The Lion Rock

by Sally Wenteorth

  He nodded. 'It happens. That's why thousands of young people are always working or travelling abroad. It's a kind of wanderlust that comes with young adulthood and has to be appeased before one can settle down.'

  'Is that what you're doing?'

  Marcus gave a short laugh. 'Hardly. I got that out of my system quite some time ago. No, I just came here to get away from——' he hesitated and changed what he was going to say, 'because the climate is so good in Sri Lanka and because I wanted peace and quiet in which to work.'

  'And now we've come along to interrupt you,' Cordelia said with embarrassment in her voice. 'I'm sorry.'

  'Nonsense,' Marcus denied brusquely. 'I'm glad that I was in a position to be able to help, and you're certainly not intruding. Please don't think it. You're welcome to stay until your father feels enough to travel. And there are plenty of servants to look after him.'

  'But your work?' Cordelia asked uncertainly. ''As a matter of fact it's almost finished. Please don't worry about it.'

  He said it in such a final tone that Cordelia took at his word, sensing that he regretted having mentioned his desire for solitude. He, immediately changed the topic of conversation by asking her what she thought of Sri Lanka. 'Well, I think it's wonderful, of course, but then I'm biased because I was born here.' His eyebrow lifted in surprise and she went on to tell him about the circumstances.

  'So this was to be a nostalgia trip for your father?'

  'Yes, I suppose so,' Cordelia agreed doubtfully. Although I've never really thought of him as the type who would go in for that sort of thing.' Not that she really knew with any certainty what type of person he was at all.

  After dinner she went quietly into her father's room to watch him while the nurse had a meal. She sat in a chair by the side of his bed and looked at him, studied him more closely than she had ever done before. But there was little to tell from his hard profile, from the lines in his leathery face that came from too many years spent in the sun. Cordelia realised that she really knew very little about her father and only had the biased idea of his character that she had picked up over the years from her mother and her aunt, and which was naturally prejudiced against him. Not that anything had ever been said directly against him; it was more an opinion formed from overheard conversations, from remarks that had been cut off in mid-sentence when it was realised that she was in the vicinity. And, added to that, was his boorish behaviour of the last two days which had done nothing to make her alter her opinion, had even emphasised it.

  As she watched him, James Allingham's eyelids flickered and he moved his head on the pillow. His eyes opened and Cordelia stood up and moved a little closer. For a few moments his eyes travelled bemusedly round the strange, dimly-lit room, then he became aware of someone with him. A flash of joy came into his face, eagerly he spoke a word she didn't understand, perhaps it was a name. Quickly she moved forward to the edge of the bed, leaned over him so that she was within the light. The joy died from his face and he said heavily, 'Oh, it's you.'

  Somehow Cordelia stopped herself from turning on her heel and walking out of the room. Tight- lipped, she managed to say, 'Yes, it's me. How do you feel?'

  He snorted. 'Bloody awful! What—what happened?' He tried to move painfully in the bed. —I can't seem to remember.'

  'There was an accident,' Cordelia told him, coldly, unemotionally. 'The car went off the road.' But she didn't tell him about the heart attack; it was up to the doctor to tell him that if he thought his patient well enough to know.

  'Where are we? At a hotel?'

  'No. We've been taken in by an Englishman. This house is near where we crashed. The man's name is Marcus Stone, He…'

  But already her father's eyes were closing again, as if the effort of concentrating for even those few minutes had been too much for him. Cordelia's voice faded and she stood staring down at him, wondering just who he had thought was with him, what had brought such joy for an instant to his face. The name he'd said hadn't been that of anyone she knew; it certainly hadn't been her 'mother's.

  The nurse came back soon after and, in a whispered conversation, Cordelia told her that her patient had wakened. The nurse nodded, obviously perfectly capable of dealing with the invalid. She was quite young and much smaller than Cordelia, but then the Sri Lankans were a race of short people, not many of them came up to her height, but the nurse seemed to take caring for someone who was so much bigger than herself all in her stride.

