The Reluctant Guest

by Rosalind Brett

  He spoke politely. “Good morning, Miss Calvert. Care to descend?”

  The trouble, Ann thought vexedly, was that she could never forget their last meeting as easily as he appeared to. At least, he didn’t so much forget it as dare her to remember it. The glint in his eyes was certainly reminiscent.

  She dropped to the ground, was instantly put at a disadvantage by his extra ten or twelve inches. “It’s a lovely morning,” she said perfunctorily.

  “Perfect, and you decorate it charmingly.”

  Making her aware, of course, that she was wearing riding breeches for the first time in Belati. Perversely, she was glad she had departed from the uniform sufficiently to wear a green silk blouse.

  “You’re in a good mood this morning,” she commented.

  He nodded. “My matey mood. How do you find the gelding?”

  “Responsive and well-bred.”

  “Sounds like a description of the perfect woman. Have you anything arranged for today?”

  “I don’t think so. Theo did say...”

  “Then how about going with me to see my cousin? You remember, I told you about her—-she’s married and has four-year-old twins.”

  “Oh, yes. She’s the one who’s loved.”

  He smiled. “That’s right. Come and see how it works.”

  “This morning?”

  “Right now. I’ll get rid of the horse for you.”

  And he did. He called to an African who had just wobbled past them on his bike, used a stream of kaffir and dropped some coins into cupped palms. A minute or so later the grinning cyclist was back on the saddle with a rein in one hand, and the horse walking idly beside him. “Well, that’s taken care of,” Storr said. “Hop in.”

  But she hesitated. “Are you always able to turn a situation to your own advantage?”

  “That one was easy,” he said negligently. “It only concerned the horse. You’re a rather more tricky proposition. Why don’t you want to go with me—because you’re not quite sure what to expect?”

  “No, it isn’t that. You might frighten me a little, but I’d trust you.”

  “How very sweet. After you’ve warned me like that I couldn’t possibly harm you, could I? Get in, little one, before I spank you.”

  She said firmly, “I really don’t think I should go with you.”

  “In case Theo objects?”

  Ann was more worried about Elva’s reaction, but knew it wouldn’t do to say so. “Were you going alone?”

  His grey eyes narrowed. “If I hadn’t met you, yes. But something told me I would meet you.”

  “You actually want me to go with you? It’s not just a sudden masterful decision?”

  His smile was tantalizing. “It’s a bit of both, Pretty Ann. You challenged my beliefs about marriage, and I’d like to show you one where they’re successful. After all, if you flatly disagree you owe me at least a chance of proving my point.”

  He sounded suave and provocative, but Ann allowed herself to be convinced simply because it was what she wanted at that moment more than anything in the world. He looked big and protective, infuriatingly self-assured; he hadn’t an ounce of tenderness in him, and yet as he stood there, looking at her shining hair and resting a glance on her curved red lips, she knew a compelling need to do as she wished; just this once, she pleadingly told her protesting conscience.

  And then she was in the front seat of the estate car and Storr was putting on speed as they passed from loose gravel to the hard rocky road. She felt the tailored collar of the blouse flapping at the side of her neck, the wind through her hair and across her warm cheek, and exhilaration ran along her veins like a flame through sere grass.

  “The green shirt is quite a touch,” he said lazily. “Makes your eyes look soft and doe-like, which is how a woman’s eyes should look.”

  “Always?”

  “No, on Sundays.”

  Involuntarily she laughed, and her tension eased. “What about the rest of the week?”

  “I’ll get out a chart for you.” A pause. “How are things going now?”

  “In the house? Quite well.”

  “Do you find yourself growing fonder of Theo?”

  “Must you be sarcastic? As a matter of fact I do like him more than I did. But I’m not falling in love with him.”

  “So there’s a distinction? Tell me about it.”

  “No. How far is it to your cousin’s house?”

  “It’s a farm—mixed. About fifty-five miles from Belati West.”

  “Good heavens. I can’t go that far with you!”

