Authors: Kathryn Blair
Her head bent. “I want to believe it will,” she answered with subdued passion. “Some day I’d like to tell you how it all came about—but not now.
I
t’s too new.”
The
Perthshire Abbey
anchored off Cape Town in the small hours, but it was not till dawn—a rather late, misty dawn—that the passengers lined the r
ails
to stare over the crowded town which straggled from sea level up the wooded hillsides, yet crouched low beneath the grey-green splendor of Table Mountain. Each had his private conception of the Tavern of the Seven Seas. To Lindsey, it was the hot, dusty port swept by sudden rains of Aunt Kitty’s letters, and to her the mountain was sinister
in its beauty, for Aunt Kitty had only mentioned it in connection with climbing fatalities.
But after breakfast, when the ship drew in to the docks, she was enthralled by the hordes of native porters, so ragged and gay and noisy, and the signs on the sheds in both English and Afrikaans. Men and women, straining to glimpse the people they had come to meet, stood below on the sun-drenched concrete—and most of the women were knitting!
Lindsey pointed excitedly. “Look, Stuart. They’re
making
their winter woollies. How comical—in this hot sun.”
“Knitting’s a craze here—among the natives as well. They walk along the street doing it. How d’you like the African sky?”
“It’s marvellous, and so are the mountains. Isn’t there a railway up Table Mountain? May we go up, Stuart? Which is the famous Signal Hill? And whereabouts is the Cas
tl
e?”
He laughed. “One
thing
at a time. We’ll do all we can this week ... if they ever let us off the boat. Here are the immigration officers coming aboard. I’ll go inside and get cleared before the rush. Go back to your cabin and I’ll pick you up there.”
Another hour passed before Lindsey set foot on South African soil. She stood still and drew a deep breath.
Stuart was pre-occupied. “An agent will push our stuff through the Customs and send it up to the hotel. We’ll go straight there first and then despatch a few telegrams. After that I must make a couple of other calls.”
In the taxi Lindsey shivered. “I do feel odd.”
He was instantly anxious. “Oh, dear. I hope you’re not going to be landsick. There, lean against me, but don’t close your eyes. That’s fatal.”
“Landsick,” she echoed, feebly indignant. “I wasn’t even seasick.”
“It doesn’t follow. Your tummy’s still swaying with the sea, but the rest of you isn’t
.
”
“Stuart, please!”
“So sorry. I meant that remark as a diversion. We’ll soon be there now. A little gin and an hour on your back will put you right. You got too excited,” he reproved her. '“It’s bad to let your emotions run away with you.”
There was an answer to that if Lindsey had been in a condition to think it up. She saw streets of shops and crowds of people, black and white and all the shades in between. Then the cab left the centre of the town and climbed.
The hotel he had chosen was large but pleasant and quiet. Lindsey’s room overlooked a trim lawn, in the middle of which a young date palm spread huge branches of green spears that whispered in the ceaseless breeze. She swallowed the gin and peppermint Stuart ordered and lay down in the darkened room, while he went off to do the more urgent business alone.
Soon she was feeling better and ashamed of herself. There was nothing to unpack for the trunks had not arrived, so she drifted between the window and the bed, and wandered into the pale green bathroom, which connected the bedrooms.
This was no way to spend one’s first morning in a strange country. Speculatively, she regarded the telephone but decided against using it. Much though she needed a cup of coffee, she could not contemplate explaining her requirement to the colored boy at the desk, nor receiving it from one of the white clad, husky Xhosas who padded the corridors.
She washed and beautified, drank tepid water from the bathroom tap, and moved a chair near to the window, so that she might watch the desultory comings and goings of colored servants and white residents.
Just after one Stuart returned.
“Not queasy?” he enquired. “Are you hungry?”
“A bit. You were gone a long time.”
“There was a lot to do.”
“Did you send a telegram to Port Acland?”
“To my mother? Yes, I did.” He was loosening his tie. “Has the baggage come?”
