Another Life

by Rosemary Carter

  'For the day?'

  His eyes narrowed, as if he resented her persistence. 'I don't know how long she'll be there,' he answered abruptly.

  Sara was quiet as they walked on. Had Andrea, disliking the solitude of Stellenberg, decided on a holiday alone? Or had she merely gone back for a visit? Something in Clyde's face seemed to forbid further questions. In any event, the reason for Andrea's absence did not concern Sara. Andrea was Clyde's wife, and as such she would be back. That she was not here today was a relief. It made the visit a little less strained.

  'Dr Clyde!'

  Sara turned, caught by the sweetness of the voice. In the mauve shade of a jacaranda, a little girl sat in a wheelchair. Green eyes peeped from a small heart-shaped face framed with dark curls, and a small rosebud mouth was curved in a smile. She was the prettiest child she had ever seen, Sara thought, and also the most fragile.

  'Jenny love!' exclaimed Clyde. He put his hand on Sara's elbow as they walked to the wheelchair.

  'Sara, I want you to meet one of my special people.'

  'Hello, Jenny.' Despite the tingling that shot from her arm to her throat, Sara's voice was steady. 'What a lovely place to sit. You can see for miles from here.'

  'Dr Clyde says if my eyes were strong enough I could see across the water to Table Mountain,' the child said gravely. She could be ten years old, Sara thought, although at first glance she looked no more than eight. 'Are you Dr Clyde's friend too?'

  'I am.' The words came out with surprising ease.

  'I love Dr Clyde,' Jenny said.

  As I love him, thought Sara. Despite the fact that he doesn't even like me very much any longer.

  'It seems he loves you too,' she said gently. And then, looking down at the book on the little girl's lap, 'What are you reading?'

  'The Secret Garden. It's the fourth time I'm reading it. Have you read it?'

  'I have,' Sara said. She was about to ask Jenny what other books she enjoyed, when Clyde cut in with, 'Why don't you tell Mrs Burod what you like best of all, Jenny?'

  'I like ballet.'

  'Ballet?' Sara suppressed a quiver.

  'I just adore ballet.'

  Jenny's eyes were dreamlike, as if she witnessed some inner vision which she alone could see. Sara glanced from her to Clyde. His expression was relaxed, but she thought the eyes that met hers held a challenge.

  He turned back to Jenny. 'Did you know that Mrs Burod is a ballet dancer?' he asked, very casually.

  'Honest?' There was sudden radiance in the tiny white face.

  'I was a ballet dancer, once…' Sara said unsteadily.

  'Her name was Sara Demaine,' Clyde went on, addressing himself directly to the child. 'She danced with a company in Cape Town.'

  'Oh!' A breath of pure rapture.

  'Clyde, please…' Sara put an instinctive hand on his arm. A muscle stiffened beneath her fingers.

  'Remember the story of Swan Lake?' His voice had not changed. 'The lovely maidens who were turned into swans?'

  'My very favourite!'

  'Mrs Burod once danced Odette and Odile, the good swan and the wicked one.'

  'Oh, Mrs Burod!' Jenny's face was brilliant. 'I never thought I'd meet a real ballet dancer!'

  'And now you have,' Sara said gently.

  She looked up at Clyde. His eyes had left the child and were on herself now, studying her with an intensity that was infinitely disturbing. It was only with an effort of will that Sara managed to prevent the trembling that seized her whole body from becoming visible.

  Turning back to the child, she said, 'I could let you see some of my books. Would you like that, Jenny?'

  'Oh yes!' The little girl pushed herself up in the wheelchair. 'Do you know we're having a concert? Dr Clyde, can Mrs Burod dance for us?'

  'Why don't you ask her?' Clyde suggested.

  'Will you, Mrs Burod? Please… please will you dance?'

  There was silence as Sara struggled to find an answer. A silence that seemed to transcend the distant crash of the waves. You led me into this deliberately, Clyde, Sara thought. Quite deliberately. You knew the impact this lovely sick child would have on me. You knew that I would find it. almost impossible to say no.

