Dangerous Waters

by Rosalind Brett

  “What of it?” He was cold and sarcastic. “If you’re fretting about Roger, he won’t be difficult to convince, and if it turns out to be some other chap, you can tell him to get in touch with me. After all,” with that cold sardonic smile, “he’ll only have to kiss you to be sure that you’re perfectly innocent.”

  She moved towards the chair where her stole lay. “You’re being cruel about it won’t make me feel worse—nothing could. I know it’s just as ghastly for you as for me, but you can handle almost anything. I can’t.”

  His voice was still hard as he answered, “At the moment you don’t have to handle a thing. Bretherton’s a greedy old windbag with dust in his veins, but you can trust him absolutely. No one but we three need know a thing about it till we hear the result of his petition. It would be ridiculous to wear yourself to rags while you’re waiting for it, but you hadn’t better forget that we’re tied, either.”

  he draped the stole over her arm, slanted him a daggerlike glance as she took a pace towards the door. “I’m thinking of other people—how the thing will look to them, if they get to know. They’ll never believe that the permit and passport were...”

  “Give over,” he said roughly. “How would you have had me react to Bretherton’s news—go all chivalrous and take you to a minister to make it all bright and shiny? Do you think I could live with a woman I’d married in such a way? I may be tough, but I’m not that insensitive!”

  “You’re taking too much for granted,” she said swiftly. “I wouldn’t want you, either! I just thought you might have tried to be a little gentle about it.”

  “Well, I can’t be gentle,” he said abruptly. “In this last hour the whole damn thing has come to mean too much. I want your promise that you won’t go spilling it all over Mrs. Winchester, or anyone else.”

  “I shan’t want to talk about it.”

  “See you stick to that. If there’s anything to discuss, I’m the one who has to listen—no one else.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake! I’m going.”

  He looked angry and exasperated, but did not stop her. He followed her outside and opened the car door. She slipped into her seat and was thankful that he got behind the wheel and started the engine without speaking. The moon had gone, and they ran out into a night that was pitch dark except where the car beams threw their rays.

  Terry sat looking small and pale and discouraged. Pete’s stillness behind the wheel had the taut power of a coiled steel spring. He ended the silence in clipped accents.

  “Since we arrived in Penghu you seem to have lost your sense of humor. It’s going to be a long wait, and it won’t help if you use yourself up right at the start. One fact we both have to accept; the situation exists, and we can only set about altering it in as private a way as possible.”

  She looked out at the black shapes of the rubber trees. “You must hate the idea of waiting as much as I do.”

  “I do hate it, but I can’t do anything about it. The law has to take its sluggish course.”

  “Will you ... tell Miss Harmsen?”

  He replied coolly and decisively. “I shall tell no one.” His savage distaste for the whole affair, she supposed, sprang from his feeling for the Swedish woman. Whatever happened, he’d make sure that that relationship was not tainted in any way.

  They arrived at the square, where hardly a light showed, and he pulled in outside the Winchesters’ house. Before he could reach her door she had got out and was standing at the foot of the steps.

  He said curtly, “Take something to put you to sleep—let’s hope things won’t look so grim in the morning. I’ll come over some time tomorrow.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. There’s no need to keep a tab on me. You helped me a great deal once, so I shan’t let you down now.”

  A warning glitter in his eyes, he began, “Look here, Teresa...”

  But Terry had had enough. “Good night,” she said.

  In sudden fury, as she made to move up the steps, he reached out and grasped her wrist. She stopped, stared at him with dilated eyes while her hand drew into a tight fist and wrenched itself free.

  “Don’t do that,” she said in a craced whisper. “Don’t ever touch me!”

  For a throbbing moment it looked as though he might do something more drastic than merely touch her wrist. Then he twisted away, and in a couple of strides was back in the car. He took it away from the square at speed.

