The Lion Rock

by Sally Wenteorth

  Marcus said, 'If you'll excuse me, I have an appointment.'

  He took his hand from where it had been resting casually and familiarly on the other girl's arm and moved to go in, but stopped when Cordelia exclaimed, 'Oh, but I wanted to speak to you. To ask you something.'

  'Yes?' His left eyebrow rose enquiringly.

  She hesitated, looking from him to Sugin uncertainly. 'I—er—perhaps I could see you when you get back?’

  'Okay. I'll only be gone for an hour or so. Sugin will look after you.'

  He raised his hand in a half salute of farewell and stepped briskly inside, leaving the two alone together. Sugin made no effort to speak, so Cordelia forced herself to say stiffly, 'I take it you work for Mr Stone?'

  The native girl's eyelids flickered and she hesitated for a fraction of a second before saying, in a tone that Cordelia thought had a note of mockery in it, 'Yes, miss.'

  'Well, there's nothing I want right now, thank you. You'd better—get on with your work.' She had almost said 'go about your duties' but thought how dated that sounded, then realised it must be a throwback from when she had lived in Sri Lanka before; in her mind she could still hear her mother's gentle but firm voice instructing the servants that they had employed all those years ago.

  Sugin turned and walked away, making no attempt to give a respectful bow now that Marcus wasn't there.

  Cordelia looked blindly down at the newspaper as she wondered about the girl's position in Marcus's household—in Marcus's life! Dimly she remembered having seen a girl waiting at the door when she had first arrived here, but she had been so shaken up at the time that she hadn't really taken much notice, could only recall the girl having been sent hurrying off to make up a bed for her father, but not having seen her after that.

  Looking down the garden, Cordelia couldn't help thinking that it seemed rather odd for Sugin and Marcus to have come from that direction. It was possible, she supposed, for them to have been inspecting the garden or perhaps just taking a stroll while they talked over household concerns, but in that case they must have taken a long time about it, because she hadn't seen them go out.

  Folding the paper, she gave a quick look round to make sure Sugin wasn't watching her, then got to her feet and went down the verandah steps into the garden, retracing the path that they had taken.

  The garden was just as delightful to the eye during the daytime as it had been to her sense of smell last night, but Cordelia for once paid little heed to the beauty around her, walking quickly across the grass that grew between the bushes and trees until she came to the wall that surrounded the garden. It was quite a high wall with broken glass embedded in the top, whether to keep out criminal or human predators Cordelia couldn't tell. The path curved round a tangled mass of bougainvillea bushes just near the wall, and behind them was a solid gate set into its thickness, with a key in the lock. Cordelia tried to open the gate by pulling at the handle, but whoever had come through it last had locked it behind them. She turned the key and the gate opened easily and silently, its hinges well oiled. Beyond the gate the path continued through a field where a few tethered goats cropped at the sparse growth of grass, then through another, much smaller gate, in a low stone wall, into a track that ran in front of a few spaced-out native houses where barefooted children played in the dust. She didn't go out there, just stood looking for a while, taking it all in, then closed the gate and locked it again and slowly walked back through the garden. Probably it was a short cut for any of Marcus's servants who lived in the houses; it must save them a long walk if they could avoid going round by the road. Perhaps Marcus had been visiting someone in the houses and Sugin had walked back with him. Perhaps he had… Oh, it could be anything!

  Cordelia shook her head, angry with herself. She was just pulling ideas out of thin air. Anything rather than contemplate the more obvious conclusion. And after all, what was it to her if Marcus came to the house early in the morning with a young girl and admitted that he'd breakfasted elsewhere? After all, the man had been living here alone for nearly two years; it was hardly surprising if he'd formed a relationship of some sort, with someone. It was really none of her business and she wouldn't think about it again, Cordelia told herself determinedly, then thought about nothing else all morning.

  A. servant came to find her, telling her that Dr Matara had arrived. After examining her father again, he came to tell her that he was in a weak condition and it might be several weeks before he would be fit enough to make the long journey back to England.

