Authors: Kathryn Blair
CHAPTER THREE
PORT ACLAND, a seaside resort that was fast developing a wide industrial area at its eastern end, lay like a misty jewel on the rim of Acland Bay. The climate, sunny but tempered by winds and seasonal rains, had, in the course of years, appropriately attracted more English than other nationalities, tho
ugh
there was a strong Afrikaans element in some parts of the town.
Beechwood, the residential area which began just behind the Esplanade and stretched back into the veld, possessed its quota of Dutch architecture, but
mainly
the houses showed a
disc
riminating
departure from the accepted Cape styles. Practically all of them were single-storied.
The house Stuart had rented lay back from a wide, grass edged road shaded by giant blue gums and pollard pines. The stoep, elaborately arched and packed with tub ferns and palms, stretched right round the house like a tropical veranda, so that at any
tim
e
of the day one could follow the sun.
The double doors stood open, displaying still more potted plants on tall teak stands set against the semicircular wall of a spacious, tiled hall, from which opened many blackwood doors with brass handles.
“It’s
huge
,”
exclaimed Lindsey.
“Quite a bungalow,” agreed Stuart. “In England they’d build half a dozen villas on this floor space. I suppose the servants are at the back somewhere. Hunter said they’d be here, waiting. This centre door should lead to the hinterland.”
It did, through an airy corridor with a french window at the other end which gave on to the back stoep. Their footsteps echoed.
A boy appeared, a sturdy Basuto in grey flannel trousers and a white jacket. His name, he said, was Daniel. He had worked in the house for five years, sharing duties during the last year with the girl, Meta, who suddenly materialized behind him, smiling and nodding.
Meta, Lindsey was to learn later, had not yet reached years of dignity. She liked fun and dancing and when, in the dark quiet of evening, her sensitive native ears caught the sounds of singing at the location a couple of miles away, she would steal out and run all the way there to join the fun. Reprehensible behavior, in Daniel’s sober opinion. But she was a willing worker, and Lindsey liked her round, bronze face and the infectious, helpless laughter which sometimes percolated through the thick walls from the kitchen.
Stuart’s guess at wicker furniture and moth holed carpets was a long way out. The dining room was unwavering Tudor; leather-seated chairs, brass studs, log candlesticks, and all. In the lounge the owner had mixed his vintages. Polished wood floor, a floral linen chesterfield suite, a couple of Morris chairs, a Chinese cabinet upon which sat a fat red Buddha, and some hefty carved imbuia occasional tables and stools. Imposingly planted in the centre of the room, a mighty elephant’s foot was ludicrously burdened with a linen mat and a pair of blue china sabots.
“The family heirloom,” Stuart whispered. “I expect great-great-grandfather winged the poor beast on his way from the north. What a come down
...
king
of the forest to wax-polished whatnot.”
Lindsey was delighted with it. “Pure Africa,” she said. “I wish it belonged to us.”
The four bedrooms, impersonally furnished in walnut and kiaat, differed from each other only in the coloring of the bed covers and curtains. Lindsey chose the pale rose room. She stood near the window, gazing out at the scarlet hibiscus blooms which clothed the dark green hedge. A heavenly place; expensive, wholly strange, but heavenly. It was quite a while before she stirred to unpack.
Over tea in the lounge Stuart waved a hand. “How do you like the atmosphere?”
“It’s a bit Kew Gardens, but otherwise perfect.”
“The greenery can be transferred to one of the outhouses and taken care of by the garden boy.”
“At the risk of scandalizing Daniel?”
“We’ll tell him that pot plants give you hay fever. He seems the sort of boy who’d do anything for a white missus. Taken all round, I
think
we’re lucky.” He gave her the suspicion of a wink. “I’m rather looking forward to the next three months.”
Lindsey bent over the pouring of second cups, to hide the brightness in her eyes.
“Do we have to dress for dinner with your mother?” she asked presently.
“Tonight’s informal. She’s rather a stickler when other than the family are present.” He paused. “There’s one thing about this house that worries me—the lack of a telephone. Hunte
r
said we’re just outside the wired area and they won’t extend for a year or two. The town spreads over a good many square miles and we’re on the outer edge of it. I may be held up by business sometimes, and unable to let you know. Or you may need to get in touch with me.”
“There are neighbors about three hundred yards away each side of us.”
“While you were unpacking, I questioned Daniel. The family to the left speak only Afrikaans, and the other way there’s an oldish couple who are away staying with married daughters most of the time. I’m all for isolationism while I’m here, but I’d prefer to know you weren’t so entirely cut off when I’m not.”
