The Reluctant Guest

by Rosalind Brett

  The very next day, when Ann had spent the afternoon in the house, Elva came bursting into the living room from the porch. Her eyes were sparkling, her mouth half open to show the gleaming white teeth, and she was breathing like someone who has been kissed to exhaustion.

  “The greatest fun!” she exclaimed. “I took eggs across to Storr’s house and found him saddling a new horse—a huge thing that’s only half broken. I begged him to let me ride it, but he wouldn’t. And what do you think he did then? He got into the saddle and hooked me up in front of him. We raced across the veld and round the mountain!”

  Ann’s lips moved in a smile. She saw the blue flower peeping out of Elva’s top pocket, imagined Storr lazily pulling the bloom and dropping it there; certainly Elva would never pick a flower. Or perhaps Storr had not been so lazy about it. He might even have picked the flower to demonstrate to Ann...

  She asked hurriedly, “Why does Storr need a new horse? Isn’t the black good enough?”

  “He wants an extra for some reason.” Elva pushed back her hair with both hands in a sensuous and almost ecstatic gesture. “Life’s pretty good, isn’t it?” she said, and wandered along to her room.

  Yes, Elva looked as if she had been kissed, or perhaps her sparkle was the effect of some inward rapture. At such moments it was easy to believe she would capture Storr, even against competition from the girl called Chloe, in Johannesburg. The little knife in Ann’s heart turned once more. Either out of malice, or because it was something he wanted to do, Storr had swept Elva up on his horse and galloped away. He would have compared them, of course: Ann stiff and half frightened, and Elva, thrilling to the muscular rhythm of man and beast.

  Abruptly, Ann got up from her chair and crossed to the window. There was a limit to what one could stand and she felt she was getting near to it. While things drifted along quietly and pleasantly as they had done this last few days life was tolerable, but the painful moments were becoming unbearable. It was strange to have to admit it, but Theo had become her salvation. He had developed into the sort of companion she needed. He was not the exciting and handsome person she had met and liked very much in Cape Town, but neither was he the slightly hangdog creature who had come back from Wegersburg wearing an unnecessary bandage about his wrist. He was slack and easy and very understanding; he had troubles of his own, quite big ones, but he was often conscious that something troubled Ann, and at those times he was gentle with her. Possibly he hadn’t much character, but he did his best with what he had. No man could do more.

  During the following days Ann slipped into the habit of regularly going off with Theo after lunch. Often, this being the off-season, there was no work to do, and Theo would drive out into the hills, or down into a lush green valley where the river meandered and fell in cascades over rocky ledges. Ann like the river, and she always asked him to slow down at a certain spot, where native women washed their clothes on stones and hung them to dry on the bushes. It was while they were parked close to the river, one afternoon, that Theo pointed to a small circling plane.

  “I believe that’s the Skipalong—Storr’s private crate. I wonder who’s bringing her in.”

  As Ann gazed up at it her throat contracted. “What does it mean—that Storr’s leaving?”

  “Maybe. He must have phoned through for it.” He looked at her with a jaded grin. “It lands a few miles away from Groenkop. Like to go along and see it?”

  “Yes.” But Ann was not eager. In spite of the afternoon heat she felt cold.

  Theo backed the car and turned, let it out at its best speed. They came back to the main road, ran along it for a few miles and then turned off, away from Groenkop and towards an old farm which lay in some of the flattest ground in the district. Theo explained that the farmer allowed landing space to the two or three private plane owners in the vicinity and accepted seasonal help in return.

  About three hundred yards beyond the farm drive they saw the plane, a small silver thing with red wing-tips, at rest in a field. Theo opened the gates and drove across the field. A figure in ordinary sports clothes waved to them from his lounging position on the grass.

  Theo grinned. “It’s Neville Braithwaite. He joined the company about a couple of months before I left. A good chap.”

  The young man came to meet them, bringing them in elaborately with his arms as if the car were a plane. He was black-haired, his round face had a boyish smile and his brown eyes twinkled. He looked at Ann, lifted an eyebrow, and looked back at Theo, who made the introduction.

