Sandflower

by Jane Arbor

  C.

  Liz folded the paper slowly. It was unthinkable not to reply, but what to say she did not know. After several attempts she achieved:

  Dear Chris, you mustn’t blame yourself for last night. If we hadn’t been interrupted, we could have talked and I would have explained what I felt about our friendship, which I hope won’t end. Let me know, won’t you, when you are in Tasghala again?

  Liz.

  She was not satisfied with it, as she felt she was only postponing the evil day of telling Chris they could only be friends, without being able to confess why. But she could not disappoint his hopes of a reply, so she sealed the envelope and handed it in at the Tasghala office of Pan-Sahara Oil on her way over to the hospital.

  The Nursing Sister Superior was a calm-eyed nun with lovely hands and a speaking voice that made a charming thing of her carefully chosen English.

  She thank Liz for her offer of help, and said, “You understand, we shall make of you what you call a maid of all work? A task here, an errand there, perhaps none of them as demanding of your nursing skill as you would like, but nonetheless useful to us for all that?”

  Liz smiled. “Yes, Dr. Yate explained that. And I haven’t any real nursing experience, so I couldn’t feel I was wasting something I don’t possess, could I?”

  “Eh bien, though the way he spoke of you showed that he believes you have the qualities of a nurse, if not the experience—”

  Liz flushed. “That was kind of him.”

  Sister Superior shook her white-coiffed head. “No, not kind. Discerning, perhaps. Dr. Yate is not a man to be kind over what is not true, I think. However, my child, if we are agreed that you will help us in all the thankless tasks without glamour, when may we call you to your duties?”

  It was arranged that Liz should report on each of five weekday mornings for the hours until noon, and she would have stayed on that morning if Sister Superior had not thought it better for her to go to the hospital stores and equip herself with the necessary aprons and caps. She returned to the bungalow with a stack of them, and when Andrew came in, she paraded in a set for his benefit.

  “I must say,” he commented, “that the Providence that put nurses into white did know what it was about!”

  “Meaning that it does something for the plainest of us?”

  “On the contrary—that it makes most of you so scrumptious that the very sight of you encourages a man to get well fast, so that he can show you what he’s made of!”

  Liz chuckled. “But nurses don’t only nurse men!”

  “Don’t split hairs! My facts are borne out by the statistics. Look at all the men who marry their nurses, not to mention all those who would like to, if they weren’t beaten to it by the doctors who get there first!”

  At which they both laughed, while Liz wondered why she had ever felt in awe of him and that they couldn’t share fun.

  As she had been warned, at the hospital she was part messenger, part orderly, part stopgap in any emergency on the wards. Sometimes she took a turn of duty at the telephone switchboard; other mornings she would spend carrying each ward’s drug basket to be stocked with the day’s medicines at the laboratory. Less often, she helped with dressings, and now and then she was given more responsible work among the children.

  She liked this best. Sister St. Olave, in charge of the nursery, was a rosy-cheeked brisk nun, part French, part Irish, who spoke French to the lay sisters under her, a rich brogue with Liz and any of half a dozen Saharan dialects to her young patients.

  For the most part, these were the same children—or their baby brothers and sisters—whom Janine Carlyon taught in school. Their parents were camel drivers, nomad merchants and the craftsmen who set up their stalls in the market every day. The children were brought in with ailments varying from burns to snakebite, and as the summer heat advanced, more seriously ill as a result of epidemics of pinkeye and enteritis. At first they were either uncooperative or awed and too docile. But they quickly responded to Sister St. Olave’s jokes and gentle compassion, and even Liz shared in the sense of achievement that made the nursery the happy place it was.

  She reported for duty at eight each morning and worked until noon, when she returned to the bungalow in time for the midday meal with Andrew. Or sometimes he would call for her and they drove back together.

  On one such day—an oppressive one of cloud and scurrying wind—he had left again to do some business in the town, when the telephone rang and Beth was on the line.

  “Liz, guess what?” she giggled. “Or rather, guess who? I’ve got a friend of yours here. A very special friend. In fact, Chris!”

  “Chris?”

