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“Don’t call me that,” Harley whispered, peeking up at him, then down at the dusty pavement.
Lightfoot nudged the edge of the picnic basket with his loafer. “I brought sandwiches. Two bottles of wine from the Great Constantia farm too. I hope you have an appetite.”
No response.
Well, this is particularly awkward. The desire to make amends for the evening before intensified, but Lightfoot didn’t want to discuss such affairs out in the open on Adderley Street. “Shall we head for Sea Point? It’ll probably take us just over an hour with a cabbie—”
“No cabbie!” Harley bit, rising from the steps and dusting himself off. “We can take an omnibus, but my cabbie is completely out of the question.” Lightening flashed in his eyes. The boy was terrified.
“Fair enough,” Lightfoot said. He didn’t want to alarm the lad. Harley’s reaction was enough to have the hairs on his neck stand on edge. “Let’s find an omnibus, shall we?”
Harley glared at him, then gestured at the road. He waited while Lightfoot gathered the picnic basket and followed behind.
After a few moments, Lightfoot spotted an omnibus led by two horses trudging up the street. It was covered in real estate and barbershop advertisements and fairly vacant inside, save for three passengers. He flagged the omnibus down and asked the driver where it was headed. The gentleman informed him that its route passed Sea Point.
Harley had never taken public transport before. Lightfoot could tell by the way the lad drummed his fingers against his knees and nervously glanced behind them at the other passengers. Lightfoot sighed and sat back in the uncomfortable wooden seat. They were in for a long trip.
* * *
Sea Point was a regal seaside vacationing resort for those who made their fortunes from mining in Kimberley and the Rand. From where the omnibus driver dropped them off, Lightfoot could make out the leper colony of Robben Island in the distance of the Atlantic Ocean, isolated and alone.
The two walked in silence along the promenade, the rocky shoreline to their right, as Harley led the way to Queen’s Beach.
After almost ten minutes of strolling, Lightfoot’s view opened to sugar-white sands and a deep blue ocean. Shells of all kinds speckled Queen’s Beach, with prehistoric rocks leading to pools of starfish.
In the water, a few feet from the shoreline, a bathing machine had been rolled out into the sea. It was wooden and covered in a thick canvas. Three steps led to a curtained door that was slightly withered from the sun.
There was no lifeguard. Lightfoot and Harley were alone.
“Who are you, Asher?” Harley asked suddenly, tearing Lightfoot’s attention from the gorgeous scenery. “I know you aren’t who you claim to be. Try not to insult my intelligence when you answer.”
Christ, of all things, how on earth did I not predict this outcome? Lightfoot may have been shocked by the turn of events, but he wasn’t surprised. The boy was intelligent. He’d gotten too close.
Lightfoot considered creating yet another lie, one that would put Harley’s mind at ease and explain why he wasn’t an employee at Standard Bank like he’d said. But he wouldn’t allow himself to twist things further, even if it meant exposing himself to the young heir. Bloody hell, I like the kid too damned much to hurt him. Telling him the truth would complicate his current situation and put the job at risk, but Harley deserved to know. Clearly Lightfoot wasn’t as good an operative as he’d liked to think.
He tossed the linen duffel bag to the sand by Harley’s feet. “Get changed,” he said in his natural accent, his eyes scanning the beach for any passers-by. “We’re going swimming.”
* * *
Lightfoot confessed to everything — his true occupation, the freelance gig, the party and the Star of South Africa. He laid all the information bare for Harley to absorb and with every detail passed from his mouth to the lad’s ear, the lighter he felt. Harley didn’t even bat an eyelid. It was almost as though Lightfoot could breathe again as the water they waded in chilled him to the bone. The black cotton twill swimming costume did nothing to retain warmth. Everything was revealed, except his name. Lightfoot needed at least one detail to hold onto.
Harley handled the barrage of truths and unfurling of untruths rather well, all things considered. He didn’t interrupt Lightfoot. Asked no questions. It was only after the convoluted tale was finished when Harley whispered, “Dash my wig, you’re a fucking Cockney spy.”
Thunder rolled overhead. Lightfoot looked up and was taken aback by how the sky had gone from milky blue to threatening grey over the period of his confession. Fat drops plopped into the sea, creating miniature ripples around them. “Let’s swim to the bathing machine, it’s about to crash down on us.”
What started off as a meek drizzle of rain soon became a hail of bullets by the time the lads scrambled up the wooden steps of the bathing machine and pushed the curtain aside.
The bathing machine was small and comprised of two cubicles where Harley and Lightfoot had each left their clothes in heaps when they’d changed into their swimming costumes. Inside, it smelled of rotting wood and sea salt.
Harley pushed back wet locks of hair stuck to his forehead and giggled — the nervous, uncontrollable kind that takes over and turns a person manic. He rocked his head back and placed his hands over his eyes, his wet swimming costume dripping onto the boards of the bathing machine floor. Lightfoot couldn’t help it, he smiled. Watching the boy consumed by such a frenzy was endearing, to say the least.
Finally, Harley’s laughter trailed off into a gasping silence. He sniffed and wiped his eyes. “You didn’t need to waste your time winning me over. That was just cruel.”
Lightfoot was wounded. He couldn’t tolerate a second that went by of the young heir assuming their entire relationship was built on a massive ploy. He struggled to lace an honest sentence together. “I befriended you because I wanted to. Ever since I introduced myself in the Company’s Garden.”
“How do I know you’re not lying?”
Lightfoot shrugged. There was only so much he could say to try and convince the lad his feelings for him were genuine, but at the end of the day, the decision to believe lay in Harley’s hands. “You don’t. It’s a gamble, wouldn’t you say?”
