Winds of Enchantment

by Rosalind Brett

  Left of the port straggle, there were wharves and traders’ sheds, and still farther to the left a small white colony, composed chiefly of traders. A few houses fronted the beaten sea road, set well apart in hedged plots.

  It was to one of these dwellings that Pat drove with her father. Built of white-distempered mud and raised on stone piles, it was large and well-ventilated, though there was only a living-room, two bedrooms and a built-on kitchen. The roof, of thick palm-thatching, sloped right out to cover the veranda and provide relief from the glare of the sun.

  The rooms were sparsely furnished in local woods and wicker. The beds were of iron, painted green and fitted with a framework to hold mosquito netting. Although the previous occupant had been gone only two weeks, the bedding was musty and had to be cleaned and dried before use. Pat also found other signs of disintegration, but she was not disturbed. She was learning fast that Africa was a torrid, primitive law unto itself.

  There were two other women among the traders.

  Both were in their forties and neither had children. Grey-haired Mrs. Melville rarely went out. Mrs. Barker had once lived among the Government officials at the other end of Kanos. She and her husband, she confided, were well-off enough to retire, but after so many years in Africa, she didn’t fancy the cool climate of England, or the servant problem.

  Besides Melville and Barker, who were more or less of Bill’s type, there was Wenham, a dour individual who had once been a lawyer, and a younger man in his late twenties, Cliff Grey. Cliff was dark and brooding, and a little too fond of his drink.

  With Cliff Grey, Pat was instantly at her ease. He pretended to be amused that the others could be so affected by the presence of an attractive girl. For a man not yet thirty he was extremely cynical, soaked in a kind of personal disillusion.

  “Why am I here?” he said once, repeating her question. “I forged my father’s name on a cheque. You don’t believe that? Very well. I was driven here by a woman ... it comes to the same thing. I forged the cheque for a woman. You still don’t believe it? I don’t blame you. It was something far worse than either, too utterly sinister for your nice little ears.”

  Pat didn’t believe that, either. She thought her father nearer the truth when he said that Cliff had come out seeking adventure and lost what it takes to get back into the world again.

  Kanos was new to Bill, but just as he had given his life’s blood to Monrovia and Accra and Calabar, so he offered it now to this steaming spell-binding gate to the jungle. He was happier than she had ever seen him. From the cool shade of the veranda she would watch him down on the beach. Clad in shorts and singlet, a khaki sun-helmet tipped to the back of his head, he would rest his jot-book on a bale and yell orders.

  The boys would load and unburden the trucks; the mountains of groundnuts would subside and rise, the barrels of palm oil dwindle and be replenished. Surf-boats plied between the sheds and the steamers beyond the bar. Bill would curse and laugh and sometimes exercise his vibrant baritone on ditties he never sang in the house.

  Once she had gone down to help him at the sheds, but the heat of the sun, even with a breeze from the sea at her back, had nearly laid her flat.

  Tornadoes swept the coast The palms threshed their fans in the endless flaming flicker of lightning; trees snapped; the house, shuttered and snug, creaked resentfully. Then came the rains.

  It was on a day of relentless torrential rain that Bill was summoned by native messenger to meet an old friend at the governmental end of Kanos. The heavy curtain of rain made driving impossible, so he set off in oilskins and thigh-boots, expecting to return within a couple of hours.

  The afternoon passed slowly. The clouds shut out the light, and all sounds were lost in the steady roar of falling water. Pat had the boy make her some tea. She went back to her book, but a persistent uneasiness took possession of her. The cook asked what he was to make for ‘chop’ tonight and she told him not to bother. They would eat from tins.

  By eight-thirty she was sweating as much from anxiety as from the temperature. Unable to bear the suspense any longer, she dragged on stormproof and boots and tramped the surging red path to Cliff Grey’s bungalow.

  He was at dinner when his boy let her in. Unperturbed, he rose and took her coat and gave it to the boy. “What’s up?” he asked, flicking a rain-bead from her cheek. “That a tear?”

