The Geldenhuys Farm, February 1930

"This is our rocker," Daniel said as he deposited a wood and steel box in the gravel by the overhang.
      During planting there'd been no time to extract the gold, and immediately afterwards, Ben had returned home to marry Sarah, his childhood sweetheart. Now, carrying a pair of shovels and a sledgehammer, the newly married couple looked curiously at the strange device.
      "Excuse my ignorance, but what is a rocker?" Ben asked.
      "You might have heard of it as a cradle."
      Ben shook his head. "I'm just a farmer, man, not a gold digger."
      "You shovel the gravel onto that iron plate at the top, and the smaller bits fall through the perforations into this apron that rocks to and fro with the flow of the water. I'll dig a channel from the river later."
      Daniel took a shovel and demonstrated.
      "The gold stays at the bottom of the box. It's much quicker than panning."
      "It seems simple enough," Ben said. "Do we only use gravel?"
      "Gravel and rocks. The rocks in the bank have a higher gold content. We break those by hand. We're going to be tough by the time we've finished."
      "So, no explosives, eh?"
      "No. They'd attract too much attention. Sledgehammers will do for the amount we want. We can use the pump-house for cover."
      "What are we going to do with this stuff?"
      "It's too risky to sell locally," Daniel said as he piled more gravel on to the plate. "You never know who's connected with the Company. Jo'burg's the place. I know one or two people in the trade there who should be able to help."
      Daniel anchored the rocker in a bed of stones and then dug a trench to it from the river. Before long, a sluice of water was flowing through the box into which he continued to shovel gravel. When he stopped to rest, Ben and Sarah took over until he was satisfied that they both understood the process.
      "How's the new business going?" Sarah asked Daniel as they walked back to the house.
      "There's a bigger demand for independent advice than I'd thought. I'm getting quite busy. That's why I haven't been able to come to see you for a while. But I'm better organised now and I can spend more time here."
      "Are you quite sure about what we're doing?" Ben asked.
      "You know what the alternatives are. As long as we don't try to take out too much we should be all right. The Company's too occupied with politics at the moment to pay much attention to small farmers."
      "Are we going to manage the crushing and panning on our own?" Sarah asked.
      "We'll need one more person at the river. How about one of your tenants?"
      "No, man, that wouldn't be fair on them. And you know how they talk."
      "What about Matthias?" The hard working, cheerful Zulu cattleman who'd been such an influence on the dairy operations had impressed Daniel. "He doesn't seem to mix with the locals."
      "You're right. He'd be a good man for the job."
      "Make sure he understands that what we're doing will be illegal."
      "I'll talk to him at milking."
      "We'll also need someone reliable to help with moving the gold. I've written to a man I was in the army with - I think he'd be ideal."

Bulawayo, February 1930

As Daniel stepped out of his office, a slow, sultry wind blew through an avenue busy with pedestrians and ragged Africans trading wooden carvings making the best of the long walk in from the villages. Glancing at the purple clouds banking over the rooftops, he knew that he would have to be quick to get back to his desk before the storm struck. Usually it rained every day in February, but this had been a poor wet season and a cloudburst would be a welcome relief. Pausing to buy a newspaper from a child on the corner of Selborne and Main, he trotted up the steps of the bank and headed for the manager's office.
      Half an hour later as he was stepping into the street the rain struck in a sudden squall with a simultaneous crack and flash of thunder and lightning. Surprised by its intensity, Daniel jumped swiftly back into the vestibule.
      "Ouch!" He turned to see a young woman who had been following hard on his heels, clutching a foot while hopping on the other. Instinctively, he put a hand on her shoulder, then, kneeling, grasped the offended foot.
      "That won't be necessary, thank you very much."
      She pulled her foot away from him. Daniel straightened.
      "I'm so sorry. I hope I haven't broken anything."
      "It's not as bad as all that. I was more surprised than anything. It really doesn't hurt that much."
      There was gentle sarcasm in her voice, but not, he felt, unpleasantness. Placing the aggrieved foot firmly on the tiled floor, its owner rocked on it gingerly, then looked him in the eyes and smiled. Seeing her now, face on, he had the odd feeling that he'd met her before - many years before - yet she could be no more than twenty-eight - thirty at the most.
      "Impossible."
      "I beg your pardon. What's impossible?"
      "I thought … I imagined … I'd met you somewhere before."
