by Isobel Chace
“I’d like to see what you’re doing,” she said. “Is it working as you hope?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“We’ll know in a year’s time. Your friend Rupert will be keeping an eye on it for us. Won’t you, Harringford?”
“That’s the idea,” Rupert agreed lazily.
Her friend Rupert! Rosamund wondered what on earth could have given them that impression. But of course he had changed his seat to sit next to her. She blushed and then her heart sank within her. When Félicité came it would all be different. The Frenchwoman would see to that! And she, Rosamund, wouldn’t care. She wouldn’t care a jot! She smiled as nicely as she knew how at the fair-headed young man and said:
“I can understand what you’re doing here, but will that be the only use of the product, to reclaim land?”
The young man’s eyes lit with enthusiasm for his subject. “Oh no!” he exclaimed. “We hope it will do that, of course. But it’s not even the primary purpose as far as we’re concerned. No, we hope to use it right down in the Sahara, and places like that. You see, mostly when we drill for oil we find ourselves in shifting sand—around here, that is. We erect the drill and then along comes a wind and the sand blows away from under us. We hope to use this to stabilise it. Do you follow?”
Rosamund nodded.
“It sounds much more dramatic to be reclaiming the desert, though,” she said.
He smiled.
“I guess we’d like to do that too,” he agreed. “But we’re an oil company and people sort of expect us to produce oil.”
“And you like doing that?” Rosamund asked him.
“Oh, sure!” he agreed. “I wouldn’t do anything else for a million dollars. You see, one isn’t so tied down as one might be in other things. I can’t imagine many research chemists flexing their muscles and spraying black stuff all over acres of sand, can you?”
She couldn’t, but neither could she imagine that many research chemists would want to. The ones she had known had all been wedded to their laboratories, but they had been older men, friends of Jacob’s, and not young men who looked as though they ought to be still at school.
“I see what you mean,” she said lightly.
He grinned happily.
“It came as a surprise to me too to find I was so clever so young!” he chuckled. “We’re a pretty bright crowd, come to that! But all of us have to give points to Harringford. He’s the star of the circus, aren't you, sir?”
Rupert’s eyes were as enigmatic as ever.
“The ringmaster, perhaps,” he said. “I don’t see myself as much of a trapeze artist or anything like that.”
The men smiled.
“I’ve seen you walk some mighty pretty high wires, though!” the leader said on a chuckle. “There’s nothing much wrong with your balance!”
To Rosamund’s surprise, Rupert looked embarrassed.
“I should think that it’s time you all got cleaned up for dinner,” was all he said, and then he grinned suddenly. “By the way, the water’s run out again!”
There were groans all round as they tossed down the last of their drinks and then they rose to go and change.
“I suppose you brought the beer and ginger pop?” one of them asked.
Rupert nodded. The men looked thoroughly pleased with themselves.
“Then how about Miss Peyton bringing it out to us in the morning?” one of them suggested. “We could show her around at the same time.”
Rupert looked enquiringly at Rosamund.
“That sounds like a good idea,” he said.
The morning dawned bright and clear. It was considerably cooler and the heat haze had disappeared. The men had already gone out to the site when Rosamund awoke. She sat up and hugged her knees, glad that she had had the foresight to open wide the french windows the night before. From her bed she could see right out across the bay, past the island from which the fishermen were already laying their nets across the fish runs, to where the last of the deep sea fishing boats were putting out before they were laid up for the winter. It was a quiet and peaceful scene, set against a bright blue sea edged with pure white sands and the flat-roofed, square houses that were so typical of the country.
She threw back the bedclothes and crossed over to the windows to get a better look. She would have liked to have seen the sand-dunes where the project was being carried out, but they were out of sight. She could see the bridge that led across the river gleaming in the sunlight and the thin ribbon of the road that led up the coast to the man-made forests and the hungry sand that was trying to eat them away and turn them back into desert.
Her breakfast was brought up just as she was wondering whether to get dressed or not. The same man who had brought up her baggage the day before knocked at the door and deposited the tray carefully on the small table beside her bed.
“Monsieur ’Arringford ordered me to bring you this,” he announced. One brown finger pointed to a note that lay on the edge of the tray. “He said I was to be sure you set out on the right road,” he said proudly. “When you are ready I will show you where the truck is garaged and load up the beer. Please ring the bell.”
Rosamund agreed that she would. Her hand was trembling slightly as she picked up the note and she was cross with herself because of it. There was no reason even to suppose that it was from Rupert. But it was. She knew that the instant she saw the neat, spiky hand on the envelope, long before she had seen that his name was neatly printed on the top left corner. But it contained nothing but directions as to how she was to find the site. She had to cross the bridge, go past, the first village to the school and then turn left. From there she was to follow the road until it gave out and by that time she would be able to see where they were working.
Disappointed, though quite why she couldn’t tell, for what else would he write to her about?—she put it carefully back into the envelope and ate her breakfast rapidly so as not to miss a minute of the day ahead of her.
