A moment later she was in his arms, enveloped in the well-remembered bear-like hug. He was kissing her, and she was sniffing the familiar odour of the shaving lotion he had always used. She said breathlessly, “Bernard! How are you? How lovely to see you again.”
He held her off and looked at her. His kisses, she noticed, had been on her cheeks, not on her lips.
“You naughty girl, giving me so little notice of your arrival,” he said, mock-severe. “It was just luck that Sandra went in to the Post Office and cleared the box yesterday. They don’t deliver telegrams in these wild parts—didn’t you know?”
She saw that he had filled out, looked older, more mature. Just as she had expected he might. She said gaily, “No, I didn’t know. But since you got my cable, it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s all right, isn’t it?—that I came?”
“Of course. Bit of a surprise, though. I hadn’t expected you quite so soon.”
“But you don’t mind?”
Was there a touch of impatience in his voice as he replied?
“No, I don’t mind.”
“Where am I to stay, Bernard?” She was nervous still. She didn’t feel at home with him yet. Nor, she could see, did he with her. Perhaps it was natural after their long parting.
“Stay? Why, with the Barretts, of course. They’re looking forward to having you. Where, in heaven’s name, did you think?”
“I—didn’t know.”
She could see Richard striding across the reception hall, making for the door. Wasn’t he coming to meet Bernard, as he had promised? Richard, wait, her heart cried. But he had already gone outside.
Bernard was saying, “I’d better see about your luggage. We’ve got the car outside. It’s a station wagon, so there’ll be tons of room for your stuff.”
We? she was wondering; while aloud she said, with her delicious chuckling laugh, “I’ve got only two air-cases. You won’t need tons of room for my luggage, darling.”
It had come out with difficulty, that darling. What’s the matter with me? she wondered impatiently. Why do I feel so miserably shy with him? Why is he so shy with me?
He took her by the arm as they left the building. That’s better, she thought, and smiled up at him.
“Is it far to the Barretts’ farm?” she asked.
“Sixteen miles. Look, there’s the car.”
The station wagon was a big fawn-coloured one. There was a girl at the wheel. And standing talking to her was Richard. Of course, he had known Sandra well; been “rather smitten” once.
Bernard said, “Come and meet Sandra, Alix.”
He had dropped her arm in order to lay his hand on the edge of the lowered window beside Sandra.
“Sandra, this is Alix,” he said.
Sandra put out a slim brown hand.
“Hallo, Alix,” she said. Her voice was clear and rather high. It was sweet, polite, but not truly cordial.
Alix said warmly, as warmly as she could manage, “Hallo, Sandra. It’s very kind of you to have me to stay.”
“We’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” Sandra said. When she smiled, she showed teeth as white and small and even as a starlet’s. She was utterly beautiful in the way Richard had described—flashing-eyed, dark. Her hair was almost black and fitted her small head as sleekly as a cap. Her eyes were brilliant and of a strange very light grey, almost silver, between black lashes extravagantly luxuriant.
The eyes were studying Alix, whenever Alix was not looking her way, with a nervous intensity. A few minutes before, when she had seen Richard and discovered that he had travelled in the plane with Bernard’s fiancée, she had asked him with a casualness that didn’t deceive him, “What is she like, Richard?”
He had answered, “You’ll see for yourself in a minute.”
Well, she was seeing now. This rather small girl, with good skin and hair and eyes, and a pleasing figure, but not even really pretty, a serious rival? she was thinking. Oh no.
Remembering her manners, she introduced Richard and Bernard. She said, “Richard and Alix are old friends. They met in Paradise, it seems, and flew up together today.”
The two men shook hands. Bernard, Richard noted, was looking at him with more than ordinary interest. Taking my measure, Richard thought; just as I’m taking his.
Richard saw nothing in Bernard to dislike; much to like on sight. His face was frank and open, good-tempered-looking; his manners were pleasant.
But he was a trifle jittery, Richard sensed. Natural, perhaps, on such an occasion. Yet—was it? Was he under some sort of strain? Or was that just wishful thinking on his own part? Richard couldn’t be sure.
They were chatting easily now, the four of them. Questions about the flight; about future plans.
“What are you doing here, Richard?” Sandra wanted to know.
“Business. Doing a recce preparatory to coming up later on my new job.”
“You’re going to be here for good later? Oh, Richard, what fun. Look, how long have you this visit?”
“It depends.”
“Where are you staying?”
“With my stand-in for the moment.”
Sandra said eagerly, “Couldn’t you come to us for just a few days? Do, please, Richard. Daddy would love to see you again. It’s been ages. And we’d be a foursome for tennis and riding. You do play tennis and ride, I suppose, Alix?”
Alix laughed.
“Tennis, of course. But I’m afraid I never got much beyond the leading-rein stage on a horse.”
Sandra looked incredulous.
“Oh well, you can ride Trojan. He’s a staid old thing,” she said dismissingly. She turned again to Richard.
“You will come?” Alix, waiting for him to reply, found that she was actually holding her breath. She saw him grin.
