The Blue Mountains of Kabuta (8 page)

Her mother shrugged. ‘You are a funny girl, Jon. Sometimes I just can't understand you.'

Jon felt tempted to say ‘But you just told Alex you knew me so well!' but how could she mention Alex's visit unless her mother did, and if the whole thing came out into the open, there might be one of those emotional scenes
with
her mother that she dreaded and that left Ursula exhausted for days.

Mrs Swayne arrived in her black car and Jon waved them goodbye, then wandered round the house. She could hear the chugging of the tractors, the sudden crow of a cock, the chatter of Violet and Dorcas in the kitchen, and she thought how much she loved the sounds. This was her home. Her beloved home.

Jon felt restless, wishing there was someone with whom she could discuss the situation. Part of her was eager to rush in to Qwaleni and put the advertisement in the newspaper—another part of her hesitated. Was she doing the right thing? Should she consult Alex?

She went out on the stoep, the dogs leaping up excitedly as they thought that meant a walk, then as she sank into a chair, they sat down close by, looking at her with reproachful eyes.

But Jon hardly noticed them for once. She was thinking of Alex. If she told him she wanted to get a farm manager, she could imagine the light of triumph in his eyes. Even if he didn't say: ‘I told you so', he would make it obvious that it was what he thought!

Then she felt ashamed. Was she unjust? Uncle Ned had said she was to trust Alex.

Yet she must not sell the farm to him. It didn't make sense. What should she do?

The sound of a car brought her to her feet. Was it Alex? she wondered. No, it was Madeleine! Getting out of her car with her
usual
gracefulness, hurrying across the sunlit lawn in a brief white frock, looking as beautiful as usual. But she happened to be the very last person Jon wanted to see at that moment!

‘Is Alex here?' Madeleine asked curtly without any greeting.

‘As far as I know he isn't unless he's out on the lands, but then he usually lets us know.'

‘Where's your mother?'

‘Gone out with Mrs Swayne.'

Madeleine frowned. ‘Alex hasn't been here at all?'

Jon hesitated. ‘I took the dogs for a walk before breakfast and he wasn't here when I got back.'

‘Your mother said nothing?'

‘No, she didn't,' Jon snapped, suddenly annoyed. What right had Madeleine to come and question her like this?

Madeleine looked startled. ‘I'm sorry if this seems a cross-examination, Jon, I didn't mean it that way.' Her voice became almost placating. ‘Only I've been trying to get Alex on the phone since it came on and no one seems to know where he is.' She smiled sweetly, but somehow Jon distrusted the smile. A sudden idea came to her. Was Madeleine jealous? Had she, too, perhaps thought that Jon's mother and Alex . . . ? After all, they were only a few years apart in age, and nowadays, few people worried about that! Poor Madeleine, so beautiful, so possessive and so sure of herself.
Would
this explain her sudden appearance and abrupt and even rude manner?

‘Would you like a cup of coffee?' Jon asked politely, hoping Madeleine would refuse. But she didn't.

‘Lovely idea.' Madeleine sat down in one of the cane chairs. ‘By the way, Jon, Mother asked me to ask you if your ma and you would come to dinner tomorrow night?'

Jon, pausing on her way to the kitchen to tell Violet to make two cups of coffee, hesitated. She had no desire to go to Madeleine's home, the one Alex had joked about, saying it was called Pumula, which meant peace, and that peace was the last thing you got in the Cox home.

‘I'll have to ask Mum, Madeleine. She's getting such a busy social life these days.'

They both laughed. ‘She likes it, Jon?'

Jon nodded. ‘Very much. She's dining out tonight and . . .'

A cloud seemed to descend over Madeleine's face. ‘Tonight? Oh, is she?' Madeleine paused and Jon seized the chance to escape to the kitchen, knowing that Madeleine had wanted to ask with whom her mother was dining! Not that she would tell her. Certainly not; it was none of Madeleine's business.

Over coffee, they talked of various things such as the heat and the urgent need for rain. Also, of course, they talked of Alex. Of course,
Jon
thought bitterly, all conversations inevitably ended up with Alex!

‘I can't understand him,' Madeleine was saying, ‘wasting his money on his wild life sanctuary. He's absolutely obsessed about it. He wants to make it bigger, you know.'

