Nothing outstanding about it, except the cleanliness and the scholarly hand. His name was Martin Cramer; he had no Afrikaans but was fluent in Kaffir; he was twenty-six and had come out from England eighteen months ago. Of what he had done during this period he made no mention, but Tess liked his brevity, and was intrigued that an Englishman should consider assisting at a trading station for a small salary. She would invite him along for a talk.
On Thursday afternoon a storm accumulated over the mountains and moved in, a pall of purple flannel. Natives vanished from the roads and paths into the location on the hillside, and a burdened hush settled over the trees. Tess instructed Jacob to close and shutter the store, and walked the path which led to the back of the house. She made a round of the windows, and had reached the last, in the lounge, as the squall arose. Katie was out there, on her way to the family hut on the other side of the hedge.
The first rain came in big lumps which hammered on to the roof. Then, with an explosion of thunder that rocked the house, the skies opened to release torrents upon the thirsting land.
It was so long since Tess had last been imprisoned by the elements that she did not quite know what to do. The bookshelves, having been denuded some time ago for the native school, gaped between piles of old magazines; the gramophone records were chipped and raucous-toned with age; and Katie did the mending of the threadbare sheets and supper cloths.
Sighing a little with boredom, she returned to her bedroom and reached down her dresses from the wardrobe. She could still wriggle into them, but only the pleated tennis shorts and blouse were comfortable. She kept them on, turning about in front of the liver-spotted mirror, her smile reminiscent. It would be pleasant to play tennis again with people of her own age.
It was after seven. Thunder and lightning had moved on, but the rain still thudded like a million devils. That was why the knocking at the front door went on for some time before she heard it. As she paused in the hall, the banging was repeated with such desperate urgency that she plunged forward and released the catch.
What she expected to see, Tess never remembered. Everything else was driven from her mind by the sight of the young man who stood in the porch, streaming from every point of his person.
“I’m sorry to burst in upon you so suddenly,” he gasped. “This is Mr. Bentley’s house, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Come in.”
He did, and shed a circle of pools over the floor. “Mr. Bentley’s expecting me — Martin Cramer.”
“Good lord!” She stared. “What made you come out on a night like this?”
“I didn’t. It wasn’t raining when I started. D’you think I might slough my jacket?”
“Of course. Let me take it.”
“It’s too soggy. I’ll drop it here.”
He shivered, and she became instantly conscious that he did not appear particularly robust. His hair still rained down his neck, and the sports shirt he wore was soaked.
“Come to the bathroom,” she said quickly. “I can’t offer you a hot bath, but we have plenty of rough towels. You can rub down and get into some of my father’s clothes. I’ll have a hot meal ready for you in five minutes,”
“You’re awfully kind.”
His gratitude was just a little pathetic. Back in the kitchen, spreading a cloth and drawing the table near to the cooking-stove, she wondered about him. Some men, the Dave Paterson breed, made one feel foolish and painfully young. Martin Cramer appealed to one’s instincts. How absurd to be leaping to conclusions about him; she had only seen him for two minutes. He found his way to the kitchen and stood blinking in the light, a faint, rueful smile on his lips as he held up his arms to show the voluminous misfit of Ned’s old suit.
“It’s warm, though,” he said.
“Come and sit near the stove and have some pie.” She saw now that he was just above middle height, and only remarkable for the length and thickness of his tan-coloured hair. His features were fine and regular, but they had no particular charm till he smiled.
They had started eating when he looked up suddenly, in consternation. “Are you alone here?”
“Yes, I mostly am in the evenings.”
“What about your father?”
“He’s away for several months. That’s why I need an assistant.”
“But really ... I mustn’t, stay.” He was already out of his chair. “Why the blazes didn’t I wait till the morning?”
“Listen,” she said, indicating the ceiling. “You’ve got to stay till that stops, so you may as well eat, and we can get our interview over at the same time. Did you come from Parsburg, or beyond?”
He relaxed, and took up his knife and fork again. “From Parsburg,” he told her. “I’d been down to East London, and only got back this afternoon. I found your letter among my mail at the hotel — I thought T. Bentley was a man — and decided to drive straight over. The storm caught me about three miles down from here, so I pulled in, intending to wait till it passed.”
She smiled. “Haven’t you hit a storm in these parts before?”
“One becomes so used to eternal sunshine and appalling dust,” he said apologetically.
“So you sat in your car,” she prompted.
“It isn’t much of a car. It began to leak, first in one spot and then in another, till I was sitting in a lake. The rain still poured in sheets, but I had to get out and walk, or squat there begging for pneumonia. My own idiotic fault,” he finished.
“You’re not eating.”
He gave up pretence. “I’m sorry. I really ought to be going ...” He shuddered violently, but managed to struggle upright.
Tess said, “Mr. Cramer!” and the next second was gazing at a slim young man prone upon the floor.
She had scarcely recovered from the shock when Martin opened his eyes.
“I’m afraid,” he said quietly, “that I’ve caught a chill.”
