The Reluctant Guest

by Rosalind Brett

  “It had nothing to do with Theo.”

  “Elva?”

  “Not really.” Afraid that he would sarcastically ask, “With me?” she went on quickly, “Everything here is so different from what I imagined. Oh, not the district—I don’t mean that.”

  ‘Then you must mean the people.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do, though it’s really more circumstances than people.” And that was enough, she thought. She had no intention of telling him that Theo had deceived her in Cape Town.

  He pulled at a pear leaf in passing, said meditatively, “You just aren’t the Belati type, little one. On the surface, you’re one of these rather perfect specimen—no nicks or scratches, no flaws. Back in England you grew up in a bright confined world where everyone was good, or tried to be good. Your parents made your rules for living—sound ones, but they kept you in a narrow groove. They told you you should always be friendly and polite, but not become familiar too quickly. Right?”

  “Well, yes, but...”

  “Instant liking for someone wasn’t to be trusted, they said.”

  “Neither is it!”

  His smile probed. “Did you like Theo at once?”

  “Yes”—determinedly—“but I went right on liking him.”

  “Yet it didn’t look as if you were overjoyed to see him again today,” he said, as though puzzling over such problems was one of the hobbies he most enjoyed. “How are you going to feel living in the same house with him?”

  “I don’t know. I think he’ll be considerate and kind, and in any case, I may not stay the full month.”

  “Which means you’re apprehensive.”

  She looked down at the sun-baked track. “It’s my own business, isn’t it?”

  “To a point, yes.” A pause. “A moment ago, when I described the sort of person your parents had made of you, I said it was only on the surface. I believe the real you is quite different.”

  “It isn’t,” she retorted.

  He laughed briefly. “Don’t jitter—I’m not going to refer to your mouth again. It’s simply that I can’t believe in the person you pretend to be. Tell me something—does your mother ever talk to you about men?”

  Ann felt hot colour fly into her cheeks. “I’m not embarrassed—don’t think that! You merely have the knack of making me angry.”

  “It was a simple question,” he stated mildly, “and all it called for was a simple answer. Let me answer it myself. Yes, your mother does talk to you about men. She says that love is a gentle thing, that one first falls in love with the idea of loving and then finds some man who is established in a good job and eager to provide a nice little house ... and marries him. Am I near the mark?”

  He was so near it that Ann fought for a moment between vexation and laughter; neither quite won, but her eyes were bright and very green as she looked at him.

  “You’re the most maddening man I’ve ever met. You’re so used to imposing your will on others that it possibly never occurs to you that they may have ideas of their own. Actually, I have quite strong opinions about love and marriage.”

  “How interesting. Go on.”

  “And have you laugh your head off? Not I. Keep your cynical views.”

  “But think,” he said softly, “what a relief it would be to knock holes in my outlook. Even without being aware of it you try it each time we meet. Did you know that?”

  “I don’t think it’s true. Whatever happens is merely the impact of opposing personalities.”

  “Do you agree with what your mother says about love?”

  “Not entirely, but it’s refreshingly old-fashioned. She’d be horrified if she knew I’d listened to your cold-blooded decisions about it.”

  He nodded, said coolly, “I suppose she would. I wouldn’t mind betting that she’d also be appalled if she knew that you’d accepted an invitation to dinner with someone yet ignored it completely when the time came.”

  Ann felt moisture in her palms. “You know why I didn’t come to your house with Elva the other night. You can’t bully me and push me around one day, and expect me to turn up full of smiles and forgiveness the next. I’ve as much pride as you have!”

  “All right. Is your pride salved?”

  “You sound as if you’re trying to be nasty again.”

  He caught her elbow as they walked, snapped, “And you say I’m maddening! You don’t want to agree with anything I say, do you? While we’re at loggerheads you feel safe. Why?”

  The statement was so true that Ann felt her knees go weak. How in the world did this man, who was conceited about his own imperviousness to women, know so much about her own reactions to him? Why couldn’t he be ordinary and friendly, or just leave her alone?

