Summer of the Weeping Rain

by Yvonne Whittal

  Summer of the Weeping Rain

  By

  Yvonne Whittal

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SUMMER OF THE WEEPING RAIN

  Lisa was spending a few months in the peace and quiet of the African veld, away from it all, while she recovered from a serious accident. Away from it all? Hardly, when the tough and ruthless Adam Vandeleur was around all the time!

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  First published 1979

  Australian copyright 1980

  Philippine copyright 1980

  This edition 1980

  © Yvonne Whittal 1980

  ISBN 0 263 73204 5

  CHAPTER ONE

  Gale force winds rattled the lounge windows of the small, inexpensive flat Lisa Moreau shared with her mother, and in the narrow street below people walked with their heads bent and their shoulders hunched as they fought against the elements of nature. The sky looked bleak, and Table Mountain was shrouded in a billowing mist that looked every bit as angry as the sea. It had been a bad year for tourists visiting Cape Town, for the weather had been more unpredictable than usual. The winter rains had started early, and the stormy seas had ravaged the coast until this important South African port had lived up to the name given to it by the early Portuguese navigators, 'The Cape Of Storms'. Now, with August almost at an end and spring in the offing, there was still no reprieve from the weather.

  Lisa's faintly disconsolate glance turned from the dismal scene outside to the two women seated on the old, floral covered sofa, and she wondered, not for the first time that afternoon, why her mother's sister had chosen to pay them a visit on a day like this when it would have been more sensible to remain indoors.

  Molly Anstey was the headmistress at the school where Lisa had been a teacher for the past two and a half years, and it was obvious to Lisa that her aunt had something on her mind; something which Lisa had guessed at from the moment her aunt had stepped into their neat little flat, and something which she shrank from instinctively.

  Since the accident which had disrupted Lisa's life during the second school term of that year, she had known that she would inevitably have to face the future again, but now, three months later, she still lacked the courage and the strength to do so.

  Lisa sighed inwardly and, leaning heavily on her walking stick, she sat down in a chair facing the two women to observe them in silence while they talked, but she took in nothing of what was being said. Her aunt was still remarkably slender for a woman in her late forties, and showed no sign, as yet, of greying, whereas Lisa's mother, two years older than Molly, was greying swiftly at the temples and slightly plumper than her elegantly clad sister.

  Molly Anstey looked up suddenly and met Lisa's direct gaze. For a moment her face was expressionless, then her lips tightened in a manner Lisa knew only too well, and it sent a shiver of apprehension up her spine. Her aunt placed her empty tea-cup in the tray with great care as if it had been made of delicate china and not just cheap imitation, then those slender, capable hands were folded neatly in her lap, and Lisa knew that the dreaded moment had come.

  'I want to talk to you very seriously, Lisa, and I'm hoping that you won't think that I'm trying to force you into something you don't want to do, but—' She paused significantly and exchanged a swift glance with Lisa's mother before continuing. 'You need to get away, my dear, for a few months at least, and a stay in the country should be just the thing for you.'

  'Are you, in a very polite way, asking me to resign my post at the school, Aunt Molly?' Lisa wanted to know, and her usually soft, pleasant voice was tinged with a sarcasm which had resulted from the recent months of pain, suffering and disillusionment.

  'No, my dear,' her aunt contradicted smoothly. 'I'm not asking you to resign if you don't want to, but your mother and I are both fully aware of your reluctance to return to the school after—after—'

  'After the accident,' Lisa supplied calmly as her aunt stumbled to an uncomfortable halt.

  'Yes,' Molly nodded, recovering herself swiftly. 'Why not go away for a while, Lisa? It would give you the opportunity to get over this whole tragic business.'

  'I can't afford an extended holiday, and I dread the thought of being idle,' Lisa said tritely.

  'No one suggested that you should remain idle, my dear,' Molly protested hastily. 'Of course you must find something to occupy yourself with.'

  Lisa's lips curved into a semblance of a smile, but there was also a hint of cynicism in it. 'Jobs are scarce these days, even in the country, and I—'

  'As a matter of fact I do know of something which might interest you,' her aunt interrupted quickly, and she leaned forward in her seat with a slight urgency to explain. 'An old friend of mine, Erica Vandeleur, recently lost her youngest son and his wife in a plane accident, and she now finds herself looking after their two small children, a boy and a girl aged five.'

  'Twins?' Lisa questioned, instantly on the alert.

  'Yes,' Molly confirmed; 'Erica lives with her eldest son, Adam, on his sheep farm in the Beaufort West district, and although she finds the children adorable, she hasn't been too well lately, and she realises she's incapable of managing them on her own at the moment. It was Adam, the children's uncle and guardian, who decided that they needed help, and when I received Erica's letter yesterday, asking whether I could recommend someone suitable, I thought instantly of you.'