      Again, there was that lovely smile, not just with the mouth, but also with the eyes. Was the smile for the silly thing that he'd done? Or was it for him? He decided that it was the sort of smile his aunt used to give him when he'd been clumsy as a child.
      "Perhaps we have met … or almost met. Do you remember the train from Cape Town four years ago? We had adjoining compartments."
      He found himself blushing now at his behaviour on that journey, but he couldn't recall seeing her face. It definitely wasn't from the journey that he'd remembered her.
      "I'm afraid I wasn't being very sociable at that time." He tried to recover his composure. By now, she'd turned away and was standing at the open door looking at the sky. In a floral, ankle-length dress, she wasn't exactly dressed for the weather, and he noticed her shiver in the sudden cooling brought on by the rain. She really was a most attractive woman, slim and lithe, and he was stirred more than he had ever allowed himself to be since his release.
      His post-Colchester Prison instincts told him not to linger; to leave before he became infected. Yet he couldn't say sorry and walk off into that rain-sodden Bulawayo street as if nothing had happened. Her eyes! Where had he seen eyes like those before?
      The rain eased. People moved from temporary shelters to continue interrupted business. Cars splashed slowly past them, a pony pulling a trap trotted delicately around a huge pool of water. Daniel and the young woman remained in the doorway.
      "It's almost stopped." She held a tentative hand out of the doorway.
      "Good," he said, then, to his embarrassment, he said it again.
      "Strangely, it's been pleasant meeting you … painful, but pleasant."
      They both laughed. Hearing her laugh echo through the vestibule convinced him that he had met her before. But where, and when?
      "I do have to go, or I'll be missed at home. I think it's stopped altogether." She looked outside again. "Is it going to come back?"
      "No. That'll be it for today."
      Daniel wished he could have said something momentous, something memorable, but 'No, that'll be it for today,' was all he could muster.
      "I really must go now, unless you planned on staying here for the evening."
      They laughed again. She's making all the running; she's the one with the witty comments, and here was he, tongue-tied like a schoolboy.
      Her speech didn't have that grating, cut-glass drawl that put him off so many middle-class Englishwomen. Neither did it carry the harshness that, after his return, he noticed afflicted so many South African women.
      Her voice was more distinct now that the rain had stopped its incessant beating on the roof and that powerful sensation of knowing her returned, along with another emotion - the one that had remained dormant for so many years. He checked it as soon as it arose. Was thinking he'd met her his imagination, or merely wishful thinking?
      "Can I see you home?" His voice, which didn't seem like his own, might have been projected from the banking hall.
      "I don't have far to go, but, thank you … yes."
      Having expected a rebuff, Daniel dismissed any thoughts of returning to his office. They stepped into the broad, damp, jacaranda-flanked avenue, she providing the direction, he helping her over a flooded culvert. To his surprise, she took his arm and favoured him, once again, with a gently confidential smile.
      "Where am I taking you to … to where am I taking you?"
      He adjusted his grammar instinctively. English was his second language, but the time spent at mining college in the north of England, and in the army, had been as much a part of his upbringing as his high veldt childhood. Although his English had improved greatly with George's help, he knew he would never speak it like an Englishman.
      "Have you heard of James Wilmott?"
      Heard of him! He was only the new Bulawayo Police Chief. A man who had already acquired a reputation for no-nonsense policing. Daniel was alarmed.
      "Fifth Avenue?" He guessed, hoping she hadn't spotted his reaction.
      "Nearly right. Fourth."
      Daniel had originally intended driving her, but the journey would be over in ten minutes, whereas the walk might take more than half an hour. As they picked their way along the muddy avenue, sidestepping pools of water and avoiding the splashes of passing cars, he was aware of a skin-prickling self-consciousness whenever he saw someone he knew. It was some time before he spoke again.
      "Is this your first visit to Africa?" How formal he must have sounded.
      "Am I so obviously new?"
      "No," he said quickly, thinking he may have offended her, "I haven't seen you around before. I guessed you might not have been here very long."
      "We came from Bechuanaland six months ago. We were there for eight years. I don't know Southern Rhodesia very well but I like to think that I'm an old Africa hand by now, relatively speaking."
      They lapsed into silence. Feeling the initiative slipping away, Daniel groped for a conversational lifeline.
      "I hope you like Africa."
      She paused for a while.