“Daniel is trustworthy.”
“Yes; but there’s nothing so reassuring as knowing I can contact you by telephone.”
It pleased Lindsey that he should be anxious.
“Daniel will know where the nearest telephone is,” she said. “I expect he’s used one before. We’ll get
him
a bicycle.”
Stuart was not satisfied. “All I can
think
of for the present is that whenever I keep a business appointment, you must be dropped at ‘Komana,’ and I’ll collect you on the way back.” ‘Komana’ was his mother’s house. “We shall have to be getting along there soon,” he added. “Want the bath first?”
The bathroom was dead white all over, even to the rubberized floor. Cool, perhaps, but hardly friendly. Lindsey determined to replace the stark towels with pastels and checks, and to drape the frosted glass window with a patterned plastic. Lightly, smitten with delicious awe, she touched Stuart’s fat shaving cup on the glass shelf, and slipped the toothbrush he had carelessly shoved there into the holder beside her own. Another of the crazy little pleasures of being in love.
Dressing, she thought of all the duties she must begin tomorrow. The purchase of fresh linen—for she disliked the idea of their using someone else’s and it would be sweet to have a few articles of their own. The pantry had to be filled, a routine planned. And she must get in some cookery before they entertained. Meta hardly looked the type to be trusted with more than a couple of courses.
A dusting of powder, a rub of lipstick. Her coloring required very little make up, thank goodness. She slipped the compact and a lawn handkerchief into a sequin purse, threw a coat over her arm and traversed the long corridor to the hall.
Though it was nearly dark, the doors still stood wide. Moths flashed about the electric lantern which hung in the stoep, and the night bees chirred in a dozen keys in the bougainvillaea that arched over the wide porch. The air, soft and warm as down, moved gently among the cassias and flame trees in the garden. Scents stole up, bewitching, elusive.
She stood waiting, looking straight and young as new grass in the green dress with a cascade of white ruffles at the throat, her hair shining and curled up short above her neck. She did not move when Stuart came behind her.
“This air’s intoxicating,” she murmured.
“Not only the air,” he said as softly over the top of her head.
She felt him take her shoulders and then was shot through with an exquisite anguish as his lips sought the lobe of her ear and her neck. If only she dared turn into his arms. But his hands dropped and he leaned over to the hall chair where lay her coat and purse.
“Mother will be wondering if we ever got here,” he said. “Besides, I want to show you off.”
Lindsey did not glance his way then, but in the car, from beneath lowered lashes, she saw that a faint color had risen under his tan, and though he bantered he did not look at her.
Twenty minutes later he drew up before the cement portals of a large white house on the Esplanade. As soon as the engine stopped Lindsey could hear the muted thunder of waves upon beach, though only a black arc sprinkled with diamonds was visible from this distance.
Stuart had never attempted to describe ‘Komana’ to Lindsey. For some degree of opulence she was prepared, but the long, pillared driveway which reached to the terrace, the magnificent candelabra which sparkled within the tall oaken doors, drawing depth and lustre from the Turkey red carpet and silver damask chairs, the honey-hued table rioting with flowers, took her breath away.
He must have sensed a shrinking in her, for his arm pressed hers close against his side, and he smiled down at her.
“Is it worse than the dentist?”
“Much worse.”
“A year from now you’ll laugh at this.”
A year from now. He always said the right thing.
A white-uniformed houseboy stepped from behind the table where he had been stationed like a sentinel.
“Good evening, Julius,” Stuart addressed
him
. “Is Madam in the drawing room?”
As the boy began his ponderous, prepared answer, a door swung back and Stuart’s mother stood there, taller than Lindsey and surprisingly slim, her smile so much like his that, involuntarily, Lindsey turned to compare them.
In appearance at least there was nothing to mark Mrs. Conlowe as Colonial, She wore tailored navy linen with a square diamond brooch. Her hair, swept up from a pale, serene forehead into a light silky roll, was still mahogany brown at-the back. If she was sixty, she carried
the
years easily and with grace and charm.
Quickly, Stuart kissed her.
“You look blooming, darling. Sorry we’re late.”
“I should think so. I waited on the veranda till the damp came up.” Keeping a hand on his arm she faced Lindsey with the familiar smile. “Pretty was an under
s
tatement, Stuart! Lindsey’s very much more than that.”
He dug his hands into his pockets and regarded them both with gentle mockery.
