Valley of the Devil

by Yvonne Whittal

  'It was kind of you to think of us, Mother,' Rafe announced from the depths of his armchair, his voice impersonal as if he were talking to a stranger, and Jo felt like taking him and shaking him when she glimpsed that look of pain and disappointment in his mother's eyes.

  She placed the bowl on the table and rose quickly to kiss the older woman on the cheek. 'Thank you very much for this beautiful gift, Mrs Andersen.'

  'I'm glad you like it,' Averil responded tonelessly, her eyes devoid of the smile which curved her mouth. 'Goodnight.'

  Jo swallowed at the lump in her throat and blinked back her tears as the inter-leading door closed behind Averil, but she was shocked and angry the next instant when she turned towards Rafe to see him lounging in his chair as if he didn't have a care in the world.

  How could he? She wondered furiously. How could he sit there and not be touched by his mother's unhappiness?

  'I don't know what could have happened to make you change so monstrously, but I do believe that the gentle, caring man I used to know must still be lurking there somewhere deep inside you.' Her eyes flashed green fire at him. 'I suggest you find that man, Rafe, and find him soon!'

  She stormed out of the living-room in a fury, her footsteps echoing sharply across the tiled hall before they became muted in the carpeted passage. Rafe made no attempt to follow her, and that was a blessing. She was perilously close to bursting into tears, but she was damned if she was going to break down emotionally in front of him.

  Jo was lost in thought the following afternoon when she sat on the stoep, and she was only vaguely aware of Elsie emerging from the house with a tray of tea, which she placed on the cane table. She had seen Averil briefly at teatime that morning, but it was at the luncheon table that she had seen Rafe for the first time that day, and then his silent, sombre mood had not encouraged conversation. He had left the dining-room as soon as he had finished eating to closet himself in his study, and Averil had followed suit to retire to her flat.

  Left to her own devices again, and too restless to lie down, Jo had taken her crochet work out on to the shady stoep, but her thoughts, rather than the crochet hook, had done most of the work. It had been so hot all day that it felt like summer rather than the first day of spring, and Jo was fanning herself with the crochet pattern leaflet when the sound of an approaching car shattered the Sunday afternoon silence. It was Lorin's white BMW that churned up the dust in the driveway to come to a crunching halt beneath the shady elm, and Jo felt that old familiar tension gripping her insides. Lorin and Averil had once been allies, ganging up to make her life a misery, but they were not going to be allowed to do it again. Jo rose from her chair and forced a welcoming smile to her lips as Lorin started to ascend the steps on to the stoep. 'Good afternoon, Lorin.'

  'I'm not here to see you,' Lorin announced rudely as she breezed past Jo towards the entrance of the house.

  'Lorin!' That icy note of authority in Jo's voice had stopped many a bigoted intern in his tracks, and Lorin reacted to it in much the same way. She stopped and turned towards Jo with a startled look on her face. 'I didn't think for one moment that you had come here to see me,' Jo informed her coldly, 'but this is my home, and you could at least be civil.'

  Lorin was quick to pull herself out of that brief moment of stunned surprise. 'This could never be your home, because you don't belong here, and you never will.'

  You don't belong! That old refrain evoked painful memories of the past, but Jo had to think of the future, and the future of the child she believed she might be carrying.

  'You've got that wrong, Lorin,' she corrected with an icy calm. ' You're the one who doesn't belong here, and, unless you acquire a few manners, I will not have you in my house or anywhere around it.'

  'You can't speak to me like that!' Lorin exclaimed haughtily. 'Who the hell do you think you are?'

  'She's my wife!' Rafe's voice reached them from the opposite end of the stoep, and Jo heard the rasping intake of Lorin's breath as they swung round simultaneously to see him walking towards them with a thun derous expression on his face. 'Jo is my wife,' he repeated in a voice that had an ominous ring to it, 'and I echo every word she said, Lorin. If you can't be civil to her, most especially in her own home, then you're no I welcome here.'

