Brittle Bondage (8 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE smile stayed on her mouth and sparkled in her eyes. She had met one or two men of Neil’s type before, at Umsanga, and been diverted but not deceived by their frank flattery. It was a line they took which assured them of instant popularity with women of all ages but kept them free of complications.

She supposed he was about twenty-five and not too enamoured with the prospect of settling down to his career. Vaguely, she recollected a chance encounter with his cousin in town, and Margery’s shrug: “He seldom visits or entertains. Passes his spare time watching wild life and pitying himself. Rather a boor of a man, I believe.” Venetia might have followed up the matter had she guessed that Mervyn Mansfield was, as distances are gauged in South Africa, a close neighbour to Bondolo. Blake had never mentioned him.

By the time she reached the paddock, Neil Mansfield was forgotten, but his effect upon her lingered in the music of her voice and her mad rush with Binty down to the bathingpool. Her blood sang, her whole body vibrated with a delicious yearning.

She swam and lazed in the shade, threw a stick for the spaniel, and wished that Blake would come—wished hard, because he was the focal point of her new happiness and longing. The chimes of the hall clock carried thinly down the garden, separating the quarters; in due course it struck one o’clock, and it was useless to loiter any longer.

She put on a dress and brushed her hair, inspected the dining-table, and peeped under the covers at cold meats and salad. A little on edge as she always was when he came late, she strolled on to the veranda.

He appeared on the path, striding, and she went down
the steps to meet him. Sharply and cruelly, all expectancy died.

“Have you had trouble, Blake?”

“Plenty of it,” he answered grimly. “I haven’t time for lunch. I’ve come back for the car.”

“It won’t take five minutes to get you a flask and some sandwiches.”

“I’ll have the coffee if it’s made. No food.”

She paused, hoping he would add something cheering, but he lit a cigarette and twisted to gaze at the garden.

When she came back with the vacuum flask he was in the hall.

“Blake, can I do anything?”

He shook his head. “It’s turned out to be one of those black days, that’s all. One of my lorry-drivers overturned his bus, broke an axle and ruined three-quarters of the load. I was on my way down there when a boy chased after me with the news that a piccanin had fooled with a scythe and slashed his leg to the bone. So I had to race back and patch him up.” He pulled on his cigarette as if it tasted bitter. “The lorry is blocking the road. I must have an ox-team and boys there to shift it.”

“You may feel hungry presently. I could send a boy with a snack.”

“No. When this job is done I’ll call it a day.”

“I wish I could help.”

He hesitated. “You can. Write a note to the Ellisburg Garage explaining what’s happened, and asking that a mechanic be sent out at once. Fumana can take it in the jeep and go around by the Lawnside private road. At the rate these people move the man will reach here about four or later; but he should be able to weigh up the damage before dusk and tow away the lorry. I’m afraid the repairs will take all of a week. It would happen when I need every means of transport.” He pressed out his cigarette. “I’ll get going.”

At tea-time Venetia prepared some sandwiches and covered them with a damp cloth. Fumana informed her that he had brought the “garage boss” back to the damaged lorry and found it right way up with a boy in charge but
no one else near. So Blake should not be long.

An hour passed; two hours, and the purple wings of dusk spread in from the east, bringing a chill on the wind. The houseboys ate the sandwiches, and with a sort of despair Venetia added seasoning to the braised steak and turned out the strawberry mould. Was he held up by a third disaster? Troubles came in three, like breaking china, but he ought to have sent word. With numbers of boys at his bidding it would have cost
him
no effort to save her hours of worry.

He couldn’t do this to her if he cared. He had doubtless become immersed in plantation affairs to the exclusion of her very existence. It was unfair of him to shut her out, inhuman to keep her fretting on the edge of his problems. Surely she deserved better than that? How-was anything ever going to come right between them while he persisted in locking himself away from her?

He came in at seven, bringing with him the foreman and another man, whom he had abruptly introduced to Venetia as the manager of a sawmill. She smiled palely, sipped a drink with them, and then asked to be excused. She emerged into the hall, carefully closing the lounge door behind her. Had it been too much to expect an apology or an explanation, some softening of his stony expression? And what about dinner? Had he invited these men for the evening?

The foreman departed. Mosi was called to the lounge and returned to inform her that the “other baas” would stay for dinner.

It was a quiet, conventional meal, and after it Venetia left them to their coffee and brandy on the veranda. She sat in the lounge and tried to read, but the atmosphere reeked of smoke and the french doors had to remain closed, for just beyond them were the two men.

At a quarter to ten came the summons she awaited.

“Venetia, where are you? Mr. Wright is going.”

Dutifully she appeared in the porch. “Good night, Mr. Wright. Not
at all ...
a pleasure. Good night.”

The car roared and eased to a murmur. It slid away behind bright, diminishing headlights, and very soon its sound had faded right out. Venetia turned to the
wicker table, rearranged the drink tray and piled on to the cleared end of it the cups and glasses.

“There’s no need for that. Leave them for the boy in the morning,” said Blake.

“I’ll put away the brandy,” she answered, not looking at him. “Good night.”