Tess slipped an arm under him. “You did rather sit up and beg for it, didn’t you? Now ... can you manage? Lean on me, I’m as strong as a horse. Just through here, to the bedroom.”
“I can’t be ill here,” he said weakly.
“There’s no doctor, of course, but I’ve got some sulphadiazine which might do till morning.”
“You don’t know what I mean,” he whispered, but attempted no more.
He slumped upon the bed and gave himself up to shivering. She covered him with three blankets, made him swallow the tablets, and left him shut up in her dark bedroom.
The china clock in the kitchen said ten past eight. Tess stood by the littered table, feeling rather helpless. An hour ago she had been alone and very hungry, but now the sight of the cubes of beef-steak congealing in their covering of potatoes and pastry nauseated her.
The Mkize family would accept without question the true explanation of Martin Cramer’s presence in the house, and so, Tess thought, would the local farming people when they came to hear of it. No one would contemplate turning away a fellow-being in such circumstances. Then why was she fretting? Dave Paterson, blast him.
Tess decided at that moment to administer white tablets at the correct four-hourly intervals throughout the night, and to watch Martin’s temperature. Thank heaven she had the sulphadiazine left over from one of her father’s prescriptions.
Next morning Martin was better, but too wan looking to be allowed up.
“You’ll have to take more care of yourself,” Tess told him severely. “I can’t have a co-manager who acts as crazily as you did yesterday.”
“But you can’t take me on after that,” he protested. “I feel swab enough lying in your bed and causing you endless trouble. I don’t deserve to come into your life at all.”
This aspect tickled Tess. “You haven’t stepped into fairyland, you know. You’ll have to live somewhere near here, and there’s nothing whatever to do with your leisure, unless you read a great deal.”
“What do you do?”
“I kick about,” she replied vaguely. “But I’ve
lived here most of my life.”
“I wouldn’t have any leisure,” he said. “You see, I ... well, I’m a bit of an ethnologist.”
“You mean you study natives and their tribal characteristics?”
“I didn’t intend to sound pompous. Three years ago I was a member of an expedition into Gabon. Physically, it rather wrecked me, but I learned a lot. Back in England I couldn’t keep fit, and the doctor recommended somewhere warm and dry.”
“So that was how you came to Parsburg,” she stated, with the youthful grin. “You’ll have to stay in if it ever rains again.” She paused, leaning on the back of a chair, regarding him. His longish hair on the pillow and his thin face and throat possessed a grace uncommon in a man, and the faint hollows at his temples made him look vulnerable. Tess had never seen a man like Martin before. She said: “I can’t pay you much, but I’d like you to take the job. Actually, you need only seem busy when white folk are about. Katie cooks good food, and we can arrange a decent sleeping place for you.”
“I’m not a waif,” he said. “Why did you advertise if you can get along without help?”
Frankly she explained, and when she had finished Martin was smiling faintly.
“Your Dave Paterson won’t approve of me. I’m not his type.”
“We’ll see about that! When you’re over this we’ll go up and present you. He’ll be satisfied about one thing, at any rate. He’s anxious that I should remain innocent — and I’m sure he’ll consider me safe with you.”
A swift shadow passed over Martin’s face. “May I have a cigarette?” he asked.
“I’ll send some in.”
Tess hesitated outside the door, aware that her last few words had upset him. She couldn’t think why — they had been meant as a compliment. Perhaps he was sensitive about his physique, or perhaps all he really needed was the cigarette.
During the next day or so she learned more about him. His childhood had been a long-drawn mental agony, a tug-of-war between divorced parents. At eighteen he had cut away and taken up journalism, to discover later that he was temperamentally unsuited to the profession. He could write, but interviewing of any kind made him wretched.
The trip to Gabon had offered release and a field of research. Sheer bad luck that he had got sick and ruined his chance of being included in the second expedition.
“Your letter said you’d been in the Union eighteen months,” Tess reminded him. “What have you been doing?”
“At first I lived on a farm in the Karoo as a paying guest. Then my money began to dwindle rather alarmingly, so I had to get about and write a few articles for the English press. But I’m not one of those machines who can turn out work at a regular rate. I answered your advertisement because I was barren of ideas and living in hotels costs too much.”
“I hope you’ll stay till my father comes back.”
“I hope so, too,” he echoed quietly.
The third morning was a Sunday, and he got up to have late breakfast with Tess on the veranda. In khaki shorts and a white sweater he appeared younger than twenty-six, and his smile had a hint of spontaneous humour. Tess had got into the white shorts and shirt and brushed her hair out of the rough curls and into short, crisp waves, but the breeze soon got among them. Tess could never look slick.
They ate grapefruit and French fried toast, and emptied the coffee-pot. She sighed contentedly and raised her bare feet to the veranda rail.
“D’you think we could turn the lawn into a tennis-court, Martin? It’s tough Kikuyu grass, but the weather is mostly too hot for a fast game.”
“It could be done. What about a net?”
“The boys could make one of rope and grass thatching. I’ve two racquets that I used at school.”
“I bet you play a good game, with legs like those.”