As soon as she was dressed, she rang the bell, and went downstairs to find the promised truck. The porter watched her with anxious eyes as she backed it out of the garage and brought it round to the front of the hotel. It was not a large vehicle, but it was very heavy for its size and it had a left-hand drive which was odd at first, for everything seemed to work backwards and it felt so peculiar being on the wrong side of the car.
“Have you been out on the site?” she asked the porter.
His face crinkled into a smile.
“No, not I! You going to be all right, taking all this stuff down there?”
Rosamund eyed the truck and instinctively squared her shoulders a little.
“I’ll manage,” she said briefly.
He shook his head doubtfully.
“I hope that you do!” he said. “I don’t consider it natural for a woman to be driving herself about like that. You sure you have a licence all right and tight?”
Rosamund laughed.
“In England almost as many women drive as men,” she told him.
“Is that so?” he said dryly. “I’ve heard it said that the women there go out and do the shopping too. It must be a strange country.”
Rosamund’s eyes twinkled.
“Wouldn’t you like your wife to do the shopping?” she asked him.
He shook his head.
“I’d be bankrupt if she did!” he said caustically.
He handed her into the driving seat and shut the door for her, making sure that it was properly shut. She was surprised to see that his eyes were almost as light in colour as her own. The Tunisians were a strange mixture of people—some Greek, some Roman, some Berber; a mirror of the whole Mediterranean, most of whose people had some time or other passed that way.
“I’ll be careful,” she promised as she let in the clutch.
He gave the truck a whack with his open hand as it went past him.
“Monsieur ’Arringford will be looking out for you!” he called out to her. “Keep to th
e right of the road!”
Rosamund supposed that she should have been annoyed with him, but she wasn’t at all. She thought it rather nice of him to be concerned and knew better than to ask for the more usual signs of respect from a Tunisian man. He would serve a woman, and serve her well, but he would never admit that he was doing so, and he would reserve the right to criticise her actions all he pleased. Poor man, he was probably very shocked that none of the men had come back to collect her and the beer. He certainly would never have left any woman to fend for herself, but then neither would he have allowed her to have any interests outside the home!
It was easy enough to find the right road out of the town. The mud of the day before had hardened into a crust that made it much easier to drive over, though there was still the latent danger of skidding if the crust gave way. Rosamund drove fairly fast at a steady speed, holding the truck firmly on to the road, and she was soon across the flat plain and mounting the coast road as it wound its way in and out of the foothills.
It was further than she had expected to the first village and the road that she turned off into was little more than a cart-track, beaten down hard by the heavy tyres of the lorries as they had gone over it. It looked at first like a forestry reservation. She could see the young trees neatly planted out, the areas set aside for seedlings and the experimental sections where the different trees were set out in patches to see how well they would do there.
It was a long way down to the sea. A small clearing announced that she was approaching the centre of all this industry and a little later she came to a large house with a notice on the door, announcing that it was the property of the Tunisian government. She pulled up beside it and called to an old man who was idly pulling up weeds in the garden. He listened to her query with solemn patience and then pointed further down the track.
She went on more cautiously, for the surface was turning to sand and she was afraid of sticking in it. Occasionally she could feel her rear wheels spinning slightly before they found something to give them a grip and she increased her speed a little to keep going.
Then, quite suddenly, before her were the sand-dunes, stretching out on either side for as far as she could see, with only a navy strip of blue beyond to show where the sea was. A group of vehicles had gathered on a plateau that had been flattened out of the sand and she drew up behind them with a sigh of relief, glad she had made it without any mishap.
She was still leaning on the steering-wheel when she saw Rupert and her stepfather coming towards her. She opened the door and dropped down into the sand, surprised to find that her knees felt quite weak after the tension of the drive.
“We wondered whether Muhammed would let you go,” Jacob greeted her.
Rosamund chuckled.
“He didn’t exactly approve,” she said.
Rupert looked grave.
“I think perhaps he was right,” he said. “Was it too much for you?”
But Rosamund wouldn’t admit to any such thing.
“I’m here!” she said lightly. “I rather enjoyed it! Though I do think you could do something about the road on this last stretch.”
Rupert smiled.
“Wait until you see the track up to the site,” he said. “We have two men walking ahead with spades up there!”
Of course it wasn’t a road at all, as she could see for herself as they climbed up the bank from the road. It was no more than a series of tracks left by the heavy tanker as it forced its way across the dunes to where they were working and back again. The fine white sand was already quite dry after the rain and blew lightly in the wind across the deep ruts, making them more treacherous than ever.
The other men came pouring across the sands, eagerly unloading the truck, each of them grasping a couple of bottles in either hand as they set off back to the site. Rupert took Rosamund’s hand and pulled her up a steep bank that led to a short cut and then released her again. She looked about her with interest, surprised to see a number of tree-tops, burnt and dead, silhouetted out against the sand.
“That shows you what the sand can do,” Rupert told her grimly. “ You can see why we call it blasting. There’s not much bark left on any of those dead sticks, and yet once this was a thriving forest.”
