Susan said “Good morning,” and went out.
At eight-thirty she took in the breakfast tray, to find Deline lying among her pillows and gazing through the window at the garden while she absently used a nail file. The glass of orange juice, the small pot of coffee, the two thin triangles of toast were scrutinized.
“Exactly what I ordered,” she said in some surprise. “I never got it just right at that house in Salisbury. You’ve started well, Susan.”
“I’ll give you a shout when the bath is ready, about nine-thirty,” Susan said, and she went out again.
There were moments, that morning, when Susan could have wept. To be gently ordered to do this and that in the house she had once regarded as practically her own, was an experience both sickening and humiliating. Deline wasn’t objectionable; far from it. But she demanded endless small attentions. The canvas verandah chairs weren’t quite comfortable enough; would Susan mind having one of the armchairs brought out? And could she bring two cushions? A footstool would be a help, too. Oh, dear, she’d left her sunglasses in her bedroom. Thanks, awfully. Was there a writing-pad anywhere about ... and so on.
The trouble was, Deline could look as if she needed these attentions. Standing, she was slightly taller than Susan, and in every dimension there was a little more of her. But sunk as she mostly was in a chair, she looked the pale, interesting semi-invalid who was bravely doing her utmost to become strong and well.
David came home to lunch without Paul. As he came round the house he grinned at the two women and made some remark about their cluttering his doorstep. Over lunch he was genial, and when the meal was over he suggested that Deline rest in her room for a couple of hours. He actually helped her from her chair and went to the door with her, and in spite of a determination not to watch them, Susan saw Deline’s finger tips brush his cheek in an intimate gesture of thanks.
She stacked the dishes on to the trolley and pushed it out into the corridor. With the intention of taking a brief walk she went on to the verandah, and came upon David there. He had picked up the letters which Deline had written and left half-obscured by a book on the table, and, still holding them, he glanced at Susan.
“You looked a bit grim over lunch,” he said. “Anything happened?”
“Nothing out of the way,” she answered. “I told Mrs. Maynton I’d post those letters.”
“Are you going into town this afternoon?”
“I thought I would, as the jeep is available.”
“There are some letters on the desk in my room. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind posting those, too?”
“Very well.”
“I’m not ordering you, Susan!”
“No one said you were.”
Her tone made him look at her more keenly. “Look here, there is something troubling you. Has it to do with Deline?”
“No, it’s something inside myself that makes it difficult for me to stay in the house on your terms. I know it won’t be easy for you to find some other woman to take my place, but I wish you’d try.”
“Good heavens,” he was sharply jeering. “Not throwing in the towel so soon, are you? I thought you had lots more pluck and tenacity! You haven’t stuck it for twenty-four hours yet.”
Her head lifted. “I could stick it if I wanted to. I’ve said I’ll stay till you find someone else.”
“But why won’t you stay indefinitely?”
“I feel I’d be happier at the cottage with my brother.”
“There’s more to it than that, little one. Don’t you like Deline?”
She hesitated. “It isn’t for me to like or dislike her. She’s your guest. Will you please do as I ask—and find someone else?”
His smile became set. “If you insist, I’ll advertise. We’ll talk it over again, later in the week. You won’t forget those letters of mine, will you?”
Exasperated and a little miserable, she watched him go. A minute or so after he had disappeared she heard the thundering of his horse’s hoofs. She took Deline’s two letters to her bedroom, found stamps and stuck them on. Then she remembered that Deline had written three letters, and that one of them was to a man in England. Susan had seen the envelope; Clive Carlsten, wasn’t it? The name had stuck because it was vaguely familiar. Had Deline decided not to send the letter after all?
She knocked on Deline’s door. “Mrs. Maynton,” she called. “Was it only the letters you left on the veranda that you wanted me to post?”
“Of course,” drawled Deline crossly. “I was just dozing!”
“Sorry,” said Susan automatically, and she went on down the corridor and into David’s room.