  Cordelia went back to the sitting-room. Marcus wasn't there, but from behind a closed door to the left she could hear the sound of a typewriter and guessed that he was catching up on his work, so she decided not to disturb him by going in to say goodnight. The room was still open to the night, the wooden shutters not yet closed, and she wandered out on to the verandah that ran all around the house. The scents of the flowers filled the air and she put up a hand to touch the delicate trumpets of the mauve and white bougainvillea that grew up the supports and along the roof like a rich and colourful vine. There were some steps leading down to the garden and Cordelia went slowly down them, the moon lighting her way. The garden was quite large by English standards and was walled all round, but it was planted with trees that gave off the exotic, spicy smells of nutmeg and sandalwood, and with flowering bushes of hibiscus and frangipani.

  Somehow the night seemed to heighten the scents and Cordelia followed her nose, moving from one bush to another, recognising cinnamon, cloves and, from way back in her childhood, the camphor that reminded her of best clothes packed away with mothballs to protect them.

  Her slow progress through the garden had brought her opposite the room in which Marcus was working, and a movement from inside made her look up. The windows in the room were closed, but there were no curtains. He had got up to get a book from a shelf and now sat down again at the typewriter. It was very much a working room, the walls lined with shelves, mostly full of, books, and there were a couple of steel filing cabinets under a big map that had been pinned to the wall. He started typing again and Cordelia smiled to herself; he was very much a pick and- peck typist, was probably only using two fingers.

  Her own speeds were very fast and she was proud them, but then her smile faded as she remembered that they were now more or less obsolete and she had had to train all over again on word processor.

  Idly she wondered what work Marcus did; she tried to see what the map on the wall was of, but it too far away. It didn't look like Sri Lanka.

  His desk was sideways on to the window, the light shining fully on him. He seemed to be typing from a sheaf of notes, pausing every now and again to think or to make an alteration. Once or twice he made a mistake in the typing and she could see and hear his annoyance as he impatiently x'ed out the error and retyped it. He paused to think again, got up and selected a book from one the shelves, moved towards the window as he turned the pages. Cordelia watched him, feeling safe under her cover of darkness. He seemed too big for the room; he really needed one that he could pace up and down in while he sorted out his thoughts, but his long legs would only be able to take a few steps in the confines of that study.

  As she watched him, still intent on the book in hands, it came to Cordelia that he was a very attractive man—attractive to women, that was. There was something powerful and slightly arrogant about the set of his shoulders, the thrust of his chin. The sort of man who could handle and take charge of whatever came his way—much as he had taken charge of her and her father that very day. And she rather thought that he was quite capable of handling women, too. She shivered a little, but not from cold, and moved nearer the window, her dress mottled in the moonlight by the branches of a jasmine bush. There was something about Marcus Stone that she had never met in any other man before and which she found difficult to define; magnetism perhaps, or just a superabundance of pure basic masculinity? Not the flashy, flauntingly virile kind, but controlled power, machismo kept well in hand.

  Without warning, Marcus thrust the window open and stepped
out oh to the verandah. 'Who's there?' he demanded sharply.

  'Cordelia.' She moved forward into the light as she identified herself. 'I was just taking a stroll round the garden.'

  'I hope you sprayed yourself with insect repellent first, or you'll be covered in mosquito bites,' he remarked drily.

  'Yes, I did.' Climbing the steps to the verandah, she said on a note of apology, 'Please don't let me keep you from your work.'

  'It's all right; typing is the part I enjoy least…' He reached in his pocket for a cigarette and lit it. 'How was your father?'

  'He woke up. I just told him that there'd been an accident; I thought it better not to tell him about his heart attack. What do you think?'

  'You're probably right. Talk to Dr Matara about it in the morning.'

