Authors: Kathryn Blair
CHAPTER
TEN
THE interview at the shipping office was dampening
“Sorry, madam,” the clerk reiterated after ten minutes of polite argument, “but where’s the sense in buying a ticket to England if you haven’t a passport?”
“Will the Passport Office issue a new one?” Lindsey desperately enquired. “The other is
mislaid
.
”
“Couldn’t say about that, but they’re very particular. If I were you, I’d have another look for it. As soon as you’ve fixed that up come back, and I’ll arrange your passage. Can’t do much without a passport, though.”
So Lindsey had to come away. Idiotic to have left “Elliotdale” without so indispensable a piece of property as her passport. She had never seen it since the boat, and guessed that Stuart still kept it with his own. He had mentioned something about applying for a joint passport, which meant that she would not be able to travel alone, but she did not think he had proceeded with the idea, because he had never requested her signature.
Rather hopelessly, she approached the Passport Office; the result was the same. She must get back her passport before she could leave the country.
The news about Aunt Kitty’s money held more encouragement. Mrs. Barnett made an immediate appointment for Lindsey to see her aunt's lawyer, and at three in the afternoon a rather dashing young man called at the
hotel for her and drove her down to his father’s office. He conducted her to a book lined room, provided a cup of tea and bade her make herself comfortable. His father would not be long.
The room was high above the town. On a seat by the window lay some binoculars and a telescope. Abstractedly, Lindsey adjusted the glasses and surveyed what was visible, between other tall buildings, of the docks. Masts and funnels, cranes,
dozens of tiny moving figures, and ... yes, the glorious white superstructure of a liner which might have been the
Pertshire Abbey
or one of her sister ships.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” said a gruff voice behind her. “Don’t often come across a woman with nautical interests. But you’re English. That accounts for it.” He was hearty and wore unashamed a sports shirt with tweed trousers and no jacket. Lindsey got the impression that he had just won a tricky round of golf, he was so genial.
“
Look here, young lady,” he said. “All I want from you is proof of identity. You brought your birth certificate? Good. And your marriage certificate?”
“Is that necessary?”
“Not absolutely. It’s a check-up and
simplifies
procedure, but we may be able to procure a copy here. You have a passport?”
“It’s in Port Acland.”
“Can’t you send for it?”
“I’d rather you did it for me, officially.”
“Oh!” Accustomed to peculiar situations, he twinkled. “Very well, but we may be able to do without it. I believe you know Professor and Mrs. MacLellan, of Newlands? Would they vouch that you were Miss Lindsey Gresham before your marriage?”
“I
think
so.”
“Well, this is how it stands. Your aunt’s money is actually in my hands, but there is still some red tape to untangle before I can pay it to you. If you need an advance, however, I shall be happy to accommodate you.”
“No; I don’t. Thank you.”
“All right. You may safely leave your birth certificate with me. When I’ve finished with it I’ll send it to you care of the MacLellans, either by messenger or registered post.”
Perhaps it was Lindsey’s lack of
anima
tion
about what was, after all, quite a substantial sum, that caused him to smile and sweep aside his papers as though he, too, found legalities tiresome. He took her back to the window and discoursed for ten minutes about a yacht which stood off the harbor. Lindsey gathered that it was an amateurish job, the proportions poor, the main gaff five degrees sharper than the fore gaff and the jibs untidy. She returned to her hotel a little more cheerful than she had left it.
Deep in her mind lay a reluctance to visit the MacLellans. She had answered Mrs. MacLellan’s last letter—the one about the legacy—but only briefly and entirely to the point. If the little woman’s feelings were injured, Lindsey could blame no one but herself. Shortsightedly, she had deliberately shut her out, foolishly hoping that the time might come when she could truthfully reassure Mrs. MacLellan that her marriage was perfect.
Badly though she needed the sympathy and understanding of an older woman, there was much that could never be spoken to anyone. Pride is a chilly garment, but Lindsey had crawled into it, and she intended to wear it from now on, however sick she felt inside. Mrs. Ma
c
Lellan had already proved too shrewd an onlooker.
Time dragged emptily; her hotel expenses were mounting at the rate of thirty shillings a day, and she was almost tempted to take a temporary post till her affairs were settled.
It was as she walked through a department store on her fifth day in Cape Town that Lindsey saw Adrienne. Her breath caught and she stepped back, but the other was too deeply absorbed in expensive lingerie to bother with strolling customers. Adrienne was
s
milin
g
at the
assistant with just enough patronizing
charm
to get results.
