A House for Sharing

by Isobel Chace

  “Are we really defeated so easily?” she asked Rupert. She was disappointed herself, but she was much more concerned for her stepfather. The experiment at Tabarka had become a personal challenge to him and its success meant everything to him.

  Rupert smiled at her. She looked very young and lovely, the gold in her hair glinting in the sunlight, her eyes large with concern.

  “Don’t worry so much,” he said quite gently. “We’ll find a way, if we have to carry the car across!”

  The idea of the three of them carrying Rupert’s expensive luxury car over the river struck her as irresistibly funny.

  “I don’t think I shall be very much help to you somehow!” she said.

  He looked at her slender arms and grinned too.

  “I don’t think we’ll put you to the test,” he smiled. “I’ll go down and have a look round. There’s probably an old concrete ford somewhere. Most of these bridges are new. In the old days the roads just went straight through the oueds and one took one’s chance on the water not being too deep. The old road will be quite nearby, I expect.”

  He vanished down the side of the road and started walking down the bank of the torrential waters. Rosamund watched him for a while, liking the swing of his hips as he walked and the easy way he moved his body as he bent down to examine an old track in the soil, and then she went back to the car and to her stepfather to tell him that they were going to get there somehow.

  But Jacob was not so easily convinced.

  “It’ll put everything back weeks!” he muttered. “They can’t possibly get the stuff through on roads like this.”

  “Perhaps it went through yesterday,” Rosamund consoled him.

  “In the pouring rain?” he demanded.

  “Well, it doesn’t take them long to build diversions,” she said. “Look how many we’ve been on already!”

  He smiled faintly.

  “Are you still glad you came?” he asked her.

  “Of course,” she replied simply.

  It was all of half an hour before Rupert came back. He waved to them from the river-bed and they could see he was smiling.

  “We can cross half a mile further down,” he shouted up to them.

  Rosamund breathed a sigh of relief. It was only then that she realised how important it was for her also to get to Tabarka.

  It was easy to turn the car and to retrace their way back to where the old road had once branched off from the new. Rupert turned carefully on to the crumbling dust that was all that remained of the former surface and forced the car onward through the shifting sand and deep ruts that scarred the track. The men were sufficiently long in the leg to brace themselves against the floor, but Rosamund had no such advantage and bounced up and down, thrown this way and that, as the car pressed relentlessly forward.

  They skidded badly as they descended the bank into the water, but righted themselves in time to find the concrete bottom beneath the tyres. The full flood of the water hit the car and they edged forward, inch by inch, to the deepest part and out on the other side up the far bank.

  “Phew!” said Jacob. “I shouldn’t care to do that again!”

  Rupert grinned. The dust from the track clung to his face, showing up little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and his cheeks when he smiled.

  “We were lucky the bottom was still hard,” he said. “You wait till we get into mud later on. We may have to put the chains on for that.”

  But the general feeling of triumph was not to be diminished. Rosamund sat back happily, ignoring her tired and aching body, and sang them songs with long and involved choruses that they all joined in singing with a raucous enthusiasm.

  The road went round the lee of the mountains and improved dramatically. The surface was black and as smooth as velvet as if it had only been finished the day before, and they spun along with increasing speed, hoping to catch a glimpse of the wild pig in the forests, but without any success.

  Occasionally they passed some of the men who worked in the forest, stripping down the cork and pressing it flat so that it could be tied up into bales for easier handling. The small boys would rush forward to offer them carved animals for sale, pigs and local animals, and some that they had never seen, looking very odd and unlikely, but proudly presented all the same. The roads were good, they said with one voice, except for the last bit just before Tabarka. The roads were very good. The scenery was beautiful. The trees were giving a good harvest. Didn’t they think Tunisia was the loveliest country they had ever seen?

  Rupert watched Rosamund talking to them all until she became embarrassed by his regard and fell silent.

  “You have mud on your cheek,” he told her.

  She put up her hand and rubbed it resentfully.

  “Perhaps we can have a bath when we get there,” she said.

  He smiled slowly. “Perhaps,” he agreed.

  The thought of a bath kept her cheerful all through the last few miles. A great tubful of water and heaps of scented soap. The thought of it haunted her as they left the cool shadows of the forests and went back into the scorching sun and the sandy dust of the land beyond.

  “It’s not far now,” Rupert said comfortingly. “You’ll be able to see the village in a few moments.”

  And sure enough, there it was, sitting on one edge of a small plain, the mountains that led into Algeria on the other side. And, crossing the plain, lay the last of the oueds, dry in summer, but now a great oozing mass of mud that had burst its banks and flooded right across the road.

  “That’s what I was afraid of!” Rupert said grimly.

  They were silent as he drove into it, picking his way through the deep tracks left by some lorries that had crossed that way earlier. Beyond they could see the road again and Rosamund set her eyes on it, watching it come closer and closer as Rupert steadily drove towards it. But within twenty yards of the clear surface the wheels began to spin and they came to an abrupt halt with the mud shifting under them.