  Clyde's eyes had never looked so blue, so clear; his face had never been quite so impassive. The blood had drained from her face as she sent him a look of pleading. His only response was a slight shrug.

  It was clear that he would not help her. There had been many times in the past weeks when he had angered her. Through it all, incredibly, she had continued to love him. For the first time she felt real hatred.

  She bent back to the child. 'I'm sorry, Jenny.'

  'Please, Mrs Burod. I've never seen a ballet dancer, not a real one. Please, please dance!'

  'I don't dance any more, Jenny.'

  'Just this once!'

  If pleading was enough to weaken the will, this child possessed an eloquence which could do it. About to agree, Sara recalled the doctor's warning. She would be all right just as long as she did not dance.

  'No, Jenny. You'll have a lovely concert, I know.' She put her hand to a cheek that was as frail as old parchment. 'You won't even miss me.'

  'Dr Clyde, Won't you ask her?' Jenny's persistence was unexpected.

  'If you couldn't persuade her, Jenny love, I don't think I can.' His voice was hard.

  Sara could take no more—the little girl's heartrending loveliness, Clyde's contempt, the trap into which he had led her. She could hardly trust herself to speak as she stood up.

  'Goodbye, Jenny,' she managed to get out, then turned from the chair.

  If Clyde called after her, she did not hear him. Blindly she walked across the lawn, oblivious of the eyes of children she had spoken to, of the interested glances of the nurses. Some restraint kept her progress to a walk while she was in the grounds of Stellenberg. When she reached the road she began to run.

  The road was a sand one, and remained so to the point where it connected with the main road. Her feet in their open-toed sandals were quickly covered with a fine golden dust, but she did not notice it. Once she brushed a hand across her cheek to push away some hair that had blown forward on to her face, and found her cheek wet. She had not even known that she was crying.

  This morning there had been joy in the thought of spending a day in Clyde's company, of seeing the place where he worked. Now there was only a desire to put as much distance as possible between herself and Stellenberg. Much as the place had moved her, she knew she would never go there again. If only she could be as certain that she would not see Clyde again!

  Twice at the sound of a car coming down the road she flattened herself against the bushes. A truck drew to a halt, and a freckled-faced man offered her a lift. She had to turn his way to refuse, and saw the oddness of his expression. It came to her that he had seen her tears and wondered what a strange weeping girl was doing on a lonely farm-road.

  When another car approached from behind Sara veered automatically to the side. This time she kept her face averted. With her tear-stained dishevelled appearance she would be an oddity to most passers-by.

  The car stopped, violently. Sara was suddenly scared. As a door opened and feet strode across the pebbles, she made for a gap between two spiky cacti. The hand that seized her arm, pulling her back, had no softness in it. As she was jerked against a hard body her arm tore against one of the spikes, but Sara hardly noticed the pain. It was only part of a far greater pain.

  'So you're a coward as well!'

  Tears trembling on her lashes, she looked up at Clyde. 'What do you mean?'

  He let his gaze linger on her deliberately, taking in the tear-filled eyes, the wet cheeks, the little hollow at the back of her throat where a pulse beat a feverish tattoo. If he felt any sympathy for her obvious distress, he did not show it.

  'We'll talk in the car.'

  'I'm not coming with you.'

  'Yes. You're a mess, Sara.'

  'That shouldn't matter to you,' she said
bitterly. 'I can have a bath when I get back to Morning Glow.'

  'There's no bus.'

  'I'll walk. I was walking now.'

  'You'd have to pass through the village. The mistress of Morning Glow with dirty feet and untidy hair!' He laughed harshly. 'My sense of ironic justice might just let you do it.' And then, on another note, 'Get into the car. It's very hot. And since you gave up your dancing you're in no condition to walk all that way.'

  His hand was still on her arm, sending shock ripples through her system. In Sara's chest there was an agonising tightness. But she still had her pride. Lifting her head, she said, 'I don't intend coming with you. Not now, not ever again. I can't bear to be near you, Clyde.'

  She heard the small hissing intake of breath, and saw a muscle tighten in the long line of his jaw. 'Is that why you're responding to me?'

