Summer of the Weeping Rain

by Yvonne Whittal

  'Don't, my dear,' her mother silenced her hastily, and Lisa began to despise herself for the film of tears in her mother's eyes. 'With time and care you'll be walking normally again, and the doctor promised that the scars would heal until they were barely noticeable.'

  'And if they don't?' Lisa questioned in a frightened whisper.

  'Then you could always consider the possibility of further surgery.'

  Tears stung Lisa's eyelids and she blinked them away rapidly. 'I suppose you think I'm a fool.'

  'No, my dear.' The hand that touched Lisa's arm was gentle and compassionate. 'You've had a very unfortunate experience, and you're very sensitive about it, that's all, but you'll get over it in time.'

  Lisa shrugged tiredly. 'Yes, I suppose so.'

  'Drink up, dear,' her mother suggested at length. 'It's time we went to bed.'

  They said goodnight a few minutes later and went to their respective rooms, but it was some time before Lisa was able to shed her depression. The wind had subsided earlier in the evening, but not before it had brought the rain, and, as she lay listening to the patter of raindrops against her window, she wished she knew what the future had in store for her. The offer her aunt had made to her that afternoon was suddenly enticing, but a part of her still rejected the idea most forcibly. She tried to banish the subject from her mind, but found herself mentally compiling a list for and against the idea until she finally fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

  The sun was shining the next day for the first time in almost a week, and the sky was an incredible blue, Lisa noticed while she helped her mother pack away the Sunday lunch dishes, but a tense little silence, by no means the first that day, hovered between them as they moved about the small kitchen with its neat cupboards and red checkered curtains. Lisa knew the reason for the tense atmosphere, but could not bring herself to speak of it, and it was her mother who finally broached the subject when they sat down to their tea in the lounge.

  'Lisa, have you thought any more about that job Molly offered you?'

  'Yes, I have thought about it, but I can assure you I didn't do so intentionally,' Lisa admitted wryly.

  'And?'

  Lisa avoided her mother's direct blue gaze and shrugged her shoulders listlessly. 'I don't know.'

  'If I were you, I'd jump at the chance.'

  'Are you trying to get rid of me, Mother?' Lisa questioned, a hint of half-forgotten humour lurking in her voice.

  'Of course not, my dear,' her mother replied indignantly, 'but I know how depressed you've become since the accident, and then there's Rory—'

  'We won't discuss Rory, Mother, if you don't mind,' Lisa interrupted coldly with a glitter of ice in the depths of her eyes that had never been there before.

  'I'm sorry,' Celia Moreau apologised contritely.

  'No, I'm sorry,' Lisa contradicted a little ruefully, regretting her harshness with the one person who had stood by her so wonderfully during the past three months. 'You're right, though, Mother,' she added quietly. 'I've become depressed and irritable, and I can't seem to snap out of it.'

  'You'll get over it in time, but not if you stay here where there's so much to remind you of the accident and everything that had happened afterwards,' her mother told her wisely.

  'I could be at the other end of the world, Mother, and I'd still be reminded of it,' Lisa stated a little impatiently. 'All I have to do is look in the mirror.'

  'I told you, Lisa, you're unnecessarily touchy about those scars. They could have been much worse.'

  'They were bad enough to make Rory—' Lisa bit her lip. Like her mother, she was trespassing on the very subject she had wanted to avoid.

  'Forget about it, Lisa,' was her mother's whispered comment. 'If he had truly loved you, then your appearance would have made no difference to him, but as it is, he's not worth breaking your heart over.'

  'Yes, I know that,' Lisa acknowledged readily, but deep down his rejection of her still hurt so much at times that it was almost impossible to bear. 'What would you do if I accepted this job Aunt Molly has offered me?'

  'I would stay on here in the flat, of course. I have my work at the clothing store and I'm quite capable of looking after myself, you know.' Celia Moreau placed her empty tea-cup in the tray and eyed her' daughter speculatively. 'Are you going to take the job?'

  Lisa raised her hand almost without thinking and her fingers traced the scar on her face from ear to chin. 'I might.'

  'It would be such a change from teaching.'

