Christmas passed without festivity. By day a hot, dry wind swept down from the desert, lessening the humidity but spoiling the usually cool evenings. No one sought his bed till after midnight and by five in the morning everybody was astir. The few hours within a mosquito net were a wakeful, sweating nightmare. Legions of insects swarmed through the clearing. Brigham went down with malaria; so did Avia Redding.
That January was the worst Dave had ever experienced. Sickness among natives was continuous and severe. Atmospheric conditions played havoc with his plant and caused such wide rifts in the main road that work had to be abandoned till they were filled in and surfaced with chipped rocks. Brig remained too weak to superintend the tin mine, so Dave had to fit in a daily inspection of gear and give the half-breed foreman his instructions.
At the beginning of February there came a particularly annoying day. That morning the medical man had arrived for his periodical examination of the mine workers and discovered three incipient cases of sleeping sickness. The unfortunate victims had been instantly removed to a distant village where such patients were cared for, but the mere mention of the dread disease had reacted ruthlessly upon the rest of the boys. They were suddenly apathetic with resignation — to a degree only attainable by Africans, and several of them, pronounced fit by the doctor, developed alarming symptoms as soon as he had departed. Useless to assure them that their ills were imaginary. Dave had to think up some strong “medicine” in the way of pills and pep talk.
Aching with heat and long-drawn anger, he knocked off at four, took some tea and a bath, and flung himself into a long rattan lounger with a pillow behind his head and a pile of unanswered correspondence on the low table beside him. He read, occasionally pencilling a query into a margin or tearing a letter neatly into four. The peacefulness of this pleasant hour of the day stole over him. Flies and ants were becoming somnolent and mosquitoes had not yet set up their high-pitched singing. The boys were quiet, probably snoozing in their hut at the back, and tranquillity enveloped the other houses.
In fact, it was so still that he heard a car enter the Lokola station half a mile away. It reminded him that he ought to accept the district officer’s invitation to dinner one night this week; there were one or two items he wanted cleared officially, and he had a hunch about the gun-running which would interest the D.O. He might send down a note as soon as one of the boys showed up to prepare his evening meal. It would be a change to discuss books and music and play a polite game of bridge after eight months of poker in dubious company.
A noise outside made Dave let down his legs so that he could lean sideways and look through the open doorway to the baked earth track. A car was advancing through the plantains, a small English saloon whose colour was obscured by thick red dust. At the first house it slowed, and as it reached Dave’s it stopped. The car door was thrust open, a head emerged: a small golden face surmounted by a cap of whitish curls.
Very slowly, Dave got up. With an odd sort of deliberation he crossed the room, stepped into the porch and dropped down on to the track. The girl, slim and straight in leaf-green linen, turned and saw him. Her red lips widened into a cool, ironical smile. “Mr. Paterson, I presume?”
“My God,” he muttered. And then, with a swift effort at mockery, “Welcome to the jungle, Teresa.”
Tess tilted back her head, the better to view the small white-washed dwelling with banana-leaf thatch which was interlaced at the ridge and spread down to cover a narrow veranda. Apart from the tan she was pale and the skin at her temples glistened with sweat, but her manner was calm and faintly bantering.
“So this is Lokola, your spiritual and material home. My imagination wasn’t far out.”
“Pity you didn’t trust it,” he returned grimly. “Seeing that you’re here you’d better come in for a drink.”
She preceded him. “Thanks. Your greeting isn’t nearly as warm as the one I had from a man at the lower end of this hamlet. He told me yours was the second house and even offered to come up here with me. Still,” she hesitated inside the door and let her glance rove over the plain teak and wicker furniture of the living-room, the loaded bookshelves and the couple of blue pillows on the lounger, “he doesn’t know me as you do. The fact that last time we met you took a crack at my jaw might make this encounter somewhat delicate if we hadn’t a great deal of common sense between us.” Smiling, she sat down rather stiffly on the foot end of the lounger. “I haven’t come to plague you, Dave — merely popped in for a sundowner in passing.”
