by Liz Fielding
George no longer had any desire to explain herself. She was beyond caring what he thought in her need to strike back and hurt him. Cause him as much pain he was inflicting on her.
‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Lukas. No one in his or her right mind would die to save the world from your calendars.’ His grip tightened but she went on recklessly. ‘And what on earth makes you think I’m a virgin? I told you I share a house. Bob Turner is one of the men I share with. But there’s Jeff, too. And Tatty.’ Provoked beyond all reason she added, ‘And Alan.’
‘Is that all?’ he asked, a contemptuous twist to his mouth.
Her violet eyes flashed in the gaslight. ‘Jay. Dear Jay. However could I have forgotten him?’
‘Easy in such a crush.’ The light conversational banter belied the menace in his eyes. George shrank back, suddenly very afraid of what she had done. His fingers bit into her arm as he dragged her close. ‘So one more really won’t make much difference, will it?’
‘Damn you to hell, Lukas!’ George struck out blindly and a lucky blow loosened his grip. She wrenched free and ran blindly out into the darkness. She blundered wildly in the direction of the Land Rover, determined to get away. But the dark shape was an illusion and she rebounded from the tearing claws of a thorn bush, hardly feeling the scratches in her panic.
‘Oh, God! George! Come back. Where the hell are you?’ He was close. Too close. She ran into the darkness, hot tears blinding her to everything but the need to get away from him, the sound of his pursuit only driving her on.
‘Georgette! Don’t be an idiot. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Just stand still, for heaven’s sake, and I’ll find you.’
She barely heard him, only aware of his voice driving her panic, until a startled nightjar flew up from the path directly in front of her, bringing her to a sudden and terrified halt. The blood was pounding in her ears, her throat tight and aching with the need to scream, and the sure and certain knowledge that she could not.
She stood, rooted to the spot. He had told her not to be afraid. The stars were bright, it was only her fear blinding her. Gradually shapes began to make some sense around her. A thorn bush, with its wicked spikes, darkened against the sky. She could see the fever trees by the side of the river. She heard a small animal snuffling away to her left and her skin crawled, but it moved away, sensing her alien presence.
Slowly sanity began to return and she forced herself to turn around. She had to get back to the camp. If she could make it by herself it would be a victory of a sort. She would drive straight to Nairobi and sanity. As she made a single step in the direction of the camp a bat detached itself from the night and skimmed her cheek. Her scream brought an instant echo from Lukas.
‘Stay where you are. I’ll come to you.’ She could hear him crashing through the bush towards her.
‘Lukas!’ she screamed again, raw fear blotting out every other emotion.
‘I’m coming, George. Don’t be frightened, love. I’ll find you.’ He was closer, she turned to face the direction of his voice. Then he swore and there was another sound. A crash of something heavy falling. ‘Lukas?’ George strained to hear. ‘Lukas?’ she ventured again. Nothing.
‘Lukas,’ she pleaded. ‘Please don’t frighten me like this.’ She attempted a step into the blackness, almost expecting him to jump out at her. Then she heard the heart-stopping sound. A low moan of someone in pain.
She called again, but there was nothing and cold fear gripped her, not for herself this time, but for him. She stood for a moment trying to remember the direction in which he had been coming. She had turned to face him when he called. Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, she edged forward, casting about her to left and right as she went.
‘Lukas?’ Her voice was little more than a croak. ‘Where are you?’ She could see more than she had realised, or her vision was clearer now that the panic had retreated in the need to find Lukas and help him.
Even so, she almost missed him. He had rolled into the darker shade of some overhanging tree, and on to his back. Only the pale reflection from his face attracted a second glance. She crawled over to where he lay and examined him with apprehension. There was already a darkening at his temple from the blow he had received from a nearby rock as he fell. She stood up, casting around her for help, and almost put her foot in the same hole that Lukas must have stumbled into. A closer examination showed that his left ankle was swelling rapidly.
