“But it is. I need you near because there are some things about the farm that you know better than I. If you take on this thing he’s offered you’ll be living at his expense and I’ll be able to economize. Don’t you see how it will be?”
She was warmed, enthusiastic. But she spoke slowly. “It wouldn’t be so bad if we could plan on the quiet—have something big to look forward to. But you’re bound to find him heavy going, Paul.”
“Who cares?” Paul was lighthearted now. “You can help me in a hundred ways, and Forrest doesn’t have to know. You’ve always acted as my memory—a darned good one, too—and heaven knows I shall be needing one! We’ll still go down to the club together, and visit our friends. Why should we care about David Forrest?”
Why, indeed? Susan preceded him in to the hall, automatically lowered her tones. “I’ve a feeling it’s going to be a sticky situation.” She turned and put a hand on his brown forearm. “Paul, if I do take this thing on I shall want a promise from you—that you’ll save at least half your salary each month towards some land of your own.”
“Done,” he said blithely. “It’s not going to be so grim, after all. You’ll see!”
His newly-awakened conscience sent him out very soon. Susan reminded him that the cattle kraal fence might need repairs and that the tractor might not be so clean as the “boss” would like it, so he tardily began a full afternoon’s work.
Susan had some coffee and a sandwich and enjoyed neither. She didn’t think she would ever eat another Willowfield meal with relish. She tried dispassionately to see herself in David Forrest’s place, to know how it would feel to come home to a house one had known all one’s life and find strangers too comfortably established there. Pretty awful, perhaps, but it had been upon his instructions that they had occupied the house. He had thought the rooms needed to be lived in, that an airing every few days by Amos was not sufficient to keep the place sweet and dry. There was nothing breakable about—no photographs, no china except a cheap supply they had bought for themselves, no costly linen and silver. All the prized stuff had been packed away long ago, and was stored in a damp-proofed outhouse.
The family treasures would come out now, she thought; the inlaid cabinet with glass doors would be filled, pictures would hang on the walls, fine cutlery and silver grace the dining-table. Thinking about it, Susan felt a shade forlorn; transformed, the house would definitely have passed out of her keeping.
Paul came in at about six and, contrary to his custom, he changed at once into slacks and a silk shirt and tie. He waited a few minutes before having his drink, then looked at his watch. Susan was keyed up, too, but in her way she was no more nervous than Paul. She was simply anxious to get the first evening done with. She heard Amos setting the table in the dining-room, and willed herself to stay where she was. The fact that the servant had not come to her this afternoon was proof that Mr. Forrest had already given his orders. Susan hoped the fire would refuse to bum in the stove, that the sweet wouldn’t jell; and then contritely she reversed her hopes because she was quite fond of Amos even if his allegiance had been too swiftly diverted to former channels.
She listened intently for the sound of the car, suggested that Paul had drunk enough for an appetizer, and gulped down her own lime juice and soda.
Then Amos tapped on the door and came in. “Dinner is ready, missus,” he said.
“Aren’t we waiting for Mr. Forrest?”
“Big Master say not come to dinner. He stay at Maringa with Colonel Wardon.”
Susan looked at her brother. Paul grinned suddenly. “Let’s go down to the club after dinner, Sue. Nothing like a celebration when you’ve nothing to celebrate!”
So the evening passed much more normally than Susan had anticipated. She danced at the club, steered Paul away from the poker table and had to answer many questions about David Forrest. Knowing that gossip circulated even more quickly round these widely-spaced farms than it did in a village, Susan made her replies non-committal.
She and Paul arrived home very late. Lights were on in the porch and in the big bedroom, but they went through the hall unmolested. Susan said a hasty goodnight to her brother and went to her room.
Susan always got up early. She loved the flamingo pink of the newly risen sun on the scarves of disappearing cloud, the pellucid light over the mountains, the shrill busyness of the birds before heat slowed them down. And though her awakening this morning had been less pleasant than usual, she had to admit that the sky was no less beautiful, the scents undiminished.
She dressed, used the touch of light red lipstick which was her usual daytime make-up, tidied the room and latched the windows even wider. She went through the corridor and the hall to the front verandah, said good morning to Amos, who was preparing the breakfast table, and went down to the lawn. A light dew sparkled on the grass, hung in sprays of multi-colored gems on the leaf-tips. Susan flicked a long red-winged fly from her trouser leg, opened wider the collar of her check shirt and sauntered round the house.
She was on a path which led to the big double garage and on up to the stables. She had never become much of a horse-woman, but had often found it pleasant to jog along the lanes between the cultivated lands before breakfast. Perhaps this morning, though...
She slowed precipitately, almost stopped. David Forrest had appeared from the direction of the stables looking as if he had already had his ride, in dusty red-brown riding boots, narrow-hipped breeches, a thick white silk shirt which lay open at the neck to reveal a throat that looked browner than it really was because it was so strongly muscled. In some men, Susan reflected, that look of extraordinary strength might be fascinating; in David Forrest it was too much.
“Good morning,” he said as he reached her. “The air is good, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “This is your first morning back at Willowfield. I expect the air is extra good to you.”