  'How long will it be before he'll be well enough to move to a hotel?' Cordelia asked, not quite sure now what answer she wanted to hear.

  The doctor pursed his lips. 'It is difficult to say. Two weeks at least. I would prefer three to be on the safe side. The nearest hotels are at Nuwara Eliya, which will be better for him as it is not so hot as on the coast. But are you in a hurry to leave here? I thought it was already arranged with Mr Stone.'

  'What was arranged with Mr Stone?' Marcus had returned without them hearing him and picked up the end of their conversation.

  The doctor immediately detailed what had gone before and Marcus gave her a speculative look. 'Of course Mr Allingham can stay until he's well enough. Unless…' he turned towards her. 'Have you spoken to your father this morning?'

  No.' Cordelia shook her head.

  'I see.' He held out his hand to Dr Matara.

  'Thanks for coming. Shall we see you tomorrow?' The two men shook hands and Marcus shepherded him out. When he came back he paused for a minute, then said, 'I'm sorry if you find it boring here.'

  'It isn't that,' Cordelia assured him uncomfortably. 'Of course I'm not bored. It's just—well, I feel that we ought not to impose on your hospitality—your kindness.' She paused uncertainly. 'After all, we're complete strangers. We have no right to…'

  'But we're all British and a long way from home,' Marcus interposed. 'Don't you think that gives you some claim?'

  'No, not really,' Cordelia said honestly. 'At least, it shouldn't. My father should never have come here knowing that he had a weak heart.' Marcus moved across the room and sat down in easy chair. 'Maybe he had some definite reason for coming back. Something that had to be done despite his illness—or because of it.'

  'What do you mean?' Cordelia sat in a chair nearby.

  Marcus shrugged. 'Men often feel after an ilness that they ought to put their affairs in order in case it happens again. Or they feel that they have to fulfil a lifetime dream before it's too late.' He paused to light a cigarette while Cordelia digested this, then added, 'Didn't he give you any reason for wanting to come back here?'

  'He just said he wanted to see the island again and to convalesce after his illness.'

  'That was all?'

  'Yes.'

  'Strange.' He blew out smoke and the air- conditioning drew it upwards in a twisting spiral. 'Was that what you wanted to talk to me about?'

  'Oh. No.' His eyebrows rose enquiringly, but she hesitated before answering, all the confidence and sense of excited anticipation that had filled her last night lost in uncertainty now. 'It was just that—last night I heard you trying to type and…'

  His left eyebrow rose steeply above the other. 'Trying to type?'

  'Well, yes. A trained typist can always tell when someone picks out one letter at a time.'

  Marcus grinned. 'You're quite right; I'm no typist. Sorry, I interrupted you. What were you going to say?'

  'I just wondered if, while I was here, I might help you by doing some typing for you. My speeds are quite good and I make very few mistakes.'

  Her voice fell away as she surprised a sudden alert look on Marcus's face. Then he said abruptly, 'It's very kind of you, but you're here on holiday and have hardly seen anything of the place yet. You must take the car and get out and about, see all the tourist sites.'

  Cordelia hesitated, rather taken aback. 'But I should like to work for you.'

  'Why?' Again that penetrating look.

 
; 'Because…' She groped for reasons. 'Because I should like, in some small measure, to repay you for your kindness and…'

  'I don't want any repayment,' he cut in shortly.

  Her head came up. 'Well, want it or not, I should still like to do it,' she retorted in a tone of determined sharpness, and saw a gleam of amusement come into his eyes.

  'And the other reason you were about to give?' he demanded.

  'What? Oh, well…' She flushed a little, then said on a wistful, almost confiding note, 'I would like to act as secretary for a real writer. To feel that I've had even such a small part in the production of a book.'

  He smiled. 'Are you a book person, Cordelia?' 'Oh, yes! I can read anywhere.'

  'Even in the bath?'

  She laughed. 'Especially in the bath.'

  He laughed in return and Cordelia's heart felt a surge of excitement again, all her doubts forgotten, and she knew an instant of pure happiness.

