But before she had read a couple of lines Storr came round from the front of the house. He looked big and rather forbidding, and it came to Ann this morning, as it had not occurred to her during that odd but tranquil wakefulness of yesterday, that he had a leashed impatience about him even when he spoke softly and without emphasis, “Good morning,” he said, and sank down into a chair about a yard away. “You’re looking more normal today.”
“Yes, I feel it.” Restraint was like a drag on her tongue. “You’ve been very good to me, Storr.”
“If I’d had to make a bet on your first words, I’d have won,” he said in clipped accents. “Let’s skip the gratitude, shall we?”
“You’re very difficult to talk to.”
He leant an arm along his knee, looked at her briefly and transferred his glance to something below the veranda in the garden. “I don’t mean to be difficult. Much pain?”
“Hardly any, but I take care not to move my shoulder very much. Storr,” she had to pause, “I have to know a few things. Have you written to Theo?”
“I telephoned him. He was almost fatalistic about it.”
“Yes, he would be. He took care not to tell anyone about Elva—but he did tell me.”
“Why shouldn’t he?”—curtly. “You were as good as engaged to him.”
“I wasn’t. He told me because ... because it was getting a little too much for him to bear on his own. Elva wanted things that were out of reach—she’d done it before and caused him sorrow and trouble. I think you ought to know that he ... he did a great deal for her.”
“You don’t have to boost my opinion of Theo. I knew him before you came to South Africa.”
“Very well.”
After a moment he said, “Elva’s death was accidental. Apparently she chased down a mountainside, the horse stumbled and fell, and she knocked her head. Somehow she got back into the saddle and made for the river. Halfway across the horse must have stumbled again, and Elva was too dazed to save herself.”
“Elva wouldn’t fall off a horse,” she said in an undertone.
“She might, if she were in a flaming temper. That’s the story, anyway.”
“I’m glad—for Theo’s sake, and for Piet Mulder’s.”
“Oh, sure. Let’s be happy for everyone.” Rather viciously, he flicked a petal from the low table at his side. “When are you going to tell me what passed between you and Elva? It must have been something pretty powerful.”
“The way things are, I’m not telling you or anyone—ever.”
“Supposing I know already? That letter I gave her from Theo might have started something. Did she tell you about it?”
Ann’s throat was suddenly hot and lumpy. She recalled the crumpled note being thrust into her hand, remembered pushing it into her slacks pocket; it must be there still.
“I didn’t read the letter,” she said. “You yourself told her that Theo was staying in Johannesburg.”
“She was a bit hipped about that, but I left her smiling.”
Ann said tightly, “Then we may as well let things rest that way.”
His glance took in the whiteness of her knuckles in her lap, the faint quiver of her chin, and for a while he said no more. And presently Ann was able to think detachedly and pityingly about Elva. There had been the fall from a bedroom window in England, the feverish gamble in stocks and shares; she had come to Groenkop secure in the knowledge that Piet Mulder would find minerals on his land and make them both rich, though that had been less of a catastrophe because Elva, as far as she had been capable, had loved the man. Then, foolishly, she had seen her future in Storr, and her one-track mind had widened a little, to admit Piet as a possible lover, after marriage.
Storr was offering a lighted cigarette. "Regrets are useless. You couldn’t have altered anything,” he said. “At best you could only have staved it off for a short while.”
“I shouldn’t have come here,” she answered, low-voiced.
“No,” he agreed coolly, “I don’t think you should. But not because of Elva; she was fated to smash things up. I realize that, even if I don’t know what it was that flared between you.”
Ann drew on the cigarette, hoped it would steady her. “You dislike me very much, don’t you?”
“No, it isn’t dislike. It’s something you’re not old enough or nearly big enough to understand.” He stood up. “But don’t let it get you, Pretty Ann. We’re all limited in some direction.” And he walked along the veranda and into the house.
