by Wilbur Smith
only when she gasped, and bit her lip and then turned her face and hid it against his neck did Mark realize suddenly, through the mists of his own arousal, that all the skills Helena had taught him were not moving Marion, as they were him. Her body was rigid, and her face pale and tensed. Marion, are you all right? It's all right, Mark. You don't like this? It's the first time it's ever happened, We can stop. No. We don't have to. No, Mark, go on. It's what you want. But you don't want it. I want what you want, Mark. Go on. It's for you. "NoGo on, Mark, please go on. And now she looked at him and he saw her expression was pitiful, her eyes swimming with bright tears and her lips quivering. Oh, Marion, I'm sorry. He recoiled from her, horrified by the misery he saw reflected in her expression, but immediately she followed him throwing both arms around his neck, lying half on top of him. No, Mark, don't be sorry. I want you to be happy. It won't make me happy, if you don't want to. Oh, Mark, don't say that. Please don't say that, all I want in the world is to make you happy. She was brave and enduring, holding him tightly over her, both arms locked around his neck, her body rigid but spread compliantly, and for Mark the ordeal was almost as painful; he suffered for her as he felt the tremble of locked nerves and the small sounds of pain and tension that she tried to keep deep in her throat.
Mercifully for both of them, it was swiftly ended, but still she clung to him. Was it good for you, Mark my darling? Oh, yes, he assured her vehemently. It was wonderful. I want so much to be good for you in every way, my darling. Always and in every way, I want to be good for you. It was the best thing in my life, he told her, and she stared into his eyes for a moment, searching for assurance, and finding it because she wanted it so terribly. I'm so glad, darling, she whispered, and drew his head down on to her damp warm bosom, so soft and pink and comforting. Holding him like that, she began to rock him gently, the way a mother rocks her child. I'm so glad, Mark, and it will be better and better. I'll learn, you see if I don't and I'll try so hard for you, darling, always. Driving home slowly in the dusk, she sat proudly next to him on the wide leather seat, and there was a new air about her, an air of confidence and achievement, as though she had grown from child to matron in the space of a few short hours.
Mark felt a rush of deep affection for her. He felt that he wanted to protect her, to keep that goodness and sweetness from souring, to protect her from unhappiness and wanton damage. For a fleeting moment he felt regret that she had not been able to feed that raging madness of his body, and regret also that he had not been able to lead her through the storm to the same peace. Perhaps that would come, perhaps they would find the way together, and if they didn't, well it wasn't that important. The important thing was the sense of duty he felt towards this woman, she had given him everything of which she was capable, and it was his duty now to give back in equal measure, to protect and cherish her. Marion, will you marry me? he asked quietly, and she began to cry softly, nodding her head vehemently through the tears, unable to speak.
Marion's sister, Lynette, was married to a young lawyer from Ladyburg and the four of them sat up late that night discussing the betrothal. Pa won't give permission for you to marry before you are twenty-one, you know how Peter and I had to wait. Peter Botes, a serious young man, nodded wisely and placed his finger tips together carefully. He had thin sandy hair, and was as pompous as a judge in scarlet.
It won't do any harm to wait a few years. Years? wailed Marion. You're only nineteen, Peter reminded her. And Mark will need to build up some capital before he takes on the responsibility of a family. I can go on working, Marion came in hotly. They all say that. Peter waggled his head sagely. And then two months later there's a baby on the way. Peter! His wife rebuked him primly, but he went on calmly. And now, Mark, what about your prospects? Marion's father will want to know. Mark hadn't expected to present an account of his affairs, and on the spur of the moment he could not be certain if his total worth was forty-two pounds twelve shillings, or seven and sixpence.
He saw them off on the Ladyburg train the next morning, with a long lingering embrace and a promise to write every day, while Marion swore she would work at filling her bottom drawer, and at altering her father's prejudice against early marriage. Walking back from the railway, Mark remembered, for no apparent reason, a spring morning in France coming back out of the line to go into reserve, and his shoulders went back and his step quickened and became springy and elastic once more. He was out of the line, and he had survived, that was as far as he could think at that moment.
