Khurram Iqbal

after about an hour they cam round to the water-front again. They sat under a huge red and green umbrella and ordered coffee and wine. a man came round and sold them postcards and then sat down to tell them about Madeira wine. He had very few English words, but he left no one in doubt as to what he meant. ‘Las Palmas wine and Italian wine pure water. Madeira wine, two eyes, four eyes.’ They laughed and he laughed. Then he sold Macmillan tawdy trinkets which everyone knew would tarnish before they got back to their ship. ‘Your girl friend won’t like it, Mr Macmillan,‘ said Clara. ‘It’s for my steward’s wife,’ he explained, and then he added: ‘I hate to be called Mr Macmillan. It makes me feel so old.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s John, isn’t it? and you are Obi. I am Clara.’ at ten they rose to go because their ship would sail at eleven, or so the captain said. Macmillan discovered he still had some Portuguese coins and ordered another glass of wine, which he shared with Obi. Then they went back to the ship, Macmillan holding Clara’s right hand and Obi her left. The other passengers had not returned and the ship looked deserted. They leaned on the rail and spoke about Funchal. Then Macmillan said he had an important letter to write home. ‘See you in the morning,’ he said. ‘I think I should write letters, too,’ said Clara. ‘To England?’ asked Obi. ‘no, to Nigeria.’ ‘There’s no hungry,’ he said, ‘you can’t post Nigerian letters until you get to Freetown. That’s what they said.’