  'All right, you've got yourself a job. I did have a woman who came in to type, but her husband was taken ill with malaria and she has to stay home and look after him, so I'll be more than glad to give up my two-fingered attempts. But you must still see something of the island,' he added firmly.

  'This must be a holiday as well. Now,' he stood up, 'I expect you'd like to go and visit your father.'

  'When shall I start work?' she asked enthusiastically.

  Marcus laughed again and put a restraining hand on her arm as she got to her feet. 'Don't be so eager! You might find me a slavedriver.'

  'Oh, I'm sure you wouldn't be,' she answered easily, and then felt her throat go suddenly dry as she wondered what it would be like if she was really his slave. 'Would you?' she added softly, raggedly.

  But he had let go her arm and turned away, hadn't heard or noticed anything, fortunately. He held the door open for her and then went to his study while she crossed to her father's room and knocked on the door. The nurse gave her a smiling welcome, but James Allingham, who was sitting up in bed, propped up by pillows, had only a short nod for her.

  'Good morning, Father.' She made no attempt to kiss him and even the title Father came uneasily to her tongue. 'You look much better today.' This got no answer, so she tried again. 'Is there anything I can get you? Or do for you? Perhaps you'd like me to read to you for a while?'

  'There's nothing wrong with my eyes,' he told her harshly. 'If I wanted to read I'm quite capable of doing so.'

  'Yes, of course,' Cordelia agreed coldly. She waited a moment, then said, 'There's nothing you want, then?'

  He frowned. 'Our things we left at the hotel in Randy; I gather they've been brought here?'

  'Yes.'

  'Did you go and fetch them?'

  'No. Mr Stone sent his driver for them. Someone at the hotel must have packed them into the cases. Why, is something missing?'

  Ignoring the question, he said, 'Did you unpack my case?'

  'No. I unpacked my own. I'm not sure who unpacked your things—I think it was the head houseboy. Why?' she asked again.

  Some tension seemed to go out of him and James Allingham relaxed against the pillows. 'It's no matter. Just wondered, that's all.'

  Cordelia looked down at her father, trying to guess just what it was he had in his luggage that he didn't want her to see. A sharp rap sounded at the door and as she was nearest she opened it.

  Marcus said, 'I wonder if your father is feeling well enough for me to meet him yet?'

  'Yes, of course.'

  She stood back to let him in, then shut the door introduced the two men. They seemed to size other up while she was speaking, then James Allingham shook Marcus's hand in a grip that was still firm despite his weakness. Marcus didn't stay long; he merely assured the invalid that he was welcome at the bungalow as long as he needed to stay, and that he had only to ask for anything he wanted. 'And when you're feeling better we must have a chat about what Sri Lanka was like in the old days,' Marcus added easily. 'Cordelia told me that you used to manage one of the tea plantations and that she was born here. It's a great shame that you won't be fit enough to take her round the island yourself, as you intended, but I'll try to make sure she sees something of the place.'

  Her father gave an abstracted nod, obviously not caring what Cordelia saw or didn't see, which made Marcus frown, but then he seemed to pull himself together a little and said, 'It's really most kind of you. But you mustn't let Cordelia be a nuisance. She can quite easily go and stay at a hotel or a rest-house somewhere until I'm fit again, you know.' Cordelia's face paled at his rudeness. Stiffly, she said to Marcus, 'Would you excuse me?' then turned and marched out of the room.

  Marcus must have left almost immediately after, because he soon followed her out into the garden Where she had gone to try and walk off her anger. He gave her a deceptively casual look, his writer's eyes taking everything in, noting her anger and the bewilderment behind it.

  Falling into step beside her, he said, 'I know it's none of my business, but if it would help to talk about it…'

  Cordelia would have loved to talk about it if she had known what to say. But how to explain her father's overt dislike, a relationship based on nothing more solid than a blood tie, a journey undertaken together for selfish reasons on both sides, a reason on her father's side that she didn't even know and was beginning to be afraid of. None of it made for pleasant hearing. Slowly she shook her head. 'It's nothing. Really.'

  'Nothing? When your father makes it obvious he doesn't want your company and talks about you as if you weren't there?'