“That sounds plausible — a hundred miles from nowhere,” he commented, pouring drinks. “Here, down this.”
Tess took the glass and straightway swallowed half the contents. She shuddered and coughed.
“Lord ... neat whisky! I haven’t sunk to that yet.”
“It’s what you need, by the look of you.” He drank from his own tumbler and leaned back on the dining-table, surveying her. “Who drove you in from the coast?”
“I drove myself ... borrowed the car and set off like a pioneer at about ten-thirty this morning. I calculated that I’d reach here in time for lunch, but the mountains and swamps got in the way.”
His mouth compressed. “So you’re as crazy as ever. Didn’t it occur to you to ask about the condition of the road?”
“You told me Lokola was a hundred miles inland, and I’ve managed rough journeys before.”
“It’s nearer a hundred and eighty miles by road and hellish going all the way. Did you get any lunch?”
“I found some wild bananas and tried a couple of half-ripe mangoes. They were terrible. I’m not hungry.”
Dave took a sharp and furious breath. “D’you mind explaining?”
“My presence here?” She smoothed a small, bony brown hand over her skirt. “Since I finished at Zinto I’ve been travelling and seen most of the places we talked about. Lourenco Marques, the South African ports ... I even touched down in Cairo on my way to England.”
“So you did go to England?”
She nodded. “Three months ago, by plane. I might have stayed there if one of my brothers had had a home; or I’d have put up with hotel life a little longer if they’d needed me.”
“They don’t seem to have improved.”
“I was only a kid when they went off, remember. Alan took me to the London theatres, and Gerald motored me through the Lake District; afterwards the three of us spent some days at Stratford-on-Avon.”
“And having placated their consciences they once more abandoned you to your own devices.” With rather less than his usual nonchalance, he offered cigarettes. “I still can’t see why you had to come to Lokola.”
“It’s very simple.” She tapped her cigarette on a thumb-nail. “I’m going back to the Cape. I think I shall settle in Port Cranston, and it’s unlikely that I shall ever come north again. So, to get the most out of it, I’m travelling the slow way, by coastal boats. I’ve been to Lisbon and Madeira, and from Funchal I got a lift down as far as Dakar. I had quite a time at Dakar explaining away my lack of a visa, but the French were very helpful.”
“You’ve done all this alone?”
Her grin, as she lifted her cigarette to his match, had a touch of defiance. “Amazing, isn’t it?”
“Where’s Cramer?”
Her smile faded right out. “Martin died in a Swiss hospital some months ago; he was given a couple of lines in a daily paper. The last time I saw him was the day I heard you had left Zinto for this spot.”
Oh.” Dave was silent a moment; then he shifted his position and brought the subject back to the present. “When did you get to Cape Ricos?”
“Last night, and I re-embark tomorrow morning. Sorry to annoy you, Dave, but I really came more for my own sake than yours. I knew that colliding with me once more would hardly shake you fundamentally, but I wasn’t completely sure about myself. I want to be whole-minded before I go back to Port Cranston.”
Dave didn’t answer. He flicked ash on to a tray, then moved across t
o the door which led to the kitchen.
“Are you there, Zula?”
A shuffle, and a thick voice replied, “Here, master.”
“Get cold chop for two ... quick.”
Tess said, “I won’t stay for dinner, but I wouldn’t refuse a sandwich and some coffee.”
“Why?” — tersely. “Got a date for the evening?”
“Yes, with a hundred and eighty miles of mud road. I’d like to be on the way before dark.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“I don’t want that.” Her voice had risen with purpose. “I came here chiefly to pay a debt. Till recently I was a little too shattered to come round to it.” She paused and opened the white bag which lay at her side. “I can’t accept money for nothing, Dave. This is a cheque for two thousand six hundred, the value of the store property. Don’t make the hackneyed gesture of tearing it up in front of me. If the cheque isn’t paid in I shall draw the amount in cash and send it to you by registered post.”