  “Why not? We’ve done about ten miles already.”

  “It’s after eleven!”

  “So what? We’ll have lunch with Hazel and Vic. I told that boy to let Elva know you might not be back for some hours.”

  “Lord knows what she’ll think of me!”

  “Stop being so formal. This isn’t Cheltenham.”

  Ann gave up, asked interestedly, “Have you been to England?”

  “Of course. I went to Cambridge and then into the R.A.F. for two years. That was when you were a small girl with a hanky pinned inside your blazer and a neat little lunch in your pocket.”

  She laughed again, and it was a tonic. “What sort of little boy were you?”

  “Just like the rest, I guess. I didn’t go far from Belati till I went to college. In the holidays we’d go hunting with friends and cousins, and we’d sleep out night after night. It was a rich, untroubled existence.”

  “You sound nostalgic.”

  “I don’t feel it, particularly—not for myself, anyway.” He nodded out at a mealie patch set in stony grassland. “You wouldn’t think there was much about this part of the country to get into your bones, would you?”

  “Yes, I think I would. At first, the veld seemed so endless, the low mountains so numerous that I thought it a little dull. Then I began to notice the ludicrous shapes of some of the mountains. There’s one just the other side of town that has a cone of stone rising from its summit like a steeple, and another that’s like a pyramid, and even on your land there are some hills which are perfectly round and terraced and others with odd-shaped outcrops and growths. And the veld is surprisingly full of interest—you’ve only to rest somewhere to find miniature flowers and pretty leaves. And there’s something about the views in the early morning and an hour or so before sunset...” She broke off self-consciously, and shrugged.

  In a curious tone he said, “You’ve got the times exactly right. It’s the way the light glances across the hills, in the morning on one side and in the late afternoon from the other.” Then, rather abruptly, “Like a cigarette?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He gave her the packet and the lighter from his shirt pocket, and for a minute or so she was busy placing a cigarette between his lips and lighting it, as well as her own. By now, she was no longer thinking of the Borlands or even of Groenkop. She was watching the slowly changing scene beyond the window, soaking it up with a pleasure she would not have thought possible.

  They had come lower, and there were orchards to left and right, and thickets of acacias and pine trees by the roadside. They drove through a somnolent town where the streets were lined with shrubs and a garden full of palms and canna beds surrounded an elegant town hall, and out again into country where trees were profuse and a wide muddy river watered the farmlands.

  “It’s due to the difference in heights,” Storr said. “This is about fifteen hundred feet lower than Belati—a sudden drop which completely alters the vegetation. Like it?”

  “Yes, it’s a little like the Cape—not so lush, but you feel it could be. I haven’t travelled much in the Union—not at all out of the Cape Province—but I’m continually being told the country is a land of contrasts.”

  “It is. Natal is sub-tropical except near the mountains, then there’s the Wild Coast which is often steaming hot in the middle of winter, and higher up there’s the Free State, where you wither in summer and freeze
in winter. The Transvaal itself has several climates—all due to difference in levels. Wherever it’s low you get water and heat.”

  She nodded. “I had a letter from my mother yesterday. They’d come along the Natal coast and were docked at Durban. She said it was wonderfully warm.”

  He smiled tolerantly. “Did she tell you how much she misses you?”

  “Yes. And why shouldn’t she?”

  “Why not indeed? Do you wish you were with them?”

  “Not at the moment, but I’d like to do the trip some time.” She paused. “I hope it’s doing her lots of good.”

  “You came out for her health, didn’t you? What’s wrong with her?”

  “Nothing specific. It’s just that she gets everything rather worse than anyone else. If she cuts herself it turns septic, she bruises badly and even an ordinary cold becomes pneumonia. We wrap her up in cotton wool, of course, and our house is air conditioned, so that we can shut it up in damp weather.”

  “How long has she been so vulnerable?”

  “It was about three years ago that we began to worry. The doctors called it debility and gave her injections and capsules. In the end, my father got the job in Cape Town. She’s improved tremendously—doesn’t catch things nearly so quickly—but when she did get her first cold just at the end of the summer it became a light touch of pneumonia in no time.”