Dicky Lancome's polished elastic-sided boots were propped on the desk in front of him and fastidiously crossed at the ankles. He looked up from his newspaper, a tea cup held in the other hand with little finger extended delicately. Hail the conquering hero comes, his weary weapon slung over his shoulder. Oh come on, Dicky! weak at the knees, bloodshot eye and fevered brow Any calls? Mark asked seriously. Ah, the giant mind now turns to the more mundane aspects of life. Play the game, Dicky. Mark riffled quickly through a small pile of messages that awaited him. A surfeit of love, a plethora of passion, an overdose of crumpet, a genital hangover. What's this? I can't read your scrawl. Mark averted his eyes, concentrating on his reading. Mark my words, Mark, that young lady has got the brood lust. If you turn your back on her for ten minutes, she will be up the nearest tree building a nest, Cut it out, Dicky. That's precisely what you should do, old boy, unless you can face the prospect of her dropping your whelps all over the scenery. Dicky shuddered theatrically. Never ride in a saloon if you can drive a sports model, old chap, which reminds me, he dropped the newspaper, checked the watch from his waistcoat pocket, I have this important client. He inspected his glossy boots a moment, flicked them lightly with the handkerchief from his breast pocket, stood up and adjusted the strawbasher on his head and winked at Mark. Her husband's gone up country for a week. Hold the fort, old boy, it's my turn now He disappeared through the office door into the showroom, and then reappeared instantly, an expression of horror on his face. Oh God, customers! Get after them, Mark my boy, I'm taking the back door, and he was gone, leaving only the faint perfume of brilliantine lingering on the air.
Mark checked his tie in the sliver of broken mirror wedged in the frame of the window, and adjusted his welcoming smile as he hurried to the door, but at the threshold he stopped as though coming up at the end of a chain.
He was listening with the stillness and concentration of a wild gazelle, listening with every fibre and every quivering nerve end to a sound of such aching and penetrating beauty that it seemed to freeze his heart. It lasted only a few seconds, but the sound of it shimmered and thrilled in the air for long seconds afterwards, and only then did Mark's heart beat again, surging heavily against his rib cage.
The sound was the laughter of a girl. it was as though the air around Mark had thickened to honey, for it dragged heavily at his legs as he started forward, and it required a physical effort to draw it down into his lungs.
From the doorway he looked into the showroom. In the centre of the wide floor stood the latest demonstration model Cadillac, and beside it stood a couple.
The man had his back to Mark, and left only the impression of massive size, a towering figure dressed in dark cloth. Beside him, the girl was dainty, almost ethereal, she seemed to float, light and lovely as a hummingbird on invisible wings.
The earth tilted beneath Mark's feet as he gazed at her.
Her head was thrown back to look up at the man. Her throat was long and smooth, balancing the small head with its huge dark eyes and the laughing mouth, small white regular teeth beyond pink lips, a fine bold brow, pale and wide above those haunting eyes, and all of it crowned by a heart-stopping tumble of thick lustrous hair, hair so black that its waves and falls seemed to be sculptured from freshly oiled ebony.
She laughed again, a lovely joyous ripple of sound, and she reached up to touch the man's face. Her hand was narrow, with long tapered fingers, strong capable-looking hands, so that Mark realized that his first impression had be
en wrong.
The girl was small only in comparison to the man, and her poise heightened the illusion. However, Mark saw now that she was tall, but graceful as a papyrus stem in the wind, supple and slim, with tiny waist and long legs beneath the light floating material of her skirt.
With her fingertips, she traced the jawline of the man; tilting her head on its long swanlike neck, her beauty was almost unbearable, as her huge eyes shone now with love, and the line of the lips was soft with love. Oh Daddy, you are an old-fashioned, grumpy old bear. She spun away from him, lightly as a ballerina, and struck an exaggerated pose beside the huge glistening machine, putting on a comic French accent. Regarde! Mon cher papa, c'est tres chic -The man growled. I don't trust these fancy new machines. Give me a Rolls. Rolls? cried the girl, pouting dramatically, they're so staid! So biblical! Darling Daddy, this is the twentieth century, remember? Then she drooped like a dying rose in a vase. How could I hold my head up among my friends if you force me to ride in one of those great sombre coffins? At that instant she noticed Mark standing in the doorway of the sales office, and her entire mien changed, the carriage of head and body, the expression of mouth and eye flowing instantly from clown to lady.