She moved aside, so that if he wished to pass on he could; but he stood there, looking at the peach and apricot trees, the flowering loquats. She had never considered herself tall, but David Forrest’s height and breadth of shoulder made her feel insignificant; annoying to think that the top of her head wouldn’t quite reach his chin.
“On grey mornings in England,” he said, “I used to picture this, but until the last six months I could never see myself coming back to settle.” He gave her that tantalizing cool smile of his. “I still don’t know how I shall get along without the occasional roar of a jet plane overhead.”
“You were at an experimental depot, weren’t you?”
“That’s right—planning and testing. Nothing that you’d understand, I’m afraid.”
“One can’t know everything,” she said pleasantly. “Do you think you’ll take to farming?”
“Forrests are always farmers—whatever else they may dabble in.” He inclined his head towards the house. “I was born here, grew up here. The war took me to England, and a mild interest in jets became an absorbing profession. I came back for a few months every couple of years, until five years ago, when I was given a contract over there with the experimental station.” He stared at the trees, reminiscently. “I hated the idea of selling up Willowfield, yet I often had the feeling I wouldn’t come back. Things were more or less in the balance when I met your brother, because I’d heard from Colonel Warden that he was feeling his years and couldn’t keep on the management of the place.”
“What did make you come back?” she asked curiously.
His look at her was veiled, enigmatic. “A certain plan we were working on came to an end and I was due for three months’ leave. I was asked to sign on for a further two years, but I felt the pull of Willowfield and I wasn’t sure that a brief holiday here would suffice. I’d never before been away from the place for so long.”
“And there was Mrs. Maynton,” she reminded him evenly.
“Yes, there was Deline.” His mouth twisted, mockingly. “Don’t assume too much, will you? Your brain doesn’t have to work overtime on my accou
nt. Am I right in taking it that you’re willing to stay here, on my terms?”
“I can try it,” she said lightly, as if it had become of no consequence. “If it doesn’t work out I’ll move in with my brother. Have you decided on his quarters?”
“Yes. I rode round by the old foreman’s cottage this morning, and I think it should suit him well, when it’s cleaned up and some of the furniture has been replaced. I’ll give you the key and you can look it over.”
“Thanks. He’ll be very grateful.”
“And you?” he said. “Are you still resenting the fact that I’ve come to live in my own house?”
“I don’t resent it,” she said a little stiffly. “Your coming was a bit of a blow because Paul and I were so happy, but all I really resented was your manner yesterday. You gave the impression of expecting to find that we’d neglected Willowfield. Then you got mad over a bit of dust on my clothes, and thought I ought to grovel with gratitude because you’d offered me the opportunity of befriending a woman who may dislike me on sight! Remember that we’d only read your beastly letter at about eleven in the morning, and here you were at lunch-time looking down your arrogant nose at the work Paul had been doing for you, and treating me like a ... like a...”
“Like a what?” he asked calmly.
“Like a doormat! I don’t take to that sort of thing.”
“My dear young woman,” he said, unperturbed, “you’re far too volatile for this climate, and your imagination is over-developed. I don’t care for too much independence in women, either; it makes them exaggerate their small defeats at the hands of the male. There’s Amos waving like mad. Shall we go to breakfast?”
It was a slightly easier meal than she had anticipated. Paul was there, and the fact that they were outdoors precluded the necessity for non-stop conversation. As soon as they had eaten the two men wandered off together, and Susan was left wondering what she would do with this unaccustomed leisure. In the pocket of her slacks she felt the key to the foreman’s cottage which David had given her before going off with Paul, and she decided to go up and have a look at the place right away.
The cottage was a hundred yards or so from the house, but it was screened off by a high wall of frangipani. This last, just coming into bloom, had a heavenly scent, and Susan couldn’t resist, as she passed under the archway which was cut through it, reaching for a bud and pressing its softness to her cheek. A pity the garden was in such a mess on the other side of the hedge, but neither she nor Paul had thought it necessary to keep still another garden going, where it was never seen. Even the path was invisible under elephant grass, and weeds both dead and alive cluttered the verandah and threaded tendrils among the climbers which rioted like wild things right across the verandah ceiling and down against the windows.
The house smelled of dried mildew, but thanks to Amos there was very little dust about. It was a simple square dwelling comprising a living-room, two bedrooms, kitchen and bathroom, and all had been simply furnished many years ago. The last foreman to occupy the place had apparently possessed unruly children, for the table and chairs were badly scarred, bed covers were ripped, walls pencilled and tiles kicked in the bathroom and kitchen. But the repairs would not be costly, and very little of the furniture would have to be completely replaced.
She opened the windows, lodged the house door open with a large stone and came out to get the view from the verandah. So long as he wasn’t alone too much, Paul would like this place. Come to think of it, she would have to see that he wasn’t too much alone, because Paul had never learned how to enjoy his own company, and his remedy for loneliness and almost any malaise was a visit to the club, which could prove expensive. And she did want him to have a place of his own; she wanted it very much.