  'Yes, it would.'

  'The fresh, clean country air would be the best tonic anyone could possibly prescribe for you,' Celia Moreau continued persuasively.

  'Mother…'

  'Don't hesitate, my dear,' her mother persisted, taking the telephone off the table beside the sofa and placing it on the padded armrest of Lisa's chair. 'Give Molly a ring and tell her you'll take the job before you change your mind again.'

  'But I haven't decided finally,' Lisa protested desperately as she shrank from the mere idea.

  'Don't be silly, dear, of course you've decided.'

  'Oh, Mother…'

  'Take this,' her mother smiled as she placed the receiver in Lisa's trembling hand. 'Now dial Molly's number.'

  Lisa somehow found herself carrying out her mother's instructions, and she could never quite recall afterwards what she had said, but during the week that followed she became only too aware of having agreed to something which she still had severe doubts about. It was as if she had taken her fate into her own hands, and now there was no turning back.

  Molly Anstey had contacted Erica Vandeleur on the telephone that same evening, and the wheels were set in motion. Erica Vandeleur had mentioned a tentative figure as salary which was sufficiently alluring, and it was finally decided that Lisa would drive herself up to Beaufort West on the Monday of the following week. Celia Moreau had not been too happy about this arrangement, but eventually agreed to it when Lisa promised faithfully that she would take the journey in easy stages.

  The days seemed to fly past with an incredible swiftness, and it was on a misty Monday morning that Lisa found herself bidding her mother farewell and driving in an easterly direction towards Beaufort West. There was a lump in her throat when she left Cape Town behind her, but her interest in her surroundings quickened when she negotiated the bends in the road through the fruit and wine-producing valleys.

  It was a new experience for her, travelling along this route, and when the sun dispersed with the mist clouds she stopped often to ease her aching hip, or to admire the spectacular scenery. At Paarl she glimpsed the KWV wine cellars, reputed to be the largest in the world, and then the scenic drive began along the Du Toitskloof Pass to Worcester and beyond. The mountains towered to the left and right of her as her small red Fiat finally gathered speed down into the picturesque Hex River Valley where the Barlinka vines were sprouting new young leaves and shoots in preparation for the coming season.

  Lisa stopped at a vantage point to admire the vineyards and the homesteads built in the old Cape Dutch style. Her hand absently massaged her hip and thigh, but the breathtaking view made up in every way for the pain she was suffering at that moment. It was too soon, perhaps, to have attempted such a long journey, she realised, but she brushed aside the thought as she leaned against her car and eased her weight off her leg. She raised her hand to shade her eyes from the sun, and her glance dwelled on the beauty of the lush green valley spread out before her where spring had already invaded the vineyards. She had almost three hundred kilometres still to travel before she reached her destination, but she knew that the scenery would change almost drastically the moment she left the valley, so she lingered for almost half an hour before easing herself reluctantly into the car and driving further.

  The Karoo was as hot and dusty as she had visualised it, with its sparse vegetation and scanty soil and, despite the discomfort of her aching hip, she drove through Matjiesfontein without stopping, glimpsing only briefly the Victorian houses wit
h the original lamp-posts still lining the streets. Flags were flying from the masts of the elegantly restored hotel, but Lisa put her foot down on the accelerator and drove on to Lainsburg before stopping to fill up with petrol, and to snatch a light lunch at a cafe.

  It was hot and dry in this semi-desert country, and she began to long for a cool, refreshing bath and a change of clothing. Her blouse was clinging to her back, and her cot-ton skirt no longer looked as fresh as it had when she left Cape Town after breakfast that morning. She had at least another two hours' travelling ahead of her, and the closer she came to her destination, the more apprehensive she became. Would the children accept her? Would she be able to cope?

  A trickle of perspiration ran down her spine, and she shuddered as she climbed back into her car and resumed her journey into the heart of the sheep farming country. The sun beat down mercilessly on to the dry earth, and the road lay ahead of her, shimmering in the heat, and seemingly endless.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A peculiar whiteness had settled about Lisa's mouth when Beaufort West loomed up ahead of her two hours later. With its streets lined with pear trees and its green gardens and playing fields, it seemed like an oasis in this desert-like area, but pain marred her appreciation and, clenching her teeth, she parked her car beneath a shady pear tree at the side of the road.

  Beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead as she swallowed down a capsule for the pain with the remainder of the water she had in her flask and, easing herself gingerly out of the driver's seat, she leaned weakly against the car for a few seconds before studying the directions she had scribbled down so hastily. It all seemed perfectly simple, she decided eventually and, dropping the small scrap of paper into her handbag, she climbed back into her car and drove a little further to the service station.

  While the petrol pump attendant saw to the needs of her car, Lisa sponged her face in the cloakroom and tried to restore some order to her appearance. The capsule was taking effect, and the pain was easing in her hip, but the whiteness about her mouth, and the faint shadows beneath her eyes lingered as a reminder. With the careful use of a powder base she managed to conceal most of the damage, but the tightness about her usually soft mouth remained and, sighing tiredly, she snapped her bag shut and went out into the hot afternoon sunshine.

  From a public telephone at the local post office, Lisa telephoned her mother to assure her of her safety and, promising to write as soon as she could, she continued on the last lap of her journey. Ten minutes later, however, she was totally confused, and once again studying the directions her aunt had given her. She had taken the wrong turning somehow, and had gone in a complete circle to find herself back where she had started originally on the outskirts of the town.

  'Where on earth did I go wrong?' she asked herself loudly, but her voice was drowned by the sound of a small truck crunching to an abrupt halt on the opposite side of the road, and out of the cloud of dust a man appeared at her side. He was a farmer, judging by the dusty grey pants and khaki shirt he wore, and the weatherbeaten face was lowered in line with her car window.

  'Having trouble?' he asked, pushing his shabby hat further back on to his grey head as he peered into her face intently and searchingly.

  Lisa was in the process of shrinking from him when she realised that the scarred side of her face was turned away from him.

  'I'm afraid I'm a little lost,' she explained, deriding herself now for her sensitivity concerning her appearance. 'Could you direct me to the Vandeleur farm, please?'

  'Vandeleur?' Grey eyes widened perceptibly. 'You mean Adam Vandeleur?'

  'That's his name, I believe,' Lisa remarked a little dryly, holding the glance of the elderly man, who seemed to recover his astonishment swiftly.

  'You must be the young lady who's come to look after Jacques Vandeleur's children.'

  'That's right.'

  'Well, I never!' the man exclaimed softly, lifting his hat to scratch his grey head thoughtfully.

  'The Vandeleur farm,' Lisa prodded gently, impatient now to reach the end of her agonising journey. 'Could you direct me, please?'

  'Oh, sure,' he said apologetically, thrusting his hat back on to his head to shade his eyes against the sun. 'Carry on with this road until it forks into two. Take the road to the left, and about twelve kilometres further you'll see the signpost with Adam's name printed on it. It'll be on your left. Fairview is the name of the farm, and you can't miss it.'

  'Thank you very much,' Lisa smiled up at him, starting the car and pushing the gear lever into position.

  'It was a pleasure, miss.' He raised his hat politely. 'And good luck.'

  Lisa frowned as she negotiated the uneven road, and a new uneasiness took possession of her as she recalled the man's parting words. Good luck. Would she be needing luck as an employee of Adam Vandeleur and his mother, or had the remark merely been a figure of speech?

  At the fork in the road where she had originally taken the wrong turning, Lisa shrugged off her apprehensiveness, and twelve kilometres further, as the helpful farmer had informed her, she encountered the signpost indicating the turn-off to Fairview.

  'This is it!' she told herself and, turning the nose of her dusty Fiat towards the direction indicated, she drove as carefully as possible along the bumpy farm track towards the house which was barely visible beyond the row of poplar and gum trees.

  The two-storied homestead with its trellised verandah was far removed from the primitive farmhouse Lisa had expected, and the woman who came out of the house to welcome her was not at all as Lisa had visualised Erica Vandeleur. Tall and frail-looking, she was a woman whose age Lisa judged to be well into the sixties, but there was a certain elegance about her which Lisa had not expected from a woman who had lived nearly all her life on a farm.

