The Judas Tree (32 page)

‘Must you both go so soon?' Moray exclaimed in a disappointed tone. ‘I'd banked on keeping you for some time.'

‘It's all very pressing. We shall not stay long in Edinburgh but work down to London, lecturing on the way. I'm needed at the Mission. So I've arranged to fly back to Kwibu on the twenty-first.'

‘Good heavens, that's sooner than we expected – less than two weeks from today. And I did want to do something for you here.'

Already, at the back of his mind, Moray had felt the need of a definite act to mark his departure from Schwansee. He meant to go off with a bang. No hole-and-corner business, no slinking off, he'd march out with head high and flags flying. And now, under the stress of urgency, this idea took definite form: he'd have a farewell party, introduce Willie to a gathering of his friends, there would be a frank declaration by himself, an appropriate speech by Willie – ah, that suggested an added attraction.

‘You say you're to deliver some lectures?'

‘They call it a lecture.' Willie smiled. ‘Just a little descriptive talk about the Mission, chiefly our beginnings there, illustrated by coloured slides. I only do it to raise funds.'

‘Then,' said Moray warmly, ‘ why don't you raise some here? Give the lecture in my house tomorrow. I can promise you a substantial response.'

‘I wouldn't mind,' Willie said, after a moment's thought. ‘I'm not much of a speaker. At least I could run through some of it.'

‘Good, then that's settled.'

They were now beyond Lachen, on the last stretch of their journey, yet the dazzling view of the mountains which presented itself brought no comment from Willie. Instead Moray became increasingly aware that his companion, drawn up in the corner of the seat and despite the fact that the station wagon had become excessively warm, was enduring a sharp return of his earlier shivering fit. Momentarily neglecting the road, Moray turned rull round to find the other's over-bright gaze bent apologetically upon him.

‘Don't mind me,' Willie said. ‘I felt this coming on in the plane. Just a little snatch of fever.'

Reverting to eyes front, Moray groped along the seat and found Willie's bony fingers. They were dry and hot.

‘Good heavens, man, you're obviously getting a temperature. You must go to bed immediately when we get back.'

Selecting an interlude between the rigors, Willie smiled.

‘If I lay down every time I had a temperature I'd never be up.'

‘What is it?' Moray asked, after a pause. ‘Malaria?'

‘It could be. But then I've so many interesting bugs inside me – amoebae, cocci, trypanosomes, and whatnot – one never knows.'

‘Surely not trypanosomes?'

‘Oh, yes, I've had a go of sleeping sickness. Then I did have to be flat on my back.'

‘We'll stop at the chemist's and at least get you some quinine.'

‘Thank you, David, you're a goodhearted chap. However, I've had a staple diet of quinine so long it's stopped doing any good. I stoke up with atabrine and paludrin occasionally, though actually it's better to let the bugs fight it out amongst themselves. If you leave them alone the different strains go into battle and knock each other out.'

Good God, thought Moray, staring straight ahead and frowning, this man is a hero or a saint – or else he's a little bit dotty.

But now they were in Schwansee and, turning up the hill from the lake, into the winding avenue lined with acacia trees, Moray drew up at his house. Immediately Kathy rushed from the porch – she had been waiting more than an hour for the sound of the car.

Watching the reunion of uncle and niece, Moray suffered a twinge of jealousy that it should be so affectionate. But, manfully, he dismissed the unworthy sentiment – Kathy, he well knew, was all his own. He smiled at her meaningly.

‘Show Willie to his room, my dear. I'm sure you have lots to say to him.'

When he had washed and restored himself with a quick glass of amontillado he went into the library to wait for her. She was a long time in coming down, and although he occupied himself by drawing up a list of the people he meant to invite to the lecture party – Arturo would telephone them later in the day – he had begun to feel anxious at the delay when the door swung open and she appeared. Her cheeks were flushed, she flew like a homing dove straight into his arms.

‘I've explained everything. Uncle Willie is coming down to have a talk with you, so I won't stay. I think it's all right. I'm sure he likes you … And, oh, dearest David, I'm happy again.'

When she had gone, he waited with a touch of apprehension, aware of the many points on which he might be interrogated. But when Willie arrived his expression, with its mixture of patience and kindness, was far from intimidating. Standing there, with his sloping shoulders and thin, dangling hands, his bones seemed loosely strung together under the thin, parchment-dry skin. He looked at Moray from under his brows with those bright, luminous eyes, in an embarrassed manner, made evident by an exacerbation of his tic.

‘Kathy has told me,' he said. ‘I could be glad for all our sakes. She wants you. I want you. But …' he hesitated, ‘do you really want to come? I think you should consider that question carefully before you proceed.'

