Portrait of Susan

by Rosalind Brett

  “I think I’ll walk,” said Susan. “It’s ages since I came to this part of the farm.”

  “You’re not walking that far in the morning sun,” declared David decisively.

  “Then I’ll ride your horse back to the pasture.”

  “He’s too big for you—the boy will take care of him. Come on, Susan, get in.”

  There are times when it is heaven to be commanded by a certain man, and others when that same man can rasp the nerves with his every syllable. Susan’s teeth went tightly together but she obeyed him. She sat in the back of the car, glanced once more from the shining red-gold head to the dark arrogant one, and then looked out of her window till they reached the house.

  There, she poured the tea which Amos had ready, took a cup to the bedroom where Deline was changing, knocked on David’s door and handed him his cup when he opened it, and firmly closed herself within her own room. She heard David call, “Susan! We’re off. Back about four, I should say. So long.”

  She made some reply, and when the noise of the car had receded she got up from the chair and looked at herself in the mirror. Angrily, she dabbed away the moisture that had gathered in the corners of her eyes; no self-pity, please!

  She went to the bedroom which had been prepared for the new visitor, saw that only a couple of pocket editions lay in the bookshelf of the bedside table, and moved on to the living-room, to choose a selection which must surely contain one volume to the taste of a cultured dealer in antiques.

  Finding nothing more to do in the house she went over to the cottage and helped prepare her own and Paul’s lunch. There was something about the ordinariness of the cottage that soothed and reduced incidents to normal size, and she was almost cheerful when Paul came in. He, of course, could not resist stretching his customary hour-and-a-half to include a siesta. Indeed, it was three-thirty before he stirred himself to finish his day’s work.

  Susan drove the jeep over to Maringa, pottered for an hour or two and slowly made her way back to Willowfield. When she parked the jeep the big grey car was in the adjacent garage, and at the garden path she hesitated, before taking the back way to the kitchen.

  Amos and Sam were busy in there; their helper sat on the floor, preparing vegetables.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  Amos looked at her pleadingly. “The master say this must be specially good dinner for five people. The Bwana Darcey is invited, and also the guest is here.”

  “Oh. Did the master tell you what to cook?”

  “He say only three courses, but good.”

  “And what are you making?”

  “First some fish curry and rice. Then cold chicken with cooked and raw salads. For the last”—he gave a harassed sigh and scratched his meagre beard—“I do not know. It should be hot pudding, missus?”

  “Cold will do, but not chilled. Remember the lemon meringue pie we made for my birthday party?”

  He shook his head dolefully. “That was sweet pastry which I cannot make.”

  “I’ll make it for you, right away. Any lemons in the house? They mustn’t be fresh from the tree.”

  Amos wrinkled his leathery face and Sam sprinted to find what she wanted. For an hour the kitchen was Susan’s domain. It seemed such a long time since she had last worked there that she knew nostalgic joy. The kitchen was so big, the cupboards so full, the utensils amazing in their variety. She used a large whisk that she had never seen before, and felt a queer stab of pain. It was of heavy old-fashioned quality, the wooden handle ringed with burnished copper; David’s mother had used it, and perhaps her mother before her. In a roundabout way it reminded Susan of the feminine elegance of Deline’s bedroom, and she thought of Willowfield as it must have been, say, twenty years ago, before David’s masterful personality had made it so unmistakably masculine. That room, though...

  “Don’t forget to serve cheese and a big dish of fresh fruit,” she adjured Amos. “And I think it would be wise to place one of the small glasses of minced pineapple at each plate. Put it into a jug and chill it first, as we used to.”

  She had moved to the door when Amos said wistfully, “It is good to have the missus to order food. Perhaps the master will take a wife soon?”

  “Perhaps,” she answered, and walked down the corridor to her room.

  There was very little sound from the living-room, but the walls were thick and the door to the corridor closed. Susan took a bath and put on a dark leaf-green silk dress that she didn’t much care for. It made her eyes light and clear, exaggerated the yellow tints in her hair and the narrowness of her waist. Her hands shook a little as she applied a dab of powder and lipstick.