  Terry went indoors, crossed the dimly-lit lounge and tiptoed to her bedroom. Just as she closed the door she heard Roger in the passage, hoping for a tete-a-tete before bed. She didn’t answer his whispered call, hardly heard it. She was thinking, hysterically, that in Vinan she was married to Pete Sternham. Married ... to Pete!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IT is an accepted fact that one becomes resigned even during the most shattering periods in one’s life. That was what Terry told herself many times in the course of the next few days, but somehow the knowledge was neither comforting nor reassuring. No one could have convinced her that she would become accustomed to the fact that some sort of legal bond existed between herself and Pete Sternham. Each night she went to bed mentally exhausted, and each morning she awoke to a state of disaster. Had the man been someone else there might even have been a touch of humor in the situation. But the man was Pete, who had become hard and enigmatic and watchful.

  Being Pete, he was able to drop in at the Winchesters’ each day without rousing the smallest suspicion. In fact, after that first call he was there more or less at Mr. Winchester’s invitation. To each other they became Bill and Pete; there was talk about the constructional problems in spanning the rivers and the small ravine, about the quicker transport of rubber, about labor troubles and health projects. In his own clever fashion Pete had twisted the situation to make it appear as if he and Bill Winchester had numerous common interests, and they never parted without one of them saying, in effect, “I’ll find out about it, old chap, and let you know.” Thus ensuring another meeting in the near future.

  Gradually Terry’s tension slackened a little, and she was able to greet Pete casually when he appeared. He made no attempt to speak privately with her, nor did he take much interest in Roger. Outwardly it appeared that he found the older couple more congenial than the younger. Perhaps he really did.

  Terry wished there were hard work to do at the flat, but actually, there was very little work of any kind. A small oldish Malay woman arrived there with the curtains and cushions, and she helped to complete the arranging of the rooms. The twin beds were piled with bedclothes and covers, the kitchen cupboards packed with utensils and tinned foods, the fridge ready for use. Wedding presents were an orderly array in the living-room, and on the built-on desk Terry had placed a list of them with the names and addresses of the givers; Annette must be persuaded to write her thank-you letters as soon as she returned.

  During the flat but painful couple of weeks after Annette’s wedding, Vida Winchester provided the only normal brightness in Terry’s life. In the first place, she insisted on Terry’s learning to play bridge, which can become an absorbing pastime. Then she gave a tea-party, and Terry got to know some of the gentle-eyed Malay women who were wives of local business men and planters. Mrs. Pryce turned up—she had been collected at the coast and brought to Penghu by car and plane — and Terry found a diversion in becoming reacquainted with the vivacious little woman who had been such fun on the ship. Some small social event happened every day; Vida, observant and curious but not openly inquisitive, did her best to keep Terry occupied. And Terry was grateful that the days passed so quickly. She only wished she could have responded wholeheartedly and happily, but always in the background there was a sense of nightmare.

  Then, quite suddenly, Roger was summoned to Singapore. He turned up early for lunch, waving a telegram and looking more jubilant than in the circumstances was decent.

  “Seems the old man has slipped a disc,” he exclaimed, “and he’s going home for an operation. Mot
her’s going with him, of course, and they want to see me before they leave. I’m to spend a week in Singapore with them. And, Terry, they’ve invited you as well!”

  “But ...”

  “How very nice,” said Vida, from her chair in the corner of the veranda. “It’s just what you need, Terry. You’ll love Singapore. When are you leaving, Roger?”

  “They’re booking two plane seats for Terry and me and will send them on. We may have to wait a week or ten days, but that will be all the better, won’t it? By then Vic and Annette will be home. Terry!” His eyes gleamed and he winked. “We’ll have a marvellous time.”

  Of course you will,” said Vida. “But, Roger, you’re not to worry her. You’d like to—I’ve seen it in your eye a good many times—but don’t. Just go to parties and have a generally breathless time.”

  Roger laughed. All sorts of things come under the heading ‘breathless’. But I’ll take immense care of you, Terry darling. I’ve every reason to!”

