The Fire of Life

by Hilary Wilde

  Rayanne blushed, remembering what she must have looked like when they met before.

  ' She looks beautiful, doesn't she?' Mrs Jefferson

  said quickly. ' I think that is her colour, don't you?'

  It's very beautiful,' Christine agreed.

  Then came Sister Daphne Macintyre, equally lovely in a different way; tall, slim, with dark hair, lovely dark eyes and that magically attractive husky voice.

  Mrs Jefferson, I can see your holiday did you the world of good. You look so well!'

  ' You have met Rayanne?' Mrs Jefferson said with a smile.

  It was strange, but Daphne Macintyre's face seemed to change, Rayanne noticed. It hardened, yet she smiled, a smile that didn't reach her eyes. ' Yes, I have met Miss Briscoe. How is your work going?' she asked. Or isn't it?' she added:

  ' Very well indeed,' said. Mrs Jefferson, giving Rayanne no time to speak. ' Too fast for my liking, because I would like Rayanne to stay forever.'

  Then the two vets came with Cary. Rayanne hardly noticed the two men, Leslie someone or other, a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a short pointed beard, and Loftus Jones, a little man with sandy hair and freckles all over his face, for she was looking at Cary.

  And then Rayanne's face flamed with embarrassment as Mrs Jefferson said: ' Doesn't Rayanne look beautiful, Cary dear? I really think this dress was made for her.'

  Cary ldoked grave. ' I agree, Mother. The colour is perfect and the style .very fashionable. You look very beautiful, Ray,' he said almost solemnly.

  Rayanne wanted to run and hide, or the floor to open and swallow her. Never in all her life had she felt so embarrassed. She could see the quick amused glance Christine and Daphne had exchanged and the way the two vets were staring at her.

  ' Your mother gave me the frock,' Rayanne said, then wished she hadn't, for perhaps Cary had seen it before, perhaps he knew it was his mother's wedding nightie ' ; he might even, with his strange sense of humour, make a joke about it.

  Fortunately Mrs Jefferson took charge of the situation.

  ' What about a nice cold drink for us all, Cary dear? You're the host. Your poor old mother shouldn't have to remind you . .

  He smiled, bent and kissed her. My poor old

  mother enjoys doing so. What'll you all have?' He led the way to the small but beautiful little bar, made of woven straw.

  They followed him, Loftus and Leslie walking with Daphne and Christine, Rayanne with her hostess.

  As they sat on the stoep, drinking and talking, Mrs Jefferson constantly drew Cary's attention to Rayanne. Not that he seemed to mind. He sat next to her and began talking about a baby giraffe that had been born that morning.

  ' I had meant to tell you so that you could come and witness it, but the giraffe fooled us all, for we hadn't expected the little one for another week. Tell Kwido to take you there in the morning,' he said.

  Thank you. I'd love to see it,' said Rayanne, very conscious that though Christine and Daphne

  were joking and laughing with the two men who were including Mrs Jefferson into the conversation, both Christine and Daphne kept looking her way, both had eyes that were watching her, suspiciously. Did they think she was playing up to Cary's mother in the hope of getting Cary? Rayanne wondered. If so, they must be mad. Absolutely mad !

  At dinner, Rayanne sat next to Cary. This, of course, was his mother's doing! In fact all through the meal, it was embarrassing, for Mrs Jefferson constantly said things that implied that something exciting and wonderful might soon be announced.

  Later when the ladies went out to the stoep and the men stayed behind for their port, Daphne Macintyre sat down next to Rayanne.

  ' How are things going?' she asked bluntly. ' You seem to have won over the old girl.'

  ' I don't understand . . Rayanne began, hastily standing up, not telling the truth.

  Daphne laughed. An ugly laugh, very different from her usual attractively husky voice. Oh, don't be so dumb. You know very well what I mean. Is Sir Joe Letherington really your godfather?'

  Rayanne's quick temper flared. Of course he

  is,' she said angrily. I'm not a liar, nor,' she

  added, ' am I interested in Cary Jefferson. You can have him if you want him . . . that is, of course, if you can get him.' She turned away and bumped into someone.