  “We’re strangers,” she said, as calmly as she could. “Strangers who happen to have very little in common. That’s all.”

  What happened next was so alarming that Ann never quite remembered the details of its beginning. What she did remember very clearly was the light wrench in the region of her diaphragm as Storr, already in the saddle, whipped her up off the ground and placed her in front of him, on Joe. The next moment his heels spurred on the big black horse, and Joe was away, skimming through the remaining few yards of the orchard and straight across the drive in front of the house.

  They swept down a lane between mealie fields, galloped straight out into the broad acres of veld where the sheep grazed, and up a rocky hillside and down into a valley; up again, with the horse straining as if his life and reputation depended on how he acquitted himself in the furious chase. Ann fought for breath against the iron arm that held her, felt her hair streaming into the face which was a few inches behind her own, and knew that a wildness beat in her veins, an untamed thing that she hadn’t realized existed. She felt faint with it, faint and unbelieving.

  They reached a long flat hilltop and Joe put on speed, as if he were really enjoying himself. And then, suddenly, Storr tightened the rein, pulled him to a halt. Ann was breathing audibly, with her hand to her throat. Storr’s heart beat into her back with the weight and precision of a machine. She slid to the ground, swayed as she turned away from him.

  He said curtly, “Sit down for a minute—over there.” She stumbled forward, avoiding his touch, sank down and looked over the hills and valleys washed with deepening gold, at the small white shape among gum trees that was the Groenkop farmhouse. And within a minute or so she was taking normal breaths and her nerves were jumping less often; but she also had the feeling that she was no longer Ann Calvert. She was someone far more complex.

  Storr had flung himself full length on the grass. Ann knew he was on his back, looking at the sky, but she didn’t turn his way; she daren’t.

  Presently he said, “Tousled, your hair is like corn silk. Did you know that?”

  She shook her head, wordlessly.

  “Are you looking at the farm?”

  “Yes,” she answered distantly.

  “Sweet sight, isn’t it? I used to come up here as a boy and pitch a tent, just so that I could see the farm at all hours of the day, in all its moods.”

  “If you love it so much, why did you leave it?”

  “I grew out of the place—fancied planes instead.” A pause. “Feel all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shocked?”

  “Only surprised,” she told him. “Do you always say and do the unexpected?”

  “No, only when I’m challenged. Mostly I’m a levelheaded executive. But I told you the other day that I always take a dare; I ought to have added that you don’t have to put it into words.”

  Ann picked a small blue flower, looked at its tiny indigo heart. It quivered with the trembling of her fingers. “I’ll remember that,” she said, “though it might be awfully difficult to know just what constitutes a dare—to you. I don’t think I’m equipped to understand South Africans.”

  “No, I don’t think you are.”

  There was a silence, during which Ann became aware of the breez
e. Could it possibly be the same breeze that had pressed against her as she rode to Aapie’s Drift? That depressing little jaunt seemed to have happened a long time ago. She might always have known that there was a woman somewhere, waiting for him. He was the sort of man who inevitably had someone in love with him; that was why he could state, so unconcernedly, that he intended to be the one who was loved.

  She asked presently, “Why don’t you like people to be curious as to how long you’ll be staying at Groenkop?”

  “It’s my home, isn’t it? I’ll stay as long as I please.”

  “Most of them would be happy to know you were staying here for good.”

  “Elva thinks that, too. As a matter of fact, I’m planning to split up my time fairly evenly between the farm and Johannesburg.”

  “How do you live up there—in another house?”

  “No, I rent a flat. But I hate flat life, and after I got back I decided I’d give it up. I haven’t made any real plans about it yet.”

  Her fingers moved over the velvet petals of the flower. “I suppose you have lots of friends in Johannesburg?”

  “Quite a few. What are we doing—making polite conversation?”