  In answer to her own note, his had said briefly, “Bless you for saying I didn’t completely blot my copybook. Till my next leave, then—though I can hardly wait.”

  Liz had believed she could shelve the problem of what to say to him until the time came. Worriedly she questioned Beth. “What do you mean—he’s there with you? Surely he can’t be on leave again yet?”

  “Oh, no. It seems he had to come over on some job or other, got held up halfway, and I took pity on him when I met him in the town. He was fuming because he hadn’t much time in which to see you, and when he’d telephoned there wasn’t any reply. Of course I told him about your being a ministering angel now, and he was terribly impressed—But here he is to speak to you himself.”

  “Liz?” Chris sounded eager. “Look, this is the way it is—This morning I wangled a chance to come into town to collect some electronic spare parts for my crew’s gear, as we’re due out on a trek tonight. But, just to be friendly, my jeep played up, and though I was able to drag it by its ear, so to speak, as far as the borj at In Taj. I had to leave it there. I managed to thumb a lift for the rest of the way. But the whole setup had delayed me—after I’d promised myself I’d have time to see you, too! When I met Beth, I’d laid on everything else, but now I haven’t got all that time. So as Beth is willing, may she bring me over—please?”

  How could Liz refuse such a plea? She said, “Of course. But if you haven’t got long, is it worth it?”

  “Worth it? I’ll say! It’d be worth it if I’d only five minutes, and I’ve at least half an hour,” he said enthusiastically.

  While Liz waited for them, she prepared some long drinks and the iced mint tea that she knew Beth liked, though she suspected Beth would think of something rather coy to say and then leave Chris and herself to a téte-a-téte.

  Beth, however, accepting mint tea, seemed disposed to linger, and though Liz was none too anxious to be alone with Chris, she wondered whether he had bargained for Beth’s making a threesome of their meeting.

  She asked him, “How do you mean to make the return journey? Is there a convoy you can catch?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. The convoy doesn’t leave until six, and that’s too late for me, with this sortie on tonight. I’ll have to go back the way I came—by thumbing a lift. I don’t really want to lay on transport, as I’ve only to get as far as In Taj. The gardien indigene—you know, the chap in charge of the borj—is a bit of a mechanic, and he’ll have the jeep ticking over again by the time I get there.”

  As he spoke, Chris rolled his eyes with despairing meaning at Beth’s bent head, and Liz suddenly took pity on him. She said, “In Taj—that’s the halfway stage, isn’t it. About twenty-five kilometers out? Chris, could I drive you there in the Land Rover? I do drive it sometimes, and dada isn’t using it this afternoon. He is in the town, though I don’t know where. So if it would help—”

  “It certainly would!” His grin of sheer gratitude told Liz what he thought of the suggestion, and she made light of his demur that he oughtn’t to let her make the journey, as she would have to return alone.

  “Nonsense. I’ve driven on that road before,” she retorted briskly. “There’s nothing to it. It’s straight, and there’s always a certain amount of traffic on it, isn’t there? Never any fechfech, either, dada says, so the return trip s
houldn’t take more than three-quarters of an hour. Well, say two hours, out and back. And that’s the only thing—” she paused to consult her watch “—I don’t know when dada is coming home, and I do like to be here when he does.”

  “Well, if that’s your only worry,” Beth volunteered, “would you like me to stay until he comes in? Or until you do, if you are back first?”

  “Oh, would you, Beth?” Chris beamed at her as if, Liz thought, in full apology for having wished her to the ends of the earth a few minutes earlier. For her part, Liz was glad he had taken Beth’s offer as a personal favor as it went sadly against the grain to ask anything of Beth for herself. She provided Beth with the magazines that had arrived in the English mail that morning, and soon afterward set out with Chris.

  Since noon the heat had grown more oppressive, the sky more brooding. In England such an atmosphere would presage a thunderstorm, and Liz asked Chris if it meant rain.

  “No such luck. More likely it’s working up to a simoom—a wind and sandstorm—for tomorrow or the next day. You haven’t sampled one of our prize efforts yet?”

  Liz hadn’t. “They sound grim. How long do they last?” she asked.

