“We’re about four hours too late. Your father had his operation three days ago and was released from hospital this morning. Someone who seems to have befriended them—a director of a sugar company—has offered them his weekend place up the coast for as long as they care to use it. He and his wife took your parents there this afternoon.”
“That means my father’s all right?”
“I’d say so. It could only have been a minor bit of surgery.”
“Did you gather how my mother was feeling? I heard you ask about it.”
“I spoke to the manager. He said she was quite normal as far as he knew. Seems these new friends had taken her under their wing several days ago, and saw her through.” His smile was without humour. “You must be a lot like your mother—a tough core of courage in a small and helpless-looking being. It attracts assistance as a magnet draws steel.”
“I’ve known all along that you brought me here against your will.”
“Really?”—with icy sarcasm. “Let’s get outside and decide what to do.”
Partly, it was decided for them. An African was at the desk, asking for Mr. Peterson. He had brought a car which the master could use during his stay in Durban. Perhaps the master would be good enough to drive him, the chauffeur, back to his quarters?
Within ten minutes Storr had arranged to have the Skipalong pushed under cover for the night, and Ann was inside the small car at his side, her luggage and the African in the back seat. It was not till after they had driven round the back of the town and dropped the chauffeur, that she asked,
“Where are we going?”
“To your people. The house is, some way beyond Umbenizi, but we’ll make it in two or three hours, if we’re lucky. You should be with them by ten.”
“Storr”—her fingers moved towards his sleeve but didn’t quite reach it—“I think you’ve done enough. I’ll stay at a hotel tonight and get a taxi to take me to them tomorrow. It must be gruelling—driving in this downpour. And don’t say it’s routine!”
He looked her way, briefly. “Now we’ve started, we’ll finish the job as quickly as we can. The road may be sticky, but if the car keeps going, we’ll make it.”
She had to leave it at that. They skirted the town once more, made for the road to Umbezini and kept going. The rain roared over the roof of the small car, drenched down over the windscreen and swept along the road in a tide. Visibility was so restricted at times that he had to slow down considerably to see at all, but they passed small lights which Ann thought must come from houses among the plantations. An occasional vehicle came towards them, feeling its way and sending out huge sprays of muddy water. Then they left the tarmac, turned along a gravel road that was an expanse of mud and lakes; and there was no other traffic, nothing in the teeming flooded world but Ann and Storr in the valiant little car.
It seemed to Ann that they travelled that appalling road for many hours. The car lurched into holes, ground over boulders, skidded across clay that was under water and somehow avoided becoming waterlogged. And every mile seemed to take them farther from civilization. Now there were immense trees on both sides; the road ran through a forest that bore the torrent stiffly, as if conditioned to such things.
“Do you know this road?” she ventured once.
“I’ve been this way to St. Lucia Bay. It’s generally the eager fishermen who build on this coast.”
“Is it much farther to Umbenizi?”
“A couple of rivers,” he said laconically.
It was the rivers, Ann found, that disturbed her most. They tore along under the narrow bridges, most of them hardly a foot below the road, and one bridge had actually been several inches under gushing water as they crossed it. But it was no use reiterating that he shouldn’t have come this far tonight. He seemed ruthlessly bent on getting rid of her as soon as he could. So she sat and watched the tropical torrent, noticed a few flashes of lightning and wondered what on earth her mother would think of her turning up at ten o’clock in such weather. She looked at her watch and found it was a quarter to ten already.
Then suddenly Storr braked. They were on the edge of a raging river, and peering through the windscreen, Ann saw a lopsided bridge that moved as she watched it.
“We can’t go any farther, can we?” she whispered, a little hoarsely.
Storr backed and reversed. “We’ll find a by-road through a plantation. There’ll be another bridge.”
“Storr ... honestly, there’s no need for this. I know you want to get back to Groenkop...”
“Stop it,” he said tersely.
But Ann was too wound up to remain quiet any longer.
