by Jan Andersen
When she got back to Alex she was briefly tempted to tell him what she had overheard. Since he was not tied up with the farm he might even tell her the truth about his father’s intentions. But she overcame the temptation. He was still a Lawson and it was unfair to expect him to divide his loyalties. Not only that, but he had never made any secret of his antagonism towards Roger.
Instead she let Alex put his arm lightly across her shoulders and lead her through the rose garden to the edge of the orange groves. The scent of the flowers and the sharp tang of the oranges were all around them. In the distance they could hear the crackle of the dying fires and the voices of the guests carried on the still air. Leaning on the gate, they looked across the tops of the fruit trees, their glossy leaves shining darkly in the moonlight.
“You’re beautiful, Tracy,” he said suddenly.
Her heart jumped a little, but she said lightly, “It’s only the moonlight. The African moonlight creates an illusion.”
His lips touched hers. “The African moon has never created an illusion like this for me. I just want to look at you and wonder at my luck in meeting you.” Suddenly he took hold of both her hands and said urgently, “Come up to the Park, you can get a job in the Warden’s office ... I can’t bear being so far away from you.”
“And Green Bays?” she reminded him gently. “Roger Louw can run it for you. Anyway, it’s no life for a girl working in the orchards like you do. Surely you could find a man to help him, a trained assistant manager?”
“Perhaps, but I can’t afford it,” she told him frankly. “The farm is only just beginning to pay its way. An extra drain like that or a bad year, could at this point put us back at least two years. Father put all his capital in, I understand, he hadn’t really started to draw anything out except for his immediate needs.”
“But if you didn’t have Green Bays,” he persisted, “Would you consider coming then?”
“I expect so,” she said slowly, “but there’s little chance of that at the moment, Alex.”
“I know ... it was my pride talking. But I still say it’s no life for a girl.”
And Julia? she wanted to ask. Or life in a game reserve? She had already seen that the comforts there were only on the surface. It was a rough, tough business that gave little quarter.
They wandered back to join the rest of the party, a few of whom were already in the swimming pool. Someone, she saw, even dived in fully dressed.
“He always does that,” Alex whispered. “It’s his party trick. Last time he lost his car keys at the bottom of the pool and refused to go home until they had been retrieved.”
When Alex said he ought to go and talk to a few people she was quite content to sit on the edge and watch. The whole evening had a dreamlike quality as if she were watching a play yet not taking part.
“Enjoying yourself?” Roger eased himself on to the low stone wall beside her.
She controlled a snappish answer and instead answered politely, “Yes, thank you,” like a child doing its duty.
She knew immediately he had sensed her change of mood by the abrupt motion of his head, but he did not ask what was wrong. He was a man who preferred action to words and she knew he would never pry if he felt his curiosity to be unwelcome. A little while ago she was bubbling over with happiness ... now, edginess had replaced it and she merely wanted to go home.
As if sensing her thoughts Roger tapped the ash from his pipe out against the wall and said, “Let me know when you would like to go and I’ll be ready. Or,” he had another thought and added curtly, “would you prefer someone else to drive you?”
Alex? Of course she would, but she could hardly take him from the guests. Besides, she and Roger still had to work together; nothing had changed on the surface except she must not learn to accept him completely on trust.
“I think I’d like to go soon,” she answered. “It’s been a lovely party, but I haven’t got used to the South African habit of carrying on till the small hours.”
His smile was wry. “If it’s any comfort, I doubt whether any of these people will be up before nine tomorrow.”
“Not even Julia?” she shot at him, unable to resist just one dig.
“No, not even Julia,” came back the calm answer.
It was after that evening that Tracy seriously began to consider her position. There was little doubt that she stood alone, just when she badly needed so much advice. Oh, the fruit crop would turn out all right, the farm might even be efficiently run, but as long as this current of uncertainty ran through her life she would never feel easy. It was the whole future of herself and Green Bays she needed to consider. Mr. Rens might help, but he did not know the ins and outs of the relationship between herself and the Lawsons ... and of course, Alex and Roger. She certainly could not talk it over with her mother when she arrived. She would only flutter and insist on doing what Tracy thought best. More and more she realised how essential it was becoming to find Uncle George. A man to lean on; a man to take decisions. A man who was as committed to Green Bays as she was.
'"'here and then she made the decision to go to Kimberley the next week and follow up the only tiny clue she had.
Before that happened disaster struck Green Bays.
The first thing was that Roger went down with a virulent type of gastric bug. He struggled in from the orchards one lunch time looking so grey and ill that both she and Noni were shocked into action.
They helped him to a chair and Noni brought cold water.
“What is it, Roger?” asked Tracy anxiously. “What’s wrong? Shall I get the doctor?”