  His supportive statement sent a glowing warmth surging through Jo, but it had an adverse effect on Lorin. Her face went a sickly, pasty colour, and there was pure venom in those brilliant blue eyes that met Jo's briefly before she turned without peaking and strode out to where she had parked her car. Jo placed her hand lightly on Rafe's arm, raining his attention when Lorin sped down ilie driveway in her BMW, and the tension inside her did not diminish when she felt the diiivering tautness of the muscles beneath the hair-roughened warmth of his skin. 'Thank you for supporting me, Rafe.'

  His dark gaze seemed to soften, and he slarted to say something, but Averil chose that moment to join them on the stoep.

  'Didn't I hear Lorin's voice out here a few moments ago?' she asked, glancing about her curiously.

  'You did, Mother,' Rafe confirmed as they slopped towards the cane table and chairs where the tray of tea awaited them.

  'Why didn't she stay and have tea with us?' Averil wanted to know, her questioning fiance demanding an explanation from Jo, but it was Rafe who answered her.

  'I told Lorin that she wouldn't be welcome here in future if she couldn't be civil to my wife.'

  'Oh.'

  Averil had breathed the word almost cautiously into the explosive little silence which had followed Rafe's statement, and Jo wondered at the thoughts behind the shuttered expression which had shifted across her mother-in-law's face.

  'May I pour your tea, Mrs Andersen?' Jo asked with a calmness she was far from experiencing at that moment as she reached for the teapot.

  'Yes, please,' Averil replied in that subdued fashion which Jo still found so difficult to accept. The Averil Andersen of three years ago would never have yielded so readily to her son, Jo was thinking as they sat drinking their tea. It had been Rafe who had done most of the yielding, allowing his mother to have her way with almost everything desired, but now the situation was quite the reverse. The questions flitting through Jo's mind were becoming repetitive, like a hi-fi needle caught in the groove of a faulty record, and he knew she had to shut the questions off or go quietly mad with not knowing. CHAPTER EIGHT

  IT WAS not until the Wednesday of the following week that Jo had the opportunity to consult a doctor, whose name she had chosen at random in the Beaufort West telephone directory. He could neither reject nor confirm her suspicion that she was pregnant, but he did promise that she would have the results of the tests that same day.

  A hot breeze churned up the dust in the parched veld, and driving back from town that morning Jo had seen the clouds gathering on the western horizon. The clouds had been heavy with the promise of rain, but she already knew how easily they could fade into nothing when they reached the arid plains of the Karoo. They needed rain. Jo had reached this conclusion long before Rafe had mentioned it at the breakfast table that morning. Everyone was praying for one good downpour, and after that they would go on praying, for nothing was feared more in the Karoo than the long summer months without rain. Jo was alone in the house after lunch that afternoon when she received the call she had been waiting for. The tests had been positive. She was pregnant with the child Rafe had demanded in exchange for the loan.

  She felt like crying as she lowered herself shakily on to the straight-backed chair beside the telephone table in the hall. She had not misread the signs of pregnancy, but having her suspicions confirmed had come as a shock.

  No, it wasn't shock that was making her want to weep. What she felt at that moment was fear. How would Rafe react to the news I hat she was going to have his child? If all went well he would have his heir before the winter of the following year. What then? Would she be reduced to an unwanted thorn m Rafe's side once she had fulfilled her side of this hateful bargain?

>   No! The word rose like an anguished cry from her soul and echoed through her mind like a wailing siren. Please, God... no, she shot up the silent but fervent prayer.

  Jo was in complete control of herself again when, later that afternoon, she joined her mother-in-law for tea in the living-room. She had poured their tea and was offering Averil one of her favourite ginger biscuits when she heard the thundering hoofs of a hard-driven horse approaching the house.

  'Something's wrong,' Averil voiced Jo's thoughts, and not two minutes later Elsie was hovering anxiously in the living-room doorway.

  'It's Stan, madam,' she said, her explanation directed at Jo. 'He says Klara has gone into labour, and the midwife is sick in bed with bronchitis. Stan isn't sure if there's still enough time to get Klara to the hospital, and he wants to know if you could come and help.'