“Why the haste?” He took the bottle from her and set it on the table. “You shouldn’t want your bed yet. Your day has been a leisurely one.”

“Has it?”

At the tinge of hardness in her voice his glance became keen and metallic. He bent forward, to see her more clearly.

“You’re surely not annoyed because I brought an unexpected guest to dinner?”

“You know it’s not that. We can rise to an extra place without catastrophe.”

“What is it, then?” he said roughly. “I’ve had one hell of a day—it might as well end in style.”

“Blake!” She backed a pace from his dark inscrutability, felt anger rise in her throat and fought to suppress it. “I was anxious about you all afternoon. You were gone so many hours, without food
...
”

“Doesn’t it occur to you that there are times when a man’s needs go beyond the physical?”

“Of course it does, but you tell me nothing. You’ve been home three hours, but I still don’t know what kept you so late.”

Coldly he said: “All right, I
’
ll tell you. The piccanin who hacked
himself
this morning is dead. His grandfather got the idea that the boy would be a cripple, so he ripped the dressing from the leg and had him taken into the bush, and left there. We searched and found him at about six; he had bled to death.” Without emotion he finished, “Is it clear now why I chose to pass the evening in a discussion on tree-felling and log-splitting?”

Venetia was silent. Her hands sought behind her for the back of a chair, and her heart tightened with pity and horror. One of those merry, half-naked piccanins with the white teeth and large eyes. There was nothing she could say about it, but she had to speak.

“I’m not much good to you, am I? Mosi can run your house to your satisfaction, and the land gives you whatever inspiration you need to carry on from day to day. And when you’re tired, and possibly just a bit
...
heart-sick, you’d sooner talk timber with a stranger, than
...
than
...”
She let it tail off and dragged in her lip.

He gave a short, savage sigh. “God knows I go out of my way not to hurt you, but sometimes you seem infernally dense. You don’t appear to realize that some situations tax a man’s endurance pretty far.”

“What kind of situations?”

“You’re not so young that you don’t know the answer to that one!”

The chasm between them was already too wide for caution. It did not take a great deal of bravery to ask, “Blake, do you regret marrying me?”

“No, I don’t.” He fitted his hands into his pockets and looked out into the night. His face was unpleasantly set. “It was the most foolish thing I ever did in my life, but I don’t regret it
.
The trouble is that as things are it’s inevitable that at times you’ll be hurt and bewildered. That’s the price of growing up, and falling in love the hard way—after marriage instead of before.”

Recklessly she whispered: “Falling in love! You have faith in that?”

“What else is there if I don’t?” he answered shortly.

“But you, Blake
...
”

He twisted to confront her; his voice had gone crisp and cynical. “I completed my growing up some years ago, perhaps too many years ago. When consuming passion comes our way you may count upon me to recognize it—in both of us. Run along to bed, Venetia. You’ve been thinking too much.”

After a moment or two Venetia obeyed him. She had not yet forged a weapon against his mockery.

On Wednesday Thea arrived in time for tea, and Venetia was surprised and pleased to see Paul Rivers walking at her side up the path. She was becoming fond of Paul; he was like a-sun-warmed wall at one’s back.

Thea and Venetia lightly squeezed hands, and Paul said, “How are you, Venetia
...
back on an even keel?”

She smiled—and what a help it was to be able to smile without restraint. “Yes, thanks. I’m normal again, and very glad to see you as a guest.”

Not quite normal, thought Thea; the faint pink in Venetia’s cheeks had been accentuated with rouge, and the blue eyes appeared uncommonly dark.

“Is Blake about?” she enquired.

“He’s washing the dust from the sheds off his hands. They are awfully busy down there these days. Come in and sit down and I’ll order tea.”

Blake appeared, his tan pronounced by a fresh white silk shirt, his smile cordial.

“Hullo, Thea. Good to see you, Paul.” He seated Venetia near the table and crossed to lower himself into a chair between the others. “A pleasant change to have the doctor making a social call on us mid-week.”

“Paul’s presence is more or less accidental,” Thea hastened to convince them. “He happened upon me almost speechless with exasperation while two natives tried to manoeuvre Venetia’s kist into my two-seater. I was terrified they’d scratch it, but was afraid to slang them in case they dropped it. He took over and we three—meaning the kist as well—came in his car.”

“The kist is here?” said Venetia softly.

Thea nodded. “The men can bring it in after tea. No sugar, Venetia.”

“I remembered. Paul?”

‘Two lumps, please.”

Blake handed the cakes and took a nutty shortbread on to his own plate. “How’s the hospital these days, Thea? Are they working you hard?”

“Not so very. I’m off by seven most nights and soon I shall be due for a long week-end. Everybody in town is very complimentary, but I can’t decide whether I’m most admired for my looks, my efficiency, or for being Blake Garrard’s sister. You’re famous you know.”

She went on talking, rather glibly, without revealing herself in any way. Venetia poured more tea and tried a meringue. Plates were pushed aside and the cigarette-box opened.

Paul said: “A very nice tea, Venetia. I wish I could stay longer.”