‘Oh, my love, what have I done to you?’ She bit her bottom lip. There was no one to help her and she’d have to do the best she could and pray it was enough. A splint. She would need a splint. Without hesitation she removed her shirt and, using the long sleeves, tied it in a figure of eight to hold the feet and ankles together. She had nothing left but her bra and she sacrificed that without a second thought, tying his knees together to complete the job.
She leaned over him and checked the pulse at his throat. It wasn’t as steady as she would have liked and his breathing didn’t sound right. He needed to get to the hospital in Nairobi without delay. His eyelids flickered. He stared up her. ‘George? Are you all right?’ He made a move towards her and groaned. Relief almost undid her.
‘Keep still, Lukas. I think you’ve broken your ankle. Don’t try and move. I have to get back to the camp and find some help.’ She was desperately afraid that if she left him she would not be able to find her way back. But she had to try. She stood up and looked round. The small glow from the gas lamp in their tent was clearly visible. She drew an imaginary line from the tent to the tree and set off as rapidly as she dared. If she fell down a hole there would be no one to help either of them.
She pulled a sweatshirt from her bag to cover herself and tried to think what to do next. She had to get him back to camp. With a sudden inspiration she grabbed the bottom legs of a camp bed and dragged it outside. It would do as a makeshift stretcher. If she had the strength to move him.
‘Memsahib?’ Startled, George looked up into the puzzled face of Kubwa. She hadn’t time to feel relief. Quickly she explained what had happened and Kubwa carried the bed to where Lukas lay, lapsed once more into unconsciousness. The steward held up the lamp and sucked in his breath.
‘Very bad.’
George didn’t need him to tell her that. Despite her warning, he had tried to move. Now in the fierce, hissing gaslight Lukas looked like death, his cheeks hollow, yellow under his tan. She checked his ears in the lamplight. At least they were clear, and in any case he would have to be moved. Between them they managed to carry him to the Land Rover.
Kubwa took his shoulders. ‘You just look after his legs, memsahib. I will lift.’
It was hard. She could see the muscles straining on the man’s neck as he lifted the dead weight of Lukas. They propped the unconscious man on the edge of the vehicle between them while Kubwa regained his breath. Then they manoeuvred him inside.
‘Thank you, Kubwa,’ she said with feeling. Without him she would have had to wait until the others returned from Nairobi, and heaven alone knew when that might be. She packed her patient around with pillows and with a sudden inspiration turned to the steward. ‘Can you drive?’
‘Yes, memsahib.’
‘The keys are in the ignition. Take care over the track. We’ll put on some speed on the road.’
‘I’ll take care, memsahib. You look after the mzee.’
She felt every rut, every bump, every stone as, cradling his head in her lap to protect it from the worst of the battering, they made the torturous ride through the bush. She had soaked a handkerchief in cold water and laid it over his brow.
‘Can’t you go a bit faster?’ George shouted after a while.
The man applied his foot to the accelerator. The jarring to her back increased, but the unconscious man was not aware of it. ‘Lukas!’ she whispered desperately. ‘Come on, my love, wake up. You’ve been unconscious too long.’ She wiped his forehead again, and in a sudden impulse kissed his brow and laid her cheek against his. ‘Just w
ake up and I’ll tell you all about old Bob. And the others.’ She stroked the hair back from his forehead, wincing at the spreading bruise. ‘Can you hear me? I don’t sleep with him. He’s a sixty-two-year-old hippy, Lukas. You were right, about me, I’m the original panting virgin.’ She laid her lips on the still eyelids. ‘And if you don’t come round I could spend the rest of my life in that state. I need you to rescue me.’ She felt the tears running down her cheeks and kissed them away as they splashed on to his face. ‘I wouldn’t care how many photographs you took of half-naked women. I’d finance the wretched calendar myself if it would make you happy. Just as long as I could come along with you and hold your camera. And share your bed.’
