“That’s fine. He’ll probably bring you home a Spanish stepmother, and you can work to keep her, too. How are the lordly brothers getting on?”
“What do you care?”
“I don’t,” he said crisply, “but I’d like to meet them, just once. Even Cramer is worth a dozen such, relatives as you seem to possess.”
“You’re very kind to Martin.” She leaned farther back in the wicker chair and crossed her ankles. “You ought to have a domineering wife and six brats, Mr. Paterson. They’d keep you out of other people’s affairs. It’s easy to see why you’re not married.”
“Yes?” with mockery.
“Yes,” she echoed flatly. “You can’t fall in love because you suspect everyone. And though it’s said that women like to be mastered, beyond a certain point the very masculine man repels them.”
“It may surprise you to hear that I was once engaged.”
“It does.” Her brows lifted. “She had a lucky escape.”
Softly, he said: “If you’re trying to annoy me, Teresa, you’re not succeeding. Once before when I came in friendly spirit your pigheadedness put me off. It won’t this time, because I recognize your obstinacy for what it is — a natural wall of defence.”
“You don’t have to be matey just because your dog pushed me in the river. I’m no more worth knowing now than I was a month ago.”
He grinned. “Did I once say you had no pride? I take it back. The Arnolds and a few others are coming to my place to dinner next Saturday. Will you come, too?”
“No!”
“You’ve been to Inchfaun, and Zinto is much nearer. Will you come if I include Cramer?”
Tess got out her handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of her mouth. Watching her, his cynicism vanished. He straightened and spoke quietly.
“You must get tired of acting tough. I didn’t intend to say this now — I hoped we’d understand each other first, but you won’t have it. I’m going to write to your father through my lawyer, giving him notice to quit.”
Her handkerchief slipped to the floor, and her fingers fastened over the arms of her chair. A lost look came into her blue staring eyes.
“You’re ... kicking us out?”
He became intent upon the garden, and his manner took a sharp, impersonal note.
“Until yesterday I’d thought the present arrangement could continue till your father returns. While you were asleep in my room I came down to see Cramer, and from the way he took the news that you were hurt I guessed that he’s in love with you.”
“How does that affect the store?”
“The place belongs to me, and I just won’t tolerate that kind of thing.” Almost irritably he went on: “If he were an ordinary healthy sort of fellow I’d encourage you to marry him and take a long lease on the store. But he’s a misfit, neither a real writer nor a good trader.”
“Martin’s never had a chance, but he’s happier here than he has ever been, and he is writing well. Every article he writes here is accepted.”
Dave wheeled and looked at her. “Does he mean much to you?”
“Quite a bit. If only ...” She pushed on the chair arms and stood up. “It’s no use, if you’ve decided.”
“If only what? You might as well finish.”
“Well... Martin can’t write without encouragement and the knowledge that he’s needed. Working at the store and contact with me are changing him. Only a few days ago he had a letter congratulating him and asking for a particular type of story and I think he’s certain to turn out some excellent stuff — so long as he isn’t jerked out of these surroundings.”
“My ... God,” he said, on a long-drawn, incredulous note. “You can’t be taking on still another man.” He came close, his eyes searching into hers. “You’re the most extraordinary creature I’ve struck. Don’t you ever think about yourself — pretty clothes and good times, and the feelings deep inside you? Could Martin satisfy your woman’s needs? You’re crazy.”
Tess couldn’t believe that it was Dave’s hands holding her face. Dave’s mouth hard and warm upon her own. And she was completely unaware that the pulsing beneath her fingers came through Dave’s ribs from his heart.
When he let. her go she gazed at him like a child at a problem picture.
“That,” he said in an odd tone, “is an experience which will do you more good than it will do me. It should prove a working sample if Martin ever gets busy.”
She saw him stride down the path and leave the gate swinging. And, strangely, she touched not her burning lips but the nape of her neck, where pressure had started a new spurt of blood to stain the dressing.