  When she came out of her room the lights were on in the hall and the living-room door stood open. She walked quietly, entered the room as someone switched on one of the wrought-iron standard lamps. She saw the cluster of seven electric candles and the man standing in their bright glow, before realizing that he had been alone in the room. “Hallo,” he said pleasantly. “You must be Susan.” She smiled faintly, looked at his longish face with the sleek dark brown hair growing in a point above it, and at his eyes, which were yellow and warm and crinkled at the corners.

  “Good evening,” she replied. “You’re the famous Mr. Carlsten. I imagined you grave and scholarly.”

  “God forbid. What gave you that idea?”

  He had come forward and was indicating the chesterfield, and with a foolish upsurge of relief she sat down and smiled wholeheartedly.

  “I once read an article of yours. It was frightfully highbrow.”

  “Cribbed,” he told her deprecatingly, as he hitched the well-creased trousers of his grey lounge suit and sat beside her. “I’m a complete fake. It’s so nice to be a long way from home and to be able to speak the truth once in a while. This is my first visit to Africa. I believe I’m going to like it.”

  There was something attractive about this man. He was oldish, of course, about thirty-eight, and lines of dissipation criss-crossed a small area below each eye; but his manner was charming and friendly, and instinctively Susan knew it would take no time at all to get to know him; which, considering his background, was surprising.

  “It’s a miraculous country,” she said. “My brother and I hope to settle here. We’re dairy farmers, really.”

  “Neither of you look it. I met your brother about an hour ago, when David brought him in for a drink. Tell me about yourself, Susan. I believe it’s done in these raw countries to use first names at first acquaintance.”

  “Not quite,” she said, “but you’re welcome. I’m awfully uninteresting, I’m afraid. I’ve never done anything spectacular.”

  “Merely in coming to Rhodesia you’ve broken ground that most other girls haven’t. Yet you’re not entirely modern. The combination intrigues me. What’s the most exciting thing you’ve seen in Africa?”

  She laughed a little. “Except for the journey up from the Cape I’ve only seen this district, but for the first few months I found everything exciting—the tropical trees and flowers and birds, the mountains, the Southern Cross; even the atmosphere. One night there was a leopard hunt, and they shot it among the maize.”

  “Good Lord,” he said soberly. “I hope it was the last of the locals. I’m no big game hunter. Haven’t you been to Victoria Falls?”

  “No, but I shall go one day. And I shall go into Mozambique, too. It’s only beyond the mountains.”

  “So it is.” He paused, and said suddenly, “I’ll take you there, Susan, if you’ll come. Will you?”

  Her eyes shone. “How very good of you. And you don’t even know me.”

  “You’re sweet,” he said, not fulsomely but as if he meant it. He leant away from her, to adjust the reading lamp, and asked, “How do you get on in this household of three? Good friends with Deline?”

  “Fairly,” she said cautiously. “You know her rather well, so you must realize we haven’t much in common.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you have. Her he
alth seems to have improved since she left England—though I don’t think it has ever been too bad.”

  Susan looked at him curiously, and a flash of intuition told her that Clive Carlsten knew Deline more than rather well.

  “She’s certainly looking better,” she carefully agreed.

  He turned and glanced at her small defined features. “I believe you’re something of a diplomat. Actually, it takes a diplomat to live in peace with David and Deline—that’s how I feel about them, anyway. It must have been a disagreeable business for you—having David come back and take over when you least expected it.”

  She warmed to him still more. “It seems odd that you— a stranger to the situation—should understand so quickly. How did a connoisseur of antiques learn so much about people?”

  He gave her his oddly worn, companionable smile. “I’ve been around for a long, long time. You don’t know how good it is to meet someone young and unspoiled.” Conspiratorially, he added, “You needn’t pass that on, by the way. I prefer the reputation of a cynic. I hope you know nothing whatever about collectors’ items and antiques.”