      "When I first came out, I didn't know what to expect. I had a very sheltered upbringing - small village, close family - it was the first time I'd been away from home. But I should see Africa as home now, shouldn't I?"
      The question was, as George Barker would have said, rhetorical. Daniel didn't reply. It was not for him to answer. She paused again and the tension rose as the question was left hanging. It was she who broke the silence.
      "You'd have to know England to understand how I feel; life was so insular. I don't think I was spoiled, but the people I knew were … they were so … so much the same."
      Daniel felt better about his own limitations if even educated English people sometimes found difficulty in putting thoughts into words.
      "I lived once … once lived … in England. I think I know what you mean. It must be difficult to adapt … the way of life …"
      He was annoyed with himself for starting something he couldn't sustain. But she hadn't noticed, or, if she had, it appeared not to affect her.
      "Yes, difficult is right. I knew there would be a long settling in period, of course."
      There was a tremor in her voice. She seemed to be struggling with her thoughts again, as if, about to offer a confidence, she'd thought better of it.
      "Where do you come from?" she asked, neatly changing the subject.
      The question took him by surprise. Her tone was bright, yet an underlying strain still seemed to be there.
      "Bulawayo is my home now, but it hasn't always been … I was brought up in the Transvaal."
      "You say you lived in England."
      "Yes, but that was before the war. It feels like a life-time ago."
      "Whereabouts in England?" Her voice had settled again.
      "I went to a mining college in Lancashire."
      "There's a coincidence. I was born and brought up in Yorkshire." She paused. "I suppose if it had been in Africa it would have been considered close enough for us to have been neighbours."
      "Yes, the scale of things is different; that's what you'll find hardest to become used to …"
      He slipped into a self-conscious silence that she once more appeared not to notice. A few more drops of rain fell - an afterthought of the storm - and they both looked skywards. But there was no indication that it was returning.
      "Are you a miner?" she asked. "You don't look like one."
      "Well, I don't wear a cloth cap, or keep whippets and pigeons," they laughed, "but I'm definitely a miner … of sorts … more a mining engineer, or a geologist … I suppose."
      The tension was broken.
      "But what do they mine in the middle of Matabeleland? Surely not coal."
      "No, not coal, gold; it doesn't matter what you mine, gold, coal, copper, whatever, the principles are the same. It has to be taken out of the earth as economically and safely as possible."
      "Are there gold mines here?"
      "Yes. Hasn't your husband spoken of them … about them?"
      "No, he hasn't. He says very little about the country, and …"
      He found her inability to finish sentences disturbing, as if she were willing him to respond. But he was too unsure of himself to do so. Perhaps she thought him slow.
      "The mines are only small. Not like on the Rand - that's the Witwatersrand - you know … Johannesburg. These aren't nearly on that sort of scale. I'm afraid they're all struggling at the moment."
      "Do people make a good living from them?"
      "Some used to. There are few privately owned mines in Rhodesia; most are either controlled by the Company or they belong to the Company."
      "Company?"
      Her husband a senior police officer and she's never heard of the Company? Perhaps she really knows and is just being polite. Or was she probing him? Reluctantly, he was beginning to wonder if she was genuine.
      "Maybe you should ask your husband. I don't think I'm the right person to …"
      He was suddenly aware - or perhaps he'd been growing in awareness - of the delicate situation that was developing between them.
      "Oh. You mean the British South Africa Company; of course I've heard of it." She raised her hand to her head to parody her forgetfulness. "Is there something wrong with it? You must tell me if there is. I can't believe James would work for anyone immoral."
      "Not immoral, perhaps, but powerful. I can tell you a bit about it, but I don't pretend to know everything, it's such a complicated business."
      Daniel felt that she'd pushed him into a corner. He took a sidelong look at her. Her face was blandly innocent - beautifully innocent. He decided not to tell her anything she couldn't read about, or ask her husband about.
      "Cecil Rhodes was worried that the British might allow Matabeleland to fall to the Portuguese or some other European country, so he persuaded Britain to declare a Protectorate by setting up the Company."
      "Like the British East India Company, or the Hudson's Bay Company. The scramble for Africa … I learned it in history."
      She took in the information avidly, as if he were her tutor. Daniel had almost forgotten himself in the pleasure of talking about a subject he was genuinely interested in.
      "That's right; they forced the British Government to recognise the Company, then they bought the mining rights from King Lobengula for thirty years in 1888. All it cost them was a hundred pounds, and a few other bits and pieces."
