PETER: Hello, Betsheb. [To FRANCIS] Are you going to stay here… with her?

FRANCIS: Why not?

He releases BETSHEB, and she lies on the ground and stares contentedly at the sky.

PETER: You’re mad. How in hell will you two survive out here?

FRANCIS: They survived; why not us? It doesn’t matter, anyway. Why should I go back? How can I go back after all I’ve seen? This is what I hate about this country: it pretends nothing important ever happened. Everything we experienced overseas… we return and pretend we never experienced it. I shot that German, not out of pity, but because I was filled with hate. Alright, pretend it didn’t happen. You helped co-ordinate the bombing raids over Germany. Forget it. We obliterated a group of people, not through deliberate cruelty, but through plain stupidity and indifference. Doesn’t matter, no problems, mate. Indifference is our guiding star. We’d sooner turn our attention to making a quick quid, like children amused by shiny trinkets. We’d sooner wipe out all unpleasant memories, block our ears and pretend we can’t hear the cry of pain. If we heard that cry, then our sense of ourselves would be deeper, then we shall have reached home. We are lost, rootless people: she isn’t.

PETER: You’re running away.

Silence.

FRANCIS: Will you stay with us for tonight?

PETER: If I leave now, I’ll get back to the track before dark. [Pause.] I’ll say I couldn’t find you.

He looks at BETSHEB, who still lies on the ground staring contentedly up at the sky and trees.

BETSHEB: [happily] Rack ’n’ cat o’ the windy, bumpin’ thru the trees.

PETER: She can’t offer you a future.

BETSHEB: Sprits o’ Melorne, Ayre, Stef, Mac, Angel. Liptalkin’ softly, swirlin’ in the cunty dell o’ moss ’n’ ferny clotty ’eart. The moon is a white ’ole, I crawl int’ it t’ dream. Ayre liptalkin’ thru me ’eart. The bird listen, he liptalk thru ’is soul. Sprits outburstin’ around ’n’ around, a-yellin’, a-kissin’. All goldy things. All goldy sow. ’Ome. I come ’ome.

Silence.

PETER: What she’s describing doesn’t exist; it’s a figment of her imagination.

FRANCIS: She can teach me how to see it.

PETER: But it’s not real.

BETSHEB: [softly, singing]

Rain, rain, go thy way,
Come a-back ne’er a day.

PETER: Goodbye, Betsheb.

She pays no attention.

She lives in a world of her own. You know that. She destroyed my father just as she’ll destroy you. You have done the wrong thing.

FRANCIS: Maybe I have; I don’t know. But she’s all I’ve got to believe in.

PETER: Goodbye.

FRANCIS nods a ‘Goodbye’. PETER departs. Silence. BETSHEB continues to sing softly to herself.

FRANCIS: Betsheb? Betsheb?