The Smouldering Flame

by Anne Mather

  After the funeral, there was the formality of reading the will. Martin Lewis, Maxwell Carne’s solicitor, was most concerned when he discovered that Shannon was not present, which was not surprising when it was revealed that Maxwell had left everything in trust to his son, Shannon, with the stipulation that he should take care of his stepmother during her lifetime.

  Joanna was hardly surprised at the revelations. She had known all along of her father’s determination to make Shannon his heir. But if Shannon had suspected this, was that why he had not come back? He did not want Mallowsdale, he had made that very plain, and perhaps he had been afraid that if he came back here, he would become involved against his will. It was a destructive thought, and one which left Joanna feeling utterly shattered. Was there to be no future for them, after all? Was the hope of these last days nothing more than self-deception? She was rapidly becoming convinced that Shannon would not ever do anything to destroy the illusion of parenthood her father had created.

  That evening Andrew Steinbeck came to find her while she was sitting in her father’s study, idly sorting through the papers at his desk. Someone had to do it, and her mother had suggested she might like to see if there was anything she wanted to keep.

  ‘Joanna?’ Andrew came slowly into the room, but she waved him to a chair, saying: ‘It’s all right, I’m just poking around.’

  Andrew closed the door, and then stood looking down at her rather doubtfully. In casual slacks and an open-necked shirt, he was disturbingly like Shannon, and she had to force herself to look away from him and concentrate on what she was doing.

  ‘Joanna.’ He came to stand before the desk. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Joanna pretended not to understand. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, flicking through a sheaf of delivery notes.

  ‘Joanna, you know very well what I mean.’ He leant across the desk and took the delivery notes from her unresisting fingers. ‘What are you going to do about Shannon?’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Someone has to tell him. About the estate.’

  ‘Don’t solicitors do that sort of thing?’

  ‘Joanna!’ For the first time, Andrew sounded impatient with her. ‘Of course the lawyers will handle it. But don’t you think someone should go and see him, tell him how—how Carne died?’

  Joanna shrugged. ‘That’s what funerals are for. If he’d been interested, he would have come.’

  Andrew’s fist balled against the desk. ‘Stop this, Joanna. You’re jumping to conclusions. There may be some reason why Shannon didn’t come to the funeral. Have you thought of that?’

  ‘What reason?’

  ‘How should I know?’ He paused. ‘You have to stop torturing yourself like this, because that’s what you’re doing, aren’t you? Are you so lacking in faith that you can’t even see that there might be circumstances?’

  Joanna’s shoulders sagged. ‘Oh, Andrew! If only I could believe that.’

  ‘Why can’t you? You told me Shannon loves you. Does love that has existed for more than ten years just die? I don’t think so.’

  Joanna’s lips trembled. ‘You’re so good for me.’

  ‘You should be good for yourself. Joanna, why don’t you go to Lushasa? Why don’t you go and see Shannon for yourself?’

  Joanna bit her lip. ‘Do you—do you really think I should?’

  ‘If you still love him.’

  ‘If …’ She shook her head. ‘I—I’m crazy about him.’

  ‘So why hesitate?’

  Joanna moved her shoulders bemusedly. ‘I don’t know. I’m afraid, I suppose. Afraid that Shannon will say this makes no difference.’

  Andrew Steinbeck sounded impatient. ‘If he does, then he’s a fool. A man has only one life, Joanna. He should do with it the best he can. Maxwell Carne is dead. Nothing can alter that. And memories are short, whatever people say. I should know.’

  Joanna looked up at him mistily, her eyes still full of tears unshed. ‘You really think I should go to Kwyana?’ She hesitated. ‘Would you—would you go with me?’

  ‘Me?’ Andrew Steinbeck jerked his thumb against his chest. ‘I—well, are you sure?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please!’

  He frowned. ‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t. If that’s what you really want. But what will Shannon say?’

  Joanna shook her head, pulling open the first drawer of the desk. ‘He’ll probably think he’s seeing double—oh!’ Her fingers had encounted a small key, pushed away in a corner of the drawer. ‘I wonder what this is.’

  She brought the key out, and tried it in the drawers of the desk. But it was too small for their large holes, and besides, it was made of steel and the desk locks were all brass.