“Too skinny for beauty, I suppose. Still, I haven’t really got time to be beautiful, and there’s no one to compete with, anyway. But there are some tennis players around, and it’d be fun to have tennis parties at the week-ends.” Amazed at herself, Tess went on: “If you like, we can go to the Inchfaun Farm this afternoon. I think you’ll enjoy the Arnolds.”
“Haven’t you forgotten Mr. Paterson?”
“The Big Bad Boss of Zinto? No, I haven’t. At least ...” She stopped to shrug. “It’s Sunday. I don’t want to think of him.”
“You’ll have to, Tess,” he said firmly, while his eyes turned away over the garden. “I’m not an invalid any more.”
“It won’t hurt to wait till tomorrow.”
“If we do, I’ll sleep elsewhere tonight.”
The sigh she gave now was less placid. “Have you ever met anyone who makes your scalp tingle and the hairs go up on the back of your neck?”
“Nothing on two legs, but I came across a kudu in the dark once and had those symptoms. I was sure it was a lion.”
She nodded sympathetically. “So long as you’re prepared,” she said, “we may as well go to the farmhouse this morning.”
Tess should have got up then, and told Katie to clear the breakfast things. But it was so pleasant to lounge there surrounded by trees, and to watch the lazy waving of scarlet and saffron cannas through the veranda bars, that she slipped deeper into her chair and encouraged Martin to talk about himself. The effect of the gently moving flowers was narcotic, and her lids drooped.
When a car door slammed she mistook it for a sound from the native hut.
Then Martin said: “Wake up, Tess, you have a visitor.”
Her eyes flicked wide, her legs swung down, and a peculiar tightening of muscle and nerve passed through her body.
“Hello,” she said, as Dave took the steps in one go. “What a ... nice surprise.”
“I wonder.” The grey stare swept over Martin. “Have we met before?”
“I don’t see how you could have. Mar ... Mr. Cramer has only just arrived,” Tess said rapidly.
“I see. A friend of yours. How do you do,” he said formally.
Martin began clearly: “Tess has told me about you, Mr. Paterson. As a matter of fact, we were coming to see you this morning—”
But Tess broke in a little desperately, “Martin, d’you mind if I speak to Mr. Paterson alone?”
He didn’t care for the idea, but she looked as he had thought Tess never could look; keyed up and angry, and just a scrap frightened. So he strolled round to the back of the house, leaving her facing Dave across that indisputable breakfast table.
Tess felt the appraising glance as if it were a flame licking over her. Intent upon the breast pocket of his shirt, she said: “Martin Cramer has come to help me at the store. He’s English and can speak Kaffir fluently. He doesn’t want much salary — in fact he’s willing to work for just his keep. He ... he has to live in a warm, dry climate.”
“You did say he was a friend of yours?” Dave queried politely.
“In a way. I ... I’m anxious to do this for him.”
“So anxious that he’s got you stammering. How long have you known him?”
“A little while.”
“Why won’t he take a salary from you?”
“He doesn’t need it. He writes for English periodicals.”
“You might have mentioned this accommodating young man when we discussed this question before.” An instant’s pause. “Or weren’t you two acquainted then?”
Her head came up, but whatever she was about to fling at him stayed paralysed in her throat. This was the first time she had seen contempt and dislike manifested so completely in one person’s countenance. “When did he come here?” he demanded.
“On Thursday, in the storm. He’d got a chill. I couldn’t send him away.”
“The rain ended about midnight. You could have let me know ... at the latest by next morning.”
“Once he’d spent the night here I thought that pointless. In any case, you’d have made a fuss and yanked him into other quarters before he was well enough for it. Why do you keep looking at me like that?”
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A mask slid down over the jutting features. “Like what?”
“As if every word I’ve uttered is a lie.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, not sounding it. “I think I had better have a private talk with this man.”
“That isn’t necessary,” she retorted at once. “I won’t have you stamping on his feelings as you stamp on mine. You’ve seen that he’s genuine. He can sleep in the rondavel at the end of the garden and take his meals here at the house. You’ve got what you ordered — a man at the store — and now you can leave us both in peace.”
“You’re either terribly young,” he answered with cold sarcasm, “or the typical product of a shiftless family. In spite of you, I mean to speak plainly to Mr. Cramer, and to insist that he lodge with Marais, at the foreman’s house. Tell him to come up before lunch and to bring his belongings.”
Some moments, had to pass before Tess could reply. She was breathing unevenly as she said. “You probably had a reason for coming here this morning, Mr. Paterson?”
“Yes, I did — a social one, but my appetite for the pleasanter side of life seems to have dried up.” He turned and left her, strode down the path and out of the gateway with infuriating arrogance.
The new arrangement worked satisfactorily. Martin settled into the spare bedroom at the rambling Marais bungalow, but spent most of his waking hours at the store or in the Bentley house.
Martin brought down titbits of news. Dave was working hard to recondition the citrus, and he had started a fine nursery of seedlings. The cattle were being injected against this and that disease, and the far acres were cleared for new planting. Marais had said that a house-warming party was in the air.
Love This Stranger Page 2
