Welcome to Paradise

by Jill Tahourdin

  She was glad when they were back at the house again, taking their sundowners on the veranda, facing the sinking sun, with the Barretts and Grandmama—who sat with her weak whisky and water clasped in her little claw of a hand and crowed that this was the nicest hour of the day.

  Sandra came past the house on her gelding. As Richard had said, she looked stunning on a horse. She waved a hand and walked her mount on towards the stables. Bernard jumped up and went after her, “to give her a hand,” he explained to Alix.

  They came back together some time later, talking, laughing. Sandra was aglow. Whether Bernard loved her or not, Alix was sure that she was in love with him.

  She did her best to hide it, to give her her due, when they were all together watching the splendid going down of the sun. She made him sit next to Alix, while she herself curled up on the big settee beside her father, and made a fuss of a big grey cat that had come in and jumped up on her knee. She pretended to be very gay—but Alix guessed that really she was miserable. But not any more than I am myself, she thought sadly.

  After dinner Sandra put some dance music on the radiogram. She said gaily, “Did Bernard tell you I’ve taught him to dance the samba, and the cha-cha-cha?”

  “No! Have you really?” Alix exclaimed in genuine surprise. Bernard had always refused to dance. He had thought it effeminate, moronic. He had sworn he had no sense of rhythm and never would have. He looked acutely embarrassed now.

  “For heaven’s sake, Sandra,” he protested. But some imp of mischief had got into her since she drank her sundowner. She said, “Come on, let’s show Alix what you can do,” and pulled him by the hand to a clear space of polished floor near the radiogram.

  “Cha-cha-cha,” she cried, and started to twiddle her feet, holding him by the hands so that he couldn’t refuse to follow her lead. Soon the pair of them were dancing vigorously. Alix was more surprised than ever. Bernard was really quite good. She would never have believed he could tread so neat a measure.

  “Bravo!” she cried when they had finished, clapping her hands. But when Sandra said imperiously, “Now you, Alix,” she begged to be excused.

  “I’d like to go to my room, if you don’t mind,” she said, looking at Mrs. Barrett. “I’m rather tired after the flight—it was my first, you know. Would you think me rude if I went straight off to bed?”

  “My dear, of course not. Maria will bring your tea in the morning—she’s the one who does your room and will look after your laundry. Bernard will see you to your room—won’t you, dear?”

  “Rather.”

  The grounds around the house were well lighted with electric lamps slung in the trees. In fact the garden looked quite fairy-like by night—though by daylight it was not much more than a rather dusty compound furnished with big shady trees, flowering shrubs, and sparse brown grass. Evidently, between tobacco and horses, no one had much time, here, for growing flowers or tending a lawn.

  Now at last, when they came to Alix’s cottage, Bernard took her in his arms and kissed her. But it was a kiss without passion; his lips just brushed the comer of her mouth.

  “Sleep well, Alix,” he said. “You won’t be nervous, will you? My rondavel is just over there, near enough for me to hear if you call. You mustn’t mind if you hear some weird sorts of noises. We get jackal around now and then, and occasionally a leopard. But you’re quite safe here. The dogs’ll give warning if there’s anything around, and Mr. Barrett or I will be about right away.”

  She lifted her face and kissed him lightly, quickly, on the cheek.

  “Don’t worry about me, Bernard. I shan’t be nervous with you so near,” she said warmly.

  “No—well, I expect you’d like me to leave you now. Get your head down, and you’ll feel all right by tomorrow. Goodnight, dear.”

  “Goodnight,” she said flatly. She would have loved it if he had sat down in the big armchair on her little veranda and pulled her on to his knee as he used to do sometimes at the Priory, and said cosily, “Now that we’re alone, let’s talk about our plans, shall we, darling?”

  But she guessed, now, that that was never going to happen. She hadn’t imagined the evasiveness in his manner. He was being evasive. He didn’t want to talk to her alone. Oh, it was all too ... too ...

