill out of it as either of us; more, in Jan’s case, who, despite her valiant efforts to portray unbridled passion in our embraces, with considerable success, looked mightily embarrassed when we broke, huffing and puffing, and stepped out of our characters. My secret thoughts grew ever more lewd. Was Mags getting her kicks because she knew it was all sham? That she was the puppeteer, pulling all our strings, whipping us on to excess – and all the time revelling in the knowledge that in reality shewas the lover and possessor of all that beauty she put into my arms and allowed me to play with? All pure, prurient speculation on my devious part, but, spurred on by my fancy, I began to keep even closer surreptitious watch on them, and found food to stimulate my perverse inventions. It wasn’t until much later, long after their sapphic affaire du coeur had ended, that I discovered just how close to the mark my speculations had been.

Meanwhile, I had my own private torments to bear. Leaving with the taste of Jan’s divine lips on mine, the feel of her body in my arms, the fragrant scent of her filling my head, I would return to an empty hearth, and bed. Clio would be out late more and more frequently, returning in the early hours, often in the very lateearly hours, after I had spent those lonely hours tossing, and turning, in our bed. Sometimes I would summon enough courage to make half-hearted, bleating enquiry of her whereabouts, and she would round on me, all guns blazing, and blow me out of the water. ‘What the hell do you thinkI’ve been doing? You expect me to sit in night after night, while you and that prissy little cunt Jan Thoroughgood wrap yourselves round each other pretending to shag? Don’t worry! I’ve heard all about it. The sad thing is, neither one of you has a fuck in you, decent or otherwise! How sick can you get?’

I was convinced I knewwhat she was doing, if not the complete list of who she was doing it with. The trouble was, I didn’t know how to stop it. I couldn’t stand up to her. I never had. I tormented myself with visions of her infidelity (it seemed such a ludicrously old-fashioned and inappropriate word), and the mocking contempt in which our fellow expats, of both sexes, must hold me. I was particularly aware of my increasing discomfort in Mags’s presence, with the painful memory of the night in her living room, her nude body so blatantly proffered and my inadequacy to pursue it literally under her contemptuous foot.

So I clung ever more fervently to my precious, innocent assignations with Jan, and the joys of our publicly staged love affair. It meant so much to me that I couldn’t help stumblingly trying to tell her. She blushed as much as I did, but those beautiful dark eyes gazed so sympathetically, and with such unspoken tenderness, that I hoped she would understand. ‘I don’t mean – I’m not trying – you know, chat you up, or anything.’

‘No, of course not!’ she murmured, colouring up yet again. ‘I know that. It’s great. I enjoy it too.’

I was used to necking, to pressing her to me, to feeling her mouth open against mine, my arms hugging her close, always under public scrutiny. But now, alone in a corner, I found her warm hand holding mine and we both sprang apart as though shocked, our faces crimson with guilt. Yet that instant of spontaneous contact was treasured in my heart. To hell with all those sniggering, evil-minded bastards, grinning away at the metaphoric horns they saw adorning my feeble head, and Clio’s cruelty that had put them there. Jan was my one true friend, she had held my hand, and there was still good in the world. And then, along came Ant.

Such a ludicrous diminutive: Ant! Short for Anton – and not quite so ridiculous when paired with Clio, not in my tortured mind. The Shakespeare connection: Antony and Cleopatra, two larger-than-life, heroic characters, sexual love personified: My salad days when I was green in judgement ... Oh, happy horse, that bears the weight of Antony ... and all that jazz!

The play was no longer the thing. Our revels had ended, at least for the present. We had taken our offering to two other upcountry stations, after performing it on our home ground, and now the Dram Soc was in temporary abeyance. The show had gone down extremely well. On the strength of it I ventured out in public again, even daring to put in appearances at the club, my status elevated somewhat by our make-believe effort. Blokes actually hailed me, with a nudge-nudge fellowship. ‘Bloody good show! You lucky sod! Getting stuck in to Jan Thoroughgood like that! Christ, never thought you had it in you!’

I felt bad. I wanted to point out, I didn’tactually shag her, you know. It wasn’t true!But I didn’t have the guts and instead revelled in this pale shade of repute, though my newly resurgent ego was pricked by a grinning remark from one of the crowd. ‘I’d keep an eye out for her old man! I hear Patrick wasn’t too chuffed seeing you groping his missus like that! He’s a big bugger too – mean with it!’ I must admit, rather like Clio, he had shown no interest in the drama group, and had not accompanied Jan on the two weekends away when we performed at other venues. He had of course watched our home performance, but apparently had glowered in a corner at the late-night party afterwards, and dragged Jan away as soon as he could. I remember feeling bitterly disappointed at his boorishness, and its effect on Jan, who had reverted to her shy, blushing introverted mode before her disappearance. I wondered gloomily if we’d see anything more of her. Mags, too, was looking thoughtful, and I had a strong feeling she was as dismayed as I was at the prospect of losing our delightful fellow thespian.

But, as I said, I was shamefully determined to cash in on my entirely spurious elevation in our enclosed little community, and so accompanied Clio to the club that fateful Saturday night, and thus saw for myself the first entrance of the man who was to have such a shattering effect on my life – and that of others, near and dear.

That first appearance was dramatic enough. He caused a buzz right from the start. He was tall – six foot-two – and dressed in black leather, pants and short jacket, in spite of the heat – and heeled boots of the same colour. Hair black, too, and swept back from its smooth peak at the centre of his forehead. His complexion was brown, with a hint of dark stubble about his strong jaw.

There was a distinct rustle, a kind of frisson, an undercurrent of excitement, at his entrance. Most hadn’t seen this imposing figure before, but several seemed to know of him, and his name was passed quickly around, especially among the women. ‘It’s Anton Van Reis. He’s taken over the stock farm, and the transport company out on the Kundi road. He’s from down south. Pots of money, they say.’

There was a magnetism about him. It couldn’t be denied. I felt it, a kind of shiver, a prickling at the back of my neck, the fine hairs on my arms, and a sense of his power which made me oddly afraid and, even more weirdly, attracted. I’ve tried, and failed, many times since to deny that initial shock, to put it down to hindsight, in view of what happened. And I’m absolutely certain that Clio felt it too. Maybe not the fear, though I wouldn’t bet on it – it would be part of the excitement which I know beyond doubt struck her – a sensation from deep within her, in the very centre of her sex: a quickening, spreading through her, through every nerve and sinew, and up through her belly, to bring her small nipples to tingling erection.

Some time later I saw their eyes lock. He was at the other end of the small, crowded bar, but a message flashed like electricity across the space between them. I saw how she received it, saw the attraction, and the acceptance, in her animated face. She didn’t even glance at me as she pushed past and moved into his waiting arms. By this stage in the evening, the slow, sensual music was playing, and the hall was only dimly lit, the floor sparsely occupied by couples wrapped inseparably together. Within seconds, he and Clio were coiled together, swaying; I saw his black arm down over her bare shoulder, and his long, brown hand spread with firm possession over the curves of her bottom, drawing her in to his loins. I felt weak, as though I too was caught in his aura, its strength which would suck us both inescapably into his power.