by Anne Mather
Helen had given in her notice at the hospital on the Monday following the fatal Saturday, gaining her immediate freedom as the weeks of her holiday provided the weeks of her notice, but it was not until the Wednesday of that week that she had summoned up the courage to tell her parents what she planned to do. By then, she had had the necessary medical examination and vaccinations against smallpox, cholera and yellow fever, and was feeling very much under par. Her mother’s pained recriminations and her father’s tight-lipped disapproval proved the last straw, and she had burst into tears and fled up the stairs to her room.
But, as if knowing with some sixth sense that something was wrong, Morgan had arrived that evening to speak to Mr and Mrs Raynor. In Helen’s subdued presence he had explained why she was accompanying him to Osweba. He had assured her mother and father that his invitation had had nothing to do with Helen’s decision to call off the wedding, and that it was only a temporary post until Andrea could be persuaded to come back to England with him.
‘But why Helen?’ Mrs Raynor had protested, still not convinced of his integrity. ‘Why not some other girl? Susan, for instance.’
‘I did think of Susan,’ Morgan admitted, ‘but could you see my sister living such a simple life?’ He shook his head. ‘No. Susan would never do it, and besides, surely it’s better for Helen to get away right now, until all the gossip dies a natural death?’
‘Well…’ Mr Raynor was looking less tense now. ‘If that’s what she wants…’
‘It is,’ said Helen, speaking for the first time, and only she had seen the flicker of anger that lit the fires in Morgan’s eyes at her words.
Her interview with Barry had been brief, but inevitable. She had expected him to appear on Sunday morning, black-browed and aggressive, but it was Thursday before he put in an appearance. Later, she guessed he had kept away in the faint hope of bringing her to her senses. Maybe he had practised a waiting game, knowing how it would play on her nerves. But Wednesday’s announcement had filtered back to him, and he had known that his time was running out.
He came to her home in the early evening. As it happened, Mr and Mrs Raynor and their younger daughter were out, a parents’ evening at the local grammar school which Jennifer attended, and Helen had been glad to have the house to herself. Her arm, punctured with hypodermic needles, was sore, and the headache that plagued her eyes was a hangover from the reaction. When the doorbell rang, she went to answer it on leaden feet, and stood back aghast when Barry barged in.
‘I gather you didn’t expect to see me,’ he remarked, surveying her with cold eyes. ‘My God, you look lousy! What’s the matter with you? Can’t you sleep or something?’
‘I—I have a headache,’ said Helen quietly. ‘But I’m glad you’ve come, Barry. It gives me a chance to apolo—’
‘Don’t give me that!’ he cut in on her rudely. ‘You’re not sorry, so why pretend you are?’
‘Barry, I didn’t want to hurt you—’
‘Hurt me? That’s a laugh! You jilt me almost at the church door and then tell me you didn’t want to hurt me!’
‘I know, I know.’ Helen’s head was pounding, and she was beginning to feel sick. ‘There’s no way I can make up to you for what I did. Saying sorry isn’t enough, I know, but they’re the only words I have.’
‘Huh!’ Barry glared at her. ‘So sorry that you’re clearing off to Osweba with that precious stepbrother of mine! I bet you felt really cut up when you agreed to go with him, didn’t you? Was that before or after you took him to the flat?’
‘Barry—’
‘Shut up!’ His lips curled. ‘You make me sick, do you know that? All that talk about saving yourself for our wedding night! It was all moonshine, wasn’t it? How long did you save yourself with Morgan? One hour? Two?’
Helen said nothing, just stared mutely at him knowing he was only trying to expunge all the bitterness he was feeling. But her silence seemed to irritate him more than her retaliation would have done, and he stepped nearer to her, thrusting his face close to hers.
‘So innocent, weren’t you?’ he sneered unpleasantly. ‘So pure and virginal! I should have destroyed that myth once and for all while I had the chance!’
Helen shook her head helplessly. ‘I know you won’t believe this, but—but I haven’t—I have never—slept with—with anyone.’