  Tears were stinging in her throat and behind her eyes. She said again, quickly, “Goodnight—see you in the morning,” and then turned and almost ran into her bedroom, and closed the door, and stood leaning her back against it while the tears poured unchecked down her face.

  Outside, Bernard stood for a minute staring at the closed door. He felt miserable, an utter heel. But what could he do?

  Finally, with a shrug of his broad shoulders and another guilty look at the door through which Alix had vanished, he turned away and walked slowly, thoughtfully, back to the house.

  There was a telephone extension in Alix’s room. I’s bell tinkled while she was undressing, and she went and lifted the receiver off the hook.

  “A call for you from Salisbury, Alix,” said Mr. Barrett’s voice. There was a series of clicks, then Richard’s voice spoke in her ear.

  “That you, Alix?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  “Gone to bed already?”

  “Not gone quite. Going. I’m rather tired after the journey.”

  “I don’t wonder. How’d you find the Barretts?”

  “They couldn’t be kinder.”

  “And Bernard?”

  He looks awfully well. He seems to like tobacco farming a lot.”

  “Good thing, if that’s how he’s going to spend his life. He seems a nice chap, Alix.”

  “I’m glad you think so, Richard.”

  “Not good enough for you, of course—but then who would be?”

  That made her laugh.

  “Silly,” she said.

  “Not silly. Just—bemused.”

  “If you’re going to talk like that I shall ring off,” Alix said sternly. But he only laughed at her.

  “Your voice sounds odd,” he said. “Have you been crying?”

  “N—not crying. What nonsense you talk, Richard. Why should I cry?”

  “Oh, girls do,” he said airily. “Homesickness—unusual excitement—disappointment—anything sets their waterworks off.”

  “You seem to know a great deal about girls.”

  “I’d like to know a great deal more—about one girl.”

  The conversation was getting a little out of hand. Alix said quickly, “Look, Richard, it’s sweet of you to have rung me. But will you mind if I say goodnight now? I truly am awfully tired.”

  “No, I won’t mind. Provided you’ll promise to come in to Salisbury and have lunch with me tomorrow—you and Bernard and Sandra. Will you invite them for me? And ring me tomorrow morning around nine-thirty to say if it’s on?”

  He gave her a number and she promised to call him. He said softly, “Good. And don’t forget, Alix.”

  “Forget what?”

  “That I love you. Goodnight. And God bless.” There was nothing in that, was there, to set the tears flowing again, like gentle rain, down Alix’s cheeks ...

  CHAPTER NINE

  IT wasn’t, after all, possible to go in to Salisbury to lunch with Richard next day, because Bernard had to go with Mr. Barrett to Marandellas to look at some young calves he was hoping to buy; and Sandra was obsessed, for the moment, with the training of the new gelding for a jumping contest next month.

  So Alix telephoned as she had promised to do, and made their apologies.

  “Hallo, Alix,” Richard said when she got him on the line. “Sleep well?”

  “Very well, thanks.”

  She had, in fact, slept dreamlessly and without stirring, in spite of her earlier distress of mind. Perhaps the little talk with Richard had had something to do with it. She had cried for a little while—not quite sure what she was crying about but finding relief in letting her tears flow—then had taken a hot bath, and fallen asleep a few minutes after
her head was on the pillow.

  “What luck about lunch?”

  She explained why it wasn’t possible, and he replied good-humouredly, “Too bad, isn’t it? But at least I’ve heard your voice. That’s something. You’ve got a charming telephone voice, Alix.”

  She decided not to go into that. She said quickly, “When Sandra’s finished schooling Victor, she’s taking me out riding. On a very tame horse, I hope.”

  “We’ll go out riding together this weekend.”

  “Perhaps”—doubtfully. “I’m a bit of a duffer on a horse, I’m afraid. I should be quite terrified to get up on Victor, for instance.”