  Ann did not answer. Dusk came across the mountains, purple at first and then slate grey. Beyond the farm, the last thin flame of sunset was dying into an undulating line of trees, and a plume of smoke showed here and there, where the squatters’ huts were grouped.

  Abruptly, he stood up. “It’s getting cool. We’d better go.”

  She took the hand he offered, but released it quickly when she was standing. Her lips rather dry, she said, “I’ve disappointed you, haven’t I? You expected something different from me. Supposing ... supposing you’d grabbed Elva on to the horse and chased over the hills—how would she have taken it?”

  Sounding cool and sarcastic, he said, “I don’t know. I’ll try it tomorrow and let you know the result. Ready?”

  This time she rode astride and kept her head low. They moved just as fast as on the outward ride, but the zest was gone. She remembered wondering, as they had strolled in the orchard, whether he would invite her into the house and show her some of the antiques and other things he prized. Now she was certain that she would never enter the big house; and she thought, fatalistically, that it was just as well.

  Without speaking, they arrived at the edge of the weedy grass in front of the Borland house. Impersonally, though he gave her his strength, he lowered Ann to the ground and steadied her. Then he turned the horse, and with a casual, “Be seeing you,” cantered back through the orchard.

  Ann smoothed her hair, swallowed on the roughness in her throat and went into the living room, where a single light was burning. Elva was sitting close to the lamp, examining fingernails which wouldn’t grow quickly enough from their erstwhile bluntness. A veil seemed to come down over the blue eyes.

  “You’ve been quite a while,” she said. “Brought the gelding?”

  “No, it was too dark, and anyway, you’re probably a better judge of horses than I am. Perhaps you’ll have a look at it for me tomorrow.”

  “Did you have a drink with Storr?”

  Ann shook her head. “I didn’t want to go with him. You know that.”

  Elva’s grin was a veneer over watchfulness. “Storr thinks you’re prim. That’s not the word he used—he said you were starched when young and grew up demure. He doesn’t like girls who are too innocent.”

  “He doesn’t have to like me. Where’s Theo?”

  ‘Taking a bath. You and he are going down to the hotel for dinner tonight.”

  “Oh. Aren’t you coming?”

  “I’ve something else to do, and anyway, you two need to be alone. Did you get the sewing machine?”

  It’s promised for tomorrow.”

  “What did you think of Sheila Newman?”

  “She’s a charming person.” Ann stopped, remembered something and said carelessly, “I asked Storr Peterson about his friends in Johannesburg, but he didn’t say much. Has he ever told you about them?”

  “Not this time, but when he used to come down for long weekends he’d often bring a colleague. I got to know a few names and people.”

  “All men?”

  Elva lifted her head a little sharply. “Certainly all men. What’s on your mind?”

  Ann shrugged. “He’s thirty-three, isn’t he? Surely there’s been a woman in his life by now?”

  “Several, I daresay, but they don’t mean a thing to Storr. And do you know why? They’re too towny. He likes a woman to have a degree of sophistication and dress well, but she has to have the land in her bones. He told me only this afternoon that I’m the only woman he knows who seems to be fitted for both worlds—this one and Johannesburg.”

  Ann moved out of the arc of lamplight “Then you only have to be yourself, don’t you?”

  “Not quite. I have to be myself plus part of you—the well-behaved part. And there’s the home-maker, too. Even for Storr, I can’t get enthusiastic about pots and pans and paints.” Elva looked up, and there was a mistiness about her eyes, a pale sort of fanaticism in her whole expression. “It’s wonderful to know what you want ... wonderful.”

  “Yes, it must be.”

  Ann lingered a minute longer, but Elva returned to the absorbing task of making square fingernails appear oval. So Ann went into her tiny bedroom and sat down, rather wearily, on the stool. It had been a wearing afternoon, and there was still the evening to live through. For the hotel she ought to dress up a little, but she couldn’t help reflecting that for the present life seemed to be all effort and no reward. She wasn’t afraid to go out with Theo—only reluctant, because somehow their relationship had changed. He was no longer the debonair, handsome young man who had startled and pleased her parents; he was a man with a problem of some sort and Ann didn’t want to hear it All she wanted was to go back to Cape Town.