“I won’t stop it! I’m grateful to you for bringing me to Durban, but I didn’t ask you to take on this car-ride. Let’s go back, so that you’ll be able to get away again.”
“I’ll go back to Durban alone,” he said grimly. “I said I’d take you to your mother, and I will.”
“There’s nothing urgent about it now. You must see that!”
“We’re a lot nearer to Umbezini than to Durban. And there’s urgency for me. I have a date in Johannesburg tomorrow.”
It was like the shock of icy water on burning skin. Ann’s burst of spirit died as suddenly as it had been roused. She knew no conflicting emotions, only the bitterness of a defeat which was so complete that her world was empty of everything else. She said nothing more.
He found his by-road, drove through swampy lanes for a mile or two and arrived at another road like the one they had left. The bridge he had expected to find was there, at water level, and he drove across it and on into fields of cane. Half an hour later they passed the Umbezini Trading Store, and within minutes came to a drive which was signposted with the name Storr had written on the telephone pad. He took the turn through squashy gravel, came to a white thatched house that was completely dark. It was ten forty-five.
Ann found her voice, wearily. “They’re in bed, I’m afraid. It’s just occurred to me that ... that those people who own the place may be here too. How am I going to explain things?”
“Floods don’t need explaining,” he said curtly. “Leave it to me.”
“Just a moment ... please!”
Ann had been going to remind him that there might be no spare bedrooms, that their unexpected arrival at such an hour was hardly fair to people who had befriended her parents, and that her mother would be upset if her father were roused from sleep. But none of it was spoken because her voice caught, and the tears she had been striving to check slipped at last down her cheeks. There weren’t many tears, but when she looked at him in the beating darkness he flicked on the interior light and saw her deeply shadowed eyes and moist lashes. With a tight exclamation he jerked off the light and sat there for a moment with his hand clenched on the wheel.
He said roughly, “If you go in there looking like that they’ll wonder what the hell’s been happening. We’ll find somewhere you can rest and decide what to do.”
Possibly the noise of the storm drowned the roar of the car’s engine as he turned and found the lane once more. He must have known this type of dwelling rather well, for he unerringly took the way towards the sea, where a wooden shack belonging to the house stood above a rocky beach. Not that the rocks and sea were visible tonight; one merely got the sense of them, out there in the rushing darkness, where the ground sloped. He stopped the car as close as possible to the shack, slipped out and under the narrow shelter of the thatch tried the door. It was locked, but the window beside it had been left unlatched by whoever had used it last. He pushed fingers through the crack and lifted the bar, found the opening too narrow for his broad shoulders and came back to the car.
“I’ll have to put you through the window; it’s only about a yard from the door.”
Ann was glad to move. She climbed into a small room, groped for the lock and twisted the knob. Storr came in and struck a match, saw the paraffin lamp and struck another. Light flowered in the room, revealing a few thonged chairs and cus
hions, a table and log walls hung with fishing tackle. There was a crude log bench against one wall, and Storr at once heaped the cushions along it.
“Lie down there,” he said. “I’ll think out something.”
“I’d rather stand for a minute or two. May I have a cigarette?”
He gave her one and lit it, took one for himself. Then he went to the open door and stared out at the endless storm. She wondered what he was thinking, but was too tired to care very much. She smoked slowly, sank down on the edge of the bench and leaned her back against the wall. It was uncomfortable, and soon she stabbed out the cigarette and lay down, with her hands under her head. There was no ceiling, only the thatch lashed to the poles which supported it; just one room, seemingly, a small, easily-constructed refuge where a fisherman and his friends could eat lunch in windy weather, or play cards when it rained.
Storr stepped back into the room and closed the door, and instantly they were more alone than they had been even in the plane. The rain on the thatch was a dull sound, and outside it was muted by the grass. There were no gutters to gurgle, not even a stone step to throw back sound. There was only the soft enveloping roar which must have been a blend of the sea and the storm.