  “Mind you don’t. I’ll be seeing you all tomorrow afternoon. Clever, wasn’t I, to wangle an invitation to Punchestown? You know why—don’t you, my sweet?” This was going altogether too far.

  “Do you usually talk to girls that way when they’re engaged?” she asked repressively.

  “Not usually.”

  “Please—don’t do it now, Richard.”

  His voice sounded very cheerful as he replied, “Anything you say.”

  “I mean it, Richard.”

  “I’m sine you do. Look, I’m afraid I’ve got to go now. I’ve a business appointment. You’ll remember, won’t you, Alix?”

  Incautiously she asked, “Remember what?”

  “What I told you last night.”

  “Oh.” She bit her lip.

  “Goodbye,” he said, and rang off.

  Alix hung up the receiver. She felt at once vexed and—yes—a trifle exhilarated.

  That, she reflected, seemed to be the curious effect that these Herrolds had on her. Both father and son...

  She went out, presently, to look for Sandra.

  She found her in a big paddock furnished with several different kinds of jumps. There were single bars and double bars, and a gate, and a fence with a ditch beyond to represent a water jump, and one made of thick brush like a hedge.

  They all looked intimidating to Alix, but Sandra and Victor just took them, as it were, in their stride.

  Sandra sat the gleaming chestnut beautifully, and handled him with easy confidence.

  Alix held her breath as the pair of them soared easily over one jump after another, time after time. When they had finished, and Sandra came cantering up to her, she said generously, “You were marvellous, Sandra. He is a beauty, isn’t he?”

  Sandra patted Victor’s sweat-darkened neck.

  “He jumps well. I think I shall be able to do something with him at the Show. Though he’ll be up against some stiff competition this year, I’m afraid.”

  “Have you won lots of cups, Sandra?”

  “Well—yes, a fair number.”

  She spoke naturally, without mock-modesty or conceit. Alix thought, She’s a girl I could like very much, if only she’d let me.

  But Sandra, though polite and sweet and agreeable, showed no sign at all of wanting really to be friends.

  Alix felt that she had erected an invisible barrier between them, beyond which it was not possible to pass. She felt that Sandra didn’t want to know her better. Was it, perhaps, that she didn’t want her there at all?

  Still, one had to admit that she was playing her part as hostess with skill and charm. She was doing everything that could be expected of her.

  She had loaned Alix a pair of jodhpurs and some boots—which if they hadn’t quite the perfection of fit of her own, were at least comfortable and wearable.

  Out in the stable yard, she had helped Alix to mount staid old Trojan, and had taken great care to see that her stirrups were correctly adjusted and that she was comfortable and ready to start. She had waited patiently while Alix walked him round the paddock, then trotted, then tried a cautious canter.

  Alix was delighted to find she could manage him quite well. He seemed completely docile, and obeyed the signals she had learnt in her few riding-school lessons quite readily. She began to enjoy being up on him.

  When she pulled him up Sandra smiled and said, “Like an armchair, isn’t he? You’ll be all right on old Trojan. We’ll go and get the mare, and then we’ll ride through the wattles. Follow me, will you?”

  So Alix and Trojan fell in behind the chestnut. He seemed a little fidgety, but Sandra soon had him cantering smoothly along the path. Trojan cantered too, very sedately. Alix was enchanted.

  Suddenly, however, Victor swerved sharply to one side. Alix gasped, afraid that Sandra would be thrown. But no. She had recovered quickly and collected him. Now she was waiting for Alix to come up with her.

  “Did you see that?” she asked vexedly.

  “Yes. What happened?”

  “He shied. I told you that’s what his trouble was, didn’t I?”

  “Did something frighten him?”

  “A bit of white paper, a sugar-bag or something, fluttered across the path. I’ve noticed before—he seems to dislike white things. I’ll have to watch it.”

  “It looks awfully dangerous to me,” Alix said. Sandra gave a little shrug.

  “A shy is never very pleasant,” she allowed. “Still, I know what to expect. ’Ware white things. It’s something.”