  ‘Let me have a look at it.’ Andrew Steinbeck took it out of her hands. ‘It looks like the key to a deed box or something. Did your father have such a thing?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t even remember seeing it there before.’ She bit her lip and got to her feet. ‘I’ll ask Mummy, she might know.’

  Catherine Carne was in the kitchen, talking to Jessie. She frowned when Joanna showed her the key, and then nodded. ‘I don’t know what that is, Joanna. Your father had it on a chain round his neck. I—they gave it to me when they came to attend to your father, along with his ring. I just dropped it into a drawer. I was going to investigate it later.’

  Joanna frowned. ‘It must have been important, if he kept it on his person.’

  ‘Not necessarily, Joanna. Your father was a secretive man—I should know that better than anyone. He liked to have these little mysteries about him.’

  Joanna sighed. ‘All the same …’

  ‘I’m leaving now, Mrs Carne.’

  Henry Barnes broke into their conversation, and on impulse Joanna turned to him, holding out the key. ‘Do you know what this is, Henry?’

  Henry frowned, and then his face cleared. ‘Of course, I do. It’s the key to that diary your father used to keep.’

  ‘A diary?’ Catherine looked astounded. ‘I didn’t know Max kept a diary.’

  ‘I don’t know that he did, Mrs Carne. But he always kept it with him. I didn’t ever catch him writing in it, but he could have done.’

  ‘Then where is it?’ Joanna couldn’t understand the rising surge of apprehension inside her.

  Henry looked doubtful. ‘Well, it was always with him. I should think he’d have had it in his wheelchair—when he died.’

  ‘Did you find it?’ Joanna turned to her mother, but Catherine shook her head.

  ‘No.’

  Joanna sighed. ‘Is—is Daddy’s chair still in the library?’

  ‘You know it is.’ Catherine bit her lower lip. ‘I haven’t been able to bring myself to move it yet.’

  The wheelchair stood in a corner of the library, not in its usual place on the hearth, but still Joanna felt a pang as she approached it. The rug which had always covered her father’s lower limbs was still thrown carelessly into it, and with trembling fingers she moved it aside. And there it was, a leather-bound five-year diary, sealed with a leather flap and locked securely.

  She was aware that her mother had come to stand behind her, and on impulse she handed the key and the diary to her, indicating that she should open it. Catherine was obviously very loath to do so, but curiosity got the better of her, and after a few moments of indecision she inserted the key in the lock.

  The diary opened without difficulty, and looking over her mother’s shoulder, Joanna saw her fingers turn to the first page. But it was empty. And so was the second, and the third. Catherine turned stricken eyes up to her daughter, and Joanna took the book from her, flicking through the pages impatiently. They were all empty, but towards the back there was something inserted between the pages, something that fluttered out as Joanna was flicking through it.

  She bent and picked up the piece of paper. It was fragile after having been folded into such a small space, but the texture was still good. Together they opened it up, and Joanna
found herself staring at Shannon’s birth certificate.

  ‘My God!’ exclaimed Catherine, turning to stare at her daughter. ‘Do you see what I see?’

  Joanna saw. In the space reserved for the name of the child’s father were the words—Andrew Wilson Steinbeck. Attached to the back of the certificate was another document which in effect changed the surname to Carne.

  ‘Do you realise what this means?’ whispered Catherine, in horror. ‘He knew—he knew when Jacqueline had the baby that Shannon was not his child!’

  ‘And he didn’t say anything.’ Joanna felt slightly sick.

  ‘No.’ Catherine pressed her lips together. ‘So long as no one else knew he was prepared to keep it to himself.’

  ‘Until Jacqueline wanted a divorce.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Do you think she knew he knew?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’ Catherine shook her head. ‘Or she wouldn’t have made such a big thing of it later.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘How like your father!’ Her voice was bitter. ‘No one ever was allowed to better him. He must have guessed as soon as the baby was born that it wasn’t the premature child Jacqueline wanted him to believe.’

  Joanna suddenly sank down on to the nearest chair. ‘You realise what else this means, don’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shannon must know of the existence of this.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You need a birth certificate when you apply for a passport, don’t you?’