  “Bad luck.” He let a long moment elapse before adding, “If you get worried about her while you’re here, let me know. Our planes call at most of the ports and I could get a message or anything else through for you within hours.”

  “Why, that’s ... that’s awfully kind!”

  He gave her the mocking smile. “I’m a kind sort of guy—sometimes.”

  “And at other times?”

  “At other times, my child, I occasionally feel that people should be kind, or at least friendly, towards me. When they’re not, I’m apt to get a little hot.”

  She thought of the violent chase across the veld to a hilltop with his arm clamped about her, and changed the topic. “Is it far now?”

  “We’re almost there.”

  “I look a little odd, to go visiting.”

  "Not in these parts. In any case, whatever you wear you always have a clean-cut, impeccable appearance.”

  “You said that as if you don’t approve.”

  “It’s a bit irritating, but I’ll stick it. Here we are—left fork ... and a left turn. That’s the house, just ahead.” The farmhouse was long and white, its steep roof covered with shingles which had been bleached by the sun. At the right a hedge screened off a garden, and on the other side a lawn sloped down and round towards stables and outbuildings. From the line they were travelling a drive ran up and round to the front of the house, between a row of pollard pines and a wide veranda whose graceful arches were hung with pink and purple bougainvillea. Through the curtain of hanging flowers Ann could see an amusing cocktail bar right there in the veranda. Next to it, sliding glass doors revealed a tiled dining terrace and lounge. It was a house built to make the most of outdoors.

  “Nothing like Groenkop, is it?” said Storr.

  He was about to say more, but it had to wait. As the engine died a pandemonium began, or perhaps it had been going on all the time. Dogs were barking, children shrieking, and a black and white horse came galloping round the house, missing the estate car by inches as it raced past and down into the formal garden.

  The next to appear round the corner of the house was a diminutive child in shorts and a blue blouse, her white pony-tail flying in the breeze, and straight behind her came her replica, except that it was a boy with a white crew-cut. Meanwhile the dogs had come and gone, five of them, and a woman of average build in slacks and a terry shirt, her brown hair fringed and slightly ragged, brought up the rear.

  The little girl screamed, “It’s Storr!” and took a flying leap into his arms. The next moment the boy was there too, and Storr was saying severely,

  “Where do you think you are—at home?”

  This amused them enormously. The children rocked with laughter and slid down him, peeped into the car and turned a long wide stare upon Ann.

  “Well, it’s about time!” the woman said. “You’ve already been at Groenkop for about a week. And you’ve been away so long it’s a wonder the children recognized you.” She turned a brown smiling face to Ann. “You must be Chloe.”

  “Wrong girl,” said Storr smoothly. “This is Ann Calvert, who’s staying with the Borlands ... my cousin, Hazel Wenham.”

  “Oh ... Ann,” Hazel echoed, as if memorizing it. “Well, it’s nice to see you both. Ann, meet Fern and Timothy. Let’s go up for refreshment, shall we?”

  “What was all the noise about?” asked Storr. “Wasn’t that Prince who dashed down into the garden?”

  “He’d be flattered to know you remembered him. He’s been behaving badly for three days. The twins found some puppies abandoned in the bush—wild dogs, I think—and we keep them in one of the sheds, next to a leopard cub that Vic brought home. Prince has taken a savage dislike to the puppies and he won’t leave them alone. We chase him off, and ten minutes later he’s back again, hoofing at the door of the shed.”

  “I should think so. Any self-respecting horse would take exception to wild dog whelps. You should have drowned them.”

  “You’re still a brute. They’re sweet things. Come in and sit down. Fern, do go and find Daddy, will you?”

  The child sprinted away on bare feet, closely followed by her brother. Ann sank down into a modern basket chair that was upholstered in foam rubber, and she looked about her at the golden wood of the dining table, the black stonework of the floor, the zigzag of a hundred colors in the curtains. The whole living-terrace was a dream of smart decorating and comfortable living—not costly but attractively full of life.