  Her slight flinching movement was involuntary, and quickly controlled, but the curve of his lips showed that it had not escaped him.

  'You make a bad liar,' he said, on a note of satisfaction. 'Your body betrays you every time.'

  She was still pulling away from him when he scooped her against him and dumped her, with no gentleness, in the car. The few moments in his arms, unloverlike as they had been, had sent new torrents rushing through her. There was something wrong with her, she told herself despairingly, as the long lean body settled itself beside her. Just a few minutes ago she had felt only hatred for him—still did, in fact. The physical desire that had built up inside her made no sense at all.

  Somehow she had to break the tension. If conversation was the way to do it she must talk, no matter that Clyde might respond in a manner which would give her no joy.

  'You said I was a coward,' she ventured.

  'Yes.' Short. Sharp. He too was gripped by an emotion of his own, Sara saw, and put down his feelings to anger.

  'Because I went off without waiting for you?'

  'That too.' His eyes as they skimmed her held a contempt which was becoming rapidly familiar. 'Mainly because you can't face reality.'

  'You've no basis for such a statement,' Sara said unsteadily.

  'Haven't I?' His tone was harsh. 'Jenny is a very sick girl—even you must have sensed that. Perhaps you may have realised that she might not have long to live.'

  'No!' The exclamation emerged on an outdrawn breath of pain.

  Ignoring her protest, he went on. 'You have your own reasons for denying her the pleasure of seeing you dance. But why run away? What is there in your make-up, Sara, that won't allow you to accept the unpleasant things in life?' He paused, and studied her thoughtfully for a moment. 'Do you think sadness is only for other people?'

  Sara felt something harden inside her. Clyde had no right to hurt her at every opportunity. It was hurt she felt now—a hurt that was for the lovely child she had left, and for her own child which she had lost, and for a love which became increasingly hard to live with. But he was not going to see her hurt, for this new Clyde would take pleasure in his power and twist the knife further.

  Pride, as well as a determination not to let Clyde destroy her, came to her rescue, and she lifted her chin and met his gaze defiantly. 'You don't know the first thing about it. Do you think I've never been touched by sadness?'

  'Have you?'

  There had been moments at which she could have told him the truth. This was one of them. But she could not do it. She was overwrought right now, in a state where her emotions could quite easily rule her mind.

  Forcing a brittle lightness she was far from feeling, she said, 'What an infantile question for a doctor! Everyone is touched by sadness now and then.'

  'Care to tell me about your particular sadness?'

  For the moment the contempt was gone, and in its place was a thoughtfulness which was nearly Sara's undoing. Careful, she told herself. Be very careful.

  She shrugged, keeping her face expressionless. 'Nothing out of the ordinary to tell. I was just stating a very general fact.'

  'Nothing special, then.' And when she did not answer, 'When Peter Burod took you to Morning Glow it was a little like shutting up the proverbial bird in the golden cage. I wonder if he knew you'd use the place to cloister yourself from the real world.'

  Any moment now his taunts would make her lose her temper, and there was no predicting what she might say. It was time to change the subject. 'You took me to Stellenberg to show me the real world?'

  'I thought it was time you saw another aspect of life. That you should know something of the pain and tragedy with which some people have to contend every day.'

  'Noble words!' she threw at him, eyes blazing as she was taken by a new spurt of anger. 'And strange ones, coming from you.'

  Clyde's eyes had a dangerous glint. 'What the hell do you mean by that?'

  Sara was so angry now that the words emerged easily. 'The altruistic doctor dedicating himself to working with sick children. That role might impress others, it certainly doesn't impress me.'

  'Why not?' His voice was very quiet.

  Only the brilliance in the blue eyes and the whitening around the nostrils revealed the fury she had provoked in him. They were like two combatants in the ring, she thought, each trying to wound the other where the most blood could be drawn. In this case, they were combatants who had once shared a love that had seemed beautiful beyond dreams. Dully Sara wondered whom she was hurting the most, Clyde or herself. But she had to go on.

  'Do you remember telling me once that you meant to be rich and famous?'

  'Of course,' he said drily. His eyes swept her body slowly, outrageously. 'I also remember the night I said it.'

