A cheer rose up from the English spectators as the wicket fell, just as it did when Thompson bowled Zulch, and then sent a fierce delivery at White forcing him to give an easy catch to Hobbs.
This was far from tedious for Fires, which surprised him, because he had expected it to be very dull, although it was not as exciting for him as Sulima obviously found it, as she peered out from under the shade of her parasol, clapping politely as the game continued at a steady pace until lunchtime.
Then they nibbled at the perfunctory cucumber sandwiches, with crusts removed, and served in dainty little triangles. They drank refreshing iced lemon tea in the shade, discussing the play so far, with Sulima removing her bonnet and shaking her hair free of the clasp.
Fires noted that one or two heads in the crowd turned to look at her, but they both ignored the stares.
‘Well, Fires...how do you like the game?’ she cajoled.
He grimaced, pulling a sour face,
‘It was fine at the start, but I’m becoming a little bored by it now, to be honest...All this constant changing ends and fussing around, fiddling with the ball and adjusting their clothing...’
‘But it is exciting for you to see your fellow countrymen play, yes?’
‘If they manage a win, then, yes, I suppose it may be, but, there are other things I’d rather do with my time...’
‘So, you aren’t happy being here...with me?’
‘Oh, no, Sulima...I didn’t mean it that way. I love being here with you and spending my time hearing your thoughts and your gentle commentary, even though I actually understand very little of what it means.’
‘Yes, the rules of the game can be awkward, even mysterious to the uninitiated...What do you have planned for this evening?’
The question threw him slightly, as he had not expected it.
He chewed and swallowed the last corner of his sandwich, and hastily washed it down with a huge gulp of the dregs of his tea before answering her.
‘There is nothing much on the schedule for tonight, really. I was going to pore over my books and do some studying, maybe have a glass or two of wine and then call it a night.’
‘I have wine...Why don’t you come over and keep me company?’
‘All right...I will, but what will the neighbours think?’
‘I’m not sure that the neighbours can really think at all, Fires, and, besides, Malik and I pay our £6 taxes every year for the privilege of being in this country, so I think I can pretty much invite whom I desire to my home for drinks, don’t you...?’
Fires nodded.
‘What time?’
‘Oh, come over whenever you are ready...and if you’re hungry by then, I could lay on some supper for you too...if you’d like that?’
‘Well, when given the choice of four drab walls and silence, or a night of stimulating conversation, good wine and your cooking, I think I know which way I’d vote...’
‘Thank you, kind sir...Now it looks like the game is about to begin again...shall we make our way to our seats?’
They spent the rest of that hot summer’s afternoon watching the South Africans finish their first innings with a final score of 89 for four wickets, although Fires had to have all the ramifications of this score explained to him as they rode back to her home.
He dropped her off from the carriage at her front door first, and then paid the driver, before hurrying back up the carpeted stairs to his apartment to shower and change into something more casual for the evening.
Feeling thoroughly refreshed he was soon setting off to the Rasool residence at a steady stroll back along the avenues that were now covered in fragrant purple Jacaranda blossom.
It was a lovely evening, but thick black clouds were gathering and building in height and Fires suspected that there was bound to be a storm later in the evening.
He cursed himself for not bringing an umbrella along.
Sulima had prepared a delicious lamb curry for them both, with aromatic basmati rice, some homemade poppadoms and pickles, served alongside a deliciously fruity chilled white wine.
Over supper, they chatted at length about life here in Durban for her and Malik, and about how difficult it had been for them to integrate into the community. The couple were seen as far too “Westernised” by the local Asians to be accepted into their group and were too brown for the whites, so they had few friends.
Fires was saddened by this intolerance.
Sure, he openly admitted that he had never been particularly fond of the blacks, but other than those that had mercilessly killed his adopted family, he felt no animosity towards them and saw himself more as an Indian now than as a white man.
He spoke quite passable Gujarati, although it still held the distinct undertones of his Afrikaaner accent, but he tried to practice and improve this with Sulima’s help over supper.
She laughed heartily at some of the badly worded things he came out with and corrected him where necessary, but for the most part it was an enjoyable and good humoured meal.
They went out onto the veranda together to watch the mountains of thunderclouds gathering and building for the imminent storm, and Fires reluctantly made his excuses to leave before it finally broke, otherwise he would have been soaked through to the skin, and battered by the heavy hail stones that dropped from the sky.
They thudded and bounced onto the grass like the new ping-pong balls he had seen in the toy shops lately, although he preferred to call it table tennis. Ding-dong, wiff-waff and ping-pong had always sounded such ridiculously unacceptable and childish words to him that he refused to use those names.
The following morning, it was cooler, thanks mainly to the storm of the previous night, but it was still warm enough for shirt sleeves and slacks as he collected Sulima in a similar carriage to the one that they rode in the day before.
The number of people in attendance at the game seemed to have increased, but then, he quietly mused, it was the weekend, so more people would be able to attend.
