A Guest of Honour

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A bird cried out on the roof, and he woke up. It was the middle of the afternoon, in the heat, in Africa; he knew at once where he was. Not even in the suspended seconds between sleep and waking was he left behind in the house in Wiltshire, lying, now, deep in the snow of a hard winter. The road to the village would be blocked, the dog ran over the soft fields breathing like a dragon … the kernel of the house was warm with oil-fired heating and the light from red shades, the silky colours of Olivia’s things — the rugs, cherry- and satin-wood pieces — and the red earth pots, bits of beadwork, the two fine carvings they once found in the Congo. A few days ago he was in that house, packing to leave in the flat progression of practical matters by which decision is broken up into reality. If you have any trouble with the boiler, for heaven’s sake let Mackie look at it before you send to town. — What a pity you gave away your shorts. — There’s no knowing if I’ll be anywhere where I could dare appear in shorts, any more. — But your waist measurement hasn’t changed by so much as half an inch — I know by your pyjama trousers, I use exactly the same measurement for new elastic as I always did. —

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