The taste of smoke was hot on Ann’s tongue, her eyes smarted. She disposed of the cigarette, pressed a shaking forefinger over each eye and went back to her mother’s letter. For some minutes the words were blurred, and then the sense of them got through, and she forgot herself and read intently. Frightened and unbelieving, she read the two pages again, swiftly and with a mounting energy and courage. Oh, heavens ... no. And she had let the epistle lie unread since yesterday!
She sprang up, exclaimed aloud as pain ripped her shoulder, but forgot it the next instant. At a speed which was astonishing in one who had spent many hours in bed after injury, she moved down the veranda and into the big drawing room, looked about her bewilderedly before remembering the way to the sitting room which Storr had recently furnished for himself. She hastened down the corridor, knocked on the door.
He opened it at once, and the austere look gave way to concern. “Come in. What’s wrong?”
She held out the letter. “My ... my mother says...”
“Is she ill again?” he demanded.
“No. It’s my father. He had a slight accident just after the boat left Cape Town—slipped down a companionway and twisted his knee. It seemed to get better, so ... so...”
He pressed her down into a chair, took the letter and read it himself. “You mother says it’s not serious—that she didn’t want to distress you. What are you upset about?”
“They’re operating on the knee in Durban! The letter is three days old, so it must be over by now. My parents left the ship—they’ve been in Durban all this time!” Ann gulped and gazed up at him imploringly. “Mother will be prostrate. She’s never handled anything like this, and she just isn’t capable of it She’s written as cheerfully as she could, but she must be frantic. If only I’d read the letter yesterday!”
“You weren’t too chipped yourself, if you remember. With two of you on her hands your mother would disintegrate.”
“She won’t know about me. I’ll wear long sleeves—and I’ll soon be right, anyway. Storr, you once said that if I needed quick transport...”
“You shall have it,” he said. “We’ll go today in the plane.”
“Today!”
“You’ll be there quicker than if you’d set out yesterday by any other means.” He stood there, weighing things up. “I intended taking you along to Hazel and Vic tomorrow morning, and telephoning your employer in Cape Town that you’d be in touch with him in a few days. We’ll leave Hazel for the moment, but I’d better put through the call to the Riding School. Get Joseph to help you pack your things. The plane seats four, so we can take the weight.”
He was managing and dictatorial, just what she needed. He was also as distant as the stars, which might again be just what she needed. She swallowed the drink he gave her and got to her feet.
“It won’t take me long to pack.”
“There’s no tearing hurry. We’ll have a light lunch at noon and leave around one. I have to get the plane ready and make a phone call to Johannesburg, as well as the one to Cape Town.” He was at the door with her, tall and impersonal but infinitely dependable. “I’ll send Joseph along to you. Just sit down in your room and tell him what to do. And don’t distress yourself—it never gets things done.”
“You ... you don’t think I ought to try and telephone my mother first? I mean, it’s putting you to an awful lot of trouble.”
A sharp edge came into his voice. “A telephone call is not what you want, is it? You want to be with her?
”
“It’s what I’d choose, of course. She’s so far away...”
“Then we’re going. It’s settled.”
She hesitated in the open doorway, realized suddenly and piercingly that she was looking at the gay and modern apartment in his gracious old house for the last time and turned abruptly to leave him. She went to her room, pushed a shaking hand over her hair and began to pile her clothes on the bed, ready for packing. Joseph came in and opened the suitcase. He laid away her things with surprising care, and ponderously filled the corners of the case with wrapped shoes.
Ann hovered, handing things to him and watching. She saw the slacks she had worn yesterday ... or was it the day before? Involuntarily her fingers slipped into the pocket and drew out the crushed letter from Theo to his sister. She took it to the window and smoothed it, read the rather untidy writing with eyes that ached. For Theo, it was quite brutal; but then it was possible he had known all along that his sister had no real feeling for Storr. Baldly, he stated that he would not be returning for some time to Groenkop, that he was hoping to get back on to the staff of the Airways Company. Then he said that he would be writing to Ann. And lastly came the paragraph which had infuriated Elva.