  “Damn!” Rupert said crossly. “Damn, damn, damn!”

  Jacob opened the rear door and peered down at the mud beneath him.

  “Perhaps I’d better get out and push,” he suggested halfheartedly.

  Rupert nodded. “Perhaps we both had!” he agreed. “Rosamund, slip over into the driving seat and steer us out of it.”

  Rosamund did as she was told and waited while the two men took off their shoes and socks and rolled up the trouser bottoms.

  “Try and keep her from skidding!” Rupert called to her.

  She could feel the sudden pressure as they heaved and they shot forward a few feet, only to stop again.

  “What went wrong?” she asked them.

  Rupert leaned against the car and laughed.

  “Come and join us!” he bade her.

  She took off her shoes reluctantly and slid out of the car into the mud. It felt gloriously cool and wet against feet, but there were sharp stones beneath that made her cry out, partly because they hurt, but more because they were so unexpected. Rupert came up from behind and took the steering wheel, putting his shoulder against the door.

  “Go and shove at the back,” he told her.

  She went obediently, the mud squelching up through her toes, and joined her stepfather at the rear.

  “Guess what?” she said softly as she bent to a good pushing position.

  “What?” Jacob asked irritably. He could see nothing funny about their situation whatever.

  “Rupert’s dirty!” she said brightly. “Even his shirt has a large patch of mud on it!”

  They shoved with a will and the car slid forward and came out of the mud with a rush. Rosamund hurried forward and back into her seat, trying to keep the mud away from the leather of the seats. She watched as Rupert got in more leisurely, enjoying the moment. His trousers were bespattered and traces of dust and mud showed on his shirt, his arms and even on his face.

  “You have mud on your cheek,” she told him nonchalantly.

  His eyes gle
amed as they met hers.

  “Where?” he asked. “Brush it off.”

  But she couldn’t bring herself to. She felt a moment’s panic as he came nearer to her and she looked hastily away from him, trying vainly to calm the riot of emotion that fountained up in her. When she found the courage to look at him again he was already starting up the engine and the moment was gone.

  A few minutes later, tired, dirty, but very content, they drove into the little fishing village of Tabarka.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  TABARKA was not a large place, but life had flowed back and forth within its boundaries since long before the Romans. A small fort, built on the island that took up most of the harbour, had presumably once defended the surrounding coast from invasion. It stood now, surmounting the summit of a high hill, in silent decay. Below it the town went on its quiet and casual way, catching fish from small boats and making a living from it, though none was very rich, or buying and selling in the small shops that lined the main road, or keeping one or other of the three hotels. There was nothing else to do there and there was nothing else that the inhabitants would have done.

  The hotel that Rupert had chosen for the men working on the project stood high above the town with beautiful views out across the Mediterranean. The ascent upwards was steep but easily managed, and in a few moments they drew up outside the entrance and a man had come out to get their baggage and to take them to their rooms. Rosamund followed him stiffly up the concrete steps and marvelled at the coolness of the reception hall. It was bright and newly painted and still smelt of distemper, but to her it seemed wonderfully clean and pleasant and she was pleased with everything she saw.

  A flutter of excitement went through the hotel when it was seen that Rupert himself had come, and the proprietor spent some time with him discussing which room he would like to have, quite willing to move out the present occupier if that would please him better. Rosamund watched with amused eyes as he competently dealt with the whole matter, assigning a room to each of them with firmness and decision, hurrying the baggage upstairs so that they could go and clean up before dinner.

  “Do you want a view, or do you want a bath?” he asked Rosamund.

  “A view,” she said without any hesitation, and he grinned.

  “Very wise,” he commented. “I don’t suppose the water will run to a bath anyway.”

  Rosamund hoped earnestly that he was wrong. A bath was the thing she wanted most—to wash off the mud and the dust and to be clean again! She followed the porter upstairs and waited silently as he unlocked the door of her room and put her suitcase on the waiting stool. He threw back the shutters and opened the windows wide, showing her how the door opened on to the balcony which ran down the whole length of the hotel It was a large room, with ample space for two, and very comfortable. Hand-made carpets lay on the floor and the traditional blankets of the country covered the two beds in a gay riot of greens and browns and yellows.

  The bathroom was across the landing, beautifully tiled in white, with a full-length bath and all the very latest equipment, but when she turned on the tap only a trickle of browny-coloured water came out and then ceased entirely. Rupert’s prophecy was only too true: despite the rain there was certainly not enough pressure to run a bath or even a shower. Defeated, she returned to her room and did the best she could there with a basin of water, and once out of her jeans and in a clean cotton frock, she felt like a new being and went out on to the balcony to admire the view.

  Rupert was already there, at the far end where his room also had a door that opened on to it. He was immaculate once again in pale trousers and a white shirt that opened at the neck, showing his tanned, strong throat.

  “It’s at this hour in the Mediterranean that the world seems most bright with promise,” he said dreamily, without turning round from his negligent stand, leaning on the balcony. “This is the time when I dream my best dreams for the future.”