“Not yet. Stuart..
.”
“Dash it. I need a clean collar after chasing about town.” He was going towards the bathroom.
“Stuart,” she repeated. He half turned back. “Why didn’t you telephone Port Acland?”
He shrugged. “It isn’t necessary. I’ve told her that I’ll ring through next Friday, before we leave Cape Town.”
Lindsey was left wondering. She recalled signs of relief in him when she could not accompany him this morning and now he was offhand, almost curt. How was she going to bear the pain of loving him, unrequited, if he lost his companionableness and charm? They were all she had.
That afternoon, Stuart bought a car. Just like that. They walked into a showroom, he fancied a certain black one with a long hood and a convertible top, told Lindsey to test the comfort of the seat, and wrote a cheque. Apparently, there was no objection to his driving it away at once.
“You can use it while you’re waiting for the licence,” he was told airily. “There’ll be no trouble, as you hold an English one.”
The week passed swiftly, and Lindsey’s earlier fears were allayed. Stuart was as charming and considerate as ever and used his authority just enough to make her wish for more. Table Mountain, ba
thing
beaches, Groote Schuur, the Rhodes Memorial passed like lovely dreams. Once they sat in the Botanical Gardens and the squirrels darted up on to the seat and nipped peanuts from their fingers. And after that Stuart drove her down town to Aunt Kitty’s salon, which was now a beauty shop run by the friend who had cabled Lindsey on board. She went in and made herself acquainted with the agreeable enamelled woman who had shared the
flat upstairs with Aunt Kitty. Customers were waiting, and Lindsey knew she was in the way. She came out into the sun again bewildered and rather sad. Poor Aunt Kitty had been so swiftly obliterated.
On Thursday evening they dined at the MacLellans’ Dutch-gabled house among the English oaks at Newlands. Proudly, Mrs. MacLellan displayed her shelves of preserved peaches, plums, apricots, pears and quinces, prepared nine months ago against her return in the African spring.
“They’ll carry me through till the new season’s fruit, and then I shall be busy again. This year
I’
m going to dry some apricots and try some experiments with loquats. Our trees are simply burdened about Christmas time, and it does seem a pity that half of it should fall and rot.”
Lindsey liked the spaciousness of the South African home, the cool, lofty rooms and polished floors, the wide furnished stoeps which were casually utilized at all hours of the day and often slept in at night.
“We have our troubles,” Mrs. MacLellan told her. “Plagues of ants, mosquitoes and cockroaches, woodworm, an occasional snake in the garden, and in hot weather some awful things we call shrimps, which cling to the outsides of the doors in myriads from dusk onwards. Our storms are rather shattering, but not nearly so violent or regular as those they have inland. You’ll like this country, Lindsey,” she ended with conviction. “When the time comes you’ll hate going away.”
As they drove back to the hotel Stuart smiled at her.
“Fancy yourself as a South African housewife?”
“If you’re only staying three months...”
“I’m not tied. Our place in England runs itself, and we have neither the material nor the labor to expand there. All being favorable, we may start up in Port Acland. By the way”—he was intent on the road
ahead—“you’d better put on the pink linen tomorrow morning. We’ve an appointment in town.”
“Oh.” Her heart began the foolish drumming. “What do we have to do there?”
“Say ‘I will’ all over again, but it’s only a matter of form this time. It seems one has to be married under the laws of some country or other. There are no laws on the high seas. As it stands,” mockingly, “I could desert you any old time, and you could do nothing about it.”
“Then
...
weren’t we married before?”
“Of course we were. Wouldn’t the Bishop be shocked if he heard you say that! It isn’t every girl who has a bishop to marry her, you know. Quite a lot have to be content with a curate.”
“Oh,” she said again. In an agony of uncertainty, she felt for the edge of the seat and clutched it, for courage. “If we wanted to, it would be quite easy to
...
annul the marriage now, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose so. I haven’t thought about it.” His head turned, his eyes quizzed her. “Why should we annul it? We’re progressing nicely. Quite soon I intend to call you ‘honey’ and hold your hand in the show.”