  Erica Vandeleur came swiftly down the steps as Lisa stepped carefully out of the car, and she winced inwardly when she transferred her weight on to her left foot and felt that familiar sharp pain shoot from her hip into her thigh. Grey-green eyes swept Lisa from head to foot, taking in the greyness of her pallor and the way her knuckles whitened on the carved handle of her walking-stick, then the older woman banished Lisa's initial nervousness by taking complete charge of the situation.

  'Good heavens, child, you must be exhausted. Daisy!' She clapped her hands and a Coloured woman appeared as if she had been waiting explicitly for that call. 'Take Miss Moreau's suitcases up to her room, and tell Petrus to park her car in one of the vacant garages.' She turned then and gripped Lisa's free arm, giving her added support as if it was the most natural thing on earth. 'Come in out of this heat, and… Oh, dear! I'm afraid in all the excitement I forgot to introduce myself.' A warm, friendly smile flashed across the thin, wrinkled face. 'I'm Erica Vandeleur.'

  Without waiting for her introduction to be acknowledged, she ushered Lisa into the large, cool entrance hall with its gleaming yellow-wood floors, stinkwood chests, and mirrored hat-stand.

  'I suppose you'd welcome a wash and a change while I order a fresh pot of tea?'

  'That would be lovely, thank you,' Lisa admitted a little breathlessly, glancing ruefully at her dusty crumpled appearance.

  'Daisy, show Miss Moreau up to her room,' Erica Vandeleur instructed the Coloured woman when she entered the house with Lisa's luggage, then she glanced almost apologetically at Lisa. 'I've put you in a room upstairs. I hope the stairs won't be too inconvenient for you?'

  'I'll manage perfectly, thank you,' Lisa assured her a little stiffly, not quite sure whether she approved of the woman's pointed reference to her disability, but Erica Vandeleur was already making her way across the hall to the back of the house.

  'Come down to the living-room as soon as you're ready, my dear,' she said over her shoulder.

  Lisa nodded and followed Daisy upstairs, making use of the carved, old-fashioned balustrade and her walking-stick for the necessary support, and thankful that Erica Vandeleur had not remained in the hall to witness her ungainly ascension to the
upper floor.

  The bedroom which had been prepared for Lisa was large and sunny. She had her own private bathroom which was tiled and reasonably modern, and the fringed bedside lamps on either side of the big double bed with its brass canopy made her realise that the Vandeleurs obviously generated their own electricity.

  'Shall I unpack for the madam?' Daisy offered politely, her watchful brown eyes observing Lisa sympathetically as she limped towards the window.

  Lisa, unaware of the sympathy she had evoked, turned from her hasty surveillance of the well-kept garden with its circular driveway, and smiled at the Coloured woman hovering respectfully at the foot of the bed where she had deposited Lisa's suitcases.

  'That won't be necessary, thank you.'

  Daisy nodded and flashed a smile at Lisa. 'Any time the madam may need anything, the madam may just call me.'

  Lisa thanked her, impatient now to have a few moments alone in the room she was to occupy for the next few months, and, as the door closed behind Daisy, she glanced about her appreciatively, taking in the Kiaat dressing-table with the matching wardrobe, the small writing desk with an upright wooden chair pushed neatly underneath it, and the large padded armchair in the corner beside the bed. An olive-green carpet covered the entire floor space, and the lemon-coloured curtains matched the quilted bedspread. It was a pleasing room, Lisa decided as she lifted one of her suitcases on to the bed and searched for a clean blouse and skirt. If Mrs Vandeleur was expecting her downstairs for tea, then there would not be time for more than a quick wash and a change of clothing, she realised ruefully. The bath she longed for would just have to wait.

  When she ventured downstairs some minutes later, she felt reasonably refreshed and, after glancing about her a little uncertainly, she walked slowly towards the door that stood invitingly open across the hall. Erica Vandeleur was seated on a stinkwood bench with padded cushions of wine-red velvet, and on the low table in front of her a tray of tea stood waiting. She indicated that Lisa should sit down beside her, and poured the tea at once.