      "That doesn't sound very fair; anyway, isn't their time up now?"
      "Yes. But they got extensions, so the Company's still in business - but only just - nobody knows what'll happen to it. There's a Commission deciding its future right now …"
      Daniel hesitated. He didn't want to draw unnecessary attention to himself. Should he be talking like this to the wife of the most senior police officer in the region? What the hell. Now that he'd cut his ties with them, why shouldn't he say what he wanted to?
      "Some people think the Government will buy them out, but my guess is that they'll hang on for as long as they can, they're literally sitting on a fortune."
      "Don't they have opposition?"
      "No other company is powerful enough. It's a massive monopoly. Rhodes's successors are very wealthy and influential and the Government's so dependent on Company taxes that they're scared to lose it; at least, for the moment."
      A car drove past and they took avoiding action as it splattered through a puddle in the baked earth road.
      "You don't appear to approve of the Company," she said.
      "And they don't approve of me. I used to work for them. They didn't like the idea of anyone working privately in mining engineering, especially an ex-employee."
      "Why did you leave?"
      The alarm bells rang once more. Had he been too trusting?
      "For personal reasons."
      "So, you're not going to tell me?"
      "No."
      "Well, that puts me in my place."
      "I didn't mean to be rude, sorry."
      "There's no reason why you should tell me. Does that make James some sort of enemy of yours?"
      "Of course not. He's a policeman, not a politician, or a Company director. Even though the British South African Police were Company security officers in the beginning - Cecil Rhodes's bodyguard - they're now the national police force."
      "But they still look after the interests of the Company?"
      Is this another probe? He drew back from the brink, and told a lie.
      "I don't know enough about it to answer that. Everyone's struggling at the moment." He was searching for neutral ground. "Even the Company isn't having it easy, what with gold falling in value."
      "It's this dreadful depression, isn't it? I thought it only affected America and Europe."
      Ever since Daniel had resigned from the Company and set up as a consultant, he'd studied economics; now he was familiar enough with the fluctuations of the world metal markets to explain to Helen how, because national economies were linked, Rhodesia had also suffered from the American stock market crash.
      "How has it affected the settlers?"
      Daniel had hardly been conscious of the walk; the substantial residences and darkening gardens of the wealthier settlers barely registering on his mind. Now, though, assuming that they must be approaching her house, he slowed the pace. She also slowed.
      "Most Europeans came here to make a better life for themselves, and they feel badly let down. Some farmers have been ruined and have gone back to South Africa or England."
      "What about the Africans?"
      "It hasn't affected them as much; they're not as dependent on imports as we are. Many have gone back to the villages; back to the land. They're much more self-sufficient than the settlers."
      "So far," she said, giving him a searching look, "they're the people I like best here."
      Daniel hesitated. He'd never heard a white woman say anything like that before. Most felt even more strongly than their husbands about the African's rightful place in the country, and many feared them. He could imagine some very lively discussions in the Wilmott household.
      "I've shocked you, haven't I? We white women are not allowed even to think what I've just said, are we?"
      This was definitely not one of George's 'rhetorical' questions; she wanted a reply. He remembered one of his Lancastrian uncle's favourite sayings - 'if you don't want to answer a question, ask one back'.
      "Does it worry you?"
      "Yes, it does. I don't like the way Europeans treat them - even well meaning people - good church-going people - it's as if they don't allow them to have identities. Am I being silly?"
      "No. You're not being silly."
      A fresh breeze ruffled her skirts and flicked at the hair around her shoulders. There were times when she looked like a schoolgirl. His doubts about her genuineness dispelled, he told her about his family - about his mother and her sisters and brothers; of his father, who'd been more nationalistic than the most ardent Afrikaner, and of the barrier that had existed between them. He described life on his aunt's farm and the friendships he'd enjoyed with black children from the worker's compound; how aware he'd been of the contrasts between the Afrikaner and the African. He couldn't, he explained, think of one area in life that whites and blacks have in common: customs about life and death, illness and health, religion and love, marriage and child-rearing, and how these differences had created an almost total lack of understanding between the two races.
      Mrs Wilmott might be a stranger, but he felt able to talk to her as he'd never talked to anyone before; he confessed to her of the times he'd avoided the subject of race, secretly despising his family for their attitudes, and himself for his faint-heartedness.