  “Surprise landing?” he asked.

  “No, the boss’s orders. I had to bring a few papers for signature and some other things he asked for. I believe I’m staying overnight.”

  “Waiting here for someone?”

  “I started away too early. I’ve an hour to kill.”

  “I’ll take you—save Storr the trip.”

  “Good. I’ll make sure everything is O.K.”

  “Mind if I look it over?” asked Theo. “I see this one is Skipalong the Second. What happened to the First?”

  Neville Braithwaite laughed. “Chloe De Vries has it—totes her father about in it. She wanted to come down here instead of me, but I knew better than to hand over my instructions to someone else.” He stood by, till Theo emerged from the cockpit. Then he asked, “What’s going on? It’s more than two weeks since the big chief left Jo’burg.”

  Theo lifted a hand, as if the other man’s guess were as good as his. “You know Storr. His own master, and all that.”

  “But it’s unusual. Even on tour he was in touch with us nearly every day. His telephone call this morning was the first for four days. Think he’s going rustic?”

  “I doubt it. He’s just taking a holiday.” He waved at the car. “Shove in your grip and climb after it.”

  But at that moment another estate car entered the field, the gleaming vehicle belonging to Storr. He was alone. He pulled up beside Theo’s car and got out, looked briefly at Ann as she sat in the other car and then smiled at the young pilot.

  “Well, Neville. How are you doing?”

  “Fine, thanks. I got in a bit early.”

  “That’s all right. I saw the plane and guessed it was you. Did you bring everything I asked for?”

  “It’s all in the grip. Oh,” with a grin as he took a letter from his pocket, “this is extra. Miss De Vries gave it to me at the last moment.”

  Ann saw the pale green envelope, rather bulky, the name and address in large round writing. Storr slipped the letter into his jacket pocket, said casually,

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to get the papers back to Johannesburg fairly early tomorrow morning, but we’ll do our best for you tonight.” He turned and spoke to Ann and Theo. “Perhaps you two and Elva will come to dinner? There’ll be several others.”

  “Thanks,” said Theo.

  Ann made no answer at all; she couldn’t even look at him. The young pilot’s grip was stowed away, he got into the front seat of the other car and Storr slipped behind the wheel. There was an odd moment of suspense while Storr waited for Theo to move first. But Theo sat still, and eventually Storr started up his engine and drew away.

  Theo was looking at the graceful lines of the plane. With a shrug he said, “Sweet, isn’t she? Funny to think I may never fly again.”

  Normally, Ann would have assured him that some day he would certainly fly again. But the meeting with Storr had roused the pain once more. Quite vehemently she didn’t want to go to dinner at the big house tonight. However, about three hours later she was dressing for the event, putting on a turquoise frock which had a pattern of golden flowers all over it and brushing her hair into its usual neat waves. In the living room, with only one lamp glowing, the hair looked fine and coppery, with gold lights.

  Elva had surpassed herself. The frock she had bought about a week ago in Belati West and which Ann had altered for her, looked as if it had been fashioned for her particular type of beauty. It was a rich dark red with a wide ple
ated sash of black silk, and the strong and lovely neck rose from a wide halter neckline that was edged with black. The heavy hair was drawn back into a loose knot. In the cottage she looked a little weird and out of place, but the moment they entered the big old hall of Storr’s house, Ann felt that some instinct had led Elva away from her normal prosaic dress sense and into choosing that particular frock. Against the heavy golden panelling, among the old portraits, the vast Dutch cabinets containing antique glass and china, the velvet-seated chairs with their spiral carved backs, the Shiraz and Aubusson carpets, Elva was magnificently right.

  Others noticed it too. When Ann was seated with a cocktail she found herself next to Sheila Newman, that charming little woman who loved the neighborhood and its gossip ... the woman who had first told Ann about Chloe.