  The night, if he but knew it, when their child had been conceived. It was madness that she ached with the longing to be in his arms again, to experience the joy of being one with him.

  Cheeks burning, she said, 'You were on your way to becoming a surgeon. You meant to make your mark in life.'

  'Go on.' His tone was remote, his eyes were chips of ice.'

  She took a breath. 'Your marriage to Andrea Stanford wasn't exactly a step in the wrong direction.'

  Silence followed. Stealing a glance at him, Sara saw that the lean face had become a mask of chiselled bronze, the lines of it starkly defined as if by some impassioned sculptor. Her own anger of a few moments ago was like nothing against his own. Clyde's lips were compressed in a thin hard line, his nostrils were just slightly flared. Yet when he spoke his tone was without any expression.

  'You don't pull your punches.'

  She could not apologise, not now. 'In that I seem to be like you,' she said brittley. 'Why are you at Stellenberg, Clyde? Is it just a step to acquiring more experience? Those children trust you, they love you. They'll be devastated when you leave.'

  'I have no plans to leave Stellenberg.'

  She stared at him, her eyes very wide. 'I don't believe that!'

  His expression was sardonic. 'Why not?'

  'Your… your ambitions,' she said uncertainly, feeling all at once a little out of her depth.

  'I don't deny that I once had thoughts of material glory. But people change, Sara.'

  There was a quiet positiveness in his words. Despite his fury a few moments ago, Sara sensed that her accusation had not disturbed him in the way she had thought it would. He was very sure of himself, she thought.

  'People do change,' she said slowly. 'Perhaps I was wrong about you. If so… Clyde, you ask me to accept your changes, why can't you accept mine?'

  'Because you haven't grown along with them. From being a wonderful artist you've become content to lead a life of pampered idleness.'

  'Don't judge me,' Sara said in a low tone. She shifted her eyes to the window, away from Clyde. On no account did she want him to see how his condemnation had affected her.

  Then she asked, 'And what about Andrea?'

  'What about her?' His tone was flat, as if warning her to desist.

  Sara pressed on regardless. 'Has she changed too? I can't believe she's happy with the directi
on you've taken.'

  'You don't even know Andrea.' Clyde's tone had not changed. 'You only met her for a few moments.'

  'That's true,' Sara acknowledged. 'But I know about her. I'd have thought Andrea would want something different for you, a position that carries more status and a lot more money than Stellenberg could afford to pay you.'

  Clyde did not answer immediately. When he did speak there was the hardness of finality in his tone. 'I make my own decisions, Sara. At all times.'

  And in this case the decision concerned devoting his time and energy to the healing of sick children. Looking at him now, Sara was reminded of the man she had seen an hour earlier. The firmness and strength and sheer animal magnetism that were all so much a part of him had been with him then. But as he had moved among the children there had been other qualities too. Sara had noticed a gentle-ness and a tenderness, a look of intense caring. She had known that the image he presented was not assumed, it was real, and she had been very moved.

  For the first time she knew that she had misjudged him, just as he had misjudged her. It was true that he had said he wanted to be rich and famous. It was also true that he had found consolation for a broken heart—if it ever had been broken—in the arms of Andrea Stanford, the one girl whom his family regarded as a 'match'. But these things had happened two years ago, and two years could be a long time in terms of human experience.

  Clyde had indeed changed. Somewhere along the way his values had been transformed. He was a doctor in the true sense of the word. There was a depth of caring for his patients which went beyond the sense of duty.

  Clyde would not have needed Andrea's influence to have made his mark in the medical world of a big city. Her personality and his competence would have carried him to any heights he desired. Instead he had chosen to make his life at Stellenberg, giving himself to those who perhaps needed him the most. The sudden revelation moved her anew, so that she found tears pricking at her eyes.

  'Tell me about Jenny,' she said, in an attempt to hide her emotion.

  'Jenny is a very sick little girl. You know that already.'

  Briefly Clyde went into the nature of the child's illness. His tone was matter-of-fact, his face without expression. And yet he was not untouched by Jenny's plight; Sara knew quite certainly that his sorrow matched her own.