Without looking about her she went straight to the desk and lifted the pile of letters. For safety’s sake she counted them: eight commercial envelopes and a larger manilla wrapper, all neatly stamped. It was then that she saw that other letter to Clive Carlsten; this time in David’s writing on air-mail envelope. The coincidence was odd enough to keep her staring at that envelope for a minute, but finally she decided the man must be a friend of both Deline and David, and that the only coincidence was in their both having written to him by the same mail. Except that Deline had decided not to post hers. She gathered her purse and library books and went out to the jeep, and soon the dark mood of the morning wore off.
Back at Willowfield she didn’t go into the house, but walked beyond it, to Paul’s cottage. She hung the palm-colored curtains she had already made, looked over the china which was already in the kitchen cupboards and, on an impulse, filled a bowl with flowers.
The boys who were whitewashing the outside walls knocked off work and chattered loudly as they wandered home. Susan locked the back door, left all the windows pegged open and reluctantly closed the front behind her. Darkness was coming up, but only one light shone from the farmhouse, a small one from the living-room. Deline Maynton was probably reading in there.
Susan mounted the side steps to the veranda and entered the room by the french door. It wasn’t till she was right inside the room that she realized Deline was not alone.
Paul was at the table, pouring drinks; the atmosphere seemed mildly shot with electricity.
Half-smiling, Deline was saying, “Oh, but I didn’t mean that at all. I wasn’t implying that you’re too young to manage a farm, only stating that it seems rather strange David should have taken you on. After all, when he employed you you were even a year younger. Knowing him, that strikes me as odd.”
With more confusion than Susan considered necessary, Paul answered, “He judged me by my record and experience. Mr. Forrest doesn’t take chances—the Colonel was here.”
“Yes, of course.” She thanked him for her drink with limpid blue eyes. “By the way”—she looked at Susan “did you meet David before you came to Rhodesia?”
“No,” said Susan.
“What will you drink, Sue?” asked Paul.
“Nothing, thanks.” She noticed a stiffness about him, the dark color which had come up under his tan, and remembered that he was meeting Deline for the first time. Even so, self-consciousness with a woman wasn’t like Paul. She said evenly, “Your cottage is just about ready. You can move in tomorrow, if you like.”
“Yes, I think I will.” But he didn’t sound too enthusiastic, even though those hazel eyes of his were uncommonly bright. “Just before you came in Mrs. Maynton was telling me that she moved with an arty, musical crowd in London.”
“Only in the winter, of course,” Deline enlarged. “In the spring I went to the Continent, and the summers we spent with the family near Warwick.” She smiled, cosily. “What a bore those summers were! I always longed for them to be over so that I could get back to the London crowd.”
“I’m afraid there’s not much of your type of amusement here,” Paul said, almost apologetically.
“We put on some good amateur efforts at the club,” stated Susan firmly. “There’s a niece of the Colonel’s who paints very well and she’s formed an art circle who put out quite a good show each
year. Then we have a musical society.”
Deline’s laugh broke in. “Spare me! I can’t tolerate amateurs in any country. I suppose that comes of mixing with the top few.”
“We smaller potatoes,” said Susan, “are very happy with our own kind. In this country culture goes hand in hand with outdoor pastimes. Our crack tennis player is a good baritone and our play producer trained the swimming team we sent south last year.”
“You mustn’t mind Sue,” inserted Paul a little hastily. “She won’t hear a thing against Rhodesia and its people.”
“It’s people?” Deline used her expressive eyebrows. “Is David your hero-type, Susan?”
“I haven’t really thought about it,” came the equable reply. “I never do think of men in that way. Not individually, anyway. In any case, I knew many other Rhodesians before I met Mr. Forrest.”
“Doesn’t any one of them appeal to you, particularly?”
“As friends, they’re great.”