‘Like hell, you haven’t!’
‘I haven’t!’ She stared at him appealingly. ‘Barry, can’t you see? All I had was doubts, doubts about loving you. Would you rather I had married you feeling as I did? Not knowing whether or not we would end up in a divorce court in a couple of years’ time? Why won’t you think of that? I probably did you a favour!’
‘Some favour,’ muttered Barry sourly. ‘I could have killed you on Saturday, you know. I couldn’t believe you’d do such a thing!’
Helen sighed. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So you keep saying.’ Barry’s lips curled. ‘I should have known. I saw the way you looked at him. Did you arrange to meet him that night, or the next morning?’
‘We didn’t arrange anything,’ protested Helen desperately, pressing a hand to her churning stomach. ‘Honestly, Barry, Morgan—well, he doesn’t—he isn’t interested in me in that way.’
‘In what way, then?’
‘In no way, except as—as a companion for—for Andrea.’
‘And you’re giving up a several thousand pounds a year job just to go out to Osweba to be a companion to a fifteen-year-old girl?’ He stared at her scornfully. ‘Oh, pull the other leg, please!’
‘All right. All right.’ Helen’s control snapped. ‘I’m not just going out to Osweba for that! I admit it. I am attracted to your brother—he knows that. But he’s not attracted to me, more’s the pity!’
‘You bitch!’
Helen’s fingers sought her cheek now as she remembered the blow he had struck her. She didn’t remember much that happened after that. She must have passed out, because when she came round she was lying on the couch in the living room and there was a terrible argument going on over her head. She was too confused then to understand why Morgan should be there, but later she had learned from her mother that he had apparently arrived just as they returned from school, which was almost immediately after Barry had hit her. Barry had been on his knees beside her in the hall when they came in, but after a swift examination Morgan had brushed him aside and carried her into the living room.
She had felt so sick, she remembered with loathing, a feeling which still lurked persistently in the lower reaches of her stomach. But then she peered out of the window and realised that the sickness she was feeling now was caused by the pilot’s erratic descent towards the runway at Charlottesville.
She turned to look at Morgan, and her heart quickened its beat as he returned her gaze. But his eyes were cool and calculating, and she was forced to look away from their contemptuous appraisal. He had slept most of the way to Nairobi, slumped in the comfortable seat beside her, awakening only when one of the pretty stewardesses came to offer him lunch or dinner, but she had still been conscious of him and of her own feelings towards him. Now, awake, he was no less disturbing and she wondered how long she would be able to sustain this detachment between them.
They had landed at Khartoum and Morgan had changed his clothes, discarding his dark suit for mud-coloured levis and a matching denim shirt, but Helen, still in her tweed pants and silk shirt, was already feeling the heat. Still, she thought, tonight they would have reached their destination, and she had plenty of lightweight pants and dresses in her suitcase.
The De Havilland was coming in low now and Helen forgot her discomfort in the thrill of seeing the shores of the Indian Ocean spread out below them. Inland from Nairobi, she had glimpsed the lakes of the Great Rift Valley, but nothing had prepared her for the beauty of the ocean. Fringed by the reef, which Morgan in one of his less taciturn moments had told her was more or less continuous along the whole length of the East African coast, it had a q
uality of unreality, its fine coral sand and waving palm trees looking like some latterday paradise.
The city of Charlottesville, capital of Osweba, curved in a horseshoe along the edge of the ocean. Tall, skyscraper blocks of offices and flats were superseding the shack-like dwellings that still sprawled in ungainly squalor around the outskirts of the city, and the thoroughfares were wide and tree-lined, with sun-splashed sidewalks thronged with people of all nationalities and colour.
Airport formalities were swiftly dealt with. Their entry into Africa having been monitored at Nairobi, the Osweban authorities conducted the most perfunctory of checks, and then they were free to collect their luggage and seek transport into the city. Following Morgan, Helen was bemused by the strangeness of her surroundings, and he had to wait impatiently for her to catch up with him and their black-skinned porter before summoning one of the bright orange cabs waiting outside.
