to her that Désirée’s bang-bang
did not count she started hopefully to resurrect herself; but ‘It does count,
it does. That’s the rule,’ Désirée counter-screeched. And Sybil dropped
back flat, knowing utterly that this was final.
And so the girl
continued to deal premature death to Sybil, losing her head, but never so much
that she aimed at one of the boys. For some reason which Sybil did not consider
until she was years and years older, it was always herself who had to die.
One day, when Désirée
was late in arriving for play, Sybil put it to the boys that Désirée should be
left out of the game in future. ‘She only spoils it.’
‘But,’ said Jon, ‘you
need four people for the game.’
‘You need four,’ said
Hugh.
‘No, you can do it with
three.’ As she spoke she was inventing the game with three. She explained to
them what was in her mind’s eye. But neither boy could grasp the idea, having
got used to Bandits and Riders with two on each side. ‘I am the lone Rider, you
see,’ said Sybil. ‘Or,’ she wheedled, ‘the cherry tree can be a Rider.’ She was
talking to stone, inoffensive but uncomprehending. All at once she realized,
without articulating the idea, that her intelligence was superior to theirs,
and she felt lonely.
‘Could we play rounders
instead?’ ventured Jon.
Sybil brought a book
every day after that, and sat reading beside her mother, who was glad, on the
whole, that Sybil had grown tired of rowdy games.
‘They were preparing,’ said Sybil, ‘to go
on a shoot.’ Sybil’s host was changing the reel.
‘I get quite a new
vision of Sybil,’ said her hostess, ‘seeing her in such a … such a social environment.
Were any of these people intellectuals, Sybil?’
‘No, but lots of poets.’
‘Oh, no. Did they
all write poetry?’
‘Quite a lot of them,’
said Sybil, ‘did.’
‘Who were they
all? Who was that blond fellow who was standing by the van with you?’
‘He was the manager of
the estate. They grew passion-fruit and manufactured the juice.’
‘Passion-fruit — how
killing. Did he write poetry?’
‘Oh, yes.
‘And who was the girl,
the one I thought was you?’
‘Oh, I had known her as
a child and we met again in the Colony. The short man was her husband.’
‘And were you all off on
safari that morning? I simply can’t imagine you shooting anything, Sybil,
somehow.’
‘On this occasion,’ said
Sybil, ‘I didn’t go. I just held the gun for effect.’
Everyone laughed.
‘Do you still keep up
with these people? I’ve heard that colonials are great letter-writers, it keeps
them in touch with —’
‘No.’ And she added, ‘Three
of them are dead. The girl and her husband, and the fair fellow.’
‘Really? What happened
to them? Don’t tell me they were mixed up in shooting affairs.’
‘They were mixed up in
shooting affairs,’ said Sybil.
‘Oh, these colonials,’
said the elderly woman, ‘and their shooting affairs!’
‘Number three,’ said
Sybil’s host. ‘Ready? Lights out, please.’
‘Don’t get eaten by lions. I say, Sybil,
don’t get mixed up in a shooting affair.’ The party at the railway station were
unaware of the noise they were making for they were inside the noise. As the
time of departure drew near Donald’s relatives tended to herd themselves apart
while Sybil’s clustered round the couple.
‘Two years — it will be
an interesting experience for them.’
‘Mind out for the
shooting affairs. Don’t let Donald have a gun.’
There had been an
outbreak of popular headlines about the shooting affairs in the Colony. Much
had been blared forth about the effect, on the minds of young settlers, of the
climate, the hard drinking, the shortage of white women. The Colony was a place
where lovers shot husbands, or shot themselves, where husbands shot natives who
spied through bedroom windows. Letters to The Times arrived belatedly
from respectable colonists, refuting the
Jennifer Anne Davis
Ron Foster
Relentless
Nicety
Amy Sumida
Jen Hatmaker
Valerie Noble
Tiffany Ashley
Olivia Fuller
Avery Hawkes