“Yes, isn’t she? Who’d ever have thought I’d marry a redhead?”
“It isn’t red,” said his mother
.
“By daylight I’m sure it’s the soft tawny shade that some English birds have
—
I forget what they’re called. Pardon us for discussing you like this, Lindsey. Julius will take your coat. Come in and have a drink and let me get a
really good look at you both.”
Lindsey could not at once soak in the details of the drawing room. White walls and white sheepskin rugs, beige tweed upholstery, another confusion of flowers on an inlaid table and exotic vermilion notes in curtains and cushions. At the far end of the long room glass doors shut off the sun lounge.
“Give the cocktails a final shake, Stuart. Sit in the divan with me, Lindsey. I do hope you’re going to like Port Acland enough to persuade Stuart to settle here. He’s always been so restless, but I’m expecting great things from your influence. Tell me about your house.”
“It’s roomy and very comfortable, and rather amusing.”
“I expect you know it,” said Stuart. “ ‘Elliotdale,’ on the last stretch of the Beechwood road.”
“So far? Surely you could have done better than that! Poor Lindsey, stuck out in the veld.”
“We
h
ad to arrange it by telephone from Cape Town, remember.”
“Couldn’t you have tolerated a week with me while you looked around?”
“Furnished houses don’t grow on trees. I snapped it up.”
“You know best, darling. I was only thinking of Lindsey in a strange country, though no doubt she’s getting used to being bossed about and told what’s good for her. But I warn you, Stuart”—with a playful tap as she took a cocktail from him—“young wives have been known to resent incarceration. You must buy Lindsey a car of her own.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind,” he said pleasantly. “The roads into the town are steep and donkey-ridden, and women have been known to lose their heads over less than a donkey.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to my two girls.”
Mrs. Conlowe leaned back in her
corner
, scanning his face. She had never pried and clung and demanded his confidence, but she considered herself entitled to a motherly curiosity.
“Why didn’t you cable as soon as you’d decided to get married?”
His expression did not alter. “You like surprises. What more enchanting surprise than a ready-made daughter-in-law?”
“I agree. But after that last letter from you in London, I thought
...
”
“Just be grateful, my sweet,” he interrupted as he twisted to refill the glasses. “Lindsey blushes very easily.”
His mother laughed, and Lindsey, who had indeed sprung a coin of color in each cheek, blamed the cocktail and firmly refused a second.
Over dinner the conversation was light. Lindsey wondered if she would ever get used to colored boys serving her food and standing away in the shadows between times. Apparently Mrs. Conlowe employed a regiment, for she talked of Zulani and Jacob, Julius and Smita, who were old employees, and mentioned one or two bush natives who did the outside work.
“Do the Hetheringtons still live on the Esplanade?” Stuart asked. “I seem to recall that they were considering a move to Durban.”
“They left about four months ago: A man named Baumann lives in that house now, an odious creature who makes immense profits from tinned sausages. He holds midnight parties on the beach and his wife goes about all day in pyjamas.”
“Pyjamas?” Stuart’s brows lifted. “Depends a lot on the woman. Do you miss the Hetheringtons?”
“I did at first, but I’m not living alone at the moment. You remember the Cadells, of Kimberley?”
“Didn’t they live about a mile from your old home? Are they down here?”
“The mother died some years ago. Horace and his daughter came here—he was supposed to be retiring. Suddenly he married again—only a few weeks ago
—
hard faced minx who took him away to the South of France. Poor Adrienne was left high and dry, an intolerable situation for an unmarried girl of twenty-nine who’s been educated to believe herself comfortably provided for.”
“Bounder,” Stuart commented. “As a girl, Adrienne had certain good looks.”
“She still has them. I have her staying here for companionship. Candidly, I’m angling to get her married. She
’
s out at the Country Club tonight with her cousin, Tony Loraine, but you’ll be meeting her any day now.” Meticulously, she used finger bowl and napkin. “Shall we go into the drawing room, Lindsey?”
Stuart said, “I’ll take a look at the dogs. Can you spare us one for a while?”
“You may borrow Brutus. Either of the others would play you up. Stuart!” she called after him. “Please don’t bring those dogs into the house.” To Lindsey she added, “He fools with the great animals as though they were terriers. I can’t bear to see the
thing
s on their hind legs snapping round his face.”
Lindsey, of a younger generation and bound to him by any but maternal bonds, thought Stuart could quite well take care of himself. She was glad to have
this
interlude with his mother.