The drive into Charlottesville took them along the coast highway, and Helen exclaimed with delight at the blue-green waters edged by their scarf of coral sand. It was hot in the car, and the sea breezes were very welcome, loosening her hair from its securing band and blowing it into Morgan’s face. Conscious of this, she turned to find him wiping hairs out of his mouth, and she quickly restrained the errant strands.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and her faint smile was an appealing plea for understanding, but he accepted her apology without comment.
It was late afternoon when the tyres of the cab screeched to a halt before the impressive portals of the Charlottesville Yacht Club. Helen, who hadn’t really considered that they might be spending the night in the city, stared apprehensively at the white-painted facade of the verandah where already several groups of people were gathered, drinking from long frosted glasses, decorated with slices of fruit. In her tweed pants and scarlet shirt, she was hardly attired for a tropical evening, and she wished Morgan had suggested she changed her clothes at Khartoum as he had done.
Through the palm trees that provided welcome oases of shade in the grounds of the club, she could see the shifting line of the ocean, but nearer at hand there were tennis courts and a swimming pool, as well as a play area for children. Obviously, it was a popular meeting place for the wealthier inhabitants of Charlottesville, although she saw that its patrons were a mixture of every race and creed.
Morgan and the cab driver had unloaded their cases, and Helen stood by awkwardly as her new employer paid the fare. Before the car could pull away, however, they were being hailed from the verandah, and Morgan turned with a smile to greet the dark-skinned man who came down the steps to meet them.
‘Hey, man!’ the newcomer exclaimed warmly. ‘Why didn’t you let us know you were coming back today? I’d have had Moses come out and meet you. No need for you to take a cab!’
‘I don’t mind riding in a cab, James,’ protested Morgan goodhumouredly, accepting the man’s hand and his arm about his shoulders with evident affection. ‘I don’t warrant a private car and chauffeur. I’m no force for power in the cabinet.’
‘Nevertheless, you are a very dear friend,’ the man assured him seriously, and Helen saw a curious look pass between them, before he added: ‘Andrea will be so happy that you are back. She has missed you.’ Then he turned bright, interested eyes in Helen’s direction. ‘I see you have brought a visitor…’
‘Yes.’ Morgan’s eyes flickered coolly over her. ‘This is Miss Raynor, Helen Raynor. She’s going to work with Andrea. Try and—persuade her to come out of her shell.’
‘Not Susan, then.’ Again that exchange of glances, and as Morgan shook his head, the man called James took Helen’s hand in his huge black one. ‘How do you do, Miss Raynor,’ he asked, with a flash of white teeth. ‘I hope you are going to enjoy your visit to my country.’
‘Allow me to introduce James Oneba,’ Morgan put in rather sardonically at this juncture. ‘Mr Oneba is Minister of Cultural Studies in President Cehgwi’s government—and a fine yachtsman.’
Helen was taken aback. Was this the friend in the government Morgan had spoken about to Jennifer? The one whose yacht he borrowed from time to time? Foolishly, she had expected the man to be white, but she managed not to let her surprise show in her face. In any case, James Oneba was one of the most striking-looking men she had ever seen, tall and broad and muscular, his light-weight lounge suit barely concealing the strength of his biceps and the powerful expanse of his shoulders.
Now she thanked him for his welcome, and assured him politely that she liked what she had seen so far.
‘Good. Good.’ James Oneba was pleased. ‘We are just a small country, but we need to attract tourists like yourself, people who visit here and can take back useful impressions to friends and relations.’
‘Something tells me Miss Raynor’s friends and relations won’t be visiting Osweba,’ observed Morgan, his mouth twisting wryly, and then as his friend looked puzzled, he went on: ‘I thought I’d find you here, James. How are things? How is Andrea?’
‘She’s fine, fine.’ Oneba snapped his fingers to a dark-skinned boy, dressed in the safari uniform of the club, who hastened forward to gather their suitcases, and then led the way up the steps and into the clubhouse.