  'Oh, no!' Lisa exclaimed distastefully. 'No, I couldn't!' 'But you're extraordinarily good with children, and it would be such a wonderful opportunity for you to have a paying holiday in the country,' her aunt argued strongly.

  'I'm a teacher, Aunt Molly, not a nursemaid.'

  'It would only be for a couple of weeks.'

  'A couple of weeks?'

  Lisa stared at her incredulously and Molly Anstey shifted uncomfortably in her chair as she confessed, 'Well, a little more than four months, actually, until the children go to boarding school.'

  'It's out of the question!' Lisa stated flatly.

  'Lisa, my dear, you should at leas
t consider it,' her mother interrupted calmly for the first time. 'You know you've been dreading the idea of going back to the school.'

  'And think of all that lovely fresh Karoo air,' Molly added persuasively.

  'The summers in the Karoo are hot and dusty, and the winters cold and frosty,' Lisa said sharply and dispassionately, rejecting the idea with every fibre of her being. 'No, thank you, Aunt Molly. I'm a city girl, born and bred, and living on a primitive farm in the Karoo just doesn't appeal to me one bit. I sympathise with Mrs Van—Van—whatever her name is, and I'm sorry for the children, but—'

  'Lisa!'

  'I'm, sorry, Mother,' Lisa turned to the woman who had spoken her name so reprovingly. 'I know you're both trying your best to help me, and I appreciate it, but—'

  'It wouldn't be for ever, dear,' her mother interrupted gently, but Lisa shook her fair head adamantly.

  'You've got the weekend to think it over, Lisa,' her aunt remarked after a lengthy, tense silence had prevailed in the room. 'Let me know on Monday what you've decided.'

  Long after Molly Anstey had left, Lisa remained seated in her chair, her fingers absently fingering the carved handle of the walking stick she wished she could do with-out. She could hear her mother in the kitchen, rinsing the tea-cups and packing them away, but Lisa's thoughts had gone back in time to that fateful day when her own car had been in for a service and she had accepted a lift to school with her closest friend, Sandy Duncan.

  The traffic had been exceptionally heavy that morning, and they had been discussing their plans for the coming winter holidays as well as Lisa's approaching marriage to Rory Phillips. Neither of them had seen the small delivery van jump the red light at a busy intersection until it was on top of them, and then it had been too late to avoid a collision. Lisa could still hear the horrifying crunch of metal and splintering glass on impact, and then she had mercifully known nothing more until she had woken up in hospital several hours later. She had urgently questioned the hospital staff for news of her friend, but they had remained evasive, and it was her mother who had eventually broken it to her that Sandy Duncan had been killed instantly.

  The shock of Sandy's death had minimised Lisa's own injuries to unimportance, but they had been brought sharply into focus when Rory, her fiancé, was finally allowed to see her in hospital. With her arm in plaster, her fractured ribs making breathing difficult, and her hip in traction, Lisa had known that she did not look her best, but when Rory stood rigidly at the foot of her bed, she knew that the injuries to her face had been far worse than they had led her to believe. She could have taken his sympathy, his compassion, and even his pity, but the look of horror and revulsion on his lean, handsome features had struck the final blow.

  She had somehow wrenched his ring from her swollen finger, and he had accepted it from her without protest before he walked out of the ward, and out of her life. There had been no tears after his departure, only a deadly numb-ness that left her devoid of feelings, but it was after that incident that she had insisted on having a mirror placed at her disposal, and the face that had confronted her had filled her with self-disgust. Her hair had been cut away just above the left temple where a light gauze dressing covered the stitches she had received there, but it was the long, ugly gash running along the side of her jaw-that had upset her most, and her face, puffed and bruised with the minor lacerations she had received, made the sight of her own reflection even more hideous. That was when she had begun to understand the reason for Rory's revulsion, but it did not prevent the bitterness and the contempt she had begun to feel towards the man who had professed to love her so deeply.

  'Lisa.' A comforting hand touched her shoulder lightly, jerking her back to the present, to discover that she was shaking uncontrollably, and her entire body felt cold and clammy with perspiration. 'Why don't you have a rest before dinner?' her mother suggested with sympathetic understanding. 'I'll give you a call when it's ready.'

  'Thank you, Mother,' Lisa smiled up at her wearily and, leaning heavily on her walking stick for moral as well as physical support, she limped across the room and down the short passage to her bedroom.

  Reliving the accident, and the events directly following it, had exhausted Lisa, and when her head touched the pillow she slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep from which her mother had difficulty in waking her some two hours later.