  Jo placed her untouched cup of tea on the tray and said calmly, 'Tell Stan I'll be at his house as soon as I can, and he should go home and stay with his wife.'

  Elsie left at a running pace to pass on that message while Jo excused herself from Averil to collect her medical bag which she had stowed away at the bottom of her dressing-room cupboard. On her way out she thought it best to leave a message for Rafe with his mother, and she changed her direction to make a hasty detour past the living-room. 'If I'm not back before dinner, Mrs Andersen, would you please explain the situation to Rafe?'

  'Of course.' Averil's glance stated clearly that she was weighing Jo mentally and finding her wanting. 'I think it would be unwise of you to meddle with something you know nothing about, and I suggest you convince Stan that the hospital would be the best place for his wife.'

  Jo felt her hackles rise. Stay calm, she warned herself. 'I did midwifery as part of my training, Mrs Andersen, and you may rest assured that I'll know what's best for Klara after I've examined her.'

  She spun on her heel and left, not caring at that moment if her reply had annoyed her mother-in-law. She had more important things to worry about, she was thinking as she drove away from the house, and the weather was one of them, she realised as she cast a frowning glance up at the sky. The clouds had accumulated during the course of the day and it looked as if there was a storm on the way. She could see lightning flashes in the distance, and the first heavy drops of rain splashed on to the Jetta's windscreen when she neared Stan's cottage, where his horse was still tethered to the fence. An unexpected crack of thunder shook the earth as Jo got out of her car to make a dash for the entrance of the cottage, and she could not help feeling sorry for the tethered animal when she saw it flick back its ears and paw the ground nervously.

  She banged on the cottage door before opening it and stepping inside to escape the violence of the approaching storm, and she was walking down the passage, past a smartly furnished lounge, when Klara's stifled moans guided her in the direction of the bedroom.

  Klara was lying on the bed, her olive-skinned features registering pain and glistening with perspiration. Stan was seated on a chair beside the bed, but he jumped up the moment he saw Jo, his expression fluctuating between relief and anxiety.

  'Thank you for coming, madam,' said Klara, smiling up at Jo despite the pain of her contraction, and Jo took her hand between her own and squeezed it reassuringly.

  'I'd like to examine your wife, Stan, so why don't you go out and stable your horse before the storm really hits us?'

  Stan nodded and got up to leave, but at the door he paused to cast an anxious glance at his wife. 'I won't be long,' he promised, and then he left.

  'I don't want to go to the hospital,' Klara stated worriedly the moment they were alone. 'If you would help me, madam, then I want this baby to be born here at home.'

  'If the birth is progressing normally, then I see no reason why your baby shouldn't be born here at home.' Jo placed her bag on the chair Stan had vacated and opened it to take out the items she required.

  'Now, let's take a look at you, Klara.'

  Wind-driven rain lashed the bedroom window and the foundations of the cottage seemed to shudder with every vicious clap of thunder while Jo carried out her examination. The storm was almost directly overhead when a disturbing thought crossed her mind. Would the road be passable after this deluge? She wondered about this for a moment, but then a more important issue took precedence in her mind.

  'It feels like a big baby, Klara,' she finally voiced her opinion above the noise of the storm. 'The heartbeat is strong, and since everything appears to be progressing normally I see no reason for your baby not to be born here at home, but it's still going to take a while.'

  Klara looked relieved and a dreamy look entered her dark brown eyes. 'I don't want to have more children after this, so I'm hoping for a boy.'

  'I can imagine that after having three girls you and Stan must be very anxious to have a boy.' Jo smiled at Klara while she straightened the sheets. 'Talking about the girls, where are they?'

  'Elsie's daughter, Violet, is looking after them until this is all over. They're going to sleep at her place tonight and— oh!'

  The explanation ended on a groan and Jo slid her hand beneath the sheet to place it against the woman's hard, distended abdomen.

  'Just try to relax, Klara,' she instructed calmly. 'Breathe deeply through your nose. That's it. Now blow the air out slowly and strongly through your mouth.'

  Klara followed Jo's instructions implicitly, breathing deeply and exhaling through her mouth several times until the contraction eased.