  Like everything else that happened these days, Roger’s exuberant invitation did not quite get through to Terry; there seemed to be a thick blanket between herself and the rest of the world. She listened all through lunch while he talked of the things they would do and see, and occasionally spared a kind thought for his father’s health. Dispassionately, she decided that he was less likeable here in Penghu than he had been in England; and equally dispassionately it occurred to her that Penghu seemed to have that effect on people. Even Annette’s personality had lost warmth. It must be the enervating climate, Terry decided.

  That afternoon she spent alone with Vida. They half slept on loungers till tea-time, and over tea they chatted. When she talked about her husband, Vida had a slow, half-humorous smile that was deceptive. About some things she was reticent; no one ever learned whether she regretted being childless, or whether she had minded spending most of her married life in out-of-the-way places. She had a quiet easy manner, the knack of friendliness. Terry commented upon this last, and Vida said, “Everyone has to have something. Generally it’s a talent of some kind, and I don’t happen to possess any. But I found out quite early in life that my being tolerant and cheerful made others happy. Incidentally, it made me happy as well, so I made rather a thing of it. Over the years, it’s become part of me.”

  “I think it was very lucky for Annette that she came here to you.”

  “I’m sure it was,” said Vida with a smile. “Two or three times she was on the point of cracking, but I refused to let her know that it worried me. From her point of view there was no sense in putting on a show to a poor audience, so she relaxed.”

  “Now you’re pretending to be feline!”

  “Not at all. I like your sister when she’s normal. People who dramatize themselves are often good company, but you do have to be careful—or rather, casual—when they’re wound up.” She pushed away a teacup and lit a cigarette. “You two aren’t much alike, you know. Annette will occasionally give her husband bad times, but you won’t be touchy and difficult when you’re married.” She paused and added thoughtfully, “During this past week or two I’ve wondered whether you and Roger suit each other. For a man he’s a rather frothy individual. You think so too, don’t you?”

  Terry took a cigarette for. herself, bent her head as she struck a match. “He and I went out together in England only a few times, but I found him terribly attractive. His letters were lively, and there was his background—a family chain of business in the tropics. For someone like me he was quite a heady combination—rather more than a good-looking young man under a tropic moon. I believed he had everything I admire in men.” She stopped, realized what she had said and cast a swift glance at Vida’s knowledgeable smile. Hastily she added, “I’ve disappointed him, I’m afraid. In England I hadn’t a care and we seemed to match up beautifully. Our letters to each other were full of the silliest jokes, and he’d sometimes slip in a little love-message that kept me happy for days. I do seem to have muddled everything, though.”

  “If you’re not so madly in love with him as you wanted to be, don’t let it worry you—he’s the resilient type,” Vida said lightly. “Roger has always had a wonderful time and he’ll go on doing so, whether he gets you or not. One good thing about the not-so-deep male is that you can use him without a qualm. By which I mean, my dear, that you may go ahead and have a roaring time with Roger in Singapore and still turn him down when it comes to a proposal. Just stop thinking about him as a romantic prospect for a while.”

  Terry did not mention that she had almost ceased to regard Roger as anything at all on the day she had reached Vinan. She smoked her cigarette and asked a few questions about Singapore; Vida was not deceived, but she was accommodating.

  At five-thirty Mr. Winchester arrived and Roger returned. The four met together in the veranda at just after six, and the usual drinks were served. Almost automatically, a fifth glass had appeared on the table, but it stood there, unused. Terry, her hands damp and tight in her lap, wondered if this were the sign she needed. Right through dinner she went on wondering, and afterwards, when Roger suggested a stroll, she was glad to go out.

  But she said urgently, “Let’s drive first, Roger. Take me a little way into the hills.”

  “Anything you say. Doesn’t look like rain.”

  She smiled faintly. “How can you know? I never saw anything so unexpected as the rain that comes to Penghu. It can threaten, tumble down and flood everything in the space of fifteen minutes!”

