He woke up at dawn, very aware that yesterday he had drunk a good deal. The girl was not in her seat. Through the windows, a red sky was burgeoning. He went to the toilet, took out his toothbrush and brushed his teeth thoroughly. He washed his face and combed his hair before going to the galley. He considered asking the stewardess for a beer, a hair of the dog, but decided on coffee.
He returned to his seat with it. The American girl had reappeared. Looking fresh and groomed. And drinking a can of beer.
‘Good morning. That’s a very good idea.’
‘Don’t let my example corrupt you. I’ve been up for hours.’
He went back to the galley and returned with a beer. ‘I’ve been up for hours too.’
‘Liar.’
He took a big swallow of beer and it went down like a mountain brook. ‘So, the Christian Science Monitor?’
‘Uh-huh. And you?’
‘Fishing industry. Is the Monitor a religious publication?’
‘Ordinary newspaper, now. We’re in Boston, Massachusetts.’
‘And you’re a columnist?’
‘I do what I’m told. And right now I’m told the boss wants a series of articles when I come back from South Africa.’ She made quotation marks with her fingers: ‘“All moral issues.”’
‘Well, plenty of those in South Africa.’
She took a sip. ‘Good stuff, beer. What do you do in the fishing industry?’
‘I’ve got a massive fishing fleet. One trawler.’
‘So, a sea captain. A girl in every port.’
‘Oh yes. Irresistible, me.’
‘Modest, too.’
‘One of the many things I like about myself.’
She grinned and he said, ‘James McQuade.’
‘Hi, I’m Sarah Buckley. Where does your fishing fleet operate?’
‘South West Africa. You probably know it by the name Namibia. Ever heard of Walvis Bay?’
‘Sure. Know something about Namibia too: 435, and the Etosha Game Reserve, I’m going there sometime.’ She added, ‘I’m going to the Kruger National Park the day after tomorrow. Then Natal. I believe that’s lovely? Subtropical?’
‘Yes. Bananas. Sugar cane.’
‘And Zulus? I’ve got an interview lined up with Chief Buthelezi. Then the Cape, then back to the dynamo of Johannesburg and Soweto, after I’ve got a feel of the place.’
‘So, you can go where you like and write what you like?’
‘It’s my busman’s holiday.’ She gave a businesslike smile. ‘So, if you’ll excuse me starting work so early, tell me what you think of your country’s politics.’
It is the question most South Africans are wary of. And weary of. But McQuade did not mind a bit. Not from the ravishing Ms Buckley. He imitated the public address system: ‘“Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to land in jolly Johannesburg. The weather is fine and the political temperature is explosive. Kindly put your watches back fifty years …”’
She thought that was amusing. ‘Where are you staying in Johannesburg?’ he asked.
‘At …’ She pulled out a notebook and flipped through it. ‘The Sunnyside Park Hotel. Do you know it?’
He did. And it was far too expensive for James McQuade. In Johannesburg he always stayed with Nathan. ‘Will you have lunch with me?’
‘I don’t think it’s possible. I’m being met by our man in Johannesburg. He’ll expect me to have lunch with him.’
‘Dinner tonight, then?’
She sighed. ‘I think I’d better take a raincheck. I’m going to be whacked tonight after two days’ flying. And so will you be. Maybe tomorrow night?’
He said uncertainly, ‘I should be getting on to Walvis Bay tomorrow.’
She said: ‘Well, shall we play it by ear? Maybe Matt – that’s our man in Jo’burg – maybe he’s not expecting me for lunch. In which case, fine. But I really think dinner tonight is not on for this poor body of mine. Where are you staying?’
He thought, The things I do for a fuck! The chance of one. ‘Funnily enough, I usually stay at the Sunnyside Park Hotel.’
‘Well, this is easy. Play it by ear, huh?’
He thought, Smart work, McQuade – even if lunch isn’t on she can’t refuse dinner in her own hotel. He was delighted with himself.