  She chuckled in her throat, knowing well what he meant.

  “And what do you dream?” she asked him. “Of power? Or happiness? Or a little bit of both?”

  He smiled slowly.

  “You think me very arrogant, don’t you?” he said. “But I don’t often dream of power. I dream of companionship and then, to add a little bit of spice to the thing, I dream of sparring with someone I love!”

  “With someone like Felicity, I suppose!” she exclaimed before she could stop herself.

  His eyes rested on her for a long moment, amused and enigmatic.

  “Perhaps,” he said at last. “Though I’m not sure that Félicité has all the answers!”

  Rosamund wasn’t sure that she knew what he meant, but she knew she couldn’t ask him. She bit her lip and looked out across the sea.

  “I dream of happiness and never quarrelling with anyone,” she told him.

  He laughed.

  “No spice for you?”

  She shook her head.

  “It’s the quiet life for me!” she insisted.

  His eyes were dark with amusement.

  “How quiet?”

  She wasn’t aware of his intentions immediately, not until his mouth met hers in the softest kiss imaginable.

  “As quiet as that?” he asked.

  She blushed up to the roots of her hair. It had hardly been a kiss, but it had shown her once and for all that she wouldn’t mind at all being kissed by Rupert.

  “I—” she began, but she couldn’t go on. She was at a loss, tipped off the precarious balance of her relationship with him with a speed that had winded her. She hadn’t known that she could feel like that about him, that he had only to kiss her, lightly and in fun, for her to be stirred to the depths.

  “You see,” he said. “You wouldn’t really like the quiet life at all! You just can’t find the right words to berate me with, can you? Shall we go downstairs and have a drink to restore your courage?”

  And Rosamund found herself meekly agreeing, because it seemed to her that the whole world had just fallen around her ears.

  Jacob was already in the bar. He looked very English and awkward as he sat on one of the cushioned backless seats, square and very low, that the Arabs are so fond of, nursing his whisky and soda in his hand.

  “I feel it ought to be sherbet,” he said apologetically, “but really I felt I needed something stronger after all that exertion.”

  Rupert sat down on one of the seats and drew his legs up under him in the correct manner.

  “I think we’ll have the same,” he said. He called the barman over and gave the order in Arabic.

  “But I don’t really like whisky!” Rosamund complained.

  Rupert raised his eyebrows blandly.

  “Treat it as medicinal,” he advised her mockingly. “I told the barman to make it very weak for you,” he added more kindly. “Try it and see.”

  It wasn’t as unpleasant as she had expected. She sat right on the edge of her own seat and sipped it at intervals, trying not to look at Rupert at all, though that wasn’t at all easy, for he was being his most expansive and charming self and he kept saying the most outrageous things that caught her unawares and started her laughing almost despite herself. He was setting himself out to charm her and she knew it. What was more, he was succeeding.

  She was laughing when the men came in from the experiment. They came rushing in, hot and dirty from working in the full heat of the sun, and came to a sudden stop as they saw her, their eyes widening slightly. Rosamund smiled at them shyly, thinking that she had never seen so many tough young men in her life before. They whooped with joy and descended on the bar in a surge of good spirits, seldom taking their eyes off her.

  “How long are you staying?” they asked her.

  She shook her head and retired behind her drink.

  “And are you really true?” drawled the youngest of them, a tow-headed youth in a scarlet sweat shirt.

  “I think so,” she said demurely.

  He came across to share her seat, but Rupe
rt was before him, abandoning his own seat and sitting instead on the edge of hers. The young man raised his brows slightly and grinned.

  “Mr. Dane told us he had his stepdaughter with him, but we never expected to see you in the flesh,” he said with satisfaction. “You are a sight for sore eyes!”

  The others laughed and nodded their agreement. Their teeth looked very white against their tanned, dirty faces. They looked a friendly, happy team and she liked them all. There were five of them only, but they had seemed far more numerous than that when they had first poured into the room. Rosamund listened to them laughing and joking between themselves and noted the quiet respect they showed to Rupert, though none of them seemed overawed by him. She leaned over to put her cigarette out in the ash-try and accidentally touched his arm. How ridiculous it was to be so conscious of anyone! She held her drink so tightly that the edge of the glass bit into her fingers and she was afraid that she had broken it. It was just silliness, she told herself urgently, it would pass tomorrow! But she could still feel the gentle touch of his lips on hers, and she could still see the darkness of his eyes and the way his black hair grew away from his forehead, even when she wasn’t looking at him, even when she shut her eyes and refused to think about him!

  Jacob asked them eagerly whether the supplies had come through.

  “Sufficient to be getting on with,” the leader of the group replied. “We had the devil of a job getting it on to the site this morning, though. We had to dig the truck out no fewer than four times.”

  “Why?” Rosamund asked involuntarily.

  “Sand, my dear. We’ve pretty well chewed up any surface the road ever had. You’d better come and take a look for yourself. Give you an idea of what progress does to the local amenities!” They all laughed, Rosamund with them.