  “Not much, but I do like the feel of having old things about me.”

  He laughed aloud. “Thanks. The most charming compliment!”

  “Good heavens, I didn’t mean...”

  She broke off, her light laughter stilled; for David had come into the room. David, with a slightly sarcastic twist to his mouth as he glanced from one to the other. He wore an immaculate blue lounge suit that pointed his dark tan. In the artificial candle glow he was extraordinarily tall and broad of shoulder, his skin bronze and cleanly shadowed.

  He picked up the crystal cigarette box and removed the lid. “I came in to be on hand to introduce you two, but you seem to have achieved intimacy without any help. Cigarette, Susan?”

  She took one and held it steadily to the flame of his lighter. She knew by a leashed impatience in him that he was displeased about something, and it occurred to her that Deline might have been difficult during the trip to Salisbury—or afterwards in private. She had the feeling that he was just as averse as Deline to having Clive Carlsten in the house, but obviously Clive had no inkling of it. The two conversed as suavely as if they were good neighbors meeting only for dinner.

  She took the drink David gave her and tried to relax in her corner of the chesterfield. Paul arrived, neat and good looking in a dark suit, and lastly, of course, Deline made her entrance.

  Deline did look slightly paler than usual, but she was as much mistress of herself as ever. She wore a flowing black skirt with a guipure lace blouse, and about her neck an antique band of aquamarines set in silver. Her features were utterly composed and almost expressionless, and though she hardly spoke during those ten minutes before dinner, one got the impression that for her only David was in the room.

  In the dining-room the atmosphere eased. Amos had remembered one of his earlier lessons from Susan, and had topped the chilled pineapple cocktails with a triumphant cherry apiece. The curried fish was served tidily in a narrow ring of cooked rice, and he had remembered to garnish the dish of fried chicken with shredded lettuce and small tomatoes cut into flowers.

  David’s eyebrows rose at this last and he flickered a glance at Susan. But he offered no remark till the lemon meringue pie appeared.

  “It looks wonderful,” he said. “You’ve excelled yourself, Amos.”

  The old African beamed. “It is a pie the master likes?” he asked anxiously.

  “I’m not sure till I taste it. Why haven’t we had it before?”

  Amos hesitated. Susan said, “Amos thought it a little too ambitious, but I persuaded him. We last had it some months ago at my birthday party.”

  Amos nodded eagerly and hurried from the room. Deline said she would rather have fresh fruit than the pie but the three men ate with enjoyment and eventually cleared the dish.

  For coffee they went out to the veranda. The air was cool and sweet, the sky powdered with stars. They sat in a line, looking out at the garden, and Susan found herself between her brother and Clive Carlsten. Clive put a few queries about the country.

  Presently he said, “Till you get used to it, I suppose, it’s only the evenings that are deadly. Not that I shall find them dull, but it’s possible that one might, if one had to settle here.” Then, in a deliberate tone, “Don’t you miss the theatre, Deline?”

  There was a silence, during which Susan guessed that Deline resented being drawn into the discussion. Her antipathy for Clive Carlsten became, in that moment, almost tangible.

  “One simply doesn’t associate the theatre with the Rhodesian bush,” she said at last. “In my opinion even the amateur stuff they put on here is completely out of place.”

  “This is where you dig an oar in, Sue,” said Paul, unexpectedly. To the rest he explained, “Sue’s all for the cause of culture in the wilds. She worked for the Kumati Musical and Dramatic Society last year.”

  “But that’s interesting,” said Clive, sitting forward and looking at Susan. “I’m all for culture in these places, too. I’d like to meet some of the people.”

  “There’s always a number at the club,” she told him.

  “Fine. You must take me down there tomorrow evening. Let’s make it a date.”

  “No reason why we shouldn’t all go,” said David coolly.

  “So long as you don’t mind if I monopolize. Susan,” Clive nodded lightly. “I’ve a feeling that in time she’d help me to hang on the remnants of my fast-fading youth.”

