He found that he had a good view of the bungalow, and he was confident that he could not be seen. He waited, his hand gripping the whip, his heart fluttering against his side. He heard the sound of feet moving through the long grass. Then round the corner of the bungalow came four people: the Hebrew barman, the two Greeks and the woman with the blonde, untidy hair.
They looked odd and somehow sinister against the background of the peace and fertility of the garden.
The Hebrew wore a double-breasted, navy-blue suit, shiny at the elbows and knees; on his head was a howler hat. The woman had on a shapeless cotton dress; its pattern of flowers had faded with constant washing. Her thick legs were hare, and blue-black veins crawled up the backs of her calves. Her feet were squeezed into a pair of high-heeled court shoes. The two Greeks were in their black suits and cloth caps. They carried spades on their shoulders, and their boots were heavy with yellow clay.
A cigarette dangled from the blonde woman’s lips. Her fat, loose face was expressionless, but the Hebrew was weeping. He did not make a fuss about his grief. Tears welled out of his eyes and ran down the wrinkles in his leathery skin. He made no attempt to wipe them away.
The woman looked at the bungalow, her eyes bleak. “Was he expecting anyone?” she asked.
The Hebrew lifted his shoulders in despair. “I know nothing,” he said. “He didn’t confide in me. I told him it was dangerous to have a lonely place like this. I told him many times.”
The woman sat down abruptly on the grass. She was only a few yards from where George was hiding. She plucked a long piece of coarse grass and began to chew it.
“Sit down. The sun will do you good.”
The Hebrew and the two Greeks sat down near her. They looked self-conscious, worried. The Hebrew still wept.
“The way you go on!” the woman said impatiently. “I’m his mother. Shouldn’t I be the one to weep?”