  At the stables she handed Victor over, and had the boy saddle the mare.

  They made for a big plantation of wattles and enjoyed a splendid canter along one of its straight grassy rides, between the ranks of sweet-smelling flowering trees.

  For a time Alix forgot her troubles. This was heaven. Flushed, breathless and enthusiastic, she was a little chilled when Sandra, on being thanked when they were safely back, said coolly, “I don’t suppose you’ll be quite so pleased tomorrow, when you’ve stiffened up!” Alix determined she was not going to be stiff tomorrow.

  “I’ll go and have a swim in the pool now, if I may,” she said. “That should stop me from getting stiff, shouldn’t it?”

  “All right. I’ll come too.”

  The pool lay blue and inviting under the hot sun.

  Of course, Sandra swam and dived as perfectly as she danced and rode a horse. She was exquisitely tanned too. And she looked a dream in her sleek scarlet swimsuit. When she swam under water she was like some exotic tropical fish, twisting and turning with effortless speed and grace.

  Was there anything she didn’t do well and adorn? Alix wondered, not without a touch of honest envy.

  Yet she didn’t obviously show off. You couldn’t, Alix thought, resent Sandra.

  She was just a girl who was lucky enough, it seemed, to have everything.

  The day passed very pleasantly.

  The men didn’t get back till nearly sundown; but Alix and Sandra played tennis singles in the afternoon, and Alix managed to win one set to Sandra’s three—which was something.

  They had showered and changed into their pretty silk dresses by the time Mr. Barrett and Bernard were ready for their sundowners. All of them sat on the veranda, as usual, to watch the great fiery orb sink down in a sky splendidly banked with those big, sulphurous clouds that pile up in the west at this time of year, and with growlings of thunder and flashings of brilliant lightning promise rain—which, however, doesn’t yet fall.

  The evening was more or less a repetition of the previous one. After dinner there was music on Sandra’s radiogram. Then, instead of dancing, Bernard ran off some coloured stills on a small projector. Stills of Sandra riding, Sandra swimming, Sandra playing tennis. Stills of himself ditto. Stills of the farm, the livestock, and of Mr. and Mrs. Barrett. The usual sort of family pictures that cause those who are featured in them to keep on saying, “Oh, yes, remember this one? It was that day we were...—and make those who aren’t feel rather out of it.

  Alix felt that way—a little out of things. However, she did her best to sound pleased and amused. They were, after all, very attractive pictures—especially the ones of Sandra...

  Later on Bernard again took Alix over to her cottage. He stayed for a little while chatting; and before he left, he again kissed her goodnight.

  Again he h
ad said nothing that he mightn’t have said to any casual acquaintance. Again his kiss was the lightest and least emotional of contacts.

  Alix was beginning to feel desperate.

  Why didn’t he say something to the point?

  Why did he go out of his way to avoid any intimate talk?

  Had he, perhaps, made up his mind that he must leave this to her? That having asked her to marry him, he must go through with it, unless she herself—having had the good sense to see that it wasn’t going to be any good—offered him back his promise and his ring?

  If only I had someone to talk to about it, advise me what to do, Alix thought. If only I had Aunt Drusilla with me—what a comfort she would be...

  Aunt Drusilla had said she could either let Bernard go—or she could put up a fight to keep him. It all depended on how much he meant to her.

  That, of course, was the question. Had she been asked to state now, in words of one syllable, her present feelings for Bernard—apart from a not unnatural exasperation—Alix thought she would hardly know what to say.

  She had loved him very dearly.

  And he was still the same Bernard she had loved—plus that something else that could only be for the better, that maturity she had noticed at their meeting at the airport.

  So there was no reason why he should mean less to her than he had done when they became engaged. No reason, that is, so far as she herself was concerned.

  If there was no longer much rapport between them—and she was sadly afraid there wasn’t—the fault lay in Bernard, not in herself.