  Mrs. Newman was happily voluble, in an undertone. “But what a change in Elva, my dear! She looks older than twenty-five, but so ... handsome! Even that strange skin of hers is absolutely in keeping with her dress and the way she holds her head. I’ve never seen such a metamorphosis in anyone!”

  “Yes, she looks superb,” Ann agreed.

  “And I hear she’s dolled up the little house, too. I’m so glad. Someone said the other day that she’s making an all-out effort to tie up Storr Peterson—but what if she is? He certainly seems to have brought out the best in her.”

  That was one way of looking at it, of course. But were Elva’s efforts, the debt she was running into at the Belati West Stores, her lies about the house and garden, to be all for nothing?

  Sheila Newman was still speaking. “It’s a good sign that Storr is still here at Groenkop, though they say he won’t stay much longer. I do wonder if he finds Elva more attractive than any other girl he knows—” a gentle nudge—“the one I mentioned to you, for instance.”

  “There’s no knowing, is there?” said Ann tritely, her tones a little scratchy. “I’d like to see Elva really happy and serene.”

  “And how are you getting along with Theo?” was the next question. “He seems so devoted to you.”

  “I don’t think he is,” Ann managed. “We find it very easy to be friendly, that’s all.”

  Then, to Ann’s relief, Neville Braithwaite sat down at her other side and gave her his youthful and openly admiring smile.

  “Hallo,” he said. “Remember me? We met this afternoon.”

  “Yes, I remember. Are you enjoying yourself? But what a silly question. I’m sure you always enjoy yourself.”

  “Practically always. Do you ever go to Jo’burg?”

  “No, I’ve no reason.”

  “Pity. I’d love to show you round.”

  “I’m sure you would,” said a cool voice behind them.

  The young man stood up. “Can’t blame me for trying, Storr,” he said ingenuously. “If a girl is pretty and unattached you try to know more about her. It’s human nature.”

  Strangely, it was Elva who spoke next. She had joined Storr and was standing directly behind Ann. “Ann’s pretty, but she’s not unattached, Neville. My brother has first refusal.”

  “Just my luck,” mourned the blithe young pilot. “Am I allowed to ask if they’re engaged?”

  Storr said, in those cool, level tones, “Engaged? Not so that you’d notice it. Are you, Ann?”

  For the sake of politeness she had to stand and face them, and she found that Theo was there as well, looking watchful. They were waiting for her to reply, but somehow the sight of them there, cold-bloodedly willing her to speak, kept her silent. And silence is a form of consent.

  Elva clinched it. “An understanding between two people isn’t necessarily an engagement, but it mostly develops that way. It’s what Theo wants, isn’t it, darling? He’s just too bashful to propose.”

  Theo spoke up, clearly and with a faint smile. “No one has ever called me bashful and got away with it. Will you marry me, Ann?”

  Her lips parted, but no sound came. Somehow she hung on to her smile, and turned away.

  Elva exclaimed, “There! This calls for a toast.”

  In a brusque voice, Storr said, “The toast can wait Dinner is ready.”

  Theo came to Ann’s side, took her elbow and led her towards the big dining room. He bent his head, whispered close to her ear. “It’s what Elva wanted; I could feel it. You’re not committed in any way, Ann. Just don’t deny it too strongly in front of Elva.”

  Ann nodded blindly. It didn’t matter very much; nothing mattered.

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT was an excellent dinner, served deliberately and efficiently by two white-clad houseboys. As well as the usual courses, there were wines and champagne, a variety of fruits from Cape Orchards, pecan nuts and bananas from Natal, naartjes and oranges from the Transvaal. The coffee, served in the long drawing room which had two separate french windows on to the terrace, was a rich West African to which one could add cognac or local cream, according to taste. The sort of meal, Ann thought, which was a faint reminder of old, spacious days in England, when servants and a good cook were to be had. No doubt similar dinners had been served here at Groenkop throughout the hundred and forty years of the farm’s existence.