  A bright flush of colour heightened her cheeks and she looked at him with dark, unhappy eyes. 'Please,' she said entreatingly.

  Marcus continued to look at her frowningly for a moment, then abruptly began to tell her about his visit to China when he had been researching his book on the Great Wall. He talked for quite a while as they walked slowly round the garden and the tension gradually left her. Once he reached up to push a low branch of mauve bougainvillea out of the way and paused to break off a sweep of blooms and give it to her. He went on talking easily, not looking at her, giving her time to recover, until he glanced at his watch and then at her face and saw that she was absorbed in his story. 'Lunchtime, I think,' he said firmly. 'I'll tell you the rest while we're eating.'

  After lunch he took her into his study and cleared a place for her at a side table. Cordelia was surprised to find that the typewriter was a modern electric one. 'Can you use it?' he asked her.

  'Oh, yes. This wasn't the machine you were using last night, though, was it?'

  'No, I have a portable I drag around everywhere with me. I get on better with that.' He brought a wad of typed A4 paper over. 'This is what I was working on; it's the third draft of the book. I've been over it and made a whole lot of alterations and amendments and I was retyping it chapter by chapter. But if you could take that over from me, it would be marvellous.'

  Cordelia smiled. 'I think I can manage that.'

  'Good girl,' he said warmly, so warmly that Cordelia started to glow inside. 'If you have any difficulties or there's anything you don't understand, just sing out.'

  'The only problem will probably be that I'll get so interested I'll stop and read it.'

  He grinned and went over to his own big desk where there was another pile of typed sheets and began to go slowly through them. Cordelia tried to work quietly, afraid of disturbing him, but the electric typewriter made little noise and he was obviously used to it, for he wrote on steadily. She felt a great feeling of peace and contentment, working there with the sun pouring through the open windows into the quiet room. The book was absorbing and she had no real difficulty in deciphering his thick, black handwriting, although after a while she cheated and asked him to explain something. He came over at once but didn't bend over her, instead pulling the sheet of paper round at right angles so that he could read it, then explained what he'd meant and what he wanted to convey. Which wasn't quite what she'd hoped for but in no way spoilt the afternoon.
r />   They stopped at about four-thirty and went out on the verandah to have afternoon tea served in delicate china cups, Marcus insisting that she try it the Sri Lankan way without any milk or sugar. 'The Sri Lankans think that the way the English drink tea is a downright crime,' he told her. 'They always drink the pure tea, none of your blended stuff—in fact they consider that to be little better than dust. And they never put in milk or sugar, just use stronger or weaker tea to their liking, although they occasionally indulge in a slice of lemon.'

  He passed her a cup and Cordelia sipped experimentally, then pulled a face. 'I think my insides must have got used to the English dust! I don't think I could ever get to like this.'

  'Try again,' he encouraged her. 'It grows on you after a while.'

  She laughed and bent to obey him, but stopped with the cup halfway to her lips as Sugin came out on to the verandah. Without waiting for an invitation she seated herself at the tea-table. Something flickered at the back of Marcus's eyes, then they were hooded again as he poured tea into a third cup and handed it to the native girl. She sipped delicately and then, as if he had asked a silent question, nodded and said, 'Yes, that is how I like it.'

  Marcus turned to Cordelia and said smoothly, 'You must get Sugin to dance for you one evening. The Sri Lankans have their own folk dances and Sugin is very good. She sometimes appears with the Kandyan folk dancers who perform for tourists.'

  'How interesting,' Cordelia remarked stiltedly, and asked Sugin how long she had been dancing, while all the time wondering if that was where Marcus had met her. Had he gone like all the tourists to see the dancers and picked Sugin out, brought her back here to be—to be his mistress? 'For many years,' the native girl answered. 'You must start when you are a very young child to learn all the movements, all the dances. The dances are very precise and it takes much skill and gracefulness to become an expert.' The words were said in a polite, almost toneless voice, but were accompanied with a little curl of the lip that clearly told Cordelia that she would be far too gauche and clumsy ever to achieve such perfection.