She had to laugh with him, albeit shakily. “I understood that came before
...
kisses.”
He flicked a fly from the windshield. “I haven’t kissed you yet,” he said carelessly. “Not
kissed
.”
Somewhere inside Lindsey a bird fluttered wildly. “We shan’t get away to Port Acland till Saturday,” he was saying in the same normal tones. “It’s a seven-hundred-mile run along the coast, so I propose splitting it up over two or three days. No sense in tiring you out and we don’t really need to get there before Monday.” Lindsey didn’t ask why. She was beginning to recognize his inflections and moods. He assumed nonchalance to ward off awkwardness and to prepare the way for a change of topic.
The
civil ceremony was brief and not nearly so nerve-rending as the one aboard ship. They lunched in town and spent the afternoon searching for and selecting a gift for Mrs. Conlowe. Stuart decided on sapphire earrings and French perfume. Intrigued by his choice, Lindsey fingered the earrings questioningly.
“She’s fond of jewellery,” he explained. “My father always bought her a piece whenever he came back from a long business trip, and I like to keep it up. She relies on me for those sort of attentions.”
A wide-viewed Colonial who fretted over her health and loved jewellery and perfume. Mentally, Lindsey shook an apprehensive head.
He had booked the call to Port Acland for seven o’clock. When it came through they were in the hotel lounge, and an efficient young man led them into a private sitting room, where they could speak undisturbed.
“You come, too, Lindsey,” Stuart had said.
So she sat on the arm of a chair close to where he stood, and smiled up at him while the final connection was made.
“Is that you, darling? How are you? Yes
...
yes, of course. I’ll explain all that when I see you ... I’m glad you’re thrilled
...
thought you might be. Yes, she’s here with me. Just a minute, though, I’ve something to tell you first. I’ve taken a furnished house in Port Acland—out at Beechwood. Did it by telephone through Hunters and we shall be going straight there. Try to understand, darling. Everything is new to Lindsey, and she doesn’t yet realize that you’re no one to be scared of. English girls always tremble at meeting their mothers-in-law—didn’t you know that?” A break while he listened, then, tenderness in his answer: “I knew I could count on you. See you on Monday, then. I’m not certain what time we’ll get in, but I pro
mise
we’ll be up to dinner.”
He dropped a hand over
the
mouthpiece and addressed Lindsey. “She wishes to speak to you.”
Stifling a qualm, Lindsey took the receiver. “Hello,” she said a little breathlessly.
“Lindsey? I’m longing to see you.” The voice was
amazingly
strong and unhesitating. “Stuart’s news has made me terribly happy. I do understand your wanting a house to yourselves, though naturally I’d rather you stayed here with me. I’d even had your room prepared.”
“Please don’t hold it against me, Mrs. Conlowe.” She didn’t care that he could hear. “The furnished house was entirely Stuart’s idea.”
A small laugh. “He was always possessive, even as a boy. He means to have you to himself, and why shouldn’t he? I’m too delighted about his marriage to grudge him the smallest joy from it.”
“You’re very kind.”
“Nonsense. You have the prettiest voice, Lindsey. I expect Stuart has already told you that. Insist on that son of
mine
brin
ging
you early on Monday. We’ll have such a lot to talk about
.
”
“Yes. I will.”
“My love to you both. Goodbye, my dear.”
Lindsey turned to find Stuart lounging on a chintz sofa, watching her amusedly from under his thick dark brows.
“What did she say about me?”
“That you’re possessive and must have your own way.”
“Gross distortion.” He patted the sofa seat. “Come and sit here a minute. Isn’t it pleasant to be alone! Aren’t you getting as tired of the hotel mode of existence as I am?”
Lindsey wasn’t sure. There was a certain solace in attributing at least part of the distance between them to the crowds of strangers and hotel boys by whom they were cabined and confined.