His gaze narrowed at the pink slip she had tossed on the table. “Isn’t it you who are making the trite gesture?”
“Possibly, but I can’t go to another man with your money in the bank. Perhaps you’ll feel happier about taking it if I tell you that the man I’m going to marry owns a prosperous business.”
Dave’s white teeth thoughtfully explored his lip for a few seconds. “Congratulations,” he said, and mixed for himself a weak whisky and water. After which he added carelessly, “If you’d like to clean up before you eat, the bathroom is next to the kitchen.”
“I ... don’t think I’ll bother.”
The slight, incongruous stammer seemed to hang between them. Dave’s eyes sharpened.
“Take off your jacket, then, and relax.”
“No ... but I would be glad of that coffee, Dave.”
“It’s about ready — I can smell it.” Irritably, he leaned over and shook up the pillow upon which his own head had rested. “For Pete’s sake let go and lie down. You don’t have to go on being merry and bright with me. I know all about that filthy trip, so don’t try to kid me that your bones don’t ache. I’d lay big money that your head’s raging, too, and you feel some nausea. You’re not accustomed to wet heat.”
“Still masterful, aren’t you?” she remarked, not moving from her rigidly upright posture on the lounger. A lock of hair had slipped forward over her brow, accentuating her look of youth. “Give me another cigarette, will you?”
But. Dave didn’t. He barked at the boy-to hurry with the coffee, and went out himself to push in the trolley. Expertly, he filled a cup with black liquid, sugared it and handed it down to her. She gulped, closed her eyes for a moment with brows pulled in, and drained the cup.
“That’s better.” With care, as if the floor might play tricks, she transferred to the edge of an ordinary dining-chair. “May I have some of the dry biscuits and soft cheese ... and more coffee, please.”
He gave her a napkin and a laden plate, and heaped his own plate with slices of tinned tongue and vegetable salad. They ate without speaking, and presently she sighed and pushed away her empty cup.
“I must have been hungry, after all. That was good.” She stared with swift concern at the brightened glow of the lamp, and turned her head towards the grass-matting screen at the window. “It’s already dark. I must go.”
“Don’t be absurd. It’s only six-thirty.”
“Won’t your friends be curious about the car?”
“They’ll conclude that I’m being visited by a government official from the station. Would you like that cigarette now?”
She selected one and sat forward smoking it, an elbow on the table.
“Unreal, isn’t it, our being together in your mud hut? I shall never believe that this really happened.”
“You planned it,” he said curtly.
“Not exactly. From Dakar down I heard Cape Ricos mentioned a few times, and I naturally decided that if the boat put in for long enough I’d try to see you. Had we sailed past I’d have posted the cheque to the lawyer who handled your affairs in Parsburg.”
“What about being whole-minded before you settle with a husband in Port Cranston?” he sardonically reminded her.
“That was less important. I knew I was nearly over the ... hurt you inflicted.”
“What sort of chap is he?”
“Charming. A year or two younger than you, of good family and a highly respected citizen.”
“Just your medicine, Teresa.”
She ignored the satire. “I believe so, too. I’ve told him about ... you.”
“How nice. Doesn’t he object to marrying a woman who isn’t in love with him?”
“Apparently not,” she answered coolly. “He proposed before I went to England, but I wasn’t ready for it. I asked him for time to weigh up the matter.”
“Is he aware that you’re now on your way to his arms.”
She shook her head. “I shall telephone him from Cape Town. I’m not cheating him. He’s been married before, for a short while.”
“Very convenient — you’ll start even with each other. What’s his name.”
“Richard Barnwell. He’s South African.” Tess got rid of her cigarette. The smile she turned upon Dave in his easy chair was jaunty. “I’m often grateful that you were my first love, Dave. I ought to have expressed my gratitude to you for condescending to teach me how not to love.”
“Forthright little cuss, aren’t you?” he said pleasantly. “But I’m not rising to it, Teresa. Never again, my sweet one.” He stretched his legs and waved a moth from his bare knee. “Take a more comfortable chair and tell me your impressions of the places you’ve visited.”