  Storr was saying, “Fern still leads Timothy by the nose. Doesn’t he ever assert himself?”

  “Why should he?” his cousin answered placidly, as she crossed to the cocktail bar. “He doesn’t have to think at all; she does enough for both of them. Once in a blue moon he demonstrates that he’s physically the stronger, and that seems to be enough. He’s like me.”

  Just fleetingly, Storr’s sardonic glance collided with Ann’s. Determinedly, she looked away, at the great branches of bougainvillea.

  Then Hazel said, “Be a dear and get me some ice, Storr. Here’s a jug.”

  He vanished through a door, and Hazel teetered a little, smiling pleasantly down at Ann. “You’re new, aren’t you? New to the country, I mean. You look a bit large-eyed, as if you can’t quite focus. That’s how I was when I went to London.”

  “I’ve lived here eighteen months!”

  “Really? Then perhaps you’re as I used to be—not too clever at taking things in your stride; you grow out of it. I’m sorry I called you Chloe.”

  “That’s all right. It’s a pretty name.” Then Ann heard herself asking rather quickly, “Who is she?”

  “I’m not sure. In Storr’s letter from Johannesburg, just after he got back from the tour, he said he might be bringing one of his colleagues and the man’s daughter, Chloe, to Groenkop for a visit. Maybe he means later.” Hazel dismissed the matter with; “You know how it is if you have a bachelor in the family. You’re always matching him up with someone. What do you like to drink?”

  Storr was back, and taking over the cocktail bar. Then a man in stained slacks and a cream shirt came up into the veranda, a man a little above average height who had a ruddy complexion, a clipped ginger moustache and a head of ginger hair. He beamed upon Ann, touched his wife’s shoulder in passing and pumped Storr’s hand. Victor Wenham was a simple man, Ann guessed. He adored his wife and children, had a deep, ineradicable affection for his farm and an air of serenity that was enviable.

  “Well, this is great,” he said happily, when they were all seated and had raised glasses in salute. “Hazel’s been fuming, in case you should go back to Johannesburg with
out calling here.”

  “I don’t fume, Vic, dear, I just smoulder a little. I don’t remember any time when you haven’t come over the first day after your arrival at Groenkop, Storr. What kept you this time?”

  “For one thing, I intended staying longer and could take my time.”

  “Well, that’s good news. How is the place looking?” “Pretty good. Five hundred acres alongside my boundary have come on the market and I’m buying them.”

  “Sounds promising. Why should you increase your acreage if you’re immersed in aviation?”

  “But I’m not. I’m going to make a few changes at Groenkop—not yet, but within a year or so. By the way, you could have come up to see me—or didn’t it occur to you?”

  “We didn’t know if you were alone there. Besides, we’re quite a unit to shift about.” Hazel subsided further into her chair. “I told Vic at breakfast I thought you’d come today.”

  “Darling,” said her husband, “if I remember correctly you mentioned something drastic you’d do if he didn’t come today.”

  “It’s the same thing,” she returned blandly. “I suppose I ought to tell the houseboy there’ll be two extra for lunch,, but he always prepares enough for a dozen, anyway; he knows we often have unexpected guests. Ann, if you ever think of marrying a farmer, get the right outlook before you plunge. But then you wouldn’t marry a farmer, would you?”

  Ann colored faintly, was conscious of Storr’s slightly mocking smile as he awaited her answer. “I don’t think the man’s work would have much to do with it,” she said.

  Vic Wenham, leaning forward, clapped a hand on his, knee. “Good for you. These Peterson clever-dicks try to put people like us in our place, but they don’t succeed every time.”

  Hazel laughed. “Vic always says I’m the clever one of the family, but actually the only really clever thing I’ve ever done was to make him marry me. I’ve told him that point-blank many times, but he’ll never believe it.”

  “That’s because he’s a romantic,” said Storr. “There are still a few left.”