It hardly seemed possible. Rosamund touched one of the dead trees with gentle fingers, sad at the fate that had overcome it.
“But it will be a forest again!” she said defiantly.
Rupert stood, with his hands on his hips, looking far out across the sands.
“We hope so,” he said.
It was quite a long walk to where they were actually working. Great patches of black told their own story. Some of them had young acacias already planted, black themselves with the oily substance, others had been sprayed first and were still waiting for their quota of trees. It was not yet known which method would be the best and so they were trying them both.
But probably the most fascinating sight was to watch the men marking out the area to be planted. They measured the metres off on their clenched hands to their elbow, three lengths being a metre, and set up a line of sticks at each side of the area to be done. Then, holding a long stick behind them and with their eyes firmly on the stick in front of them, they walked towards it, knocking it over into the sand as they came to it.
“They’re amazingly accurate,” Rupert told her. “They can get just as many trees in as we can after all our mathematics and drawing of graphs, so we leave it to them. At each of the points where the lines cross, they dig a hole and plant a tree, and then we come along and spray it.”
They stood and watched for a while as the rows of men moved rhythmically back and forth, digging the holes, planting the trees, and settling the sand back again round the young roots. They were a wild-looking crew, with Turkish towelling or worse wrapped round their heads and a variety of old and patched clothing that must have come from the four quarters of the globe.
“Well, that’s that!” Rupert said. “Now you’ve seen it. Come and help us drink up the beer.”
She was glad to sit down on the sand in the shade of an awning that two of the men had rigged up over the spare fuel.
“Did all this come through yesterday?” Rosamund asked Jacob, impressed by the amount of spray they had stored in cans by the site.
Jacob’s lip twitched happily.
“No, most of it arrived this morning. They must have driven most of the night to get it here so early.”
Rosamund shivered.
“I don’t think I’d like to drive over that road by night,” she said.
He shook his head.
“Nor I!” he agreed. “But they said it wasn’t too bad. It seems that the worst patches were quite adequately marked. They work quickly, don’t they?”
Rosamund looked with respect at the cans of spray, remembering the broken bridge and their own hazardous crossing of the oued.
“They must have!” she said.
The men lay sprawled out on the sand, their hats pulled well down over their eyes against the glare.
“Are you going to serve the beer?” they asked her.
She taunted them with being lazy, but she rather enjoyed opening the heavy brown bottles and handing them around.
“Are you all going to have beer, or is anyone joining me in having lemonade?” she asked them. But only the young research chemist wanted it.
“I’m far too young for beer!” he told her lazily, holding out her glass. “Besides, Tunisian lemonade is some of the best I’ve ever tasted.”
“Are you going to leave the spray in cans like this?” she asked him.
He looked about him.
“I guess not,” he said. “We hope to get it tanked up later today in some special portable tanks we have that will keep it cooler. It isn’t as hot as it has been today, but it’s still hot enough to make it dangerous to keep it as it is.”
Rosamund sniffed the air fastidiously.
“It has a funny smell,” she said.
“It’s mighty funny stuff!” he agreed.
It was a wonderful day. The men allowed Rosamund to take her turn with the spray until she was as dirty as they. They encouraged her to plant a line of trees and teased her because she couldn’t get them into the ground as fast as the Tunisians around her. She was both tired and happy when Rupert said he thought she had done enough and how about finishing off the day by taking a swim from their own private beach?
She accepted eagerly, and they set off together towards the sea, carrying their swimming suits with them. Rupert pointed a place for her to change and went off in another direction himself.
“Shout when you’re ready,” he told her.
But she had only just finished changing when the rest of the men came whooping over the dunes, diving into the dark blue sea with an energy that made her laugh.
“Come on!” they shouted to her. “You didn’t think we were going to let you two get away with that, did you?”
She was a good swimmer, and she was glad of it, for she had to bear the brunt of their high spirits before they organised themselves into four-a-side water polo, the fastest game she had ever played, with everyone cheating madly just so long as they could score a goal.
It was a great day and she enjoyed every minute of it. But if the roads were better Félicité would come. She wouldn’t let it spoil anything. All day she pushed the thought out of her mind. But when they went back to the hotel she couldn’t resist asking Muhammed whether the rain damage had been repaired. He blinked at her seriously and nodded wisely.
“Tomorrow even a woman could drive from Tunis,” he assured her quietly.
Which was exactly what she was afraid of, for that meant that there was nothing to stop Félicité from joining them.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ROSAMUND was in the bath when Félicité arrived. Muhammed, vowing her to secrecy as far as the others were concerned, had carried the water up to the bathroom for her himself, heating it on the enormous range in the kitchen. It had been sheer bliss to lower herself into the steaming water and scrub herself in a semblance of cleanliness. It was still early evening and the men had not yet come back from the sand-dunes. She herself had come back early, black from the sun and her efforts to help drain the formula into the large tanks that had been provided.