She expanded upon her delights and disappointments of the last few months, but remained seated in the straight-backed chair near the table while she did so. Her smile was losing spontaneity, and a frown of strain began to appear above her eyes. Her tone, though, retained its casual inflection till she could find no more to say. Then she looked at her watch.
“It’s getting towards eight.”
“I know.” He pushed himself to his feet by the chair arms. “Sure you don’t want a wash before we go?”
“I’m grubby, but...” Her fingers clenched white over the edge of the table as she rose. She held her head lowered. “Do you keep some sort of antiseptic cream?”
“I knew there was something!” Firmly he took her chin and raised it. “You’re in pain, aren’t you?”
She jerked away. “You said the bathroom was through that door?”
“Your fool pride! What is it?”
Her smile was brittle and contorted. “A prickly heat rash, that’s all.”
“Round your waist?”
“Yes. It started four days ago, in Accra. It was getting better, but driving in the heat has made it sting. Dave ... Dave, please don’t!”
With gentle but determined hands he was removing her jacket. She heard his involuntary exclamation, felt his warm palm laid lightly over her back and his breath in her hair as he bent for a closer inspection. Gingerly he fingered a fold of the blouse and detached it from her skin. She made a small sound of agony and he let go and straightened.
Quietly he said: “Sore back is common when you drive for long in this climate, particularly if you’re mad enough to wear no vest. Your rash has become a mass of broken blisters. It was brave of you to act jolly in the midst of stark pain — brave and senseless, and entirely typical. You’re not sailing tomorrow, Tess.”
“But I must! You promised to take me to the coast. I’ll lie in the back of the car ... cushions will help. I’ve got to go.”
“Your Richard must wait,” he said flatly. “I wouldn’t subject anyone in such condition to several hours rumbling in a car. This mess must be given a chance to heal, or it will take infection.”
“I can’t stay in Lokola!”
“You’ll have to. We’ll find you somewhere to sleep for a couple of nights. There’s another woman here —
she’ll probably put you up.” Calmly, yet tight-mouthed, he looked down into her face. “Lousy luck for you, Tess, but you’ve no choice. Go along to the bathroom and I’ll bring a dressing-gown and the medical kit.” Twenty minutes later they were in the living-room again. Tess, wrapped in a navy silk robe she had never seen before, was lying in the lounger among the white pillows from Dave’s bed; her hair was tousled, her expression bleak and fatigued.
He stood back from making her comfortable. “Don’t take it so hard. Once I’ve fixed you up with a place to live, you and I needn’t meet till you’re fit enough to make the ride to the coast.”
“What will you tell them — the others here — about me?”
“The truth — with dilutions.” At the scrape of a foot in the veranda he stiffened. “This will be Luke Walton. Stay where you are and leave everything to me.”
The wire-mesh screen clanged open and fingernails clicked against the panel of the door. Familiarly, the handle was turned and Luke lounged in.
“Say, Dave, there’s a bit of a dam-fool mystery. Langland has come up from the station ...” He stopped abruptly, his thin tanned jaws a trifle slack. “I beg your pardon.”
“Come in,” said Dave easily. “Oh, so Langland’s with you. What’s the mystery?”
Langland was the education officer, a burly man of large appetites. His glance, as it became accustomed to the lamp-light, found Tess; it flashed to Dave and then went seeking again, almost stroking over the length of her weary body.
“There isn’t one,” he said softly. “Not now. Johns reported that someone had come here in a government car. The D.O. still has gun-running on his mind and he asked me to investigate.”
Dave smiled. He saw Luke Walton, apparently winded, propped against the wall and staring with unwonted intensity at the pale silky hair and pure feminine features. He was also conscious of Langland’s concentration of interest in the slim, supine body swathed in his dressing-gown.
“I was on the point of going down to Redding’s. We can talk on the way.”
Love This Stranger Page 11