He shook his head. “No, but you could ring him and ask him for some of what I call his ‘anti-miraculous’.” He summoned the shadow of a grin. “It’s a particularly nasty tummy bug that I’ve had a couple of times before. Makes me feel like death for a couple of days.” He struggled to his feet. “I’ll go straight to bed if you don’t mind. And nothing but water, Noni, or weak tea. And if either of you hear me use foul language, I beg you to ignore it.”
He swayed as he reached the door and they both rushed to hold him. He did not even object when they helped him up the stairs to one of the spare rooms. He must be ill indeed, Tracy decided, for normally he was an almost ridiculously independent kind of man.
He collapsed on the bed, his face the colour of damp paper. Noni wrung a rag out in cold water and wiped the sweat from his skin. “You go phone the doctor, missie,” she said. “I will help him with his clothes.” Tracy nodded and fled downstairs, worried in spite of what Roger had said. She had never seen a man look so ill.
The doctor reassured her slightly. “You sound more worried than he is, Miss Jamieson. I expect he’s quite right about what’s wrong with him. I understand he picked up this virus in the Kalahari Desert two or three years ago. I’ll get the medicine made up, but I’ll also pop round to see him. Be on the safe side, you know. You can count on him being out of action for at least a week.”
“Oh,” said Tracy weakly, wondering now about the fruit which was in a crucial stage of ripening. If Roger’s calculations were right the navels would need picking around then. She swallowed. Well, if the worst came to the worst she would simply have to ask Mr. Lawson.
For two days Roger lay almost in a stupor. He was sick every time he moved and would take nothing but the medicine and cold water. He also had a high fever, and Noni and Tracy changed his sheets a couple of times a day and took it in turns to bathe his soaking forehead. He hardly recognized them. Once or twice he tried to smile, but he could hardly keep his eyes open. To Tracy, unused to serious illness, he appeared to be dying, and she was surprised at her own intensity of will that he should get better. Seeing him lying there helpless, hour after hour, made him seem less harsh, less dominating and his eyes less fierce.
On the third day he showed the first slight signs of improvement. He asked for tea instead of water—the first words he had spoken, and when he fell asleep immediately afterwards he seemed more relaxed instea
d of tossing and turning as he had been doing. Noni nodded sagely, “He will get better now.”
He woke again that evening when it was cooler and saw Tracy standing with a tray at the end of his bed. He opened one eye and said, “Hello, Flo.”
“Flo?” she repeated stupidly.
“Nightingale’s the name. You look like a stem ministering angel standing there.”
She smiled. “Well, thank goodness you sound a bit normal.”
“Have I been impossible?”
“No, I imagine it’s from now on you’re going to get impossible. Here, drink this.”
He tried to struggle into a sitting position and groaned. “Oh, God, I thought I was better!”
“Well, you’re not,” she answered briskly, and plumped up the pillows behind him, helping him to raise his head and drink just as she and Noni had been doing the last couple of days, only then he had not been aware of them.
He lay back gasping. “That tasted good, but I didn’t know drinking required so much strength.”
“Is there anything else you’d like? The doctor said you should start eating as soon as you could.”
“Some dry toast.” As she moved away from the bed he grasped her wrist. “Thanks, Tracy. Nice, no fuss, that’s what I like. I must remember to be ill more often.” More seriously he added, “The fruit, is all right? I should be back in harness in a couple of days.” She did not try to disillusion him on that score. “It’s fine,” she told him. “Dinga managed to convey that it will be at least another few days before the navels are ready. By that time you can see for yourself.”
“I’ll have to see before then. Perhaps I can manage a quick look tomorrow.”
She merely raised her eyebrows expressively and went to fetch the toast.
By the next morning, although still very weak, he was much more himself, demanding a shave and a lightly boiled egg. He also demanded to see Dinga.
“Tomorrow,” Tracy told him firmly. “You can see him tomorrow.”
‘Bossy!” he snarled at her, half good-humouredly. But later that day Dinga himself came to the house, his eyes round and anxious panting with exertions from running. With his expressive hands he tried to tell Tracy what he wanted, but she had to send for Noni.
“He wants to see the master,” Noni said slowly. “I don’t know why, but I think important.”
Tracy was tempted to tell him to go away, but one look at his scared face told her she could not. And only Roger could understand what he was trying to say.
The tall old African looked uncomfortable in the bedroom, but his grunts and gesticulations obviously spoke worlds to Roger. Twice he roared questions at him and waited impatiently for the answers. At last he slumped back on his pillow.
Tracy waited too, knowing he would speak when he was ready.
He turned at last to her. “Red Scale,” he said bleakly.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TRACY stared at him. “But that’s impossible! You said so yourself last time we ... we talked about it. It can’t just spring up overnight when you’ve been watching the fruit so carefully. So have I, for that matter, now I know what it’s all about. A disease like that only comes through neglect—you said so yourself.”
“I know I said it,” he snapped, “and I was right too. There must be a mistake. All right, Dinga,” he tried to pacify the old man, who was obviously about to insist that he had not made a mistake, “but there must be something terribly wrong. I must see for myself.” Too quickly he tried to get out of bed, only to discover his legs simply would not hold him.