“I’ve discovered a few things up here. Storr is keen on the daughter of one of his co-directors—a man named De Vries. Storr gave the daughter the first Skipalong—gave it, mark you—and has arranged for her to take her father to Groenkop for a visit. The De Vries girl gave a big party the night we arrived, and her father told me that she and Storr are on the verge of announcing their engagement. Storr spent the three days at their home, and when he left in the small hours for Belati, several of us saw him off. I heard him say to her, ‘Till Friday, then,’ and they kissed. I’m telling you all this, Elva, so that you’ll see how things are. I know you’re fond of Piet. Why don’t you try to make a go of things with him ...?”
Ann tore the sheet into little bits and dropped them into the wastepaper-basket near the writing-table. For a minute her throat was so constricted that she had to open her mouth to take in air, but presently she felt calmer. She hadn’t learnt anything new; the facts she was already aware of had been verified, that was all. Of course he kissed the woman; they were almost engaged, weren’t they?
“Till Friday, then.” Tomorrow would be Friday, and presumably the girl was coming to Groenkop. Or perhaps Storr had promised to make another visit to Johannesburg. Whichever it was, the implication remained the same. He was telephoning Johannesburg, wasn’t he? But it could be a business call...
Her head ached with the tension she couldn’t dispel. Why was she thinking of Storr at a time like this, when her mother needed her so much? And there was her father, probably in a frightful way by now because he had placed such a burden on the wife who herself needed to be carefully looked after.
Really, Ann thought desperately, she must be firm with herself. She had expected to leave, anyway, quite soon. But if she had stayed just two days she might have met the girl Storr had chosen, the girl who, apparently, was to be “the one who loved.”
By this time, Ann’s nerves were so ragged that she could hardly bear to think at all. She went out on to the veranda, down into the garden and along one of the paths. She supposed some of her things were still at the cottage, but oddly, she didn’t care. All she wanted now was to get away. If she could have escaped without Storr she would have done so.
She walked till her shoulder was hot and painful and her brain was cooler. Then she turned back towards the house.
CHAPTER NINE
THE plane moved smoothly and sweetly. There were wisps of cloud beyond the scarlet wing-tips, sunshine glanced through the window and placed bright bars across Ann’s lap, as she sat in the seat beside Storr’s. Everything in the cabin was bright and new, and Storr looked as cool and indolent as if he were driving a car on a first-class road. He wore tropical slacks and white shirt with a flowing tie. Air conditioning made even a light jacket unnecessary. Ann hadn’t known that small planes were built so luxuriously, though she didn’t say so, of course. She hardly spoke at all, and Storr was equally uncommunicative.
After half an hour in the air he did say, “This is your first trip aloft. Like it?”
To which she replied, “Yes, it’s not frightening at all.”
“We’ve reached the coast. It sets the course for us all the way to Durban. Looks as if there’s quite a swell on.”
Yet the sea looked peaceful too, with the sun touching the crests and an edging of pale sand punctuated by wild rocks. The land was a thick green, with tiny villages scattered over it; long spaces between the villages, though, because this was Africa. Ann wished she had had less on her mind; she would have liked to give all her heart and mind to this new and exciting experience.
During lunch Storr had said the journey would take about four hours, which meant they would arrive at the airport around five and reach the hotel by six. At six o’clock she would see her mother! She herself would have to take over, and it would do her good.
According to Storr, Captain Wynne at the Riding School had been both understanding and accommodating. His sister-in-law was helping out and doing it very well, and Miss Calvert must not think of returning till she and her father were entirely fit. No hurry, no hurry at all. Which meant, Ann supposed, that she was no more indispensable than anyone eke. But it was a relief to know that her employer was informed; he knew her parents came first with her.