      "The problem is that even talking about race breaks a powerful taboo; your own people shun you, or fear you …" Daniel was finding it difficult to find his own words. "And Africans distrust you because they don't understand."
      They'd reached her drive, but she appeared happy to carry on with the conversation.
      "I believe …" she began hesitantly, as if she, also, was feeling for the right words "… I believe that we've built a huge mountain between us, quite deliberately, and that it's up to each of us … who really care about it … to try to cross it … in our own way."
      "I'm sure you're right, yet the only area of life that we have in common is that our play is almost identical when we're children. I've often thought about that. When does the separation come? At what age are we when our cultures diverge? I've never been able to answer that question. Perhaps there is no answer; perhaps it just … happens."
      She listened intently, leaning slightly towards him on the front of her feet.
      He misinterpreted her look. "I hope I'm not boring you."
      "No, of course not. I've had so little experience. I can't really contribute much."
      The air was still warm in spite of the breeze and the approach of night, but now their silences were more comfortable.
      "How did you come to live in England?"
      "My uncle offered to look after me while I went to mining college. I was really keen to go. But I felt guilty; my family had done so much for me, even though we never got on. Even my father encouraged me."
      "I just can't imagine what that must be like; our family couldn't stop talking; we talked about everything … except …" she paused, "… well, almost everything …"
      She seemed to be about to carry on and Daniel would like to have pressed her, but something told him to hold back.
      It was almost dark when he opened the gate for her. Moths and flying ants whirled in a madcap dance around an oil-lamp placed as a beacon on the veranda step. Giant shadows stretched into the surrounding darkness of the trees. The sweet scent of jacaranda and poinciana, whose fallen petals had drifted into corners of the garden, mingled with that other most African of smells - damp dust - as warm air rising from the saturated earth met the cool breeze. A ground mist muffled their voices, creating an aura of intimacy.
      "I somehow knew we would feel the same way," she said, "I'm so …"
      The remainder of the sentence was lost in the breeze, or wasn't uttered at all. The tension rose again.
      "Thank you for being so frank. I hope it hasn't upset you … talking about such personal things," she said softly.
      Daniel, so full of emotion, turned away and talked into the shadows.
      "I've never been able to speak of … about … these things before."
      "I've learned such a lot this evening; thank you. I hope it hasn't been a waste of your time."
      Daniel, in his clumsy, un-English way, assured her that it had been far from a waste of time.
      "I've learned much myself. Perhaps we'll meet again."
      He couldn't trust his command of the language, or his emotions, to say more. He remembered another of his uncle sayings: 'When in doubt … say nowt'.
      "I do hope so. Thank you once more. Good night."
      She passed through the gate and up the drive. The lamp cast her shadow into the trees, and he watched as she climbed the veranda steps. At the top, she stooped, picked up the lamp, and carried it in. Lights played through the windows as she moved from room to room. The moon dropped below the treetops. Light and shade merged into darkness. Daniel turned and walked slowly back to town … he didn't even know her first name.

After returning from work that evening, James Wilmott went straight to his study. Silence pervaded the house, punctuated by domestic clatter and an undertone of conversation from the kitchen where Helen was helping Esau, their cook, prepare dinner.
      From a zebra skin covered settee, Wilmott contemplated his study, the only room in the house that his wife never entered. He unlocked a walnut cabinet and took out an ornately engraved double-barrelled, twelve-bore Purdy - a wedding gift from his Uncle Freddy. After oiling the mechanism and polishing the stock, he weighed it in his hands, caressing the wooden stock. Then, squeezing the triggers on empty chambers, he swept right and left around the trophy-hung walls - kudu from Khutswe, buffalo from Orapa, impala from Makarikari.
      His sights fell on the remains of his lion. It returned his stare, glassily, from the mahogany tiled floor, its snarling head and yellow teeth exactly as he remembered them in life. He recalled the chase. No telescopic assistance. No ersatz glory from the safety of a lorry with guides for protection. His lion had been a genuine stalk.
      He'd pitted himself against its cunning. He remembered out-staring its snarl as it crouched in the lee of a thorn bush, waiting for him to move. And he, too, had waited - waited for it to leap at him, then, when it was airborne, he'd brought it crashing to the ground, at five paces … with one shot.
