We knew only that we were in grave difficulty and that our personal problems were aggravated by the situation around us. Though we knew only too well the extent of our own difficulties, we would have been better placed to cope with them had we been able to know the current state of the political situation.
(Much later, I learned that at this time there was a large-scale welfare scheme being initiated by the Red Cross and the United Nations, which was attempting to rehabilitate all those people like ourselves who had been dispossessed by the fighting. As it turned out, this effort was fated, as with the worsening state of the conflict, both organizations became discredited in the mind of the public, and their work was used by all participating sides as a tactical, political or social weapon against the others. The result of this was a massive distrust of all welfare organizations, and in time their function became the superficial one of maintaining a presence.)
It was difficult to reconcile ourselves to the standard of existence we were now having to accept.
I found myself looking at the situation as being a predetermined one. That my attitude to Isobel, the way in which our marriage had become nothing more than a social convenience, had resolved itself. While we were living at our house we were able to disregard both the fact that our relationship was hypocritical and that the political situation of that period had an effect on us.
But now that the latter had so changed our mode of existence we could no longer pretend about ourselves.
In those few minutes alone, I saw with penetrating clarity that our marriage had reached its conclusion and that the moment had arrived when the pretence must be abandoned. Practical considerations tried to intrude, but I ignored them. Isobel could fend for herself, or surrender herself to the police. Sally could come with me. We would return to London, and from there decide what next to do.
For one of the few times in my life I had reached a positive decision by myself, and it was not one I liked. Memories of what had gone before — good memories — pulled at me. But I still had the bruises from the policeman’s boot in my side and these served to remind me of the true nature of our lives.
The past had moved away from us and so had the present. Those moments with Isobel when I had thought we might once again work out a way to live with each other, presented themselves to me as falsehoods. Regret did not exist.
We were due to arrive at Augustin’s the following day, but of necessity we slept that night in a field. None of us liked sleeping in the open, preferring to find abandoned houses or farm-buildings. I had never found it easy to settle when on hard ground and exposed to the cold. In addition, we discovered around midnight that by chance we had camped less than a mile from an antiaircraft emplacement. Several times the guns opened fire, and although searchlights were used twice we were unable to see at what it was they were firing.
We moved on at first light, every one of us cold, irritable and tired. Five miles from Augustin’s we were stopped by a patrol of U.S. Marines, and searched. It was routine, perfunctory, and it was over in ten minutes.
Sobered from garrulous irritability to our habitual watchful silence, we arrived in the vicinity of Augustin’s around midday.
Lateef detailed myself and two others to move on ahead and establish that the camp was still there. All we had by way of directions was an Ordnance Survey grid-reference which had been passed on to us along the refugee network. Although we had no reason to doubt this information — the network was the only reliable form of news-dissemination — it was possible that one or another of the military groups had moved it on. In any case, it was essential to ensure that at the time we were there we would not interrupt anyone or be interrupted.
While Lateef organized the preparation of a meal we moved forward.
The grid-reference turned out to be a field which had carried crop-growth. It had evidently lain fallow for more than a year, as it was overgrown with rank grass and weeds. Although there were several signs of human habitation — a soil latrine in one corner, many bare patches in the grass, a refuse tip, the burnt ulcers where open fires had been — the field was empty.
We searched it in silence for a few minutes, until one of the other men found a piece of white card inside a polythene bag resting under a tiny cairn of stones. It said: Augustin’s, and was followed by another grid-reference. We consulted the map and found that it was less than three-quarters of a mile farther on.
The new site was inside a wood and we found it with comparative ease. It consisted of several tents of various sizes, ranging from crude sheets of canvas large enough to shelter only one or two persons, up to a medium-sized marquee of the sort once found at circuses. The whole encampment was roped off, except at one part where a large tent had been erected. Anyone wishing to enter the encampment was thus obliged to pass through this tent.
Over the entrance was tacked a crudely painted sign on what had once been a sheet or tablecloth: AUGUSTIN. Underneath that was written: SCREW A BLACK FOR PIECE. We went inside.
A young boy sat behind a trestle table.
I said to him: “Is Augustin here?”
“He’s busy.”
“Too busy to see us?”
“How many?”
I told the boy the number of men there were in our group. He left the tent and walked through into the encampment. A few minutes later Augustin himself joined us. Few refugees know what nationality Augustin is. He is not British
He said to me: “You got men?”
“Yes.”
“When they coming?”
I told him in about an hour. He looked at his watch.
“O.K. But out by six?”
We agreed to this.
He added: “We got more in evening. O.K.?”
We agreed again, then returned to our own temporary camp where Lateef and the others were waiting for us. It occurred to me that if we told them where Augustin’s was the others would not wait for us, and our own choices would be correspondingly restricted. Accordingly, we refused to divulge the exact location, and said that the camp had moved. When it was clear we intended to say no more, we were given food. After we had eaten we led the others to Augustin’s.
Lateef went into the tent with myself and the other two men. The remainder crushed in behind us, or waited outside. I observed that in the time we had been away, Augustin had tidied up his own appearance and had placed a wooden barrier across the inner flap of the tent to prevent us from passing straight through.
He was sitting behind the trestle table. At his side was a tall white woman, with long black hair and remarkable blue eyes. She glared at us with what I took to be contempt.
Augustin said: “How much you offer?”
“How much do you want?” Lateef said.
“No food.”
“Food is the best we can offer you.”
“No food. We want rifles. Or women.”
Lateef said: “We have fresh meat. And chocolate. And plenty of tinned fruit.”
Augustin tried to look displeased, but I could tell he was unable to resist accepting our offers.
“O.K. Rifles?”
“No.”
“Women?”
Lateef told him, without mentioning the abduction, that we had no women. Augustin spat on to the surface of the table.
“How many nigger-slaves?”
“We haven’t got any.”
I had expected Augustin not to believe this. Lateef had once told me that at his last visit, when Augustin was in a more expansive mood, he had confided to him that he “knew” every refugee-group had several Negroes along as slaves or hostages. Notwithstanding the moral issue, the sheer practical fact of the constant searches and interrogations would have precluded this. In any case, Augustin appeared to take our word for it at the present moment.