But Maryrose said quietly: ‘I suppose it must seem funny to you, since you are used to good families in England, and of course, I can see that’s different from a good family in the Cape. But it comes to the same thing for me, doesn’t it?’

Paul maintained a whimsical expression which concealed the beginnings of discomfort. He even, as if to prove her attack on him was unjust, instinctively moved so that Jimmy’s head fell more comfortably on his shoulder, in an effort to show a capacity for tenderness.

‘If I slept with you, Paul,’ stated Maryrose, ‘I daresay I’d get fond of you. But you’re the same as he is - my boy-friend from the Cape. You’d never marry me, I wouldn’t be good enough. You have no heart.’

Willi laughed gruffly. Ted said: ‘That fixes you, Paul.’ Paul did not speak. In moving Jimmy a moment before the young man’s body had slipped so that Paul now had to sit supporting his head and shoulders across his knees. Paul cradled Jimmy like a baby; and for the rest of the evening he watched Maryrose with a quiet and rueful smile. And after that he always spoke to her gently, trying to woo her out of her contempt for him. But he did not succeed.

At about midnight, the glare of a lorry’s headlights swallowed the moonlight, and swung off the main road to come to rest in a patch of empty sand by the railway lines. It was a big lorry, loaded with gear; and a small caravan was hitched on behind it. This caravan was George Hounslow’s home when he was superintending work along the roads. George jumped down from the driver’s seat and came over to us, greeted by a full glass of wine held out to him by Ted. He drank it down, standing, saying in between gulps: ‘Drunken sots, oafs, sodden sods, sitting here swilling.’ I remember the smell of the wine, cool and sharp, as Ted tilted another bottle to refill the glass, and the wine splashed over and hissed on the dust. The dust smelled heavy and sweet, as if it had rained.

George came to kiss me. ‘Beautiful Anna, beautiful Anna - but I can’t have you because of this bloody man Willi.’ Then he ousted Ted, kissing Maryrose on her averted cheek, and said: ‘All the beautiful women there are in the world, and we only have two of them here, it makes me want to cry.’ The men laughed, and Maryrose smiled at me. I smiled back. Her smile was full of a sudden pain, and so I realized that mine was also. Then she looked uncomfortable, at having betrayed herself, and we quickly looked away from each other, from the exposed moment. I don’t think either of us would have cared to analyse the pain we felt. And now George sat forward, holding a glass brimming with wine, and said: ‘Sods and comrades, stop lolling about, the moment has come to tell me the news.’

We stirred, became animated, forgot our sleepiness. We listened while Willi gave George information about the political situation in town. George was an extremely serious man. And he had a deep reverence for Willi - for Willi’s brain. He was convinced of his own stupidity. He was convinced, and very likely had been all his life, of his general inadequacy and also of his ugliness.