Pater, she said softly, the voice cultivated and the eye cool as it flicked over Mark, a steady encompassing sweep from his head to his feet. I think the sales person is here. She turned away, and Mark felt his heart convulse again at the way her hip swung and pushed beneath the skirt and he saw for the first time the cheeky, challenging roll of her small rounded backside as she walked slowly around the Cadillac, calm and aloof, not glancing in his direction again.
Mark stared at her, with fascination, all his emotions in upheaval. He had never seen anything so beautiful, so completely captivating in all his life.
The man had turned and was glaring at him angrily. He seemed, as the girl had teased him, to be biblical. A gaunt and towering figure with shoulders wide as the gallows tree and the big fierce head exaggerated in size by the slightly twisted hooked nose and the dark thick bush of beard, shot through with grey. I know you, dammit! he growled. The face had been burned almost black by twenty thousand suns, but there were deep white creases in the corners of his eyes and the skin in a line below the thick curls of his silvering hair was white also, protected by the band of a hunter's hat or a uniform cap.
Mark roused himself, tearing his eyes off the girl, for the fresh shock of recognition. At the time he could only believe it was some monstrous coincidence, but in the years that followed he would know differently. The threads of their lives were plaited, and intertwined. But in this instant the shock, coming so close on the other, unsettled him and his voice croaked. Yes, General Courtney, I am, Don't tell me, goddammit, the General cut in, his voice like the crack of a Mauser shooting from cover, and Mark felt his spirit quail before the expression on his face; it was the most formidable he had ever confronted.
I know, the name is right there! he glowered at Mark. I never forget a face. The tremendous force and presence of the man threatened to swamp him. It's a sign of old age, Pater, said the girl coolly, glancing over her shoulder without smile or expression. Don't you say that, girl, the man rumbled like an active volcano. Don't you, dare say that. He took a threatening step towards Mark, the dark brow corrugated and the blue eyes cutting into his soul like a surgeon's knives. It's the eyes! Those eyes. Mark retreated a hurried step before the limping, mountainous advance, not quite sure what to expect, but ready to believe that Sean Courtney might at any moment lunge at him with the heavy ebony cane he carried, so murderous seemed his anger. General, Yes! Sean Courtney snapped his fingers with a crack like a breaking oak branch, and the scowl smoothed away, the blue eyes crinkling into a smile of such charisma, of such infectious and conspiratorial glee, that Mark had to smile back at him.
Anders, he said. Anders and MacDonald. Martin?
Michael? No, Mark Anders! And he clenched his fist and struck his own thigh. Old, is it? Girl, who said old?
Pater, you are a marvel. She rolled her eyes, but Sean Courtney was advancing on Mark, seizing his hand in a grip that made the bones creak until he recovered himself and squeezed back, matching the big man's grip. It was the eyes, laughed Sean. You've changed so much from that day, that night - and the laughter dried, as he remembered the boy in the stretcher, pale and moribund, smeared with mud and thick drying blood, and heard again his own voice, He's dead! He drove back the image. How are you now, my boy? I'm fine, sir. I didn't think you were going to pull through. Sean peered closely at him. I'll grant you seem to have made it with all colours flying. How many did you collect, and where? Two, sir, high in the back. Honourable scars, my boy, we'll compare notes one day. And then he scowled again, horrendously. You got the gong, didn't you? Yes, sir. Good, you never know in this man's army. I wrote the citation that night, but you never know. What did they give you? Sean smiled his relief. The M. M sir. I got it at the hospital in England. Excellent. That's good! he nodded, and he let go of Mark's hand, turning to the girl again. Darling, this gentleman was with me in France. How nice. She touched the design on the radiator of the car with one finger, as she drifted past it, not glancing back at them. Do you think we might have a drive now, Pater? Mark hurried to the back door to hold it open. I'll drive, she said, and waited for him to jump to the driver's door.