Days passed, the wound healed and Martin began to smile again. Tess reproached herself for neglecting his feelings and invited him to work in the lounge the whole of the next week-end.
She wondered if Dave had carried out his threat or postponed the decision for a while. Like the rest of the growers at this season, he was becoming intensely busy. On the far side of his plantation picking had begun. Tess saw his lorry loaded with lug-boxes pass the store two or three times a day.
“The boys keep whispering about liquor,” Martin said. “Did your father supply them?”
“We’re not licensed, but we’ve always ordered a few cases around autumn. I daren’t do it this year.”
“Paterson?”
Tess nodded. “It’s a pity. We made very little on it, but the people got a kick out of affording a couple of bottles once a year. It was a change from their homemade brew, and made them feel good and expansive.”
Inevitably, Martin was caught and bound by the simple directness, the clean limbs and tensile body, and the unsullied blue eyes of Tess Bentley. Her courage and nonchalance in a universe packed tight with terrors made him humble; her faintly antiseptic scent from the soap she used accentuated for him her innocence and need for protection; her sweet curves he admitted wryly, unbearably quickened his blood. This last was one of the reasons he worked so unstintingly at his writing; he hadn’t the physical outlet for frustrated emotion of the sportsman or athlete. The other reason was founded on fear and hope: in a few weeks he was due for another overhaul by the specialist in Johannesburg.
Early one evening, loitering on the Bentley veranda after the store was closed, he told Tess about it.
“I shouldn’t be gone long—not more than four days, and I’ll fix it to take in a week-end.”
“You’re excited about it, Martin.” In the softening light her mouth was tender. “When do you go?”
“Not for a couple of months — in August. But I’ve a hunch the doctor will give me good news. I’ve never felt so alive.”
“No one has chest trouble in this district. I don’t see why you shouldn’t stay on after my father returns, even if it’s only as a boarder with Piet Marais.”
His hand slipped along the veranda rail, to cover hers. “I hope you’ll want me to stay, Tess.”
“Of course I shall.”
His smile was a little tense. “Tess, if ... supposing this chap’s satisfied with my bellows, would you ...” He stopped, flushing. “It’s lousy of me to try to drag a half-promise out of you. You see, you’re the most wonderful thing that ever came into my life. Don’t blame me for wanting to cling to it.”
Tess was moved. She smiled and twisted her hand to clasp his. “I’ll always be somewhere about, Martin.” He smoothed out her fingers and pressed them to his cheek. “Good night,” he whispered, and was gone.
It was for Martin’s sake that she went more often to Inchfaun. Cath Arnold’s pretty cousin, Mariella Carr, had come up from the coast for a long vacation, and Cath had declared an open invitation to all who cared to make the evenings bright for the dark-haired, merry young lady.
In order to compete with the holiday-minded Mariella, Tess had had to buy a couple of gay dresses and some new white sandals. Compared with the older girl’s magnolia bloom, Tess was a budding tea-rose. Here in the backveld, Mariella’s allure faintly shocked the women and unsettled the
young men. The only man who seemed thoroughly at home with her, Tess noticed, was Dave Paterson.
Tess had not known that he was to be of the party that evening. She and Martin had arrived too late for supper, and had eaten some sandwiches and fruit in Cath’s kitchen before joining the guests, who danced and chattered between the lounge and veranda. The piano, played by a grave man in glasses, emitted rhythm but little music, for it was old and needed tuning.
“Shall we dance?” said Martin.
Tess patted the pearls over the high neckline of her blue dress and raised her slim tanned arms. Martin’s hold always began light and reverent, but the brush of her hair against his skin and the supple ease of her body close to his invariably tightened his sinews. He was downcast yet glad when, as the pianist faded out, she suggested a rest on the veranda.
They found an unoccupied wicker bench and stayed there, saying little till a gramophone started up and the veranda emptied.
“Dance again?” asked Martin.
Tess shelved her own inclinations and smilingly said no. She was on the point of starting him off on a description of his latest story when Dave came out of the house with Mariella, and escorted her down the steps into the sprawling, wooded garden.