‘Yes, I do know,' Jon said quietly. She waited for Madeleine to say something about selling Jabula—but she didn't!

‘He works far too hard, of course. He never has a spare moment.' She looked at Jon and smiled. ‘You're a nuisance, too, but I expect he's told you so.'

Jon's face burned. ‘A nuisance?'

Madeleine laughed. ‘Of course you are. Alex is worried stiff about you and your mother being here on your own. Do you know that this house is the one that has been burgled more often than any other in the valley?'

Jon caught her breath. How thankful she was that her mother wasn't with them! ‘He didn't tell me.'

‘Of course he didn't, or you'd be scared stiff, but every night he sends a boy down to see that all is well here, and every morning, as you know, he's here at dawn, giving your staff their jobs. It's like running a farm for no pay at all. That's typical of Alex. He's soft-hearted. The fuss he made of your uncle when he was ill! Anyone would have thought the man was a relation.'

‘They
were good friends.'

‘Maybe, but there's a limit to the demands of friendship. I mean, let's face it, Jon, you haven't a hope of running this farm alone and you know it. You're just wasting Alex's time by your stubbornness.'

‘Stubbornness?'

Madeleine nodded, her fair hair swinging forward.

‘That's all it is. You're the laughing-stock of the neighbourhood. We all know you can't manage alone. A farm like this needs a man. Besides, you've no experience, no training— not a clue. I suppose your idea is to raise the price? Bleed poor generous Alex to death.'

Jon's temper was barely under control. ‘I shall never—ever—sell Jabula to Alex, and that's for sure!'

Madeleine looked amused. ‘If Alex stopped helping you—and I can assure you that he's fed to the teeth with doing so—you'd have no option. Alex will give you a better price than any other man. You'd be a fool to turn down his offer.'

Jon stood up. ‘Fool or not, I mean what I said. I shall never—but never—sell the farm to Alex. I've told him so.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because . . .' Jon drew a deep breath, trying to control her anger. ‘Because I love it here. Uncle Ned left it to me.'

‘And you'll let it go smash? All his work
wasted?
It will become a ruin. One day . . .' she laughed, ‘one day it might be known as Uncle Ned's Ruin!'

‘I shall never let it go smash,' Jon's voice was unsteady. ‘Now, I don't want to be unsociable, Madeleine, but I've got to go in to Qwaleni this morning and . . .'

‘I'm in the way?' Madeleine laughed. ‘All right, but give me a ring about dinner tomorrow night. The parents want to meet you.'

I'm sure they do, Jon thought bitterly. She was the laughing-stock of the neighbourhood. They were all watching her, waiting for her to collapse and meekly sell the farm to Alex. Well, they could wait for ever—it was the very last thing she would do!

When Madeleine had gone, Jon hastily changed into a clean green frock. Her mind was no longer at doubt. She was doing the right thing—indeed, the only thing. No longer need poor Alex slave to help her—and then tell her neighbours how fed-up he was with helping her! Nor need he worry about them at night—
if
Madeleine's story of the burglars was true—for there would be a man about the house.

Qwaleni was thirty-five miles away and not a bad road, though only some of it was tarmac. She didn't enjoy the drive very much, but her urgent need to get to the local newspaper urged her on. She looked at everything she
passed,
thinking how the tribal clothing worn by many of the Africans had a dignity of its own. She liked the brightly coloured squares of cotton they wore. The men wore a square knotted on one shoulder while another piece of material hung like a kilt round his waist, the tail of an animal hanging down his back. His hair swept back, often whitened and with a feather. But most of the Africans wore trousers and shirts; working on the lands they wore their oldest clothes, of course, often torn and ragged.

Driving by the large market where the African women squatted or sat behind the stalls, she wondered how the babies, tied to their mothers' backs with blankets, could survive the heat of the sun on their faces. The babies' legs were stretched far apart, their little heads nodding as they slept peacefully. Sometimes a mother would walk along, holding a bright yellow or red sunshade over her head to shelter the baby. The women had such strength that often Jon would stare, wondering how they walked so upright with enormous cases balanced on their head, also carrying bundles and perhaps with a small child hanging on to his mother's skirt.