  Startled as she felt warm firm hands on her arms steadying her, she looked up, and found herself gazing closely into Cary's face. How quietly he must have come up! How much had he heard?

  Now he took her arm. ' I want to show you something, Ray. We won't be a moment, Mother,' he apologised as they passed the plump little old lady, holding court with Loftus Jones, who was laughing at something she said.

  Mrs Jefferson beamed, That's all right, darling. Take your time.'

  Rayanne almost ran out of the room, but Cary's hand held her back. He took her to a room she had never been in before, obviously his study—a small high-ceilinged room lined with books with a desk close to the window. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, releasing her arm.

  She turned to stare at him. You have something to show me?'

  He smiled. Only myself.'

  Rayanne frowned, puzzled. Was he joking? If so . . .

  H emoved towards her so that they stood close together, but he did not touch her. He looked down at her.

  First I want to apologise.'

  Apologise?' she echoed.

  Yes, for my mother's behaviour. She's so frightened I'll fall for the wrong kind of person that she'll go to any lengths. She has decided that you would make me a suitable wife, so . .

  So?' Rayanne lifted her chin. So what?'

  So she's determined to show Christine and Daphne that you're the chosen one.'

  Chosen?' Rayanne asked bitterly. By

  whom?'

  Cary smiled. By her, of course.'

  There was a pause that seemed never-ending. Then Rayanne found her voice.

  Of course,' she said. If that's all . .

  It isn't.' Even as she moved, he moved, too, standing between her and the door. ' There is something else?'

  ' Something else?' she repeated.

  ' Yes. Why do you hate men? Or are you afraid of them?'

  She stared at him, bewildered. ' Who ever said I hated or feared men?'

  ' No one. It stands out a mile. -Every time a man enters the room, your whole body stiffens, your face goes hard, your eyes are full of—either fear or animosity. I can't make it out.'

  But I don't hate men . . Rayanne's voice rose

  slightly, and at that moment the door opened.

  It was Christine. She looked at the two standing there and she looked amused.

  ' It's taken you a long time to show Miss Briscoe whatever it is you had to show her, Cary. Maybe she doesn't understand. Perhaps I could help.'

  Cary laughed. No one can help, thanks. We'll finish this discussion another time, Ray. Okay?'

  Okay,' she said stiffly, and followed them back to the large beautiful drawing-room where the others were talking.

  What had it all been about? she asked herself, as she sat by Mrs Jefferson's side, laughing at her jokes, listening and trying to hear what was being said, for all the time her mind felt confused, muddled, because nothing made sense. Why had Cary taken her out on her own simply to apologise? Or was it to

  annoy Christine and Daphne? Or perhaps to delight his mother? But was that fair to his mother? Rayanne found herself thinking. If his mother really wanted Cary to marry this English girl and there was no hope of him wanting to do so, then was it fair to let Mrs Jefferson think there was hope? It was all such a muddle, and it was hateful to have Christine look at her like that and Daphne's voice change when she spoke to whom she obviously saw as her rival. If only she could slip away quietly to bed, Rayanne thought miserably. She wasn't enjoying this at all . . .

  But there was to be no escape. Mrs Jefferson said proudly :

  Rayanne tells me she's quite a good piani
st.'

  Her face bright red, Rayanne denied it. I didn't ! I said I played by ear. I can't read a note.' '

  ' Then you can hardly be called a pianist,' Daphne Macintyre said drily.

  ' Let's hear you, Ray,' Cary said quickly, going to the small spinet which stood by the wall facing the window. ' Mother sometimes plays on this, so we regularly have it tuned.'

  ' No, I . . Rayanne began, suddenly terrified,

  aware of critical eyes.

  ' But, Miss Briscoe, you must play for us,' Christine said sweetly. I'm longing to hear you. It fascinates me so to meet someone who plays by ear.'

  Rayanne stood up reluctantly, well aware that Christine was convinced it was all a lie, that Rayanne couldn't play a note, that she had lied in boast-

  ing about it and that this would betray her! How pleased Christine and Daphne would be.

  Sitting by the spinet, Rayanne stretched her fingers, looked round. What shall I play?' she asked.

  Whatever you can,' said Christine, a sarcastic tinge in her voice.