  “I’m frightened, Cliff.” She caught at his shirt-cuff.

  “Bill went off before lunch—said he’d be a couple of hours. He hasn’t shown up yet.”

  Cliff frowned. “That’s strange. Where did he go?”

  “To the club at the other end of town. A message came from a man he used to know. He’d heard Bill was here.”

  “Don’t worry. When men get together with a drink, to talk of old times ... he shrugged. “I bet you’ve had no dinner?”

  “I couldn’t eat.”

  “Did the messenger bring a note, or was it a verbal message?”

  “A note. Bill took it with him, but I saw it first. It suggested a chat and mentioned some rare marbles picked up at Accra.”

  “Marbles?” Cliff echoed.

  “Does that mean something?” she asked quickly.

  “Among traders it’s sometimes another name for diamonds.”

  Her eyes went heavy and dark. “I—I’m going to that club.”

  He sighed. “That means I’ll have to take you. Thank heaven the rain is giving over.”

  The night was black and cool. In the long belt of casuarina trees that divided the wharves from the town the track was still deep in water, but when they reached the highway it was already drying. The car turned up the wide boulevard and stopped before the vine-clad pillars of the club.

  “The gates of snobbery,” drawled Cliff. “Evening dress only.”

  “They won’t kick me out, women are not that plentiful here,” Pat said. “Wait for me.”

  There were bell-boys just inside the brightly lit vestibule. Opposite at a desk screened by potted palms, sat a half-European. Pat approached him.

  Yes, Mr. Brading had lunched here with Captain Sholto. Neither of the men was a member of the club, but they had been accompanied by a member, Mr. Farland. They had left together at about three—no, he could not give the address of Mr. Farland. It was against the rules of the club to divulge information to non-members.

  Pat began to insist. Two men swung through the door and immediately came to her aid. They were amused, intrigued, eager to help. “Farland lives on Winterton Terrace,” one of them volunteered. “Number three. He should be here any minute. Won’t you take a drink and wait?”

  “No. It’s awfully kind of you.” She almost ran outside to Cliff and climbed in beside him. “Do you know Winterton Terrace?”

  Cliff gave a whistle. “What’s Bill doing among the poobahs?” he laughed, starting the car.

  “I wish I knew,” she said grimly.

  Number three Winterton Terrace was a white villa half smothered in purple bougainvillaea. Pat ran up the path and rapped on the front door, which was soon opened by a houseboy who allowed her just inside the hall, then vanished into a room to the right. He rapidly returned with the news that his master would see no one.

  Pat was desperate, and determined. She marched straight to the door on the right, knocked sharply and thrust it open.

  She was aware of austere grey furniture, a saffron lampshade, and a man.

  He jerked up from the sloping back of a long cane chair. “Who the devil are you?” he demanded.

  He wore white drill trousers, a white shirt, well open at the throat to show a swathing of bandages about his shoulder, the left one.

  “Forgive me,” she said. “The boy didn’t tell me you were sick.”

  “I’m not. I’m resting.” His tone was curt. “I had an accident and lost some blood.”

  He got up and reached his jacket from the back of a chair. Mechanically she crossed the room and helped the right arm into it, dropping the left shoulder, wi
th its empty sleeve, into place.

  He was big, tall, and she met eyes of a curiously dark hazel, flecked with green. His hair was almost black, springing in a short crisp wave from a point at the centre of his forehead. His face was hard and tanned, the brows thick, the nose jutting, and Pat had just reached his mouth, with its thin upper lip and debatable lower one, when he spoke:

  “I suppose you had a reason for bursting in here?”

  “I’m Patricia Brading,” she said. “I’m rather concerned about my father. Mr. Farland, you were with him this afternoon. How long is it since you left him?”

  “Half an hour.” The green-flecked eyes dwelt steadily on her anxious, upraised face. “My boy has just driven me home.”

  "Then—he’s all right?”