  And yet, even as the thought came into her mind, she wondered if it were really true. Could she run out now, leaving things awry and half finished? Would she care if she never saw any of them again? She felt a strangely hollow sensation below her ribs and a pulsing in her temples. These days, she could do nothing but feel.

  She heard Theo leave the bathroom, and quickly took possession of it herself. She put on a royal blue frock patterned in black and white, combed back the tawny hair and clipped a flat pearl to each ear-lobe. She wore black suede sandals and carried a black stole and purse as she entered the living room.

  Theo was there drinking a small whisky. He gave her a quick appraisal. “Like a drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Do you still have just one cocktail before dinner?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Don’t apologize for being young and untouched. You’re lucky.”

  She smiled. “Are you sure you want to go out tonight?”

  “Very sure. I want to talk, and this isn’t really the place for it, even though Elva will be out.”

  “Out? Isn’t that unusual?”

  He lifted his shoulders, tiredly. “Not tonight. Seems there’s a braaivleis over at Piet Mulder’s place. He’s given them before—in fact he’s built a proper barbecue in his garden—but she’s refused to go. This time she’s favouring the chap, but she’s going with Storr.”

  “Does Mr. Peterson know the Mulder man?”

  “Not very well. Piet came to Belati about the time we settled here at Groenkop, so they can’t have met often. Where these “camp-fire parties are concerned you invite people to bring their friends. So Elva’s hooked Storr as her contribution.”

  Ann flicked over the pages of a magazine which lay on the table. “I find your sister rather hard to know. She’s nothing like you.”

  “Am I transparent?”

  “No, but you’re calculable. I never know what to make of Elva.”

  He smiled with some of his old nonchalance. “We Borlands are peculiar. I hoped you wouldn’t have to know, but since you’re here at Gr
oenkop I’ll be devastating honest. But not till later in the evening.” He finished his drink. “Remember that day we had at Muizenberg?”

  She nodded, smiling back at him. “And the evening. It was warm and starry and we ate too much. And then when we got home my mother had sandwiches and coffee waiting for us, and you daren’t refuse in case you offended her. You stuffed and drank manfully—I laughed myself to sleep that night.”

  “You know, Ann, those two weeks were marvellous. I’d never done anything so wholesome before in my life. Maybe I never will again.”

  “Don’t be silly. Of course you will.”

  After a silence which lasted just long enough to become uneasy, Theo said, “Shall we go now?”

  “If you like. We’d better shout goodbye to Elva.”

  “Do you mind very much—having to ride in my old wagon?”

  “Of course not. Don’t be so apologetic, Theo.”

  “It’s the way I feel. Never mind—let’s move.”

  They called their goodbyes, went out and started away in the ramshackle conveyance. Ann sat back and tried to recall how those other jaunts they had shared in Cape Town had started off. But soon she knew it was futile to look back. It was the bewildering present she had to cope with.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AS was usual in the evenings at this season, the breeze had died somewhat. The sky was a clear black with stars scattered over it and the hills were visible only here and there, where a radiance touched an eminence and turned it slate grey. The blue gums were tall and soldierly, and then they were left behind and the cluster of lights that was Belati West came into view on the left.

  At night the little dorp did its utmost to convince the neighbourhood that it was willing to go gay. The stores showed blue and red neon, and the hotel had its name picked out in coloured lights. Africans who worked in the town sauntered up and down the main street, wearing their brightest pullovers and most startling socks, and hats that must have cost them a month’s wages.

  “Africans and their hats are fascinating,” Ann commented. “A shop assistant once told me that the native boys go in for much more expensive headgear than the white man. I wonder why it is?”