  “At varying strength, usually for two or three days; sometimes longer, sometimes in freak storms of terrific fury that may last only a quarter of an hour. The temperature builds up and up, as it is doing now, for twenty-four hours or so, and then the wind really begins to blow like crazy. You can hardly stand against it, and you can’t see a yard for sand dust. Pleasant, believe me! Maybe, though, we’ll be lucky and miss out on this one. Look, the sun is trying to break through again—that’s a good sign.”

  But the sun glowed through the pall for a mere ten seconds, and Chris, who had offered to drive on the outward journey, jammed the accelerator pedal to floor level. “It can’t happen today,” he calculated aloud. “All the same, you won’t dawdle on the way back, will you, Liz? And promise to ’phone me at the site, the minute you do get there.”

  Liz promised, and he smiled at her lovingly. “Dear Liz—it’s super to have you to myself, even in this hectic spot of bother. And you won’t make it a kind of ration that’s got to count against the time you’ll give me, the next time I’m really on leave?”

  “Of course not. But Chris—”

  “I know.” He nodded sagely. “I did get above myself. But it won’t happen again, unless you feel that way, too. And I can’t know whether you’re beginning to, can I, if I’m not to see you again?”

  “I suppose not. But if I’m pretty sure I—I shan’t begin to, it’s not really fair—”

  “Fair?” he grimaced. “Liz, you can’t weight a situation like this on a pair of scales, to balance nicely on either side! I fell for you almost at first sight; you didn’t for me. So have I a grumble in the world if I’ve got to wait for the thing to work out?”

  “Oh, Chris—I’m trying to tell you that it won’t work out!”

  “And I’m saying that I shouldn’t be—well, male, if I took that as your final answer!” he retorted. “Not that I shouldn’t be a bit of an outsider, if you’re still in love with that chap in England. You’re not, are you, Liz?”

  “With Robin Clare? Oh, no!” In order to ward off the question, “Nor with anyone else?” which she could feel would follow, she added hesitantly, “I’ve rather wondered, since the other night, whether you are sure you’ve got over being in love with your Jenny?”

  He threw a quick glance at her. “You don’t resent Jenny, Liz? That wasn’t why—”

  “Oh, no. Only when you—well, when you were making love to me, you compared me to her, and I wondered whether, perhaps without knowing it, you haven’t really forgotten her.”

  “Well, don’t wonder,” he advised crisply. “My pride took a bad jolt when she let me go, just at her parents’ say-so. But I’ve had two years in which to get over even that. No, I think I wanted you to know that between her and you, there hasn’t been any other girl for me. I suppose I thought it might count in my favor with you. But if you hadn’t begun to care a fig for me at the time, I daresay you wouldn’t mind if I’d set up a harem since Jenny faded out and you happened along!”

  Liz said despairingly, “Oh, Chris—” And then, “Look, couldn’t we go on, for a little while at least, as if we both liked each other as friends and nothing more? Because I do like you, though I’m not in love with you. And I think you’d know if I were just stalling for stalling’s sake?”

  “Sure thing I’d know!” he agreed. “You don’t believe in kissing around, and that suits me.” He touched her knee lightly and reassuringly. “That’s all right, Liz. I can behave myself while I’m waiting in hope, so that’s a bargain, eh? We’ll do things together when we can, and it’s only love-making that’s out meanwhile?”

  She nodded. “You are generous, Chris—”

  “On the contrary, the description is ‘grasping,’ if you must know!” They smiled, and left the discussion there.

  Chris was the first to break the ensuing silence. “Do you really like Beth Carlyon, Liz?” he asked.

  "Like her? Why, don’t you?” Liz hedged.

  “Well—” He laughed awkwardly. “Coming from me, on top of the couple of favors she has done me today, this smacks of looking a gift horse in the mouth. But I do get the impression that if she ever makes a generous move, it’s by accident rather than design, and that she’s not half as naive and ingenuous as she appears.”

  Liz murmured, “But wouldn’t it be difficult to keep a front of innocence indefinitely, if you weren’t innocent at all in reality?”