“Smoke if you want to,” said Mrs. Conlowe, settling herself in a chair. “I used to have a cigarette myself till smoking made me short of breath. I have to watch my health a little.”
“Stuart told me. But I understood that you keep well in Port Acland.”
“I do, unless we get sultry heat. I’ve been here for twelve years. Before that we lived in London. Dear me, those London summers and the shivering winters. I used to wrap in furs and crouch over a fire and pine for Kimberley, where I was
born
. It was too much. When my husband died, I, too, had an illness. Stuart brought me here, but the Conlowe business called
him
back to England. He has visited me when he could—mostly short trips by air—but I always had a horrid feeling that I’d never see him married. That’s why you’ve made me so happy. My dear,” she smiled, “I never did hear how you and Stuart came together.”
A slight chill feathered across Lindsey’s skin.
“My twin brother was a junior officer in Stuart’s ship—
t
he one that sank. Stuart saved his life.”
The smile had gone from the older woman’s face. “How like Stuart! Yes, he did tell me he knew your brother, but he never mentioned
him
when he was telling me about the ship going down. He was on his way back to the Far East then. He said nothing about saving anyone.”
“He wouldn’t. My brother was lost at sea just over a year afterwards.”
“Oh, Lindsey!” in pity and distress. “What a lot we have to make up to you.” She hesitated. “If you’ve known Stuart so long, why weren’t you two married earlier?”
“But I haven’t known him long.” Had she replied too hastily? “At least,
not ...
so very. We met by accident and discovered the
link
afterwards.”
Mrs. Conlowe’s features softened. “I wish you could realize just how I felt when I first knew about you. My husband’s brother, who is a partner in Conlowe’s—probably you met him before you left England?—he wrote me that at last Stuart was seriously interested in a girl. Naturally, I pressed Stuart for details, but he just called me a wishful thinker.” She paused, re-living some sort of emotion. “The tone of his letter was disquieting. I wrote back threatening to brave the English climate if he refused to tell me just how the matter stood. The following week I had an airmail from him saying he was leaving in the
Perthshire Abbey,
alone. I got the impression that he was hurt over something, and
forgive me, Lindsey—I blamed you.”
Lindsey gripped her hands together as though her toppling world were between them.
“Me?” she managed to say. “You blamed me?”
A rueful nod. “Mine was the usual mother’s reaction that you should have borne with his intolerance or whatever it was that caused the breach between you. But it’s unimportant now. Lovers always have had differences and always will. You and Stuart must have made it up at the last moment. How fortunate that you were able to sail with him!”
“Yes
...
wasn’t it?”
Afterwards, Lindsey could not remember exactly what passed between herself and Mrs. Conlowe during the next quarter of an hour. Something was said about the servants and a shopping tour, and when Stuart came in, smelling of smoke and fresh air, the conversation veered to enquiries about old friends. She listened, inserted a bright monosyllable when it was expected of her, and concentrated on straining back from the pit of disaster that had opened before her.
“Perhaps a sherry party,” Mrs. Conlowe said. “We can ask all ages and launch Lindsey in one go. So much more comfortable than a series of stuffy dinner parties.”
“Which day, Lindsey?” asked Stuart
.
“Does it
...
matter?”
He leaned forward in his chair, laughing at her. “People prefer to know the day they’re expected to present themselves. Wake up.”
“The journey has tired her,” his mother observed. “I should be prostrate after three days’ driving. Take her home early, Stuart, and come in
again
tomorrow. We’ll arrange it then.”
Puzzled, he offered Lindsey his hands. She let
him
pull her up, then drew away. Ten minutes later Mrs. Conlowe kissed them both good night.
“I’m so happy to know you, Lindsey,” she repeated. “So happy.”
“Not such an ordeal after all, was it?” he said as the car left the Esplanade and glided along that endless thoroughfare, the Beechwood road. “Mother couldn’t have been more delighted if she’d picked you herself.”
“So long as Mother’s pleased,” said Lindsey in a small tight voice.
He cast her a swift glance. “It wouldn’t have made any difference if she hadn’t been—to my actions, I mean. It’s for your sake that I’m glad you made a hit with her. You’ll get fond of her, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
“In a way, it’s just as well we’re so far out. She runs her own car, but seldom goes farther than the shopping centre. She’ll come to us only when we invite her.”
“Why shouldn’t she come to us as often as she wishes?” again in that curiously hard little voice.
“You’re flat out,” he said. “Straight to bed when you get in and lie late tomorrow. We’ll have a lazy day.”