She stared down at him, wondering idiotically if they made double camp beds. ‘You’re the only man I want. The only man I’ve ever wanted.’ She laid her ear to his chest. It was difficult to tell in the noise of the Land Rover, but his breathing seemed better. ‘Lukas?’ She stroked his face and after the slightest hesitation kissed his mouth, willing the life back into him.
She wiped the sweat from his face and covered him with a jacket. She hadn’t been able to find a blanket. When she looked again his eyes were open. ‘Where are we?’ he asked.
‘Shh, love. Quiet.’ But relief rang a peal in her ears and tears of thankfulness ran unchecked down her cheeks.
At the hospital Lukas was whisked efficiently away, leaving George and Kubwa to cool their heels in the waiting room with nothing but a cup of machine coffee to help the time pass.
At last, however, a doctor appeared. ‘Your friend will be all right, I think. Concussion, but no fracture, and his ankle is cracked. Did you splint him?’ George nodded. ‘He’s lucky you were there. A drive like that could have caused a real mess.’ He suddenly grinned. ‘You can have your—er—garments back when you visit the ward tomorrow. Mr Lukas insisted on returning them personally. Rarely have I seen a brassière put to such practical use.’ He relented in the face of her anxiety. ‘You can have a peek at him before he goes to the sideward. But be quick.’
Lukas was lying on a trolley, the dressing on his forehead dead white against the sickly yellow of his skin. But he was conscious.
‘How do you feel?’
‘How do I look?’
‘That bad? Better go to sleep.’
‘Don’t go. Give me another kiss.’ George flamed under the amused eyes of the nurse but pressed her lips against his. It was the least she could do.
‘Why don’t you stay with him?’ the nurse suggested.
‘I’ll have to tell people what has happened. The rest of the crew don’t know where we are.’
The nurse found her some paper and she wrote a brief note for Kubwa to take to Walter, then allowed herself to be led to the room where Lukas had been settled into bed. ‘He’s asleep already. But if you want anything in the night just ring.’ There was an upholstered chair in the corner and, after checking that Lukas was indeed asleep, she prepared to settle down for the night. The girl brought her a pillow and a blanket. ‘You’d better have this,’ she said, offering her a glass. ‘You don’t look so good yourself. It’s brandy. Purely medicinal.’
‘Thank you.’ George reached out for it, but found that her fingers were trembling too much to take it. She clutched her arms around her chest and sank back into the chair as she discovered that her legs would not hold her.
‘Easy now.’ The nurse held the glass and she managed a few sips, the first raw heat choking some life into her. After that she managed to grasp the glass and sipped slowly. Gradually the tremors eased.
‘Thank you.’
‘All part of the service. I’ll bring you a cup of tea before I go off duty. Sleep well.’ She turned off the overhead light, leaving only a small nightlight above the bed. George checked him. His head had been patched up and there was a cradle keeping the bedclothes away from his ankle. A long shuddering sigh was wrenched from her as she looked down at the still figure lying there. The white dressing on his forehead was startling against the deeply tanned face. There was a smear of mortar down his neck and she reached out to brush it away, but, suddenly afraid of waking him, she let her hand fall back to her side.
She settled in the chair, but could not sleep. Once he became restless and she was instantly up. He was muttering something and she put her ear to his lips, but whatever he was saying wasn’t in English, or any other language that she knew. Gently she stroked his forehead and murmured soothing, loving words to help him rest. Gradually he quietened and she returned to her chair to try to snatch some sleep.
Dark dreams kept her drifting on the edge of sleep, and she was aware of the nurse checking her patient from time to time. Once she woke trembling and sweating. Eventually she drifted off as the sky began to lighten and minutes later, it seemed, the still fresh face of the nurse was leaning over her with a cup of tea. ‘Drink this, then you can come along and have a wash.’
‘Thanks. I must be filthy.’
Nothing could be done about her clothes. Her jeans were streaked with mortar from her blocklaying, and the sweatshirt was covered in dust where she had crawled about in the bush. But the shower restored her and her hair was clean if damp.