  ‘Heavens, yes. I didn’t think of that.’ Catherine made a bewildered gesture. ‘And Max kept it so well hidden.’

  ‘Am I intruding?’

  Andrew Steinbeck came into the library, and Catherine gave him a rather absent smile. ‘No, you’re not intruding, Andrew,’ she replied, rather heavily. ‘I—er—we’ve just found Shannon’s birth certificate. I—your name’s on it.’

  ‘What? Let me see that.’

  Andrew almost snatched the certificate out of her hands and stared at it disbelievingly. Then he looked up, and his eyes alighted on Joanna’s pale face.

  ‘Well!’ he muttered, and there was incredulity as well as relief in his voice. ‘That solves all your problems, doesn’t it, Joanna?’

  ‘What problems?’ Catherine frowned.

  Andrew hesitated, then ignoring Joanna’s instinctive appeal, he turned to her mother. ‘Shannon and Joanna are in love,’ he told her quietly. ‘They have been ever since Joanna went out to Kwyana.’

  ‘What?’ Catherine stared at her daughter. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘I—well, yes. I love Shannon,’ replied Joanna quietly, ignoring his father’s exasperated expression. ‘Whether he loves me or not is another matter.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Joanna?’ Andrew was angry. ‘You know he loves you.’

  ‘Do I?’ Joanna looked up at him steadily. Then she indicated the document in his hand. ‘That proves that Shannon and I are not related, as you say. And Shannon must have seen that certificate, when he applied for his passport.’

  Andrew’s lips worked soundlessly for a minute. Then he burst out: ‘Well, what of it?’

  ‘He must know that now Daddy’s dead, it would be a simple matter to prove his identity,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘So?’

  ‘He hasn’t come, has he?’

  Catherine was regarding them both as if they had gone slightly mad. ‘You mean, Joanna—you mean that you and Shannon—want to get married?’

  Joanna got up from her chair, moving restlessly about the room. ‘I—I don’t know. I—I thought we did——’

  ‘Joanna!’ Andrew’s voice was hard and commanding. ‘Stop pretending. You know you love Shannon. You know he loves you. You can’t ignore what’s between you.’

  ‘Well, he has, hasn’t he?’ she cried piteously.

  ‘You don’t know that. Go to Kwyana and find out.’

  ‘I—I can’t.’ She shook her head. ‘Not now.’

  ‘You must,’ said Andrew with conviction. ‘There’s no other way.’

  Joanna had wanted Andrew to come with her to Kwyana, but he had insisted on remaining at the hotel in Menawi.

  ‘You must do this alone, Joanna,’ he had told her firmly, and having come so far, she had no choice but to go on.

  The halt at Kwyana was just as busy as on that other occasion when she had arrived here to see Shannon, and the heat was just as intense, overlaid with a humidity that was weakening in the early afternoon. Joanna had come up again in the train, not giving in to Andrew’s suggestion to hire a car, mainly because her previous experience of car-riding in this country had not been memorable in any good sense of the word.

  She was not really surprised to find the man Lorenz employed at his usual chore of loading and off-loading his lorry, but he was obviously surprised to see her.

  ‘Well, well,’ he exclaimed, when she had run the gamut of the crush on the concrete platform to reach him. ‘It is Miss Carne, is it not? So Camilla decided to send for you, after all. She swore she would not do it, but she is sometimes foolish where your brother is concerned. Unfortunately, he does not seem to share her weakness.’

  Joanna had listened to this confusedly, and now she exclaimed: ‘What do you mean—send for me?’

  Lorenz’s eyes widened. ‘You don’t know!’ he exclaimed, and then after assuring himself that she did not, he burst out laughing. ‘Oh, but that is amusing!’

  ‘What is amusing? Mr Lorenz, please—what are you talking about? Why should—why should Nurse Langley need to send for me? Is—is Shannon ill again?’

  Lorenz sobered. ‘You really don’t know? No, I see you do not. Then I will tell you. Your brother had an accident, Miss Carne. Ten—eleven days ago. There was an explosion in the mine. Fourteen men were killed. Your brother was injured trying to get them out.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Joanna felt sick. ‘So where is he?’