  'You had me worried for a moment,' confessed Celia Moreau as her daughter sat up and pushed a heavy wave of corn-coloured hair out of her eyes. 'There's time for you to bath and change before dinner, but only if you're quick about it,' she added warningly before she left the room.

  Taking her advice, Lisa bathed quickly and rubbed herself vigorously with the towel afterwards, pausing only momentarily to finger the scar on her hip where they had had to cut into the flesh in order to reset the badly crushed bones. So many scars, she thought bitterly. So many reminders. Then, thrusting aside her thoughts, she reached for the talcum powder and sprinkled her body liberally before dressing, and joining her mother at the dinner table.

  Lisa found it virtually impossible to sleep that night. Her aunt's suggestion that she should take on the job of looking after those two orphaned children kept thrusting its way into her mind and, despite her efforts, she could think of nothing else.

  It was a ridiculous suggestion, she told herself. Living in the Karoo on a remote sheep farm did not appeal to her at all, and looking after two small children was a far cry from dealing successfully with intelligent twelve-year-olds. It was preposterous to imagine that she would be able to cope, and how would the children react to someone with a scarred face and an equally disfiguring limp? she wondered suddenly as bitterness welled up in her breast.

  Rory's appalled features flashed through her mind, and she shrank inwardly from the whole idea as she switched on the bedside light and thrust aside the blankets to lower her feet on to the floor in search of her soft mules. A glass of warm cocoa might induce sleep, she decided as she pulled on her gown, but on her way to the door she paused in front of the full-length mirror and, almost against her will, she studied her reflection critically, and a trifle cynically.

  She had always been small and slender, but she was now almost painfully thin, and her cheekbones stood out prominently in her pale face to throw deep shadows beneath wide-set blue eyes fringed heavily with pale gold lashes. Her hair was the colour of ripe corn, and it waved naturally down on to her shoulders, but since the accident she deliberately combed it forward to hide the scar against her left temple, but there was no way she could hide the raised, sometimes livid scar along the side of her jaw. It stood out against her pale skin like a beacon, she thought, taunting her ruthlessly and making her believe everything Rory's cruel, horrified glance had implied.

  Lisa's vision clouded at this point and, as always, the sensitive curves of her generous mouth went unnoticed, as did the tenderness and passion it implied. The small, straight nose and the firmly rounded chin suggested an inner strength, and the colour of her eyes changed to an arresting violet blue when she became emotionally disturbed. The minor lacerations on her face had healed to leave her delicately boned features undisturbed, but Lisa had progressed beyond the stage of finding anything pleasing in the face that stared back at her so steadily.

  Her hand absently massaged her left hip and thigh as if in anticipation of the nagging pain which still gnawed at her after lengthy periods of remaining on her feet, and she sighed heavily as she turned from her reflected image and made her way along the darkened passage towards the kitchen.

  Her mother's bedroom had been in darkness when she had passed it, but no sooner had she put the saucepan of milk on the stove when her mother walked into the kitchen, her slippered feet making no sound on the tiled floor.

  'Could you do with some more company?' Celia Moreau asked quietly and, when Lisa nodded silently, she added more milk to that which was already in the saucepan and took upon herself the task of making them each a mug of cocoa.

 
Lisa hooked her cane over the back of the kitchen chair and lowered herself into it, leaning her elbows on the table as she enviously watched her mother move about the kitchen. Her movements were fluid and without the jarring limp Lisa struggled so vainly to conquer.

  'Your hip will take some time to heal,' the doctor had warned her. 'Don't expect miracles, but within less than a year you should be free of all discomfort and well on the way to walking normally.'

  Lisa had listened calmly at the time, but her patience was severely tried at times when she found herself incapable of doing the simple little things which had once been second nature, and she hated having to cling to the rails for support whenever she climbed the two flights of steps up to their flat. She was only just beginning to drive her car again, and this, at least, afforded her a certain amount of pleasure and freedom, but she avoided meeting people as much as possible.

  'You must try to forget the past, Lisa,' her mother remarked casually but shrewdly. 'It isn't good for you to brood over what happened, and you know it only leaves you restless and depressed.'

  Lisa's fingers tightened on the mug of cocoa her mother had placed before her. 'I can't help remembering, and when I look in the mirror I sometimes wish I'd died as well.'

  'Lisa!' Celia Moreau's face paled as she stared at her daughter in horror. 'Never say that again!'

  'But my face—'

  'Is scarred, yes,' her mother interrupted her forcefully. 'But the scars are mercifully not as disfiguring as you like to imagine, and you must he grateful for that.'

  'Oh, Mother,' Lisa sighed unsteadily, a flicker of pain in the eyes she raised to her mother's. 'I've seen the way people stare at me, and—'