  “Other men of your age have a similar hankering,” stated Deline evenly. “You’ve become trite, my dear.”

  The hanging veranda lamp swung in a sudden gust of wind. Clive said, “You even shake up the elements, Deline. Don’t your own powers frighten you sometimes?”

  “Why don’t you two let up on each other?” said David calmly. “We Rhodesians seldom use the verbal stiletto; it blunts in this climate.”

  Clive smiled at him, across Deline. “How do you handle your women, then, David? Or are they naturally more tractable?”

  “Women are the same everywhere,” came the lazy reply. “They only need managing when you show too much interest in them. Indifference towards them is man’s best weapon.”

  “Then it’s one I shall never possess, though I must say I envy you your outlook.”

  Her voice almost dulcet, Deline murmured, “But your own outlook is so individual, Clive. The handsome dilettante with earthly inclinations. For Susan’s sake I hope she isn’t deceived by flattery.”

  “My dear Deline,” Clive answered agreeably, “I shall never insult Susan by offering her flattery. Even if I did, I’m quite sure she’d see through it.” He spoke once more to David. “By the way, who chose my bedside books?”

  There was a short silence. Then David said, “I’m afraid I didn’t. Are they good?”

  “Excellent.”

  “Then I expect it was Susan.”

  “I merely picked a dozen which were as different as possible from each other,” said Susan hastily. She stood up. “I’d like a walk. Coming, Paul?”

  “Gosh, no. I’ve walked enough for one day.”

  Clive was standing. “It’s all new to me. I’ll go with you. The night is amazingly beautiful.”

  David, too, had got to his feet, but he made no attempt to accompany them. Clive took Susan’s elbow and bade her indicate the way.

  During the following few days the atmosphere in the farmhouse was distinctly odd. Oddest, of course, when all the members of the household were there. David, on the whole, was pleasantly impersonal. His working day was curtailed but he often spent the hours thus gained at the desk in his bedroom.

  Deline, as was to be expected, did not change her routine at all, but her manner, particularly towards Susan, altered considerably. The morning after Clive’s arrival she placed several pound notes on her bedside table and told Susan, who had brought the breakfast tray, to take them.

  Susan had said flatly
, “Nothing would induce me to take money from you, Mrs. Maynton. I’ve helped you because I was asked to.”

  “I want you to go on helping me,” Deline had murmured pathetically, “but how can I demand it of you if I don’t pay you?”

  “You don’t have to demand,” was Susan’s careful reply. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Deline had sunk down among her pillows. “I’ve lost all the strength I’d gained before Clive came. Susan ... can’t you get him to go on to some other place?”

  “What influence could I possibly have with Mr. Carlsten?”

  “He seems to like you. He’s going to ruin everything for me here, if he gets the chance.”

  “Aren’t you being a little melodramatic? He doesn’t strike me as vindictive. Even if he were, what has he to be vindictive about?”

  “You couldn’t know,” Deline had whispered, “but he’d do anything to turn David against me.”

  Susan had hardened. “I don’t think you need have much fear on that score. Mr. Forrest doesn’t like Carlsten any more than you do.”

  “How can you possibly know that?”

  Susan’s grounds for the statement were really somewhat slender, depending on inflections, the twist of a lip, a sharp smiling glance. Her feelings in the matter, though, were as finely-balanced and disturbing as a hostile movement sensed out of the corner of the eye. She couldn’t explain them to Deline. So she had merely shrugged off her own statement as an impression, and got out of the bedroom as quickly as she could.

  The evening at the club with Clive was lighthearted and enjoyable. He was of the slightly talkative, easy-going type who blend into any kind of gathering, and his interest in the concerts and plays already scheduled for production during the coming winter endeared him to many who might otherwise have viewed with suspicion his slim, well-kept hands and sophisticated turn of speech.

  He was also a good dancer, Susan discovered, but the fact of his obviously being on the way to forty and still a bachelor inspired a hint of fear in the younger women. Indeed, Wyn Knight warned Susan to watch out.