“Perhaps,” she admitted cautiously. “Sophistication is new to me. Stuart, when did you take on the house in Port Acland?”
“I called on Hunters—they’re biggish estate agents
—t
he morning we docked, while you were getting your land legs. They telephoned here yesterday that their Port Acland branch had only one house to offer, so I
c
linched
it.”
“You might have told me.”
“I
thought you’d take it for granted that we’d do something like that. With my mother living there, we could hardly stay at an hotel.”
“I know. But if I’m to share the house...”
“Now, now, Lindsey, don’t be a baby. Maybe I under-estimated the importance of such details to a woman.” He tweaked the fingers which pressed into the sofa between them. “We’re only renting the house.
If
you take a dislike to it we can walk out, the first day.” Lindsey was silent. Impossible to dissect in words just how she felt. This nasty ache in her hadn’t anything to do with the house; she didn’t care about the beastly house as long as they were together. No, it had started when he called his mother “darling,” and deepened as his tones softened into an intimacy of understanding that she coveted to the point of stark jealousy.
“I expect the place will be furnished in wicker,” he surmised, smiling, “with moth chewed curtains and carpets and chipped Dutch pottery cluttering the rooms.
Still, it will be four walls—probably thick ones—and we can turf out the jarring notes. There are two house servants and a garden boy included, so things should be in fairly good shape, and I
thin
k
I’d better borrow one of Mother’s wolfhounds for when you’re alone.”
“A wolfhound?” in dismay. Lindsey preferred dogs of manipulative proportions.
“An Alsatian. She has three of them—brutes, but clever watchdogs. When houses are spaced so far apart you need them. I like man-size dogs.”
He sounded r
umin
ative
,
as though visualizing a house of his own, a dog and ... a pipe or a wife?
Now, he was separating her fingers, and abstractedly rubbing the pad of his thumb over each nail. Presently, the thumb lowered and twisted the thin platinum band which he had this
morning
substituted for his signet ring. Lindsey held herself completely rigid, willing herself not to pay any attention to his touch, not to think, not to feel. The merest twitch of a nostril could give one away.
A discreet tap at the door.
“Pardon me, sir
...
madam.” The European clerk bowed. “The manager has asked me to make sure that your call came through all right.”
“Perfectly, thanks.” Stuart got up. “Ready for dinner, Lindsey?”
As soon as breakfast was over next morning they left Cape Town. The trunks were going separately, by rail, but the lighter cases were stacked in the back of the car together with a picnic hamper and other necessities for a three day sight-seeing journey.
That ride from west t
o
east of the Cape provided an unforgettable series of experiences for Lindsey. The mountains shutting out the sea, the Dutch houses with their gleaming white gables and dark thatched roofs, the vineyards and orchards, the startling new green of stately oaks, and gardens heavy with the rich foliage and dazzling bloom of more exotic trees and shrubs. Palms—to Lindsey there was no tree more fascinating or varied—were huge-girthed and thickly-leaved, and aloes, with grotesque rake-like roots and writhing trunks which seemed to have gone to endless trouble to sprout those absurd little heads, peered out between thorns and mimosa.
The sunsets, whether seen above the roofs of a homely old town or from some eminence overlooking wheatlands or a tumbling river, blinded with their brilliance of coloring, and the dawns came up flamingo and lavender that changed too fast into the sapphire of daylight.
By Monday morning, when they began the last lap to Port Acland, Lindsey was sated with beauty and sunshine. In such a country, she thought, life could not help but become full and completely happy.
“We’ll keep going today,” Stuart said. “With luck, we should reach Port Acland by mid-afte
rn
oon. Will you be glad to get there?”
She nodded. “These days have been lovely, but it’ll be good to settle for a bit.”
“You’re right. That night we first met on the
Perthshire
seems worlds away. Incredible, isn’t it, to t
hink
that tonight we shall have a roof of our own?”