Deline sank further back in her chair. “I’m afraid you’re immature. David hinted as much, but I didn’t think any girl of twenty could grow up in these days without learning pretty well everything,”
“I get along,” said Susan a little shortly. “In some things it’s as well to profit by the experience of others. Excuse me!”
She went out quickly, slipped into the bathroom to wash her hands. Her heart was beating uncomfortably fast and she couldn’t think why; nor could she explain away the uneasiness which had come upon her during those first moments when she had seen Paul and Deline together. Those two were near in age, but Deline was very much older in knowledge, and somehow it seemed that Paul had been aware of a wide gap in his own experience and foolishly despised himself for it. And had something else sprung up between them? One of those swift, intangible things that might, in Paul, grow into something unmanageable?
Paul was far too boyish, far too poor, come to that, to interest Deline. Susan had only instinct to go upon; instinct and Deline’s lack of consideration for others. And she might as well admit it; the shaft about David’s hint that she was immature had found a home very close to her heart. She detested him for that.
She heard his car turn in the drive and guessed he had taken a quick run over to Maringa for a last word with the Colonel before the Wardons left for Bulawayo. Mrs. Wardon had said he would be looking after the farm during their absence. Susan sighed, and went to her bedroom to change her frock.
Oddly enough, dinner that night was a rather gay affair. David was suave and pleasant, Deline picked over the meal daintily and was charming while she did so, and Paul was keyed up to his most sophisticated behavior. Susan felt no better, but little more than a quiet smile seemed to be expected of her. Once she encountered David’s speculative glance, but she knew that he looked at Deline more often, and that he was amused at Paul.
After coffee, Susan drew her brother down into the garden and towards the cottage. She longed to beg him to be careful, to point out the danger of allowing himself to show interest in someone who practically belonged to David Forrest. But she had never spoken seriously to Paul in that vein, and he ought to be capable of making his own judgments.
So she talked about the cottage and decided, with him, that Thursday would be time enough for the housewarming party. They would invite all four of the Knights and about half a dozen others. Twelve in all would be as many as they could accommodate and was a good number for a party.
“You don’t suppose David will object, do you?” Paul queried. “We’re not likely to be all that noisy, but I suppose we should clock off fairly early because of Mrs. Maynton.”
“The trees and hedges will muffle the sounds. Weekday parties always break up at midnight.”
“We can keep the noise down after ten. Mrs. Maynton doesn’t look strong. I shouldn’t like to keep her awake.”
“I imagine,” said Susan, “that Mrs. Maynton could sleep through a hurricane.”
He looked at her in the darkness. “That’s a queer thing to say. Her nerves were in shreds after that accident with her husband. She wouldn’t be here, otherwise.”
“I suppose I’m being beastly,” sighed Susan, “but I do feel she rather puts on the delicate air for the benefit of people like you and David Forrest. Yesterday she mentioned the ugly things that had happened during the past few years—which means that she couldn’t have been all that happy with her husband. Allowing for the tragic circumstances of his death, don’t you think she should be feeling some sort of relief by now?”
Paul looked genuinely shocked. “That sounds pretty hard, coming from you. What can you possibly have against Mrs. Maynton?”
How explain her misgiving and the conviction that both mentally and physically Deline was far less fragile than she appeared? Paul was already half bemused, and definitely unwilling to hear anything derogatory about the woman.
Everyone dressed informally for the house-warming. Of the three Knight boys, one wore a lounge suit and the other two drill slacks with a white shirt, but Wyn scintillated in a red and white striped silk which displayed her slim brown shoulders. Susan wore the stiff green that made her look like a spring flower, and the rest were a motley collection but full of gaiety.
The Knights had brought gramophone records for Paul’s old portable, and their parents had sent a couple of bottles of champagne for the toasts, which were drunk with gusto.
“Here’s to happy days in the little old shack, Paul,” said Wyn, giving him her urchin grin. “I warn you, though, you’re going to be lonely!”