  She sat near one of the french windows, looking out across the lighted terrace at a lawn that was shut in by flowering bushes. She felt calmer now, and resigned. There were ten days to live through, just ten, after which she could slide back into the niche she had created for herself at the Riding School and forget the existence of Groenkop. Only she wouldn’t be able to forget; the best she could hope for was that her memories of the place would fade like an old snapshot until no detail remained clear.

  It was absurd, of course, to admit that a brief fortnight in this place could make havoc of one’s life and emotions. The trouble was, she told herself, she had had rather a blow the day she had arrived and never quite recovered from it. Storr Peterson had slipped under her guard, but in a way so had Theo, several weeks ago. It was merely a matter of getting the right perspective on her own situation, but this drawing room, with a dozen or more people making conversation and a gramophone playing Tchaikowsky, was hardly conducive to sane thinking. Far better to listen to the music and forget oneself.

  An old man who had a fluff of white hair and a black velvet packet, and who had been introduced as Oom Adriaan, smiled at her across the room. He was obviously enjoying the music and hoped she was too. She smiled back at him and wished she knew more Afrikaans. Even the old Afrikaners were very willing to lapse politely into English, and it encouraged one to be lazy about learning the language.

  At her side, Storr said, “You’re the only one present who is in the house for the first time. Care to look around?”

  He sounded non-committal, and for a second she was tempted to give him an equally non-committal negative. Then, because he was Storr, and because in spite of everything she wanted to please him, she found herself getting to her feet.

  “Thank you,” she said carefully. “I’d like to.”

  “We’ll go the terrace way,” he said. “It’s quicker.”

  They moved together, out into the cool night air. Perfume came up from a bed of flowers, mingled with the more elusive scents from the shrubs. A dog barked, and somewhere not far from the house a native was strumming a home-made guitar; Ann could tell it was home-made by the limited range—he had three notes, but alternated them intriguingly, in the native fashion. A white person could never quite get that rhythm; it was the basis of all African music.

  Fitfully, the night beetles were singing. The trees stirred against the sky, and the big seed-pods which African children made into dolls fell from the aromatic gum trees in a tiny clatter. The dog barked again, in happy frenzy, and an unseen boy—probably one of the farm labourers—said “Hamba! Voet sac! Go ‘way, you nottee dog!” thus displaying his knowledge of two languages in addition to his own.

  They reached the dining room, which had been cleared but was still lighted, and Storr led the way inside, and closed the terrace door after
them. Without the guests, the room looked nearly as large as the drawing room. The walls were white, the ceiling white and high, beamed with darkened teak. There was a high brick fireplace, some copper and silver jugs in a row above it, and in the hearth stood an immense copper bowl full of logs.

  “The bowl was the top of a wine vat,” Storr said. “My mother came from the Constantia Valley, and she brought it here after her parents died. They don’t use that kind of vat these days.” He nodded at a cabinet. “The blue and white dinner service came from Constantia, too. It’s a bit crazed, but nothing’s missing; over two hundred years ago a Van Breeda gave it to his sister as a wedding present.”

  “The Van Breedas were your mother’s family?”

  He nodded. “They originally came from Holland. My father’s family were comparative newcomers from England when they bought Groenkop.” He looked at her with cold appraisal. “Are you really interested, or only pretending?”

  “That’s not fair. Of course I’m interested.”

  “I don’t see why you should be. Compared with England, our history isn’t very long.”

  “Does it matter—if it’s real?”

  “Not to me.” He paused, waved unsmilingly at the long table with its carved ends and matching chairs, at the serving table near the wall upon which old English silver gleamed, and at the couple of Cape landscapes on the wall opposite the fireplace. “Something of a show-place, I suppose,” he said cynically, “but I like it.”

  In withdrawn tones she answered, “I’m not surprised. If it were mine and had the same associations for me as it does for you, I couldn’t bear to live anywhere else. You’ve so much that’s beautiful here.”

  “Thank you,” he said with sarcasm. “You were brought up to say the correct thing on occasions like this.”

  “I said what I thought.”