“You bet I’ll come, thanks very much. Not right away, though. Duty first, if you’ll forgive me for being noble. But by Saturday I should be through. Will that suit you?”
Sandra clapped her slim hands.
“Oh, goody,” she cried. “Come on Saturday morning for a long week-end—or for as long as you like. That’ll be marvellous, won’t it, Bernard?”
Bernard agreed that it would. He was busy stowing Alix’s cases, and then Alix, into the car. Richard said, Au revoir till Saturday, then.”
As he looked at Alix—whom Bernard had placed in the rear seat, leaving the vacant place in front for himself, next to Sandra at the wheel—his left eyelid drooped gently in an unmistakable, reprehensible wink.
She gave him her severe look; but laughter bubbled inside her—the laughter Richard could always evoke. She had been feeling terrible—now, suddenly, everything came into proportion and was all right. Or at least, no longer terrible...
Blessed Richard, she thought. She was glad, glad, glad that he too would be staying with the Barretts. He would be an ally, if she needed one. If she needed one—though why should she?
Now he had gone, and they were moving off, leaving the airport. Alix looked out at the country which—she hoped—was to be her home, and saw to her disappointment that it had none of the beauty that she had left behind her at the Cape. It was flat and rather ugly—the ugliness relieved by coppices of trees, in new spring leaf of, surprisingly, the richest autumn colours. When she exclaimed about them Sandra said indifferently, “They’re masasa trees. They turn green, and very ugly, later on.”
There was a good deal of rock about, in the shape of giant boulders scattered haphazard about the land. As if some giant cruising in outer space had shaken a pepperpot over it.
There were more trees now—gums, planted in great thick wind-breaks.
“This is our boundary,” Bernard said. “All this, now, is Mr. Barrett’s land. Punchestown, it’s called—because that rock you see over there, on your right, is shaped like the head of Mr. Punch.”
They had turned off the main road now on to an earth road provided with two parallel strips of tar just wide enough apart to take the wheels of a car.
“A Rhodesian specialty—a strip road,” Bernard said. “Not many of them left now. Useful in the rains.” There was no sign of rain now. The day was hot, the grass was brownish and dusty, and a dam they passed was not very far from dry. There would be no rain till late October, Alix knew. She knew about Rhodesia in theory—she had read everything about it that she could lay her hands on. When I start up my plant nurseries, she thought now, I’ll need to irrigate...
They crossed a river by way of a concrete drift, climbed a steepish rise, and ran through a plantation of wattles in bloom, the golden puff balls sweetly scenting the air.
“There’s the house,” Sandra said, and slowed down as she spoke. She had driven fast and well. She blew a long blast on her horn.
The drive up to the house was bordered with jacaranda trees, already in bloom, and breathtakingly beautiful. The car passed over an azure carpet of fallen blossom.
The house looked very large. With its thatched rondavels and guest cottages around it, it had the look of a small village. The walls of the main building, which was long and thatched, with a veranda at least twelve feet wide all round it, were of stone.
On this veranda were gathered a man and a woman, standing, and an older woman, white-haired, in a wheelchair. Sandra brought the car to a halt and switched off, and Bernard jumped down to give first her, and then Alix, a hand.
Alix felt too hot in her jersey suit. Sandra was wearing cotton jodhpurs and a thin cotton-knit riding shirt. She said, “Come and meet Mummy and Daddy and Granny.”
Mr. Barrett was big, lean and leathery, with a bald head and a spoon jaw. His expression was kindly for Alix, adoring for his daughter. His wife had the same black hair as Sandra, with just a light sprinkling of grey, and the same eyes; it was clear where Sandra had got her looks. Her manner had a reserve—Alix felt a little chilled. It was the grandmama who gave her the warmest welcome. She was small and twinkling-eyed and looked as if she were a character.
“So you’re Bernard’s girl, are you?” she crowed. The bright beady eyes studied Alix’s face penetratingly. She added, “Well, young man, I hope you realise how fortunate you are?”
Before Bernard could reply Sandra said quickly, “May we have tea right away, Mummy, and then I’ll show Alix her room? I have to exercise Victor again, you know, for an hour or so.”
So I’ll have a chance to talk to Bernard alone, Alix thought.
Up to now, everything about their meeting had seemed somehow unreal. Nothing about it that you could grasp, hold on to...
The talk during tea was of her journey, her impressions of the Cape and Johannesburg.
“We must show Alix our big city one day soon,” Sandra said.
“Yes, we’ll go in and make a day of it,” Mr. Barrett promised. “Lunch at the Club. Shopping—girls always seem to have shopping to do, I don’t suppose Alix is an exception to the rule. A drive round the environs. Maybe a film, if there’s anything good on.”
“It sounds lovely,” Alix said.
“Let’s wait till Richard comes to stay,” Sandra suggested.
Bernard said quickly, “Yes, good idea. Don’t you think so, sir?”
After tea, Sandra took Alix to one of the guest cottages. It was a big thatched rondavel with a veranda. It contained a bed-sitting-room and bathroom.
“It’s all yours,” Sandra said. “You don’t need to be nervous. We keep ridgebacks as watchdogs—they wouldn’t let anyone get near at night.”