He got rid of his cigarette, walked round the small room with his hands in his pockets, and then took off his jacket and sat down, looking hardly any different from the man who had dealt so casually with the controls of the Skipalong. The lamp sputtered and went low.
“Running out of gas,” he commented. “Can you sleep?”
“I daren’t. What are we going to do?”
“Stay here till morning.”
She got up on one elbow. “You ... you can’t mean that!”
“We’ve no choice. You can’t rouse your parents.” A pause. “Didn’t it occur to you that they might have gone early to bed?”
“No. I’m sorry, but it didn’t.”
“It occurred to me.”
She lay back again, spoke in strained tones to the ceiling. “Your sense of humor is a bit ghoulish tonight.”
“It isn’t. It’s missing altogether. I’m not being funny.”
“If you thought of it, why did you bring me here?”
“I decided it might do you good to face a ticklish situation.”
Ann bit at the inside of her lip, controlled her tones. “You actually foresaw something like this? Don’t you think I’ve stood enough lately?”
“Of physical pain, yes—more than enough. If it had been humanly possible I’d have saved you even the fright of being shut up with that horse.” He leaned over the table and turned the screw of the lamp; the light flared, and then dimmed to a small glimmer. “Do you ever think of anyone else besides yourself and Theo?” he asked impersonally.
“I must do, or I wouldn’t be here.”
“How would you feel if you were alone here with Theo tonight?”
“I don’t know.”
He was silent for some moments. Then: “So your way of dealing with difficulties is to try and ignore them. I thought rather better of you, little one.”
She was too tired to choose her words. “What did you expect me to do—sit up and have a heart-to-heart talk with you? I’ve nothing to say.”
“Nothing?” As if the question were another turn of the screw the lamp went out. His chair creaked as he sat back. His tone was cool and jeering. “Frightened?”
“No. Only ... rather unhappy. Is it necessary for us to part enemies?”
“Why should we? I don’t hate you, and you’ve no reason to hate me. After all, I’ve brought you to your parents, and I shall be helping your fiancé to gain his self-respect. By the way, there was a letter for you today from Theo—I forgot to give it to you. Pity the light’s left us; you’ll have to put it under your pillow and guess what it says.” She heard movements and felt her whole body become tense. He was there at her side, bending to feel for the cushion under her head. She saw the letter and quickly put up a hand to take it. The hand was grasped, he leaned over and found her mouth in the darkness, kissed her hard and bruisingly but without touching her in any other way. For a second his eyes were visible; narrow and glittering.
He heard her gasp, and he straightened. “That’s for Theo,” he said in an icicle voice. “Good night.”
Without haste he crossed to the door, opened it and went out. The door thudded, the lock clicked, and Ann was alone with her palpitating heart. Her fingers moved tremblingly over her lips.
There was no longer the torture of trying not to cry. She didn’t want to cry, didn’t want anything except oblivion. But sleep had receded, and her brain acted as brains often do in times of stress and emergency—with precision and clarity. She heard the slam of the car door and knew Storr intended to spend the night folded up in the small vehicle. He said he didn’t hate her, but perhaps it was worse to be disliked ... to be kissed with dislike. Hate was a positive emotion.
Why, oh, why, had he brought her here to this shack when he might have left for home and known she was safe in a hotel? Was it some mistaken sense of chivalry which had made him stay till he saw her safely with her parents? Yet he had forseen that they would retire early; he had anticipated it, but he had driven on through torrential rain in a strange little car. What had he expected? Ann couldn’t decide; she only knew he hadn’t got it, because he was colder and more withdrawn than ever before.