“I’ll take the six sets,” she said clearly. “Will you send them to the main order department? I have stockings and
handkerchiefs
and shoes there awaiting despatch, and the whole lot may as well go on one bill. Thanks so much.”
Lindsey twisted away and fled down the staircase. Adrienne in Cape Town, buying diaphanous underwear by the half dozen! And staying at one of the luxury hotels, guessed Lindsey. What did it mean? A cheque in gratitude from Mrs. Conlowe?
Ad
ri
enne had appeared s
milin
g and confident, every bit as though her guile and deceit were working as planned. No doubt this trip had a real purpose besides its uses for shopping. Cleverly, she had left Stuart alone with his mother, and when she got back, entering the shadowed household like the gentle, refreshing breeze she could act so well, both would turn to her in relief. For, of course, Stuart would give up “Elliotdale” and live at “Komana,” in the same house with Adrienne.
Hurrying along the crowded pavement, automatically weaving through the multi-colored throng, Lindsey gripped her hands together in torment. It was too much to bear alone.
She spoke to a policeman. “Will you please tell me how to get to Newlands by bus?”
He directed her precisely, fo
gging
her with street names, so that, after thanking
him
she slipped away and called a taxi.
Leaving the town by the Groote Schuur Drive, Lindsey recalled the landmarks. The old Dutch windmill at the junction of Rhodes Avenue; the imposing University in beautiful grounds; the Zoo. Over to the ri
ght
the astonishing square grandeur of Table Mountain, which she and Stuart had climbed by both railway and path. The smaller heights were the Twelve Apostles. Rondebosch, and then the stately oaks of Newlands.
She paid the driver the colossal figure he mentioned and let him go before opening the green gate and treading the
curved cement path which led into the front stoep of the MacLe
l
lans’ home: a wide inviting stoep furnished in rattan; the door was held half open by a chunk of polished quartz. It is strange how, in moments of acute stress, one pauses to examine trivialities. Lindsey was thinking of the varied door-stops she had seen in South Africa, from Mrs. Conlowe’s magnificent bronze dragon to Gwen Roberts’ plaster rabbit.
She pressed a white bell-button and a sweet chime rang out. A slim, coffee-colored girl in grey linen and starched cap and apron came into the hall.
“Is Mrs. MacLellan at home?” Lindsey asked.
“I should say she is,” came the swift, birdlike tones as the little woman appeared from a room, extending her hand. “More tea, Chrissie, and an extra place at dinner. Come along in, Lindsey. I couldn’t be more pleased to see anyone
.
”
Her sharp, kindly eyes registered everything; the pallor and droop of fatigue behind a mock-jolly smile; the twitch of fingers; the averted gaze. But she indicated a chair and sat down herself more as though her visitor were a middle-aged neighbor
than a girl taut with nerves and suspense.
“Well, how do you like our climate when it
wa
rms
up? Frankly, I don’t care for too much heat myself—one perspires so much and can’t
think
clearly. During a heat wave I’m afraid I lounge in the coolest room and do nothing at all. Last Christmas it was so hot that, after we’d eaten the traditional poultry and plum pudding, I literally collapsed.”
She went on gossiping brightly, served tea in fluted pink china and did not insist on Lindsey trying the sugar cookies.
“I suppose you’ve been living at an hotel?” she queried. “You’ll stay here from now on, naturally. Henry will take you down later to fetch your things. The spare room is ready.”
Lindsey said curiously, “Aren’t you surprised at my being in Cape Town? You sound as though you’ve been expecting me.”
“So I have, my dear. At least—not expecting, but hoping with all my might. For days I’ve worried over you—haven’t ventured beyond the gate for fear you’d come while I was out and go away again. You see, Stuart has been here
.
”
Lindsey stiffened. Involuntarily, she jerked her head round, frightened, as if sensing his presence in this room. “When?” she whispered.
“Last Monday, about noon. He’d travelled by plane.”
“Was
he...? Did he...?”
“Oh, he was fairly normal,” Mrs. MacLellan reported briskly. “You don’t get a man like Stuart rampaging and laying himself bare. The instant he realized I knew nothing about you, he closed up
...
simply said you were in Cape Town on a visit, but either hadn’t written or your letter had gone astray. He’d tried a great number of hotels and then considered it likely that you’d have called here. He was returning to Port Acland the same day.”