It was half-past five before the men came back to the house that day, and nearly six o’clock before, both of them clean and shaved—David having managed an immaculateness to which Paul could never have aspired—they came to the living-room for drinks. Susan had changed into a sleeveless green frock, crisp as lettuce, and she saw the grey glance slide over her, sardonically. Any joy he ever got out of women, she thought, came from mocking at them.
In the dining-room he saw her seated and took his own chair, poured water for her and dropped a cube of ice into it. His actions were automatic, the polite attentions of a near-stranger, but Susan was beginning to feel that this had happened to her many times. The soup was good, made and seasoned in the way she had taught Amos and Sam, and she wondered whether David realized that it was an improvement on the stuff his servant used to concoct. The same could be said of the braised chicken which followed. He ate as if he enjoyed it, but perhaps after a day in the open air he was too hungry to discriminate. He’d probably let fly soon enough if the food were poor.
When the dish of fruit appeared there was a lull in the conversation between the two men. Susan took a peach and picked up her fruit knife. Peeling off the petals of skin, she said,
“I went over to the cottage, Mr. Forrest. I’m sure Paul will like it.”
“Good,” he said, dealing with an apple. “Seeing that you’re in charge of his domestic arrangements, you might order the curtains and other things that may be necessary. We’ll throw out anything upholstered, because there’s nothing like kapok and horsehair for retaining damp smells.”
“I’ll be glad to do the repairs and paint the place,” she said.
David looked up from paring his apple. “I couldn’t let you do that. I’ll put a couple of boys on it.”
“But I’d like to do it. You’d be surprised what I can accomplish with some sandpaper and a can of paint.”
“I don’t think I’d be surprised at anything you might have turned your hand to in your brief life,” he said drily. “The cottage won’t be prepared merely for Paul. If he moves on, someone else will fill his place.”
“Of course,” she said smoothly, as she wiped her fingers. “No one is indispensable in this world.”
He smiled, still giving attention to the apple. “You’re engagingly candid,” he said. “As you grow older you may find it something of a drawback. Another thing I should curb, if I were you, is the tendency to regard yourself as physically all-powerful. There’s too little of you for it to be convincing.”
Paul laughed. “She’s tough,” he said. “She’s not one of the boyish haircut type who yell at the sight of a mouse.”
David glanced briefly at the bright curly hair, at the small pointed face that was smooth as a rose in the soft light. “So you’re not afraid of mice?” he said.
“Not mice. But I don’t like some of the big Rhodesian spiders,” she admitted. “They petrify me.”
“It’s as well you’re afraid of something,” he commented. “A little healthy fear helps one to keep a sense of proportion.”
“Is your sense of proportion hereditary?” she queried sweetly.
“Could be,” he answered, lifting a cynical eyebrow. “On the other hand, I’m not a girl of twenty, and never have been.”
Fleetingly, Susan tried to visualize him at twenty, and found it impossible. At twenty, she was sure, he had looked thirty; and at forty he would still look thirty. He was so mature and virile, the complete male, past all dreams and illusions but devastatingly knowledgeable.
When Amos brought the coffee, David put on a cigarette and stood up. “Don’t pour any for me,’ he said. “I’m going out.”
His departure let relaxation into the room. It was strange, really, how his presence weighed upon them both, odd that without in the least trying he impressed them with his position at Willowfield. Had they not been young and free it could have been dispiriting.
But Paul was not easily cast down, or not for long. “I saw Wyn Knight out on the road this afternoon,” he said. “She used that foolish signalling of hers and I gathered she and Bill are giving a party on Saturday—to which you and I are invited.”
“I think I heard about it. It’s somebody’s birthday.”
“Oh, was that what she was trying to tell me? I worked it out that their cattle had foot-rot, but knowing they don’t go in for cattle...” He tailed off, grinning. “Bit of a lass, isn’t she—Wyn?”
Susan agreed. “Sophisticated high-school girl. You wouldn’t think she was a few months older than I am. I wonder if she’ll ever really grow up?”
“She likes me.”
Susan drew luxuriously on her cigarette. “Is that why you can’t take her seriously?”
“I couldn’t take any girl seriously—least of all Wyn. Her grandmother left her an income of eight hundred a year—remember?”
“But it’s such a pity that money should make a difference to how one feels about a person.”
“I don’t believe it does. It alters the person herself. Wyn hasn’t much time for farming; all she likes is the things that go with it—riding, lavish entertaining, a high-octane, open-air life. One of these days she’ll probably marry a farmer, but it’ll be too bad if he has ambitions. To keep her submissive—if you ever can imagine Wyn submissive—he’ll have to possess three times as much money as she has. Where’s the struggling immigrant who has a hope of that?”
“She may confound us all and fall for a lawyer!” Susan laughed. “Meanwhile she’s having a high time without hurting or getting hurt. The Knights are one of the nicest families round here.”
“I like the old Colonel and his wife,” said Paul unexpectedly. “Neither of them expects a chap to be perfect. Their advice may be a little brass-hat and critical, but it’s constructive. By the way, I told them yesterday that you’d be going over there soon. I’d suggest going this evening, but Forrest may be there. If you like, you can go to Maringa in the jeep tomorrow morning. I shan’t need it.”
“Am I allowed to use it?”
Portrait of Susan Page 3