Actually, though, she thought very little about her mother and father during that trip to Durban. She sat there, in her pale green suit with the white blouse that buttoned to the throat, looking small and lonely and very young. She gazed down upon the velvet folds of the hills, the lush coastline and the distant turbulent sea and knew that she would never again be alone like this with Storr. Yet to him, obviously, the journey was a chore he had undertaken because she was alone and dependent. He would deliver her at the hotel, bid her a cool goodbye and their acquaintanceship would end. And even in these last hours of it, they had nothing to say to each other. He was probably thinking of the girl in Johannesburg.
Gradually, they were becoming surrounded by clouds—thick grey ones that merged with each other. There was nothing below them but the greyness. Rain lashed the windows, streamed down over the metal, but Storr made no comment. It was the first rain Ann had seen since leaving Cape Town. She remembered reading in the newspaper that Natal was stormy and flooded in parts.
After an hour of it the sky was darker, the banks of cloud denser than ever. At intervals, Storr used his radio—unintelligibly to Ann.
At last she asked, “Is it all right? Will you be able to land?”
He nodded. “It’s just routine. I phoned through to Durban for a weather report before we started. They gave me the O.K.”
He didn’t speak again till, some time later, he told her to fasten her strap. Within fifteen minutes, during which the plane circled at reduced speed, the shining wet concrete came up at them from their last dive through clouds and the Skipalong Two touched and taxied. They had arrived.
The rain came down in a noisy torrent. It beat up from the hard ground, swirled over the grass, and washed the airport building into a shimmer of light. Storr threw an oilskin round Ann and slipped on his own raincoat, looked at her silly little black hat and shrugged.
“It’ll have to take its chance. I’ll carry the small bag and my own case, and send for your suitcase. Ready?”
He opened the door and lowered the steel ladder, went first to help her down, then slammed the door of the cabin. Rain cascaded over them. With the bags in one hand he drew her close to his side and hurried her towards the lights.
Formalities inside the building were few. Storr was known, was rallied for making the trip on such a day. There were winks, as if to imply that it wasn’t hard to guess why he was here with a pretty girl. Storr looked nonchalant and made no explanations, but Ann was aware of that hardness in him. Perhaps because her own feelings made he
r hypersensitive she knew that his smile was only a surface thing; underneath he was as cold and distant as ever.
After talking to the desk official he came to Ann “No planes in, so there’s no transport to town. But I know a travel agent here; I’ll phone him to send a car. It may take some time, so you might as well go and dry your hair and have a wash. I’ll order some coffee in the restaurant. Come there when you’re ready.” He took the oilskin and placed it on a seat, nodded towards the Ladies’ Rest Room and himself went the other way, towards a telephone booth.
Feeling tremulous and depressed, Ann towelled her hair with a scarf she had carried in her bag, and set it in damp waves. The hat was a wreck, and on an impulse she left it where she had laid it, on a tiled ledge. She used lipstick, but left her face rainwashed and unadorned.
She found the restaurant, joined Storr at a table and was instantly served with coffee and sandwiches. They were good sandwiches, but Ann couldn’t swallow. She drank coffee and stared out at the stormy dusk. The windows were wide, the air they admitted leaden, warm and humid. This was Durban, she remembered; sub-tropics. Bananas, avocados, papaws and sugar cane. She found herself watching Storr’s hands; long-fingered, bony and brown, flexible and full of strength. She had to wrench her gaze away.
“Sure you wouldn’t like to telephone the hotel?” he asked.
Anything, Ann thought, to shorten this interminable, strained waiting. “Yes, all right. Now that I’m here my mother won’t worry about the air trip.”
“Would she have worried, had she known?”
“I’m afraid so. You see”—with the ghost of a thin smile—“she doesn’t know you.”
“You don’t either,” he said abruptly, as he stood up. “Blakesfield Hotel, isn’t it?”
He took her to the office of one of the officials, saw her seated and dialed the hotel number. He asked for Mrs. Calvert, put a few sharp questions which so alarmed Ann that she jumped to her feet, and then he wrote down something, expressed his thanks and rang off. He turned to her.
The Reluctant Guest Page 17