  “Pretty well. He was in this—accident, too. His forearm was slit, but it’s been stitched and dressed. No need to worry, though it will have to be watched for tetanus. He came off better than I did.”

  “What sort of accident was it?” She spoke sharply.

  There was the trace of a smile in his expression as he replied. “We went aboard Sholto’s ship and played poker. The stakes were high and your father won. A brawl started. We split a few heads, collected a scar apiece and retreated.”

  “Were the stakes—diamonds?” she hazarded.

  His mouth hardened. “A couple of small rough ones washed down from the alluvial deposits on the Gold Coast.” He paused, and added mockingly: “Satisfied?”

  “One thing more.” She flung up her chin with a gesture that challenged. “You don’t belong with the traders. Why did you go aboard that boat with Bill?”

  His eyes narrowed, his tone was annoying, as though he spoke to a child. “Men get bored, little one. D’you comprehend?”

  She tightened the belt of her coat. “Thank you for what you did for my father,” she said stiffly.

  “Will you have a drink before you go?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You have someone to drive you back?”

  She nodded. “Goodnight.”

  On the ride home she was strangely quiet.

  CHAPTER THREE

  FOR the next week or so Pat was very busy. Her father’s right arm being out of action, she had to wade down to the sheds and write up his books as the surf-boats unloaded. As might have been expected, several of his company’s steamers put in during this period and daily, for many hours, Pat was forced to stew in a wooden hut, her shirt clinging with sweat, the waist of her shorts itching so painfully that her skin blistered and burst into a rash.

  To help matters, the audit clerk paid his biennial visit and carped at Bill’s book-keeping.

  “The devil take it,” roared her father, “I’m turning over half as much again as the agent. If you think I’m going to fret myself over those darned ledgers...”

  It irked Bill to be working for a boss. Previously, he had reigned like a petty king in his own small colony. Natives brought him their produce, or it was collected from distant villages and stored ready for shipment in his own chartered boats. To pay the natives he bought cargoes on the shore; cottons and salt and tobacco. Very little money changed hands.

  Those days were over. Most trading was done through agents of reputable firms. Bill talked of moving down the coast to one of the sleepy towns where cargo ships called once a month and the old profitable system of barter prevailed.

  He actually made a few enquiries and Pat accompanied him down to Balabok on a prospect. The tiny port had changed, grown a lot more active, and Bill lamented the advance of progress. Three English companies and one American had put up their names and the natives actually slept on the roads in order to be early at the stores with their goods.

  “No romance in trading these days,” grumbled Bill. “Four companies! I’ve handled a port that size all on my own. Let’s try Cape Rue.”

  So the little boat nosed farther along the coast and when it came to Cape Rue did not even put into harbour. For the stores and huts were burned flat, the whole place looked abandoned, and a huge yellow flag draped the seaward end of the jetty. “Yellow fever,” grunted Bill. “Well, kitten, it looks as though we stay in Kanos a while longer.”

  They sailed back and tied up once more at Balabok, where Pat bought some carved ivory to send to Steve, and a metal statuette of a Bantu woman. It had a pagan beauty which Pat liked and she decided to keep it for herself...

  The cruise had been grand, the African coast a revelation.

  Bill’s arm was rather a long time mending, and it still bore a bulky dressing when Nick Farland called, a fortnight after the incident.

  Since the morning mist had cleared the sky had been cloudless and brazen. Pat, still a little weary from her spell of work, stayed in the house doing jobs that had lately been neglected. She had the boys rub the floors with paraffin to keep down the jiggers. She shook spiders from the curtains and tried desperate measures against the ants.

  Her father was late for lunch. He ate quickly, and was ready to go back when a car pulled up on the track outside. “Young Farland,” he said. “I wonder what he wants?”

  Pat’s hands unconsciously clenched at her sides as Nick Farland came in smiling, and dropped his sun-helmet on to a chair.

  “Well, Brading?” And with a suggestion of the mockery she remembered, “Hullo, Patricia.”