He cursed roundly as Dinga lifted him back on to the bed, and if the position had not been so serious Tracy would have chuckled at his helplessness. The strong, indomitable Roger Louw weaker than a kitten!
“All right,” he barked, “if I can’t walk, then someone will have to carry me. Go on, Dinga, don’t just stand there gaping, get one of the others and a flat piece of wood. I’m going to see that fruit for myself if it’s the last thing I do.” He thumped his fist against the palm of his hand. “They must be wrong, they simply must be wrong.”
The little procession moved slowly down to the top orchard where Dinga and the other African transferred Roger into one of the handcarts. Tracy could see the strain on his face. He was well enough lying in bed, but now the beads of sweat were standing out on his forehead. Impulsively she reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “Take care, Roger, we’ll get through it, whatever it is.”
His grin was lopsided. “I always thought I was the optimist. I don’t feel like it just now.”
Finally they reached the lower orchard and Dinga brought the cart to a halt beside the nearest tree. Tracy had never seen the minute red-scale insect before, but she would have known immediately that something was wrong. The dark shiny leaves were disfigured with tiny blemishes which had already spread to some of the fruit.
In silence they moved on from tree to tree, all of which told the same story.
“It’s early, surely,” Tracy said at last, feeling near to weeping with dismay. “Is there no hope of saving the fruit?”
“It’s doubtful, even at this stage,” Roger told her. “All we can do is to stop it spreading to every other orchard unless it’s done that already. One female insect can produce three hundred more. Work that one out!” He looked towards Dinga. “How far does it go?”
The old African held up three, then five fingers. “Three to five acres ... well, we may beat it yet.” He closed his eyes in weariness. “Take me back to the house, I can think better from there.”
They put him back to bed and he did not demur, only muttering once, “God, I feel terrible again.” His eyes focused on Tracy. “You’ll have to deal with this ... you and Dinga.”
“Tell me what to do,” she said quietly, “and I’ll do it.”
He asked for pencil and paper and wrote down some figures. “Now listen carefully, we’ve no time to get outside help, we shall just have to go cap in hand to the Lawsons. It makes me feel like throwing up to do it, but we have no alternative. Ask for his spraying gang to get over here first thing in the morning. Tell him the amount you need ... I’ve written it there. Ring him now; if you’re lucky you should catch him around this time.”
Tracy nodded and raced downstairs. She did finally get hold of Mr. Lawson, who listened to her story and then said, “Well, well, so the mountain is coming to Mohammed after all. Things must be bad up there for young Louw to seek our help.”
“We’re just doing as any neighbours would do,” she said between her teeth. “If you can’t help, Mr. Lawson, please tell me now and I’ll go to White River to one of the other farmers.”
“Oh,” he said casually, “I daresay we can lend a hand. In fact I won’t even wait till the morning. I’ll have my boys over tonight. There’s a little light left to get things set up, then afterwards they can work on in the dark. I’ll get things moving within the next hour or so.”
A little relieved, she went back to report to Roger.
“Well, we can but keep our fingers crossed. We may only lose that inner patch. If we spray for a good distance around, I don’t think it will spread. Dinga seems to have examined the rest of the crop pretty closely.” She shook her head. “Well, as you said once before, this is not the year for Green Bays. Death, hail and now disease. What else can happen?”
“I simply can’t think of anything else,” he answered. “But let’s say I can’t think at all at the moment. My head feels like a rubber football.”
“Then you must rest. Noni’s bringing a drink with something in it to make you sleep. We don’t want you awake half the night worrying.”
“I’m getting good at taking orders. But you give them so prettily that I can’t refuse. I keep forgetting you’re the boss.”
“I’m not really,” she said. “At least I think of us as partners.”
His head slipped to one side. “It’s a nice theory, but I don’t think you’ve considered its implications.” She walked sl
owly downstairs, reconsidering his words. In her present worry she had forgotten Uncle George and the very reason she wanted him here. She had been lulled by Roger’s illness into a false sense of security. Her sympathy for him had made her dismiss the treacherous words she had overheard at the Lawsons’. Would Paul Lawson, she wondered, try to turn this latest disaster to Green Bays to his own advantage?
He was certainly not above it ... nor for that matter was Roger. If he saw that the farm was going downhill through these troubles he would not want to manage a sinking ship. Would he too try to persuade her to sell out? The idea left her strangely depressed.
Within an hour and a half Paul Lawson had kept his word. In the fading light the trucks arrived, manned by a cheerful, singing group of Africans. Under Dinga and their boss boy’s supervision the equipment was taken down to the lower orchard and the area to be covered pointed out.
Tracy went down and watched them work. At least she watched until darkness overtook them and paraffin lamps pointed the way to them. In all the preparation Roger had not made a sound, so Noni had tiptoed in to find him asleep. By morning, when he awoke, Tracy hoped the danger would be over.