‘Feeling better?’ The nurse nodded without waiting for her answer. ‘Make yourself some toast in the kitchen if you want.’
‘Thanks, but I’d better get back to Lukas.’
‘The doctor’s with him.’ She smiled. ‘He’ll be all right, you know.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite.’
George allowed herself to be led to the kitchenette and the comfort of doing something useful distracted her slightly from her feelings of guilt. She looked up anxiously as the nurse bustled in.
‘Can I …?’
‘Patience. I’m going to wash him. Unless you’d like to?’ she said archly. George shook her head vigorously.
‘He’s awake?’
‘And very cross. Had a bit of a row, did you?’ The girl was amused. ‘I’ll give you a call when he’s settled and you can make it up.
‘I’ve made you some toast.’
‘I’ll have it later.’
George wandered aimlessly about, wishing there was something useful she could do. But one thought dominated everything else—the fact that Lukas was still angry. Well, she could hardly blame him.
* * *
‘George, my dear. Are you all right?’ Walter’s concern told her plainly enough that she looked dreadful.
‘I’m all right. But Lukas …’
‘It’s that bad? Where is he?’
She shook her head. ‘No. No.’ She was reassuring. ‘They’re washing him.’
‘He’ll hate that.’
George looked at him in astonishment and without warning burst into tears.
‘There, there, child.’ He produced a handkerchief and mopped her face. ‘Better tell me what happened.’
She gave him a censored version of events.
‘Lukas clearly won’t be fit enough to finish the job. It’s a pity, with only one picture left. No MotorPart calendar this year.’ Walter sighed. ‘It’s been a chapter of disasters. I think I’m getting too old for all this.’
‘I’ll do it. If it will help.’
She saw hope rise than fade in his eyes. ‘That’s very good of you. But do you think you can?’
‘I’m not a complete novice, Walter. I know I laid it on a bit thick to irritate Lukas … besides, you’ve got nothing to lose. If we pack up and go home now, no calendar. If I can complete the last shot at least I won’t have messed things up completely.’
‘I’ll see what Lukas says,’ Walter hedged finally. ‘Are you coming to see him?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. I’ll wait here.’
George sat quietly, staring out of the window at the colourful flower-stall, but not seeing anything. Hindsight was very clear, she thought. If she had been frank with Lukas right from the beginning there would have been no room for misund
erstandings.
It seemed a long time before Walter returned, and at the question in her eyes he shook his head.
‘He won’t hear of it. We’re to break camp and everyone except me is to leave on the first available flight.’
‘But that’s silly!’ she protested.
‘I agree. You might as well have your moment of glory. As you say, what have we to lose? I’ll pop in and look at Michael, since I’m here. Coming?’ He turned and walked towards the ward. George followed, hiding her anger. He hadn’t understood. She didn’t want glory. She just wanted to put things right.
‘Hello, early birds.’ Michael put down his newspaper and greeted them both cheerily, then he gave George a closer look. ‘You’re looking a bit rough, George. The old man been giving you a hard time?’
George responded with a smile. ‘Rather the reverse. He’s suffering from concussion and a cracked ankle.’
‘He’s here?’
Walter nodded. ‘They’ve got him in a room by himself, but they’ll be moving him up here soon.’
‘Oh, well. It’ll be company.’
‘Of a sort. He’s madder than a wet hen.’
Michael looked at George. ‘I won’t show him yesterday’s paper, then. Have you seen it?’ George shook her head. He handed it over with a chuckle. It was a moment before she saw the item that had amused Michael.
Top photographer Lukas, on location somewhere in Kenya with a bevy of beautiful models for this year’s MotorPart calendar, has a new assistant. Miss Georgette Bainbridge, daughter of millionaire MotorPart chairman Sir Charles Bainbridge, has moved into bachelor Lukas’s two-man tent. Can we assume from this that Georgette—George to her friends—has renounced her long-held radical feminist views? I will keep you informed.