“You’ll have to come over more often,” said Susan.
“I did think of it,” Wyn answered, looking innocent, “but that was in the days when Paul was the big noise here. Not that I’d mind being a whisper in the scheme of things, but if I lived here, where in the world would I keep my horses and dogs?”
“Besides,” said Paul, wrinkling his nose at her, “diplomacy is hardly your strong point, and you need plenty when you live on David Forrest’s doorstep.”
One of the other women said suddenly, “What about you, Sue? Are you finding it a drag?”
Susan avoided a straight answer. “The arrangement isn’t by any means permanent, you know. You can stick anything when the end is in view.”
“Is David Forrest going to marry this Mrs. Maynton?” came a curious enquiry.
“He’s certainly concerned about her.” Susan indicated the garden. “Shall we go outside while Mabona clears? Then we can try some dancing.”
For the rest of the evening the front door stood open and the windows were as wide as they would go. Till about ten-thirty the gramophone ground out popular tunes for dancing, and between times they all joined uproariously in a chorus. Then Paul begged everyone to “pipe down”, and Susan provided nightcaps and snacks. There was more talking and laughter, a last thimbleful of champagne for each, and eventual departure out on the road to a final burst of cheering for no reason at all.
Paul and Susan waved off the small cars and motorbikes, and drifted back up the side path.
“Nice party?”’ she asked.
“Pretty good,” he said, “but they’re a juvenile bunch, aren’t they?”
On the point of making a swift retort she stopped. Instead she said, “It’s natural to attract the sort of friends who suit one’s personality. We’re not senile, ourselves.”
“No, but there comes a time when you get tired of animal high spirits. I happen to be just slightly older than most of those who came tonight.”
Purposely flippant, she said, “Don’t start feeling your years, darling. There’s lots of life in you yet, but maybe you’d better rest the old bones. Goodnight, Paul.”
He made a smiling reply and left her. Susan turned left towards the back door of the farmhouse. This part of the house was in darkness but the kitchen door was always left unlocked and she could easily slip in and find her bedroom without using lights and making a noise.
She opened the door, went in and clo
sed it behind her. The window let in a pale radiance which illuminated the table where the trays stood ready for morning tea. The antiseptic smell of block cleanser mingled with the sweetish odor from an invisible fruit dish, and Susan stood there a moment, feeling strangely imprisoned.
Then quietly she moved across to the open inner door, but before she could reach it the corridor light sprang on, and with hammering heart she remained poised, as if ready to run the way she had come.
Firm footsteps, the snick of a switch and the kitchen sprang alive. Susan stared at David, was aware of the fall of his hand from the switch, of his narrowed, glittering eyes. Her heart turned.
“You don’t have to creep around like a ghost,” he said. “In any case, the departure of your friends was fairly audible.”
“I thought you wouldn’t mind their noise just once in a while,” she answered, her throat curiously tight.
“I didn’t mind. I was only amazed that so few could raise such a row.” He looked as if there was something he did mind, though. “Did you all have a good time?”
“Yes, it was grand.” She knew something more was expected of her, but for the life of her couldn’t think of a single thing to add.
“That’s fine,” he said, with restraint. “I suppose it didn’t occur to you that it might be polite to ask me across for a drink?”
“Well ... it did occur to me.”
‘Yes? Who dissuaded you ... Paul?”
“Good heavens, no. I don’t think it even entered his head that you might consider yourself somewhere near our level.” Immediately she had spoken Susan knew her phrasing was unfortunate, so she tacked on quickly, “It was a little difficult. You’re Paul’s employer and you’ve been away from Willowfield so long that you don’t know the people who’ve become our friends. I know I’m not putting this too well...”
“That’s something,” he commented crisply. “All right, leave it. You’d better go to bed.”
Susan hesitated. He crossed to the door and turned the key, came to her side and looked down at her. “Well?”
Portrait of Susan Page 5