  “But not tonight,” he said blithely. “I feel tops. Nothing can happen to either of us—not even rain.”

  The moon, on the wane now, was invisible at the moment, but a pallor spread across the starry face of the sky. Palms reached up their black fronds and masses of trees billowed darkly against the stars. As they left the kampong they passed a procession of Malay dancers dressed in silky sarongs and bright tunics. The men wore sparkling crowns and the women had dressed their hair high on the top of the head and wreathed it with flowers.

  Then the road was dark. It climbed muddily, scarcely a car’s width between the thick growth of wild palms, bananas and timber forest. When, eventually, Roger stopped the car, it was not in a place where they could walk. No one walked in the jungle at night.

  But it was restful there. Birds squawked, small animals rustled through the ferns and lalang, and fireflies darted about in the blackness like myriads of airborne jewels.

  They lit cigarettes to deter the mosquitoes. And then, naturally, Roger slipped an arm across Terry’s shoulder and breathed deeply and happily.

  “This is my best day since you came,” he told her. “You’ve been holding me off, young Terry. Wouldn’t even have a friendly talk with me after your sister’s marriage, even though we’d planned it.”

  “You promised not to be awkward, and I’m keeping you to it, that’s all. Aren’t you worried about your father’s health?”

  “Well, of course! He’s sure to be all right, though—my mother will see to that. Not afraid of meeting my parents, are you?”

  “Heaven’s, no. It’s very sweet of them to invite me.” She rested her head back on his arm. “What have you told them about me?”

  “Nothing much,” he said, waving his cigarette. “I described your face—plain with a putty nose and slate-blue eyes. And your hair—mousey with carroty streaks. They thought you sounded fetching.”

  “Idiot. Do they have a house in Singapore?”

  “There’s an old place that belongs to the company. It has a modern kitchen and bathrooms, and quite a show garden. When you and I live there we’ll...”

  “Roger, you promised!”

  He let out a noisy sigh. “You cramp a fellow’s style. I was all set to get lyrical. When you’re in love with a girl what else do you talk about but the future, and the things you’ll do together?”

  “You’re not in love with me.”

  He gave a deeper sigh. “I am, you know.” He thumped his chest. “It gets me right here, sometimes, an
d I feel awfully queer. Nothing like anything I’ve ever experienced before.” Hollowly he added, “I don’t believe I’m going to get over it without drastic treatment. Like marriage, for instance.”

  She sat up, flicked her cigarette out of the window and said steadily, “Let’s go back now. Vida probably thinks we only went for a walk.”

  But the hand that held her shoulder tightened a little. “Don’t shrink—I won’t talk about love. But tell me something. Did you go out with any other men while you were writing to me from England?”

  “Yes, several times.”

  “The same chap each time—someone special?”

  “No, they were friends I’ve known for years. Roger, this isn’t a bit important, and if you’ll only...”

  “It’s important to me. You never quite committed yourself in your letters, but I did get the impression that something rather different from the usual chummy relationship existed between us. I may be a bit of an ass in some directions, but one thing I’m certain of. If I hadn’t had to leave England when I did, you and I would have ...”

  “Please!” Terry was beginning to feel wretched, chiefly because he had hit on the truth. “Do let’s go now.”

  Rather edgily, he withdrew his arm. “I don’t understand you at all. I’ve tried, and been patient. I know that women find the climate a little wearing and that you’ve had a hard time with Annette. But the wedding was more than three weeks ago; you should be settling down here now.”

  “I’ll never settle down here, Roger,” she said. “Do you still want me to go to Singapore with you?”

  “Of course,” he said contritely, and turned the ignition key. The engine chugged gently. “Just hit me over the head with a mallet next time I get plaintive!”

  She laughed. “You’re very sweet, really—one of the best companions anyone could have. I don’t want to keep belting you with obvious facts, but you’re not in love, Roger, and neither am I. I want to go with you to Singapore, but only on those terms. What do you think?”