  Anything you like, Ray,' Cary said. ' We're waiting.'

  Rayanne half-closed her eyes, trying to shut out the picture of those in the room. This had always been her escape—when she had felt most forlorn, most despairing of ever being someone ', of winning her father's approval and love—then she had fled to the piano. Just dreaming her way through the sound, letting her fingers take control, had always comforted her. Not that her family appreciated it; indeed she never played when any of them were around if she Could help it, for she would only have got rude comments, teasing because she couldn't learn to play properly '.

  Shutting out the rest of the world, Rayanne imagined herself and Cary alone on an enormous empty beach, holding hands, running, dancing along the wet sand, feeling the warm caressing touch of the incoming tide . . . her fingers touched the keys and she could see Cary laughing at her, could hear herself laughing, too. She could feel the happiness she had always dreamed of, the security his warm hand gave hers, the wonder of the knowledge that he loved her, that she was his . . . Vaguely she heard a haunting tune as her fingers explored sound.

  Suddenly she stopped, opened her eyes and shook

  herself. It was strange. She looked round, stung by the silence. Had she made a fool of herself? she wondered.

  Ray, that was beautiful,' Cary said slowly, his voice amazed. Wasn't it, Mother?'

  Lovely, really lovely, Rayanne dear,' Mrs Jefferson said, her voice husky, a few tears running down her soft cheeks. Could you play it again?'

  Rayanne shook her head. ' I'm afraid not. I never can.'

  But you must have learned it from somewhere,' Daphne said impatiently. You couldn't have composed it.'

  I . . . hardly heard it myself. What did I play?' Rayanne asked.

  Christine laughed. Honestly, you must have

  heard it! It was loud enough. Triumphant . .

  ' I don't agree,' said Cary, his quiet voice sounding more impressive to Rayanne than if he had shouted. I thought it was beautiful—a happy tune. The melody of a dream.' He looked at Rayanne. ' Am I right?'

  Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. ' Quite right, Cary,' she said with equal quietness.

  CHAPTER IV

  Next morning, Rayanne asked Kwido to take her to see the small giraffe. It was fascinating to watch the little animal with his unsteady legs. Mike Crisp was there and he told her a lot about giraffes that she had not realised.

  You can learn from a book,' Mike said scornfully, and know nothing. It's when you live with them that you know.'

  Rayanne's notes were, at last, growing longer. But she still had no idea what sort of thesis she would finally write.

  Kwido drove her back to the house and as she walked in on her way to her bedroom, for her usual shower and change of clothes, Rayanne paused, for Mrs Jefferson's voice was clearly audible through the half-open drawing-room door.

  Honestly, Cary, you could have spared me this. You know how I hate that girl! '

  ' It isn't my fault, Mother. I didn't ask her to come.'

  Then . .

  Rayanne stood still. It was wrong to eavesdrop, she knew, and yet . . . Who were they talking about? she wondered. Could it be herself?

  You must have given her your address, Cary,' Mrs Jefferson said crossly.

  I did not, Mother,' Cary said in that maddening, exasperated, patient voice he often used. Without being boastful, you must admit that everyone south

  of. the Equator—and many north of it, too—know where the Jefferson Wild Life Reserve is. I met Aileen in London at one of the conferences and have thought nothing of her since. Is it my fault if she chose to honour us with a visit? After all, Aileen Hampton is a veterinary surgeon, interested in wild life conservation, doing a tour of the world's reserves, and she does mix with the world's elite.'

  But why wait until the last moment and send you a cable? She'll be arriving this afternoon!' Mrs Jefferson almost wailed. ' I'll have to put her up here—I can't let her go into one of those ghastly rondavels.'

  Perhaps she's coming to visit you, Mother,' Cary said, again with that amused sarcastic voice Rayanne hated so much. ' After all, she met you first. That's how she introduced herself to me. She came up and said: Cary Jefferson, I believe? and when I confessed she was right, she went on: I met your charming mother in Paris and she told me all about your wonderful Reserve. You see, Mother, it was all your fault. If you didn't blow the trumpet of praise for your only son, she might never have heard of me.'

  Mrs Jefferson sighed. Well, it's too late to do

  anything about it.'