“So
.
.. he went back.”
“That’s what puzzled me, and convinced me that there was something terribly wrong between you. I came to the conclusion that Stuart had tried Cape Town as a shot in the dark—no doubt one of many. He didn’t know where you were; yet I had a conviction that if you had run away, this would be your destination.”
Lindsey nodded and bent her head. “It’s all over. He’s as well aware of it as I am. He ... he came here because he feels responsible for me.”
“So he is. You know, Lindsey, I can’t help wondering whether you did your best with Stuart. When a woman loves as whole-heartedly as you did—and still do—she’s apt to want rapture straight away, and disappointment sends her creeping into a shell. When you and he came here to dinner just before you left for Port Acland, he was teasing and proud of you—halfway towards
being in love. Your first letter—all brittle enthusiasm about the house, which, after all, was someone else’s—gave me quite a shock.” She paused. “Is it his mother?”
“
No. She was kind and over-joyed that Stuart was married.”
“It all hinged on the one thing, then
...
Stuart didn’t love you enough?” She shook her head. “You must have used your womanhood very inexpertly, my dear. He’s worth fighting for.”
Lindsey said nothing. You don’t fight for a man whose heart is in the keeping of another woman.
“What are you going to do?” Mrs. MacLellan asked practically.
“I shall go home.”
“But you mustn’t! England’s behind you, and we’re your people now. For the present this is your home. Besides, you’re still married to Stuart, and he has some rights where you’re concerned.”
Lindsey’s mazed perceptions caught some alien note in Mrs. MacLellan’s voice. Not quite rebuke nor yet a veering of sympathy towards Stuart, but a subtle deepening of certain syllables; probably some private thought was the cause.
“He isn’t likely to exert them,” she said.
“But it’s only fair to let him know you’re safe. He must be desperately anxious.”
“That can’t be helped,” Lindsey exclaimed. “If he knew where I am he’d make me see him again, and I won’t. I’ve stood enough.”
Diplomatically, Mrs. MacLellan smiled agreement; maybe anxiety had its uses, though one could stretch them too far. Stuart had given nothing away last Monday. It was her own intuition, not his demeanor, that suggested Lindsey had found circumstances intolerable, and escaped. Though her heart yearned over Lindsey, disillusioned and hurt by this travesty of a marriage, she was chary of interfering. The girl was exhausted and shorn. She must be given time to renew her defences before making irrevocable decisions. Well, time and goodwill were ample here in Newlands.
For Lindsey, the next two days were tranquil; interminable and dreadfully void, but overlaid with a fatal calm. The apricots in Mrs. MacLellan’s garden were changing from green to gold, and Lindsey took on the picking of the ripest fruit, washed it and helped with jam-making and bottling. Apple, plum, quince, and peach trees were loaded with hard green fruit, all of it, as far as Lindsey could see, well-shaped and unblemished. The consistent size and color of South African fruit paradoxically reminded her of the wizened little Cox’s orange pippins which grew in the garden at Pendlesea.
This garden was the antithesis of the huge, sub-tropical grounds at “Elliotdale.” Apart from two spindly palms set geometrically in the front lawn, only the size of the blooms in the flower beds suggested a softer clime than England’s. And the grass! Fine sweet blades cropped close as a billiard table; no relation at all to the coarse
-
grained Kikuyu grass which, to Kiasa’s wrath, sent its great strong suckers all over the flower plots at “Elliotdale.”
In her dire pursuit of diversion, Lindsey was faintly amused by Chrissie. The maid, an emancipated Cape Colored, used sun-gold face powder and a discreet touch of cherry lipstick. She was “walking out” with the chauffeur two doors away.
“That doesn’t mean a thing,” Mrs. MacLellan told Lindsey. “My last girl walked out for ten years before she married, and I hardly think she’d have bothered then, but we were arranging the trip to England last March, and she was apprehensive of being without
a
home for six months. The Coloreds are not nearly so keen on early marriage as the pure natives.”
Chrissie was quiet and smiling. If she spilled grease on to the newly-scrubbed kitchen floor she scolded: “You done it again, Chrissie!” And a few seconds later answered herself: “Ain’t it right! I gotta work double now.”
In the evenings friends came in for bridge and a gossip. Lindsey prepared and served the ten o’clock snacks and helped to clear up when the guests had gone.