“Wasn’t that Paterson?” enquired Martin from her other side.
“Yes, with the lovely brunette. Cath told me he would never come to her parties — only for a quiet dinner.”
“I’m surprised that he should be caught by anything so obvious.”
“As Mariella?” Tess laughed. “He’ll be disappointed. She’s after a husband.”
“You don’t think he’d...” Martin broke off, stunned.
“I certainly do — if he had the chance. He’s not mixing with a bunch of inelegant skaaps because he likes them.”
“I’ve never considered Paterson that way,” said Martin slowly.
“He’s lived too long in the tropics to regard women in any other light,” she said.
Before Martin could reply a cascade of laughter sounded, close to them in the garden.
Mariella demanded, high-pitched: “Is that a promise, Dave? Will you take me?”
“Freetown’s a long way,” said Dave’s sardonic tones.
“Tropical heat is unflattering to a woman’s complexion and death to the finer emotions. After the first week I always thrash my women black and blue.”
“Really?”
Below his breath, Martin murmured, “She believes him.”
And equally low, Tess answered, “So do I.”
The next moment the couple appeared, sauntering on the path, Dave tall and broad in a light suit, his hands thrust carelessly into his trousers pockets, and Mariella all pink and cream and bobbing black tresses. Dave had raised his head towards the two on the veranda, and paused.
“That can’t be you, Teresa.”
“That could be you, Mr. Paterson,” she returned with the same inflexion. “Good evening, Mariella.”
Dave said coolly: “Mind if I break it up? I’d like a word with you, Tess.”
Mariella had drifted to Martin’s side.
“Shall we go indoors?” he said politely.
Tess remained leaning against a veranda post. The light from the room behind silhouetted her head and shoulders, throwing into relief the cap of pale curls and gleaming over their surface.
Dave’s lifted brow shone like copper: his smile was very white. “Come down here. I’ll help you.”
In slacks she would have been over in a second, disdaining assistance. Now, she turned and used the steps. When she reached him he put his head on one side, surveying her from the topmost curl to her waist. For half a minute her stare challenged him. Then: “What am I supposed to do? Smack your face?”
“Were my thoughts so blatant?” He grinned, and added accusingly, “I believe you’re letting your hair grow, too.”
“Aren’t you wasting your technique? I’m not Mariella.”
They had begun to walk along the path between aloes and Canary palms.
“Wholesome little piece, isn’t she?” he said conversationally. “She hasn’t quite your intelligence, Teresa, but she’s instinctively wise about handling men.”
“I’m sure of that.” High-voiced, she mimicked,
“Do you really thrash your women, Dave?”
He nipped the arm that swung beside him. “I’d certainly get some relief out of chastising you, my child. You’re my biggest headache.”
“Which I take to mean that you haven’t yet cabled my father,” she said, carefully excluding all antagonism from her voice. “I’m very grateful.”
“I came tonight purposely to see you about it,” he curtly told her.
“I live just down the lane,” she softly reminded him.
“It occurred to me that on neutral ground we stood more chance of observing the conventions.” Tess had no time to analyse this before he ended, “Has your father fixed on a date for his return?”
“He’s sailing from Rio in about five weeks and I believe the trip takes nearly a month.” She cast a sideways glance at him. “Will you leave it over that long?”
“It depends on Cramer.”
For Martin’s sake she lied. “You misjudge him. Martin’s not a man in love.”
“The signs are pretty obvious. I’m not blind. Something is holding him back, but with a man of his type there always comes a snapping point. I mean him to be gone before that happens.”
She slowed and he, perforce, did the same, and faced her. The night breeze quivered through her dress and seemed to affect her voice.