They took their seats to watch the South Africans finish their first innings and increase their total score to 199 all out, before England began to bat, with Hobbs nonchalantly strolling onto the pitch to be first at the crease
By the time he was finally bowled out by Sinclair, Hobbs notched up an impressive 53 runs in total, one of which was a scorching six that sent the ball looping high into the air and over the boundary to land in the cheering crowd.
It was whilst watching the ball arc gracefully over the heads of the front row of spectators that Fires first noticed the sandy-haired old man sitting in the middle of the English supporters.
Fires recognised him straight away.
It may have been a long time, almost a lifetime in fact, since Fires was incarcerated at the camp up in the Transvaal, but that man was definitely one of the soldiers who had watched and participated in the savage rape and brutal murder of his mother.
His heart skipped a beat and a rage was unleashed within him that he could hardly contain.
He swallowed it down hard, quelled and quashed it, and immersed himself in thought as he watched Hobbs continue batting, but his eyes were constantly drifting across the field of play to the part of the ground where this man was sitting.
Rhodes was caught by Schwarz off a tricky ball from Vogler, and this caused another roar of disapproval from the crowd, but Fires hardly noticed it and didn’t care at all now.
He leaned across and murmured softly to Sulima, asking her if she would mind too much if he didn’t escort her home from the match later, saying that he had recognised someone in the crowd from years before, sticking as close to the truth as possible, and that he wanted to catch up with them to talk about old times.
She said that she didn’t mind at all, but that there was still plenty of lamb curry left over, if he didn’t mind it, and that he must come around for supper again tonight.
‘What time would you like me to be there for?’ he asked.
‘Whenever you grow bored of
your old chum...Besides, it will give me time to freshen up after getting the supper organised...’
‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’
‘Of course not, Fires...’
He looked her in the eye, checking for a sign of disappointment or resentment, but she just smiled at him.
‘Honestly, it will be fine,’ she purred
The day’s cricket concluded with England scoring 148 for the loss of 6 wickets, but Fires was now completely baffled by the scoring system and gave up hope of ever finding the mental will to actually like the game.
The crowds began to disperse outside the gates and Fires watched the sandy-haired little man and his two companions carefully as he weaved through to the exit with Sulima, distractedly helping her into the carriage and waving her off, as the man walked away from the cricket ground.
Fires followed the three men, keeping a discrete distance, watching as the man chatted animatedly to his chums about the game, with an occasional outburst of their bawdy and braying laughter echoing back down the street to Fires.
He remembered that laugh all too well, and it made his flesh crawl as he struggled to subdue his anger.
They climbed the steps of a nearby hotel that was renowned for its panoramic views of the harbour, and Fires waited patiently as they shook hands and parted company on the steps, the man’s friends nimbly hopping back to the street as the older man ducked inside the hotel lobby.
Fires climbed the same steps and followed him into the lobby a few moments later, but the sandy-haired man had disappeared.
Fires approached the desk.
‘The old man who just came in here...is he a guest...?’
The desk kaffir nodded.
‘What is his name?’
The clerk looked at his register briefly and then up at Fires.
‘His name’s Henry Ibbotson, boss. Can I take a message for him?’
‘Yes, I’d like to leave him a message if I may...do you have a pen and paper...?’
Fires hastily scribbled the note:
“Henry,
I saw you at the cricket match and shouted to you, but I couldn’t make myself heard above the awful noise that the crowds were making. I didn’t know that you were staying here.
Leave me your address at the desk and we’ll meet up when we’re both back in Blighty to catch up on old times, eh?
Regards,
F.”
He folded and handed the paper it to the desk clerk, who pushed it into Henry Ibbotson’s pigeon hole above his key hook, and then Fires smiled, thanked him and turned to leave by the front door.
He sauntered out of the hotel reception area, whistling happily and almost dancing down the front steps to the street, before making his way straight back to his rented rooms.
There he shaved, bathed and changed clothing to be as presentable as possible for Sulima and supper.
He arrived at the Rasool residence to find the front door slightly ajar, a glass of freshly made gin and tonic on the small table in the hallway with condensation invitingly trickling down the outside of the glass.
He picked it up and took a sip.
Either Sulima had left it here absent-mindedly and gone off to do something else, perhaps cooking in the kitchen, or she left it there especially for him when he arrived.
He decided that it was the latter of the two and took the glass out onto the veranda, deposited it on the table, then, finding that she was not in the garden, turned on his heels and went back inside the house.
He sauntered through to the kitchen, gingerly peering around the door, but all he could see were a couple of pots simmering on the stove, as rice and the remains of the curry were being prepared, so he turned around and ventured out into the garden once more.
Sulima was nowhere to be found.
He was tempted to call out to her and announce his arrival, but this seemed rude. He contemplated his options. He could have done many things, but he chose instead to make his way silently up to the guest room where he had recently stayed over the Christmas holidays.
He wasn’t sure why he chose to do this. It was pure whim.