Following the two men, Helen wished she could change out of the clinging tweed suit. Even carrying the jacket over her arm made her skin prickle, and she wished Morgan would explain what their immediate plans were. Why had he asked James Oneba about his daughter? Where was she? Were they not returning to Nrubi tonight?
Several of the people on the verandah of the clubhouse spoke to Morgan in passing, women as well as men, and Helen felt herself the cynosure of all eyes. Obviously, these people were wondering who she was and what she was doing here and why she was with Morgan. She realised with a pang that perhaps some of them even knew his wife. No one had told her where Pamela Fox lived, whether indeed she still lived in Africa. It could be embarrassing if Mrs Fox lived in Charlottesville, or worse, Nrubi. Maybe that was the reason Morgan had been so loath to bring her.
James Oneba led the way through the entrance hall of the club, which was refreshingly air-conditioned, into a cool light bar at the back, overlooking the swimming pool. Here, in the pleasant draught of the air-conditioning, one could sit in low rattan loungers, comfortably cushioned, and enjoy the scenery without feeling the heat. The long bar served drinks of every kind, including English and American lagers, and there were dishes of nuts and olives, cheese straws and chipsticks, for anyone who couldn’t wait for the adjoining restaurant to open.
Helen was ensconced in one of the striped loungers while Morgan and Oneba went to the bar. Left alone, she was more than ever conscious of inquisitive eyes upon her, and concentrated her attention on the kidney-shaped swimming pool beyond the meshed screen that kept the night insects at bay. The area surrounding the pool was mosaic-tiled, and there were more of the rattan chairs and glass-topped tables to take bottles or glasses. Patterned air-beds invited relaxation, but now it was early evening and the swift tropical twilight was rapidly giving way to total darkness. The floodlighting was switched on even as she watched, and the pool, lit from within, looked more inviting than ever.
Her eyes turned reluctantly to the bar, and she saw Morgan and his companion talking seriously together. What were they saying? she wondered nervously. Was Morgan explaining to his friend why she was here and why she had wanted to leave England?
A circle of sweat had appeared on the back of Morgan’s shirt, and Helen put her hand inside the neckline of her own, wondering how she could prevent it sticking to her. Fortunately she was wearing a bra, which protected her modesty, but looking round at the other women in the room she realised she was probably unique in this respect.
Faint colour invaded her cheeks at this awareness. It was her first experience of the differences between England and Osweba, a kind of relaxing of moral codes of conduct that was in itself disturbing. Foolish really, to think this of such a simple thing, but their lack of self-consciousnes
s was not assumed. What did she know of Africa, after all? Apart from what she had seen on newsreels and the like. Would she find her own values undermined in this alien society, where the heat came first in the order of things? What was it about the place that already she was aware of her own alienation when compared to the hot-blooded sensuality she could feel all about her? Was that what she had sensed in Morgan? Was that what had set him apart from his stepbrother?
But no. Watching him as he made his way towards her again, carrying a tall frosted glass containing something that looked like lime juice, she knew it was more than just his sensuality that had attracted her to him. She was aware of every small detail about him, from the thick smooth vitality of his light hair to the long-fingered capability of his hands. She knew the changing moods that lightened and darkened his expression, the harsh gashes that bracketed his mouth when he was angry, and the whimsical twist of his smile when he was not. She had felt the hard length of his body against hers, and known the demanding possession of his mouth, and in blacker moments had suffered the whiplash cruelty of his tongue. He could be hard and aggressive, gentle and considerate, mockingly sarcastic or devastatingly intense; in all his moods, he played on her emotions with the same ravaging impact.
Now he set the glass down in front of her and indicated that it was hers. ‘Fruit punch,’ he said, ‘with just a trace of something more potent.’
Helen looked at the glass and then up into his face. ‘Morgan, what is going on? How long are we staying here? When are we leaving for Nrubi?’
A flicker of impatience crossed his face. ‘What’s wrong? Don’t you find this place appealing?’