As Jon drove up the winding curved mountain road, she saw that huge white clouds were moving slowly, almost ruthlessly across the pale blue sky. They seemed to be threatening the beauty of everything for the
great
dark shadows, reflections of the clouds, were hiding the mountains' real colour and making them look almost dark purple. She hoped there wouldn't be a storm, but at least she had only one thing to do in Qwaleni—go to the local newspaper office. She sighed. Perhaps she had better do some shopping in case her mother asked questions. How she hated this deceitfulness! Once you got involved . . .

At least, she thought, as she gazed from the mountain top down on to the sprawling town below, she was doing something to solve the problem, something constructive! The problem? She laughed ruefully. What else but Alex?

The town was more crowded than she had expected and she had difficulty in parking the car. Then she walked down the main road, glancing at the shops, looking for the newspaper office. She could not find it, and after walking up and down the short high street twice, she went into a shop and bought some apples and tomatoes, then asked the Portuguese man the way to the newspaper office.

He told her. Finally it turned out to be just out of town and quite a walk. She had not realized how far it would be and wished she had taken the car as she walked along the red sandy road with few trees and in the scorching sunshine. However, at last she found the
building,
but then, as she went in, realized with dismay that she had not worked out the advertisement and hadn't a clue as to what to say.

Fortunately she was served by a friendly woman who was also new to the neighbourhood, to Jon's relief, for Madeleine's words that she was the ‘laughingstock of the neighbourhood' still hurt.

‘You want a farm manager?' the assistant said. ‘Then have a box number, otherwise you'll have them walking in on you. It's easier to sort out the no-goods by letter.'

‘You think I'll have no difficulty in . . .'

‘Getting one? Certainly not,' the red-headed woman laughed, ‘so long as you pay a good salary. Do you want a married man or single?'

Jon looked startled. ‘Does it make any difference?'

‘It does when it comes to accommodation. A married man with a family would need a house.'

Thinking fast, Jon remembered something. ‘There is a guest cottage, but it needs repainting and . . . well, actually I thought the farm manager could live with my mother and me and . . .'

‘It might work and it might not. Only time will tell. So we'll say preferably a single man. We won't say where the farm is. That you can tell them when they write to you.'

Half an hour later, Jon went out into the hot
sunshine.
She felt much happier. She had taken her first constructive step. By the time she reached the shops and her parked car, the perspiration was running down her face, her clothes sticking to her wet body, her feet sore, her head aching. She longed for a cool shower as she unlocked the car door and was about to slide in when a voice stopped her.

‘What on earth are you doing here, little Jon?'

She swung round, startled. ‘Sh—shopping, Alex.'

His eyes narrowed. ‘You've been a long time. I've been waiting here for you.' He glanced up at the clouds, now blacker than before and seeming much lower. ‘Have you got much else to do, as we ought to get going. There's going to be a big storm.'

‘I'll be all right. You don't have to worry . . .'

‘That's what you think,' Alex said coldly. ‘I know better. I'll follow you home.'

She stared at him, so angry she could not speak. Then she remembered that it wouldn't be long before she would be freed from his constant interference, and inside her, she felt triumphant.

‘All right,' she said, her voice meek. ‘I'm going now.'

How she hated that drive home! She was so painfully conscious of his much more powerful car behind her. She made so many stupid mistakes; ones she always blamed others for if
they
did them, but today she was making them herself—overtaking when she should have been more cautious, forgetting to signal a turn. If only his car would break down or she could surge ahead and be out of his sight! Why must she always go to pieces when he was around?

She knew one truth—that she wanted him to praise her, that she wanted to be a woman and not a little Jon! Why, she asked herself wearily, why did it matter so much to her what Alex thought?

They were on top of the last mountain when the storm broke. The rain was like a grey sheet, cutting out the view, making the windscreen wipers seem useless. It was hard to see ahead, even though the cars had their lights on. The sky was rent by zig-zag jagged flashes of lightning, showing brightly in the dark clouds. Terrific cracks of thunder shattered the air as Jon clung to the steering wheel, peering ahead as the car skidded in the mud, and she wished it was a tarmac road. It didn't help to know that on one side of the mountain there was a sheer drop of thousands of feet. Everything was grey and strangely cold.