  Cordelia was leaning against the upright supporting the verandah and he moved to her side, leaning down to balance his elbows On the rail.

  'How long were you intending to stay in Sri Lanka?' he asked.

  'There was no fixed time limit; my father wanted to stay here for several weeks.'

  'Good, then you won't have any worries about rushing back to England.'

  'No.'

  They both fell silent, not the kind of silence in which one tries desperately to think of something to say, but a tacit, companionable silence in which they listened to the soft sounds of the night that broke the quiet stillness: the splashing of a nearby waterfall, the jarring cry of a nightbird diving on it's prey. Marcus drew on his cigarette, the glow highlighting the hard clean lines of his face. His shoulder touched her arm and she gave an involuntary shiver.

  Marcus straightened up. 'You're cold.'

  'A—a little.' Cordelia's throat felt strangely tight so that she stammered over the words.

  'Come inside. Perhaps the shock of the accident hasn't completely worn off yet.'

  He steered her through the door into his study and Cordelia headed for the inner door, glancing round with interest as she passed through the room. 'I am feeling rather tired, despite the rest I had earlier on…' Her voice trailed away as she frowned at the map on the wall; it seemed to be of some inland area with foreign-sounding names, and there was a long, irregular line drawn along most of its length. Her eyes travelled over the titles of some of the books on the shelves that covered the left hand wall. Reaching the door, she started to say 'Goodnight,' stopped, and then turned to stare at him 'You're Marcus Stone!'

  The grey-blue eyes looked amused. 'I know,' he agreed gravely.

  'But—I mean—you're the Marcus Stone. The writer. You wrote that fantastic book about the Great Wall of China.'

  'I'm glad you enjoyed it.'

  'Oh, I did.' Cordelia's hand left the door knob and she stepped back into the room, her eyes sparkling with excitement and interest. 'You made it seem so alive. You made me long to go there and see it for myself.'

  The amused look faded as he gave a quick smile of real pleasure. 'Thank you; you couldn't have said anything about it that I would have appreciated more.'

  Cordelia grew suddenly shy. 'I'm sure you must have heard it a million times already.'

  He laughed. 'Oh, not a million, I assure you.'

  'I've read a couple of your other books,' she told him. 'I'd like to read them all, but there are always such long waiting lists for them at the library.'

  'Perhaps you'd like to borrow one now,' he offered, the laughter still in his voice. 'I have copies of most of .them here.' -

  'Thank you.' Cordelia selected a book and turned to him. 'Are you—are you working on a book about Sri Lanka?'

  'No. This one's about another wall—the Berlin Wall.'

  'I guess one wall led to another?' she quipped, her confidence coming back.

  'Something like that.' His face changed, became withdrawn and introspective. 'Humanity has been building walls to keep people out since the beginning of civilisation.'

  'Or to keep people in,' Cordelia added quietly.

  His eyes flicked over her. 'As you say. There are too many walls, too many barriers.'

  And yet, despite his protest, he had just built a small one himself, between the two of them, Cordelia thought. She softly said goodnight again, but Marcus didn't answer, merely nodded abstractedly, his gaze fixed on the map with its thick wall like a line of blood, and she knew that his thoughts were whole continents away.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Cordelia undressed quickly and got into bed, intending to read for half an hour, but even though she was looking forward to reading the book, she found that she just couldn't concentrate. She had never met a writer before, or anyone who was in the least famous, if it came to that, and the thought excited her. She wished now that she had asked him lots more questions, found out more about his work, but perhaps she could ask him another time; there should be lots of opportunities while she was staying in the same house. That was if he was willing to talk about it; although other people obviously found it intensely interesting, perhaps to writers it was just their job and they got bored when people asked them questions about it all the time.