The starter button is here, he explained. Thank you, I know. Sit in the back, please. She drove like a man very fast but skilfully, picking a tight line into the corners and using the gearbox to brake, double declutching with dancing feet on the pedals, and hitting the shift with a quick sure hand, Beside her the General sat with the set to his shoulders of a younger man. You drive too fast, he growled, the ferocious tone given the complete lie by the fond smile he turned on her. And you're an old fusspot, Daddy, she laughed again; the thrill of it sang in Mark's ears as she hurled the big powerful machine into the next bend. I didn't beat you enough when you were young. Well, it's too late now. She touched his cheek with her free hand. Don't bank on that, young lady, don't ever take bets on that. Shaking his head in mock despair, but with the adoration still glowing in his eyes, the General heaved himself around in the seat and subjected Mark to another dark penetrating scrutiny. You don't turn out at the weekly parades. No, sir. It's an hour on Friday evenings, half an hour square-bashing and then a lecture. Yes, sir? Good fun, really. Tremendous spirit, even though we have combined with the other peace-time regiments now. Yes, sir. I'm the Colonel-in-Chief, Sean chuckled. They couldn't get rid of me that easily. No, sir. We have a monthly shoot, good prizes, and a barbecue all terwards. is that so, sir? We are sending a team to shoot for the Africa Cup this year, all expenses paid. Marvellous opportunity for the lucky lads who get chosen. I'm sure, General. Sean waited for more, but Mark was silent. He could not meet the big man's fierce, unrelenting gaze, and he shifted his eyes, catching as he did so the girl's face reflected in the rear-view mirror.
She was watching him intently, with an unfathomable expression, contempt perhaps, dry amusement, maybe, or something else, something much more intriguing or dangerous. For the split part of an instant, their eyes met, and then her head turned away on the tall graceful column of her neck. The dark shining hair was brushed away from the nape, and there at the juncture with pale skin, the hair was fine and silky, a tiny whorl of it like a question mark at the back of her small sculptured ear.
Mark had an almost insane desire to lean forward and press his lips to it. The thought struck like a physical blow in his groin, and he felt the nerves along his spine racked out cruelly. He realized suddenly then, with a shock that made his senses tilt again, that he was in love with her. I want to win that cup, said the General softly, watching him. The regiment has never won it before. I've rather had enough of uniform and war, General. Mark forced his eyes back to meet the General's. But I do wish you good luck. The chauffeur held the rear door of the Rolls Silver Wraith open, and Sean Courtney lowered himself into the seat beside his daughter. He
lifted his right hand in a brief, almost military, salute at the young man on the pavement and the car pulled smoothly away.
The instant they were alone, his daughter let out a girlish squeal of delight and threw both arms around his neck, ruffling his beard and his heart with her kisses.
, oh, Daddy, darling, you spoil me! Yes, I do, don't I?
Irene will turn bright green and curl up like an anchovy.
I love you, my kind and beautiful Daddy. Her father has never bought her a Cadillac! I like that lad, he's one of the bright ones. The sales person? I hadn't really noticed. She released her grip and and sat back in the seat. He sgot heart. He was silent for a moment then, remembering the snow falling silently across a shell-ravaged hill in France. He's got the guts and brightness for better things than selling motor cars. Then he grinned mischievously, looking young enough to be her brother. And I'd love to see Hamilton's face when we take the Africa Cup away from him. Beside him Storm Courtney was silent, her hand still in the crook of her father's arm while she wondered what had disturbed her about Mark Anders. She decided it was his eyes, those serene yellow eyes, calm but watchful, floating like golden moons.
involuntarily, Mark braked the big car almost to a standstill before the white gates. They were tall twin columns, plastered and white-washed with the Zulu name in raised letters on each: EMOYENI, it was a lovely haunting name, the place of the wind, and on the crest of the hills above Durban town, it would indeed receive the cool blessing of the sea breezes during the sweltering summer months.
The swinging portion of the gate was two racks of heavy cast-iron spears, but they stood open now, and Mark crossed the iron grid which would prevent hooved animals entering or escaping and started up the gentle curve of the driveway, butter yellow flint pebbles carefully raked and freshly watered, set on each side with deep beds of cannas which were now in full bloom. They had been arranged in banks of solid colour, scarlet and yellow and white, dazzling in the bright sunshine, and beyond them were lush lawns of deep tropical green, mown carpet-smooth but studded with clumps of indigenous trees which had obviously been spared for their size or beauty or unusual shape.
