Saigon by Anthony Grey Page B

now make him hold back. But perhaps, he thought to himself, adults could detect such things without being told. Just by looking maybe they could pick out those who had, or hadn’t. He noticed in himself a definite tendency to swagger as he walked around the camp that morning and he had tried consciously to suppress it. But at least if his mother could tell, he reflected, she had not made any sign. 
    In fact Flavia Sherman had paid less attention than usual to her two sons since her arrival at the camp. The dawn ride alone with Jacques Devraux through the breathtaking natural beauty of the tropical forest had first heightened the pleasurable feeling of pent-up excitement that had been growing within her in recent days, then eventually left her feeling tense and on edge. Since the evening of the reception at the governor’s palais when she had turned her head to find him looking at her, the memory of the naked desire she had seen in Jacques Devraux’s eyes had smoldered in her mind. Because she knew he would be meeting her at the road alone, she had risen very early and bathed and scented herself with special care in her suite at the Continental Palace that morning. She had dressed her hair with a dark, crocheted net beneath her sun helmet and put on new, snug-fitting breeches and a tailored bush shirt that flattered her slender, shapely figure. 
    When she stepped from the car he had greeted her with careful formality and his manner had remained stiff and impersonal as they began the ride; but she sensed a tension in him too and knew intuitively that it was not a lack of interest that kept his gaze averted from her. Inside her she had felt a little sense of triumph begin to grow as they rode side by side through the cool bright jungle glades; sometimes she had allowed her horse to drift towards his on the narrow trail, perhaps hoping he might give voice to the passion his expression had seemed to promise at the palais. But as they made their way towards the camp he had spoken only to point Out signs of bird and animal life that bethought might interest her; in the mud at the riverside, he showed her the pug mark of a tiger that had drunk there the previous evening and at another point on the trail he drew her attention to torn-up grasses and leafless trees that marked the passing of a herd of elephant. Her eyes sparkled afresh at each new revelation and she hung on his every word, but his lean face remained expressionless, his eyes unchangingly distant. 
    “My sons told me you lost your wife in a swimming accident four years ago, Monsieur Devraux,” she had said at last, speaking quietly in French. “I was very sorry to hear that.” 
    She had chosen her words with calculation in an attempt to break the impersonal barrier the Frenchman seemed determined to keep between them. But if her words had any effect on him, he hadn’t revealed it; instead he had continued to avoid her glance, riding at her side with his features frozen in the same expressionless mask. 
    “Do you still feel her absence keenly?” she had asked, determined to extract a response of some kind. 
    “I’ve chosen to keep myself to myself!” 
    The vehemence of his reply had taken her aback, and suddenly she heard the throb of her own heartbeat loud in her ears. A flush of embarrassment rose to her cheeks at her own uncharacteristic forwardness and she lapsed into an unhappy silence, which to her surprise the Frenchman broke a minute later. 
    “My work fills all my time. Colonial life is very predictable. French colons love only to gossip. I prefer to hunt — and keep myself apart.” He had spoken his words with his habitual grim- faced detachment and still didn’t turn to look at her. 
    “When I first saw you at the governor’s reception. I thought you seemed.. unhappy.” 
    He had abruptly spurred ahead of her then without replying, and they had ridden without speaking further for a long while. The coldness of his manner had convinced