      James Wilmott was a born hunter. Hunting suited his nature. But not the sort of hunting favoured by the rich and famous. For him, the stalk and the chase was everything. He was prepared to follow a beast all day, even if it finally outwitted him, forcing him to return empty-handed. He abhorred the so-called professionals, who slaughtered the prime animals, leaving a herd leaderless. If it had been within his powers in Bechuanaland, he would have denied those people shooting permits.
      He fitted a new mantle in the lamp, lit it, and banked more wood on the fire, prepared earlier by Esau. Settling at his writing desk, he worked steadily, sipping occasionally at his drink. At nine he prowled into the lounge where he poured himself another brandy, sank into an easy chair, lit a small cigar, and looked at a newspaper. Eventually he closed his eyes. Roused by the dinner gong, he poured a third brandy, splashed it with dry ginger, and took it into the dining room. He carved the roast while his wife served the vegetables. They ate in silence until the kitchen boy removed the dishes and brought in the dessert.
      "If I live in this country for another fifty years I'll never get used to how stupid these people are," he said.
      "What people?"
      "You know full well what people. I've just spent half the night correcting work that could have been done by a twelve year old."
      "There's no point in getting upset about it, James."
      "You don't have the problems I have to put up with. I have a professional job to do. You can tolerate their slap-dash ways; it makes no difference to you."
      "It's not a matter of tolerance. It's a matter of understanding."
      "Understanding what, exactly?"
      "Don't you see the difference in culture?"
      "Culture? What culture? They haven't got culture. Only civilised people have culture. They're not intelligent enough to have culture. I'll give you an instance. A sergeant and a constable are told to investigate illegal gold digging. What do they do?"
      She didn't reply. He would tell her, anyway.
      "They say to the farmer, 'Sorry to trouble you, baas, but have you got a gold-mine on your farm?' "
      "And whose fault is that? Isn't it you great white baases who insist that Africans ingratiate themselves; you make them so afraid of the Europeans that they're terrified when they have to investigate one."
      "Nonsense. Absolute balderdash … what do you know about policing?"
      "I hate to say this, but have you thought that you may be unsuited to Africa? You appear to have such difficulty in getting on with its people."
      There was a tremor in her voice that she knew she couldn't control. James had often criticised her for it, asserting that it was unbecoming of an English lady to show emotion.
      "That's the sort of disloyal talk that I'd expect from you."
      "I don't mean to be disloyal, I just think that you might be happier in an English police force. Perhaps we would both like it better."
      He jabbed his spoon into his dessert.
      "You don't understand, do you? We English were born to rule, that's why we're here. Not because we like it … not because we're happier … but because it's our destiny to be here. This wasn't even a proper country when Rhodes arrived, just a rabble of tribes. Now there are roads, hospitals, schools, mines, industry. We've created order and stability … for their own good. Without us, they'd sink back into apathy or anarchy. Rhodes didn't achieve this by being a bleeding heart. He drove in here … he dominated."
      "But the African sees things differently. He has other values -"
      "Where would we be if we accepted those so-called other values?" Wilmott interrupted, banging the table with his spoon. "Without us to give them the benefit of our civilisation there'd be no law, no order, no control … they'd be drinking themselves silly, or killing each other in tribal wars."
      "And what about our war? After what's just happened in Europe, do you really believe that our society is more civilised than theirs is? If that wasn't a tribal war, perhaps you might tell me what is."
      Wilmott glared at his wife as the kitchen boy cleared away the last of the dishes, his face bland. He had heard these rows before - not that he understood them.
      "You can't compare Europe with Africa - that was entirely different - you know it was. You're being deliberately provocative."
      Their eyes met - two unmoveable forces - reaching yet another impasse. They'd reached many since their wedding night.
      "Let's not argue tonight," Helen said. "I've had a very interesting day. I know you're in a mood because of work, but don't get it out of proportion."
      He lit another cigar allowing a haze of smoke to suffuse the anger in his face.
      "You're the one who has things out of proportion. It's important that you support me. I expect you to support me, damn it. Heaven knows I've tried to provide you with a life that you can take some pride in. It surely isn't asking too much to get something in return."
      "I know our marriage hasn't been very successful, but we committed ourselves to each other -"
      "Then why is it always me who feels guilty?"
      "You don't have to feel guilty. You know I agreed to allow you as much freedom as you needed after … after … Buxton -"
      "Not that again. For God's sake … you never miss an opportunity to rub my nose in that, do you? I'm going for a drive."
      She sat for a long time before going to her bed.