As he went towards the door, he heard the sound of running water from the bathroom across the hall, and he cheekily pressed his head against the door jamb, gazing through the slit that the door made with the frame.
Sulima was taking a shower.
He never knew what prompted him to do this, but he was glad that he did. Fully clothed Sulima Rasool was an attractive woman, with the grace and elegance of an aristocrat, but naked, she was all this and more. Fires was enraptured by the sight of her body. He couldn’t stop looking at her as she soaped her long lithe limbs, her head tilted upwards towards the shower jets as it cascaded over her torso. Her sleek, jet black hair was sticking to her skull. Her firm brown breasts enthralled him, the long legs parting ever so lightly and crossing at the knee to reveal her dark pubic mound as she slowly turned in the cubicle, allowing the rivulets of soap to slide over her.
He had seen pictures of naked women, mostly biological ones at university, but he was totally unprepared for this.
He felt a stirring in his underwear, thrilled at the sensation, even though there was a wave of surreptitious guilt sweeping over him at his behaviour. He turned away, and carefully crept back along the darkened hallway and down the stairs, and from there he went wandering out onto the veranda. He sat gingerly in one of the old but comfortable cane chairs and sipped at the gin and tonic.
The ice had melted and his erection subsided but the images of her did not.
As she stepped nimbly from the shower and wrapping herself in her towel, Sulima glimpsed a shadow move past the crack in the doorway and realised that it was the retreating back of Fires.
The naughty boy had been peeking in at her.
‘Well...’ she thought to herself, ‘Let him peek...’
She strolled out onto the veranda gently rubbing her hair with the towel, dressed in a light green robe that ended just above the ankle, cinched at the waist with a neatly tied belt.
Fires could see her nipples standing erect through the material.
She caught him looking and smiled.
‘Ready for some supper...?’
‘Yes. I’m famished to be honest. I could eat a horse tonight.’
Sulima laughed and led him into the coolness of the dining room, watched him take his seat and then seated herself facing him, her lank hair cascading around her shoulders and glistening, forming ringlets at the tip.
‘Help yourself to anything you fancy, Fires,’ she intoned, pointing to the dishes, but he began to have the feeling that there was more going on here than he had actually expected.
Was she openly flirting with him, or was he totally misreading this conversation?
Was he misinterpreting the things she was saying and reading other meanings into it because of what he had seen upstairs?
He picked up the cutlery and began to slice into the tender lamb, forking it into his mouth with some of the rice, constantly aware that he was being watched.
‘Is it better for you the second time?’
‘Oh, yes, Sulima, the meat really is tender, and I can’t believe how much the taste has improved...not that I’m saying it was tasteless the first time, you understand...’
She laughed, shaking her hair.
‘A lady likes to be appreciated for her talents...’
Again there was that almost predatory look in her eyes.
Was she teasing him?
Playing with him?
He took a hefty sip of the wine and began to splutter and cough.
‘That went down the wrong way...’ he croaked.
Sulima was up and on her feet, quickly padding around to his side of the table with a concerned look on her face and patting him on the back to help him regain his breath.
The nearness of her, and the smell of her, was deliciously inviting and he could feel the warmth of her body beneath the robe.
His
arousal resurfaced, suddenly making his slacks and underwear feel uncomfortably tight.
Her hand gently but firmly rubbed his back, between the shoulder blades, in small circular motions as the other, lightly touched his chin and lifted his face to her.
‘Are you alright now, Fires...?’
He nodded and smiled. He watched, mesmerised as her warm lips brushed softly over his mouth, then pulled back and she gazed into his eyes.
‘Have I shocked you?’
‘No, Sulima.’
‘You were watching me in the shower earlier, weren’t you?’
Uncontrollable guilt flashed across his face and for the first time in his life he felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment.
He nodded,
‘You are very beautiful, Sulima and Malik is a very lucky man.’
‘Hah!’ she snorted, ‘tell him that...Business always comes first for Malik Rasool.’
She skirted back around the table, her hand lingering briefly on his shoulder as she left him, and then seated herself opposite him once more.
‘Can I be candid with you, Fires?’
He put down his cutlery and rested his hands on the table top each side of his plate, looking at her over the wine decanter.
‘Of course you can...we’re friends...Good friends, I hope.’
‘I was more or less the same age as you are now when I married Malik, and over the past eleven years we have lived a comfortable and relatively happy life together...despite the fact that I can never give him children, but the man I married in his forties, is now well into his fifties, and his body is not the same, his attitude to me is not the same, and although I still love him dearly, I have desires that he can no longer fulfil for me....’
‘I understand...’
‘No, you don’t understand. You don’t understand at all. He has his illegitimate daughter to dote on and spoil whilst he is away on his so-called business trips...He stupidly thinks, in his naiveté, that I don’t know about her...little Naomi Rasool, but I do, and I have done so for a long time...which is also how I know for certain that I am the barren one in this relationship, despite all our attempts to do so, I am the wife who cannot bear him children.’
Billy (Hunger Book 2) Page 4