  Cary chuckled. You have to admire her for bright thinking,' he laughed as Rayanne hurried away, and added: That's why she sent the cable.'

  In her own bedroom, Rayanne hastily showered; the cool water refreshed her hot dusty skin, and she brushed her hair vigorously. How conceited Cary was! Yet could you blame him, she asked herself,

  when girls so blatantly chased him? It was all a joke to him, something to laugh at. But was it as funny for the unfortunate girls who fell for his charm? On the other hand, was that his fault?

  There was a simple solution, of course, she told her reflection in the mirror sternly as she carefully made up. She could run away! Run away as fast as she could before she got hurt still more! It was as simple as that. So why didn't she? she asked herself. She knew the answer, therefore it was a waste of time to put it into words. She loved the wretched man . . . she loved him!

  She stood very still, staring at herself in the mirror, pressing her hand hard against her trembling mouth. So she would stay on as long as she could, being a fool, a stupid fool? Was that what love did to you? What would happen next? This Aileen person was almost certain to be tall and slim, with beautiful long legs and a lovely face .. .

  Rayanne found it difficult to join Mrs Jefferson for lunch, but it had to be done. Rayanne was surprised when Mrs Jefferson said nothing about the new visitor; indeed, Mrs Jefferson seemed to be in a strange mood. It could hardly be called depressed; perhaps a more accurate word would be

  thoughtful.

  So the meal passed with very little said and afterwards Rayanne pleaded an imaginary task of writing, for she had a strong feeling that Mrs Jefferson would like to be alone; that she had something important to think about.

  After typing out the notes she had made—Cary had lent her a portable typewriter, scolding her for

  her lack of thought in not bringing one out with-....' her—Rayanne walked in the garden. It was so hot that as she walked the perspiration trickled down her face ; the glare made her eyes ache, yet she felt too restless to stay in her room. If only she had a car of her own, Rayanne thought, and added: and could drive it! It would be nice to go and see Samantha Crisp and have a chat. In Africa it was essential to have a car of your own; particularly in a backwater like this.

  A backwater like this . . . she repeated the words slowly. Where had she heard them? Samantha, of course, in one of her usua
l moans about the loneliness. Samantha had no car, nor could she drive, either. Both Daphne Macintyre and Christine Horlock had their own cars and Rayanne gathered that they frequently drove to the small town thirty-four miles away. Out here that distance was nothing, you got there in about half an hour. Now, Rayanne was thinking, if only she had a car she could see something of Africa and its beauty . . . but what was the good, for she wouldn't be here much longer. How long could she stay? she wondered. Mrs Jefferson had begged her to stay as long as she could. That was what Rayanne wanted too, but how would Cary react?

  The garden was very beautiful. She walked right down to the water's edge and shuddered as she watched a crocodile moving with his slow crawl over the sandbank, then pausing, yawning, opening his huge mouth. He looked so absorbed in what he was doing, so determined to get what he wanted. It was funny how scared she was of crocodiles, she told

  herself. The other animals didn't frighten her at all—except that she thought hippos and rhinos were so hideous she preferred not to look at them! Was she really so interested in wild life conservation? she asked herself. Or was it all because of Cary?

  She walked back slowly towards the house. How lovely were the trees with the bougainvilleas, a lovely purple, climbing up their trunks, and those with their small white scented blossoms. This was a beautiful place. She could live here so happily.

  Rayanne's mind seemed to skid to a standstill. Surely she hadn't been stupid enough to get as far as dreaming that maybe one day . . . ?

  Ray! ' a familiar deep voice startled her.

  She turned and saw Cary striding towards her. He was wearing a safari suit and had bare legs and feet. As he came closer she saw his hair was rumpled and he looked tired. This was so unusual that she found herself saying:

  ' What's happened?'

  He smiled ruefully. Nearly a tragedy. Down the river three piccanins were playing in the water—they said at the edge, but even that's dangerous. Anyhow, a croc grabbed the leg of one and tried to drag the piccanin in . . . one boy hung on to his friend's arm, but the croc was winning, so the other one grabbed a stick and stuck it in the croc's eye . . . that made him let go.'