  ‘Where would he be but in the hospital at Kwyana? There are doctors there, good doctors. He is in good hands.’

  ‘But how is he? How ill is he? What happened?’

  Lorenz turned away to chivvy the African porters, and she had to contain her impatience until he was prepared to speak to her again.

  ‘You want a ride to the mine?’ he asked, turning back to her. ‘Get in the lorry. I am nearly ready.’

  ‘But Shannon … How is he?’ Joanna was desperate. ‘Please—you must tell me. I must know.’

  ‘Such concern for a brother!’ Lorenz shook his head. ‘Camilla does not show such concern for me.’

  ‘Camilla is your sister?’ Joanna stared at him. It explained so much, not least his attitude on her first journey to the mine.

  ‘Yes, Camilla is my sister,’ he agreed casually. ‘You did not know?’

  Joanna shook her head, and he nodded.

  ‘We are not so alike. She is intelligent, I am not. She is ambitious, I am lazy. She does not like you, Miss Carne.’

  Joanna was almost in tears. ‘Shannon,’ she begged. ‘How is Shannon?’

  ‘He is not dying. He was lucky—he only got his ribs crushed and concussion. I think a rib punctured his lung, and this has caused some congestion, but he is recovering. He has been calling for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is true.’ Lorenz nodded his head. ‘Doctors say—who is this Joanna? Camilla—she say, I don’t know.’

  Joanna chewed hard on her lower lip. ‘And it happened eleven days ago?’

  ‘Ten, eleven days. I’m not sure.’

  Joanna nodded. Andrew had been so right to make her come here. Ten days ago, her father had had his fatal attack.

  She had been impatient on that last occasion to reach the mine, but nothing like as impatient as she was now. Rather than sit in the cab and wait for Lorenz, she wandered restlessly around outside until the heat and the flies and the smell of sweating bodies forced her to climb into the lorry.

  The journey to the mine seemed endless. Her nerves were strung to fever pitch
, and her heart was pounding like a drum. She wondered if Lorenz could hear it, but he just chewed away on an old cigar, humming tunelessly to himself as they negotiated the potholes in the road.

  ‘You want to go to the hospital?’ he inquired, when they finally began to descend down into the valley.

  ‘Where else?’ asked Joanna tautly, and he nodded.

  ‘Camilla will not be pleased to see you, Miss Carne.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Lorenz sighed. ‘She knows, you know.’

  ‘Knows? Knows what?’

  ‘That Shannon Carne is not your brother, Miss Carne,’ he answered laconically.

  ‘What?’ Joanna stared at him. ‘But—but how?’

  Lorenz shrugged. ‘Your brother—ah, I’m sorry, but I still think of him that way—he was very bitter when he came to South Africa. He used to drink, too—quite a lot at first. When a man is—how do you say?—emotionally disturbed, he needs something. And he used to talk. Shannon Carne talked, Miss Carne. To my sister.’

  Joanna nodded slowly. ‘I see.’ So that was why Camilla had not wanted her here. All the pieces in the jigsaw were steadily falling into place.

  The hospital at Kwyana was clinically clean and very up-to-date, with all the latest technical equipment. It was stark and modern, and after Lorenz’s truck, ascetically sanitary. A black nurse was seated behind the reception desk, and her surprise at seeing a strange white woman was ludicrous.

  ‘You want something?’ she asked, standing up, and Joanna nodded.

  ‘I’m Joanna Carne,’ she said, waiting for the words to sink in. ‘I’d like to see—my brother.’

  The nurse’s dark eyes widened. ‘You’re—Joanna!’ she exclaimed, and Joanna nodded. The nurse looked delighted, and a little of Joanna’s apprehension left her. ‘Mr Carne’s been asking for you.’

  Joanna drew a trembling breath. ‘Can I see him?’

  The nurse picked up a telephone. ‘Just a minute, Miss Carne. I’ll just check with Doctor Muhli, but I’m sure it will be all right.’

  Joanna stiffened. ‘Oh, please,’ she began, before the nurse could dial a number. ‘I’ve come all the way from England. Couldn’t I—couldn’t you just tell me which room is—is his? I’d—I’d like to surprise him.’