  “Hullo, Mr. Farland,” she said coolly.

  Bill grinned. “Can I pour you something, Nick?”

  “Thanks. I see your arm’s still bandaged. Not so good?”

  “It’s not infected, just devilish slow healing up. My age, I suppose. Fifty’s old in the tropics. How’s the shoulder?”

  “Practically sound again. It was worth it,” with a laugh and a glance at Pat over the rim of the glass her father had handed him.

  “Ah, well,” Bill said philosophically. “No one leaves Africa without scars of some sort, and the physical ones give least trouble. When do you go back into the bush, Nick?”

  “No hurry. I’ve earned a rest.”

  The two men talked supplies and prices. To Nick, it seemed, the bush meant rubber, mile upon mile of tapped trees sweating latex into little cups. From the conversation Pat gathered that he had first come out on a twenty-four-month surveyor’s tour, had been captured by the spell of forest and swamp, and decided to stay. At thirty he was an old hand of five years’ standing.

  Bill was saying: “You ought to ship and market your own stuff. The Farland Rubber Company. Plant and boats would cost you a packet, but you can’t go wrong in the next few years with rubber.”

  “You said that last time we met,” Nick answered. “I thought it over. You’re only the relief here, aren’t you? When does the other chap return?”

  “In about two months.” Bill’s eyes had narrowed, and Pat saw his large hand clench on his whisky glass.

  “Good,” Nick smiled lazily, “you’re well-lined and I can find a few thousand. We’ll go together, Bill. I produce the stuff—you can trade it. The Farland-Brading Rubber Company.”

  Sharp glances twanged between the two men and suddenly they both laughed.

  “Let’s drink on it,” said Bill. “Pat, you’d better have one as well. My share will be yours when the mosquitoes get me.”

  She lifted her glass and met those penetrating hazel eyes over the rim of it. They seemed to change and harden as though sensing an alien, but his mouth smiled, and he nodded as if in agreement with an unspoken toast.

  “I’ve work to do,” said Bill suddenly. “Stay and chat with Pat. Do her good to talk to a civilized human.” When he had gone, Nick lowered himself to the arm of a chair and drew one ankle up on to the other knee. He looked across to where she stood, near the slatted window, and spoke almost without expression.

  “Your father’s wrong if he thinks we of the other end are more civilized than traders, or anyone else. The restricted society, everlasting shop talk, drink and cards, help the heat to bring out the worst in us. I’m always glad to get back to
Makai after a few weeks in Kanos.”

  “You’re alone at Makai?” she asked, strangely unrelaxed in his company, yet not really certain why. In his lightweight suit he was civilized enough, despite what he said, with a well-groomed appearance despite the heat. Ah, she had it! Nick Farland was a cool customer, but in a controlled, iron-nerved way—as though, indeed, anything might be hiding behind that lazy, self-assured facade.

  “There are two houses,” he replied, “my own and that of one of the superintendents. At the other end of the plantation are three more. My assistant manager and two juniors five there.”

  “No wives?”

  “A woman’s nerves crack up in Kanos. She wouldn’t last a month at Makai. We’re happier without them. Five white men and two thousand natives.”

  His tone was strange.

  “Africa’s got you under its spell,” she said, “just as it got Bill years ago. If I were a man it would get me too.”

  “It may yet,” he drawled. “Had any fever?”

  “No. Bill stands over me each morning while I take my five grains of quinine. It seems to work.”

  “It will, till your resistance weakens. I get a dose about once a year, but what the hell—here it’s malaria; in England it’s ’flu. I know which I prefer.”

  He felt for cigarettes. With an indolent stride he moved across the room to offer them. As he held a match for her, he said: “Do you recall a couple of men you ran into at the club? They’re anxious to meet you again. I said I’d invite you up for an evening.”

  “I’m quite happy here.” Her smile was cool.

  “You’re out of your setting among the ruffians.” He ejected smoke down narrowed nostrils.

  “My father’s one of them.” She could feel herself bristling.