She recalled his reference to “a date in Johannesburg.” It was after midnight, which meant that he would be seeing his Chloe today. What was she like—his chosen woman? Curvy, Neville Braithwaite had said; well-dressed and with expensive tastes. Dark, of course; dark and intense, a dashing woman pilot with whom he had many things in common. That would be his reason for choosing a particular woman: compatibility. He would love her because she was his, but he wouldn’t be in love with her, because he could never yield himself to anyone. To remain in command of himself and everyone else in any situation, he had to stay clear and unassailable. He shared the arch-cynic’s view that a man could be happy with a woman so long as he did not love her.
Ann lay quite still, defeated. Her every nerve was aware of him out there in the lashing darkness, but she was tired to the point of exhaustion. As dawn brought an end to the rain and a blanket of steam, she gave way to excessive fatigue, and slept.
Ann awoke to a misty brilliance and the pungent smell of wet vegetation and seaweed. She got up and eased her shoulder, felt her head take a dive and sickeningly right itself. If she looked as dreadful as she felt it would be wiser to stay away from a mirror. Her suit was creased and her clothes clung to her body with sweat. She hadn’t imagined such heat in the early morning.
Then she looked at her watch and saw it was ten-thirty, looked again to make sure. She hadn’t wound the watch last night, but it was still going. Ten-thirty! Ann swayed across the small room and looked out of the window, saw the car had gone, and concluded, dully, that Storr had gone with it. She opened the door, felt her eyes shrink and go hot in the hazy glare. Beside the door stood an old enamel can half full of clean water, and across the top of it lay a brand-new towel and tablet of soap. Her case stood there, too, and Ann thought, despairingly, that it was wrong for a man who had no true feelings to be so considerate.
She washed and opened her case, chose a powder-blue cotton frock that was flecked with white and quickly changed. She used make-up, rather more than usual, and tidied the case and closed it. With perfect timing, Storr arrived just as Ann was replacing the cushions in the chairs. He came into the shack, looked shaved and spruce in a clean shirt and the same slacks, his tie a plain navy blue.
“Good morning,” he said, with no expression at all. “I’ve brought you a flask of tea and some egg sandwiches. It was the best they could do for me at the Umbenizi store.”
He opened the package on the table, poured dark sweet tea into a borrowed cup and set out the sandwiches on a borrowed plastic plate. Ann was empty but not hungry. She drank some of the tea and took a sandwich, sai
d offhandedly,
“It’s nearly eleven. I thought perhaps you’d gone back to Durban and left a note for me somewhere.”
“No, you didn’t,” he answered as coolly. “You know me better than that. I went up to the store and bought a few things, ordered breakfast and came back here with the water and soap and towel while it was cooking. You were still asleep...”
“How did you know? I might not have been.”
“You were, honey. I looked through the window and called your name. You were completely unconscious. I could see that you’d sleep for another hour, so I went back and had breakfast alone. In any case, it might not have been good policy to take you to the store where your mother will deal. Looks odd, breakfast with a man so close to home.” He shrugged. “I told them the tea and sandwiches were for a friend. They weren’t curious.”
“Thank you, anyway.”
He nodded at the bandaged arm. “I’ll take a last look at it. It may be healthy enough to be left uncovered. You’ll find long sleeves too hot.”
She indicated a thin white jacket that hung over the back of a chair. “I’ll wear that today, at least. The bandage can stay on till tonight.”
“No, I want to see how it’s going.”
He took a tiny pair of scissors from his pocket and snipped the bandage. In case he should have to use it again he wound it carefully away from her arm and then lifted the lint. The bruising was still highly colored, but the weals had dried cleanly and the swelling was gone.
“You heal well,” he commented, “but I’ll bind the lint back into position as a protection. What about the shoulder?”
“It’s fine,” she said quickly.
For the first time he looked straight at her; there was a tightness about his mouth. “You loathe having me touch you, don’t you? I sensed it last night.”
“Yes, I do,” she said simply, her head averted from the searching closeness of his glance. She knew his eyes were stone grey with cold lights in them. “It was kind of you to bring the tea and sandwiches, but I can’t manage any more. I ... I’ve a headache.”
The Reluctant Guest Page 18