“Martin’s going through a period of strain. We can’t complicate his life at this juncture.” Briefly, she explained about the forthcoming examination by a specialist in Johannesburg. “So you see, we’ve got to keep him happy and optimistic. About his ... emotions, where I’m concerned,” she avoided the unswerving gaze, “I’m convinced it’s a mental symptom of his physical condition. He’s becoming more fit every day, and, well—”
“He’s wanting a woman,” Dave brutally supplied. “Isn’t that what I’ve been trying to ram into you?”
“It isn’t as crude as that,” she cried. “Two years ago he had to renounce all idea of a normal life, and now...” She threw out a hand. “You’re a man — can’t you guess how he must feel?”
“I can,” he said, grimly mocking. “I am also aware that where your affections lie you can be an absolute fool. However, from what I’ve seen of Cramer, he’s inherently decent. He’d need encouragement to go the whole way with you.”
A silence stretched between them. Dave offered cigarettes and, when she refused, lit one for himself. Tess saw the perpetually glowing tip close to his mouth but forbore to ask whether he always smoked so furiously; tonight he seemed bent on devastatingly plain speaking.
“If I were you,” she advised, “I’d go in and prise Mariella from her present partner. She’ll make you forget this session with me.”
“Quite,” he agreed with acidity. “Making love used to be the antidote for most ills in the tropics. We’d have considered ourselves blessed by all the gods if there had been anything on hand as delicious as Mariella.”
She shrugged. “You’re among plenty of women now. Why the grudge?”
There was a harshness in his reply. “I’ve been looking forward to settling in a place like Zinto for a long time — too long. Now I’ve got it, it tastes flat.”
“After only four months?”
“I did a stupid thing. — I didn’t cut clean from the tropics. There’s a tin mine at Lokola in which I still own a half-share.”
“Oh.” Her curiosity and interest had warmed. “Where’s Lokola?”
“On the West Coast, about a hundred miles inland.”
“Couldn’t you sell out now?”
“Probably.”
“You’d rather keep it, though.” Thoughtfully, she had a peach to her teeth, tearing off the skin. “I wonder what made you retain a link with West Africa? Af
ter all...”
Forcibly, he grasped the peach and flung it away. “Your passion for fruit-stealing will land you in prison, or in hospital,” he snapped irritably. “That peach has been hanging in the dust for months.” From which little outburst Tess gathered that he regretted her brief invasion of his privacy, and that she had better forget what she had just learned about him.
By now they were back on the path below the veranda. The gramophone still crooned and young folk still danced and laughed, but Mariella sat on the steps alone, her pink skirt wide, her skin freshly powdered. She looked cool, but sounded breathless.
“You’ve missed three dances. What on earth did you find to talk about?”
Dave bowed. “Chiefly you, Mariella, and some business besides.”
“What about the drive you promised me?”
“Did I?” He smiled urbanely. “Will you pardon us, Teresa? We have a date with the moon.”
Benignly, Tess inclined her head. “I hope you’ll both have fun. Good night, Mariella. Good night, Mr. Paterson.”
She entered Cath’s lounge, vexed to realize that she was listening exclusively to the receding purr of Dave’s sedan.
After that evening, Tess kept clear of Inchfaun. An unseasonable storm provided the first excuse and it was not difficult to fabricate others as occasion necessitated.
She was not altogether cut off from Mariella Carr. That good-looking young woman had taken to borrowing Everard Arnold’s tourer and driving down most mornings for a dip in Dave’s pool. She must have bathed alone, for Dave was increasingly occupied with the citrus harvest and new planting, but as the clock was invariably moving towards one when she rounded the bend for Inchfaun, it was reasonable to suppose that his morning’s work finished in time for him to give her a drink and wave her off.
One morning Mariella pulled up and came into the store. She wore white, which startlingly enhanced her milky, thick-textured complexion. Tess, in her old blue jeans and a patched shirt, dark with sweat at each temple and grubby from handling skins, felt a tramp. But she greeted the other girl breezily.
“Lucky you, being on holiday. Wish I had time for a swim each morning.”
Carefully preserving the foot of space between her dress and the counter, Mariella twisted about with an inward excitement.
Love This Stranger Page 4