  “I don’t know. If you decided the role suited you, you could probably identify yourself with it, as an actor does with a good part in a play. And without believing in it yourself, you could still enjoy yourself hugely, if you’re the self-dramatizing type I suspect young Beth is. Behind it, she can keep watch and ward over her own interests without anyone’s being the wiser. Oh, well—I suppose self-defense takes all sorts of forms, and acting ‘poor little me’ happens to be her particular brand.”

  “Why, what should Beth need to defend herself against?”

  “I wouldn’t know. But I guess we all need defenses, sometime or another. Maybe she needs them against the fear that Yate may begin to look beyond her at someone else, or someone may look at him. And if that ever happened, or even if Beth was only afraid it might, my impression is that she’d give no quarter—none at all. However, if you like her, Liz, I oughtn’t to put you against her. Forget that I’ve opened my big mouth so wide, will you?”

  “It’s all right. In a way she and I have been rather thrust on each other while we were about the only people of our age who hadn’t jobs in Tasghala. But I don’t particularly like her. I like Mrs. Carlyon very much better.”

  Chris beamed. “You can say that again! Janine Carlyon—there’s a honey! Wasted, though, as a widow. And occasionally I’ve wondered—No, no; I haven’t,” he finished abruptly.

  “Wondered what?”

  “Nothing. Forget it. And now—woe and devastation—here we are, and I’ll have to let you go. Thanks a million, Liz, and not just for the ride. You know that, don’t you?”

  His jeep was not quite ready for the road, but he would not let her linger at the borj. He swung the Land Rover around for her, and she lifted a hand in farewell as she headed up the steep track out of the valley.

  It had been breathlessly hot down there, with the wind nothing to be reckoned with. But out on her open return road, its action was equal to that of an electric drier—a roaring, nagging blast of sheer heat that even the speed Liz was making could not minimize.

  “After a few kilometers she knew she’d be glad when the journey was over. Apart from anything else, she had not bargained for the utter loneliness of the great sand stretches on either side of the hard surface on which she was driving. Nothing had overtaken her, and she welcomed every oncoming jeep or truck with whose drivers she could exchange a friendly toot in passing.

&
nbsp; The car was pulling magnificently, but was making less headway now against a steadily rising wind force which had begun to rock it on the road. Liz wondered how sure Chris could be that the peak of the storm was not imminent, and wished she had asked him what she ought to do if its onset did in fact catch up with her. She supposed that to attempt to drive through it would be madness. She thought she would back the car to the wind and sit there until it abated. But then she remembered the phrase “two or three days” and saw that the ordeal would have nothing in common with, say, sheltering briefly under a tree until a shower passed over.

  Meanwhile she drove on. She had just begun to worry lest Andrew should be home by now, to hear from Beth where she had gone, when ahead of her she saw the first danger she had not conjured out of her imagination.

  Sand was eddying and turning in increasing spirals across the track; not one spiral or two, but a dozen or more, forming and reforming at still greater heights under the relentless driving of the wind. It was as if each spiral were a live thing, turning upon some basic focal point—perhaps a pebble or a stone. As Liz slowed the car in order to watch the phenomenon, the piling sand of each spiral began to turn inward in a curving pincer movement to form new-moon-like horns and a knife-edge ridge on top.

  Like windblown snow under a hedge, thought Liz, and then, remembering her father’s description of barkanes, she saw their closer resemblance to the croissants she had had for breakfast. For her own reassurance she recalled that Andrew had said they were self-forming sand dunes that were “nothing much” and you could dodge them or drive through a field of them, so long as you had a turn of speed that would serve.

  But of course Andrew had not reckoned that, at her first encounter with them, she would be alone and far too fearful of bogging down in even deeper sand if she turned so much as a foot or two off the road in order to avoid the sand piles, some of which were now three feet high.

  Deciding to make a dash for it, she plunged ahead and was encouraged that the light, soft sand did not impede her at all. This was almost easy. But at that very moment of renewed confidence, the wind shrieked diabolically, and the next thing Liz knew was that, blinded by a hurtling spatter of pebbles and sand on the windshield, she had instinctively pulled to a halt.