“I won’t be nervous,” Alix promised, remembering Nelson, and the ridge that was like a neat tan zipper along his sturdy back. He was a splendid watchdog too, her aunt’s “guardian angel.” The thought of him brought back oddly nostalgic memories of Paradise...
Sandra excused herself after a minute or two.
“It’s this new mount of mine,” she said. “He was a birthday present from Daddy, but at present he’s rather a handful. Did you bring riding kit, Alix?”
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t. I’ve got slacks, of course.”
“Oh well, we must see if I can’t fix you up. You’ll soon be able to manage Trojan. He’s got no vices at all.”
“Has the new one?”
“One bad one. He shies. I’m trying to get him out of it. I must fly now. I’ll tell Bernard to come along, shall I?”
“Please do.”
Slipping out of the too-warm jersey suit, Alix changed quickly into a cool cotton, a honey-yellow that flattered her eyes and skin. She strolled out on to her veranda, looked out over the flat country which was varied here not only by scattered rock, but by one or two lone hills—kopjes, she supposed they must be—with rocky crests and thickly bushed sides. Not beautiful at all, she thought; weird, rather. The vast rock from which Punchestown took its name was positively grotesque. She hoped they would be able to find more attractive country when they got around to leasing a farm.
Bernard was coming for her now. He looked wonderfully fit. His walk had a spring in it, as if he were full of life and vigour.
He said, “Like to come for a walk, Alix? I have to go down to the tobacco barns. It’s not very far.”
Alix said, smiling brightly to hide her disappointment that he didn’t seem to want to kiss her, “I’d love it, Bernard. How well you look, darling.”
He shrugged.
“Suppose the life suits me. You’re looking well yourself.”
“I’m terribly glad to be here.”
He said, “Ready? Let’s go, then.”
This is terrible, Alix thought, as they walked in single file along a path which he said was a short cut they used when riding. So stiff. So Uneasy...
All the fears she had had when she first read Bernard’s letter returned to her. He had changed. How he had changed! She had been wrong, foolish to come here. He didn’t want her. He was embarrassed by her arrival. She had made a big mistake.
To cover her sense of disaster she talked vivaciously of anything that came into her head. Did he like the country? Did he find the heat trying? How odd all those scattered rocks were. Was that a kopje over there?—she had always wondered just what a kopje looked like. This one suggested lions to her. Might there be a lion’s den in among that bush and rock?
She could see that Bernard was doing his best. Once or twice she even had him laughing; once he said, “Really, Alix! What a little comic you are,” and took her arm and squeezed it against his side.
But there was nothing lover-like about him. Surely he couldn’t still be shy, with not a soul in sight except a native or two, wandering off towards the labour lines, and Sandra, cantering her gelding along a slight ridge a quarter of a mile away on their left?
After a time she said tentatively, “It was a pity about that farm, wasn’t it? I’d thought it was going to be just what you wanted. What went wrong, Bernard?” She saw his colour darken a little. He slashed at the dry heads of some weeds and said evasively, “Oh, that—lots of things, actually.”
“Such as what?”
He slashed again with his stick, impatiently.
“Oh lord, technical details that wouldn’t mean anything to you if I told you. And we had a big row over the tobacco barns. He’d made certain promises about repairs to them—verbal promises, I mean—and then when it came to a written agreement he’d simply left them out. I wasn’t going to stand for that—couldn’t afford to, anyway.”
“You must have been very upset.”
He didn’t say whether he had been or not.
“As a matter of fact I’d been feeling rather bad about leaving Punchestown anyway. Felt I’d be letting Mr. Barrett down.”
“Oh—why?”
“He’d got it all fixed for a new pupil to take my place. But the chap changed his mind at the last minute. And when his assistant manager was taken ill and had to be flown to England. So in a way it was a godsend that I hadn’t got myself tied up with this new farm.”
“Yes, I see,” Alix said.
But try as she would, she couldn’t say it
with real warmth. She couldn’t help realising that he hadn’t looked at the situation from her point of view at all. He hadn’t thought that he might be letting her down. He had merely seen it as a godsend that the arrangements for their farm—and by natural corollary, their marriage—had fallen through.
Her heart sank down, down. She didn’t need to ask him whether he no longer loved her. It was only too plain. Whether he loved Sandra she couldn’t yet say. Certainly she couldn’t ask him. She could only hang on for a few days, hoping for some sign that would show her the truth—and then clear out on some excuse or other. Go back to Paradise, to Aunt Drusilla who would never, she was confidently sure, say “I told you so” ...
They had reached the tobacco lands now. They were irrigated, so the young plants were already being set out. He showed her the drying sheds, the sorting and packing barns, and gave her a neat little lecture on the whole process of growing and curing tobacco.
And Alix did her best to seem bright and interested; but her heart was sick. Bernard was indifferent to her—so indifferent that he couldn’t even pretend. Or was it that his heart belonged so wholly, now, to someone else that he couldn’t bring himself to pretend?
Welcome to Paradise Page 9