“Must you really go?” Her eyes went at once to Thea’s face. “Do please have dinner with us.”

“I’d like to—if Blake can drive me back by nine.”

“Enchanted, my dear sister.”

“You’ll help me with the kist?” suggested Paul. “It’s an awkward piece of furniture.”

When the men had gone out, Thea stood waiting with Venetia in the hall. She watched the pale fingers slide an ashtray further on to the table and hover among the flame-coloured spikes of gladiolus; the white sandal unconsciously tapped the floor.

The kist was four feet long and half as wide, the wood a rich, exotic brown, symbolically carved on top and sides, and highly polished. Hinges, clasp and handles were of heavy, ornate brass.

“Where will you have it?” Thea wanted to know.

“Here in the hall, for the present. Thea, it’s beautiful. I suppose some people have them in England, but I’ve never seem one so large and solid.” She smiled as her hand pressed the carving and felt the wrought hinges. “Margery Clarke has a small one in her bedroom. They’re popular in this country.”

“Useful, too.”

Paul said good-bye, and Blake accompanied him down to where his car stood on the drive.

Venetia straightened. “Thea, I love it, particularly as it’s a gift from you. But
...
why did Blake tell you not to buy it?”

“I can’t think,” Thea confessed sincerely. This kind of kist is a
modern
edition of the hope chest. It’s a local tradition that when a girl becomes engaged her parents give her a kist to hold her trousseau and start off the house-furnishing. This one has come a little late for that, but you’ll find it handy.”

Venetia drew away, to the door. “I wish I understood why Blake was against it. He wouldn’t offend you without a reason. You say it’s a local custom that the parents
should give it
...
”

“It is. After Blake wrote that you had no people
I
went straight out and ordered it.” Her shrug was self-deprecatory. “No one could accuse me of sentimentality. It
’
s simply that certain things are part of a bride’s outfit, and I wanted you to have one.”

“Is Blake familiar with the custom?”

“Naturally. He knows that all our cousins and friends
have had them.”

“Then why was he against my having one?
”

Thea laughed gently. “No one but Blake can answer that, and he certainly won’t unless it suits him to do so. He can’t have thought such a gift was out of place, because he knows as well as anyone that storing the trousseau is a mere preliminary to the later uses of a kist. The wood is insect-proofed and often camphor-smelling,
i
deal for laying away clothes.” Thea came beside Venetia.
“Y
ou look peaked. Does the dampness of the climate get you down?”

The climate! How she wished there were only the heat and humidity to conquer.

“It does get oppressive,” she admitted.

And so does Blake, Thea guessed. She had experienced his domineering and seeming impenetrability, and easily matched them with sophistication. A sister could contend with him. Venetia was young and helpless, and in any case not built to stand undiluted Blake in unpredictable mood. He could be magnificent in his generosity and tender in his compassion; but he also had a greater capacity than he knew for inflicting pain on those close to him. Thea attempted no analysis of her brother’s relations with Venetia; her only concern was their happiness, and at the moment she could see only one way towards assisting its achievement
.

Blake was back again, rearranging the chairs on the veranda, and pushing the table back, out of the way. Thea linked arms with Venetia in the doorway.

“Blake,” she said casually, “could you spare Venetia for a week?”

He looked at her, and then at Venetia. “A concerted onslaught?” he asked.

“This is the first I’ve heard of it,” Venetia said unevenly. “Don’t blame me.”

Thea lied cheerfully. “I had it in mind before I came. We have a hospital dance on Saturday and a play on Monday. They’re both annual affairs and on the big side, and should be worth attending. The staff are enthusiastic about them.”

“Ellisburg’s not far. If Venetia feels the urge to dance or be amused by very amateur dramatics, I’ll drive her in.” No one would have suspected that inwardly Thea fumed against him. Her smile was humorous and comprehending, her gesture beautifully careless.

“Knowing you, I didn’t anticipate for a second that you’d consent, but I thought a week’s break from Bondolo would make a change for her. During the day she could shop and take in a cinema. There’s polo and the races, and a startlingly good art show in the Town Hall. It sounds piffling to you, but it would be new to Venetia.”

“The idea’s absurd. Where could she stay?”

“With me, of course. The nurses’ hostel is crowded, and I’m quartered in a bungalow in the grounds with two other sisters. My room has a large sleeping porch, and I’m sure no objection would be raised to my sister-in-law using it for a few nights. Everyone is very casual about such things. I’d sleep out there and Venetia could have my bed. Officially, we take our meals in the main
dining-room
, but there’s a kitchen at the bungalow and a servant on hand.” With a lift of the shoulders she concluded: “It’s up to you to make the decision. She’d be safe enough with me.
”

His tone was flat, non-commital. “Would you like a week’s change from Bondolo, Venetia?”

“Yes,” she said quietly, “I would.”

Thea spoke next, airily, while she too, kindled a cigarette at his lighter.

“So it’s settled. You’re in for a good time Venetia, among a lively regiment of women. Contrary to common belief, nurses enjoy life, I can tell you. And there’s another way of looking at it. The best of turning one’s back on Bondolo is the home-coming. See if I’m not right!”