  A door slammed somewhere to the back of the house and moments later Stan was entering the bedroom. 'How is she?' he demanded anxiously of Jo.

  'The baby won't be born for a couple of hours yet, but your wife is going to be fine.'

  'Stop worrying about me, Stan,' Klara rebuked her husband gently.

  'Were you present at the birth of your daughters, Stan?' Jo asked when he seated himself on the bed beside Klara, and he shook his head ruefully.

  'The midwife always said this was no place for a man and that I should wait outside until it was all over.'

  'Would you like to stay this time?'

  Stan cast a questioning glance at Klara, then he looked up at Jo and nodded affirmatively. 'Thank you, madam, I'd like to stay.'

  Klara's baby was born at fifteen minutes past seven that evening as the storm reached a peak of violence that had the foundations of the cottage shuddering beneath their feet, but Stan had remained beside his wife to hold her hand and to encourage her with loving words throughout the painful trauma of birth.

  'It's a boy!' he shouted excitedly when, with a little encouragement from Jo, the infant gave its first cry.

  'It's a boy, Klara!'

  'Praise be to God!' was all Klara said, and there were tears of joy in her eyes when she held out her arms to receive her baby.

  At that moment Jo could not help thinking about the new life growing in her own womb, and she felt deeply emotional as she laid the baby in Klara's arms. This was not the first time in her life she had witnessed the miracle of birth, but never before had it touched her quite so profoundly. It was still raining steadily at eight-thirty that evening when Jo picked up her bag and leaned over the cradle. She was smiling as she brushed the tip of her finger lightly across the sleeping baby's soft, warm cheek, but her smile faded when she straightened to cast a clinical glance at the mother. Klara lay in bed, propped up against the pillows. She looked exhausted, but exhaustion had failed to dim that glow of pride and happiness on her face.

  'I suggest you do what your son is doing, Klara,' Jo advised sternly. 'Get some rest.'

  'I'll sleep now,' Klara promised, reaching out for Jo's hand and clasping it tightly. 'God bless you for being here to help, madam.'

  'I'll come again in the morning, but don't hesitate to call me in the night if you should need me.'

  Klara nodded, and Jo took one last look at the sleeping child before she turned towards the door where Stan stood waiting with an umbrella to escort her out to her car.

  'Dri
ve carefully, Madam Jo,' he warned when she left the shelter of the umbrella to slide behind the wheel of her Jetta. 'The road is going to be muddy and slippery in this rain.'

  'I'll be careful,' she promised. 'Goodnight, Stan.'

  It was a dark night. Lightning forked intermittently across the sky in the distance, but it was still raining so heavily that the windscreen wipers had difficulty trying to cope with the deluge of water. Visibility was bad, and Jo drove slowly on the slippery farm track, but she picked up speed eventually when she felt the Jetta hold the road firmly despite the fact that the wheels spun occasionally in the muddy earth.

  The road curved sharply up ahead, then dipped steeply and rose again. She was halfway home, Jo was thinking with a measure of relief while she negotiated the bend and steered the car down into the dip, but the next instant her heart leapt anxiously into her throat. The car was sliding sideways and the wheels were spinning dangerously in the mud. She changed down to a lower gear and by some miracle managed to keep the car going until she could feel the tyres gripping firmer ground. Thank God!' she breathed on a sigh of relief, but she did not relax behind the wheel again until she saw the lights of the house up ahead through the trees.

  She garaged her car and made a dash for the house. The distance from the garages to the kitchen door was no more than twenty metres, but her sleeveless cotton frock offered no protection against the rain that pelted her from all sides, and she was soaked to the skin long before she reached the cover of the back stoep.

  The door was flung open before Jo could reach it, and Rafe was silhouetted darkly and dangerously against the kitchen light. The grimness of his expression deepened during the ensuing seconds, and she realised suddenly what a sight she must look. Her hair had fallen free of the combs to hang in wet tendrils about her face and shoulders, her dress was clinging to her body like a second skin, and the water draining off her was collecting swiftly in a puddle beneath her sandalled feet.