  Giving up any attempt to read, Cordelia closed the book and hugged it to her, too excited to go to sleep. The last two or three Marcus Stone books had all been best-sellers, and she had little doubt that the one on the Berlin Wall would be no exception. How marvellous to know about the book before it had even been published! Perhaps Marcus might even let her read the manuscript, she hoped dreamily, ambitiously. And perhaps he might not; her thoughts grew more prosaic, more down-to-earth. As an uninvited guest in his house it was really up to her to be as unobtrusive as possible, to keep out of his way so that he could get on with his work in uninterrupted solitude.

  Cordelia didn't know much about how writers worked, but she imagined that they spent long hours alone with the phone off the hook and a 'do not disturb' sign on the door. But then she remembered that Marcus had said that the book was almost finished—and also that he disliked typing. Maybe there was a way in which she could get to read the manuscript, and perhaps at the same time repay their host in some small measure for his kindness. If she offered to type for him… Her eyes sparkled and she gripped the book more tightly. She imagined herself sharing his workroom with him, seated at a smaller desk, typing, while he worked something else. Perhaps she would ask him a question and he would come over, lean close to her as he explained. Perhaps his shoulder would touch her arm again as it had done tonight. Cordelia put down the book and turning off the light, lay in bed feeling hot and strangely aware of her whole body. |It was as if every nerve end, every pore of her skin, was waiting and expectant. It felt like that for quite some time until at last she fell asleep.

  The idea of offering to type for Marcus was so strong in her mind that it was the first thing she thought of when she woke the next morning. She showered and dressed quickly, putting on one of the new dresses that she had bought specially for this holiday, and adding careful make-up. A table had been laid for breakfast out on the verandah where there was a breathtaking view looking out over the green hills of the tea plantations. But this morning Cordelia had little attention to spare for the view. Marcus wasn't there, so she turned to the white-jacketed servant who pulled out a chair for her and asked him where his employer was. 'Mr Stone has gone out, madam.'

  'Oh. Will he be gone long?' The disappointment was clear in her voice.

  'I think he will be back soon. Please—how do you want your eggs?'

  Cordelia chose scrambled. Happier now that she knew Marcus hadn't gone out for the whole day, she took in the view, noticing the small, bright patches of colour among the tea bushes where groups of women worked slowly along the rows, picking the tea leaves and putting them into the large baskets tied on their backs. She saw a lorry travelling along a road and wondered if it was the same road that she and father had used yesterday, but decided that it was too near, that it must only be a secondary road leading up to a tea factory. After she had eaten her breakfast, she amused herself by reading the local Eng
lish language newspaper that the houseboy brought her while she drank another cup of coffee, but presently a movement among the bushes in the garden caught her eye and she saw Marcus walking up a path between the trees. Her heart gave a crazy kind of jerk of excitement and she sat forward eagerly, but then grew suddenly still. He wasn't alone. There was a girl with him—a petite, graceful native girl with large, dark eyes set in a clear dusky skin. As they came nearer Cordelia saw that the girl was beautiful. She also saw that she, too, was being scrutinised just as closely and that there was an openly hostile look on the other girl's face.

  But then the look was gone as the girl lowered her eyes and demurely followed Marcus up the steps to the verandah.

  'Good morning. How are you feeling today?'

  'Fine, thank you.' Cordelia gave him a rather forced smile, intensely curious about the silent girl side him, but trying not to let it show. '

  'No ill effects from the accident?'

  She shook her head. 'No, none.'

  'Good. How's your father? Have you been in to see him yet?'

  'No. I thought I'd leave it until after the doctor came. Aren't you going to join me?' she added when he made no move to sit down.

  'I've already eaten.' The Sri Lankan girl was standing a little behind him, but now he put out a hand and drew her forward. 'By the way, this is Sugin. If you need anything just ask her and she'll take care of it for you.'

  The girl he called Sugin put her hands together and bowed in the traditional, respectful manner. 'Ayou bowan.'

  'Ayou bowan,' Cordelia returned the greeting, and felt a small flash of satisfaction as the native girl's eyes flickered in surprise at her correct pronunciation.