Moray, who had hoped for warm acceptance, perhaps even for congratulations, stared at Willie, disappointed and at a loss.

‘I have considered it. And I do want to come. Of course …' his eyes fell, ‘I suppose you've good reason to distrust me.'

‘No, no, it's not that, David. I only feel that you must be strongly attached to your own way of life. Perhaps that life may call you back in spite of yourself. You may not succeed in breaking away from it.'

‘You misjudge me,' Moray protested seriously, with unmistakable sincerity. ‘My life, my old life; has become obnoxious to me. For a long time, even before I set eyes on Kathy, I had felt how empty and trivial it was – a useless existence. Now I know that I needn't be a slave to the past, that it's possible for me to make what I will of myself. I'm determined to build a new – a happy life.'

‘A happy life,' Willie repeated, as though reflecting on the words. ‘When you say that, are you not thinking only of yourself? That kind of life has no part in our work. Happiness should never be regarded as an end in itself – it is found only in a total absence of concern about oneself. If you come with us you'll be called on to do many things which are neither pleasant nor enjoyable.'

‘I recognise that,' Moray said, in a hurt voice, not without dignity. ‘But with Kathy at my side, and your help, I believe I can acquit myself creditably. At least I will try.'

There was a stillness during which Willie gazed intently at Moray. His eyes were guileless but held something searching in their depths. Then he smiled and held out his hand.

‘I believe you will,' he said, with sudden cheerfulness. ‘And if you do, you will be rewarded in a manner far beyond your present expectation. I believe, David, that anyone who has been accorded talents such as yours must devote them to the service of his fellow men. If he does he'll achieve the ultimate purpose of every man's being. If he does not he will be consumed by unhappiness and sooner or later suffer an atrocious punishment. So for your sake as well as my own I rejoice in your decision. It's all settled then. And I may now tell you how much your help will mean to me – you and Kathy, doctor and nurse, a team of husband and wife working together, it's a gift straight from the Lord.'

Moray's sense of the dramatic had been a feature of his character even in those early days when he had so carefully built up that thrilling surprise for Mary in demonstrating the wonders of Glenburn Hospital and the little house which, alas, they were never to occupy. As a different man, and in a different cause, yet with unchanged enthusiasm, he had resolved to make his farewell party for Willie's lecture an occasion that would be remembered in Schwansee long after he had gone. His preparations had been elaborate, and now the day, the hour, and the moment had arrived. They were here, all his friends, seated expectantly in a neat semicircle in the drawing-room where, against the closed double doors, a white screen had been unrolled. A projector, hired for the occasion, stood on a Pembroke table at the other end, already connected to an electric point.

From the beginning, when Leonora Schutz arrived in a new hat with Dr Alpenstuck, quickly followed by little Gallie and Archie Stench, who had given her a lift, then by Madame Ludin and her husband, and finally, after an anxious interval, by Frida von Altishofer, the party had gone well, progressively enlivened by his excellent buffet and superlative champagne. Leonora was in a gay mood, her laugh ascending with an extra trill; Stench, wandering around, glass in hand, kept repeating, ‘Lavish, dear boy. Indubitably lavish,' while little Gallie, handbag at the ready, kept smiling to herself that secret, self-contained smile of the very deaf. One did not expect an equal response from the placid Ludins but even they had responded to the current of anticipation in the air. Moray was pleased – perhaps Archie had been active, dropping hints in his usual fashion, but not enough, he hoped, to spoil his final surprise. Once or twice, glancing at Madame von Altishofer, who partook sparingly of the good things, he wondered how much she guessed of his decision, and a queer conviction came over him that already though by what means he could not decide, she
knew.
Yet her manner, pleasantly amiable, so especially nice towards Kathy, altogether so completely at ease – occasionally he had even caught her eyes resting upon him quizzically – gave no indicaton of the disappointment he might have expected of her. He could only commend her breeding and hope, charitably, that memories of their friendship would survive unimpaired.

What did particularly gratify him was the success, deserved though unexpected, of his two house guests, Kathy especially, though he might have wished her a little less nervous, more socially at ease. Still, Madame Ludin and the vivacious Leonora made much of her, while the ubiquitous Archie hovered unsteadily around, full of giggling compliments. Willie, too, though at first, because of his unclerical appearance, rather oddly regarded, had soon proved a centre of sympathetic interest. Observing them both, Moray was filled with a warm sense of comradeship. He had never felt happier. He was like a schoolboy breaking up at the end of term, going off for the holidays. How satisfying, how charged with anticipation these last three days had been, days of cosy intimacy during which they had held long talks, discussed plans, grown together into a close-knit partnership. The sweetness of Kathy's presence, the joy of knowing that she loves him, had been intensified by Willie's presence. To be with Willie was to realise the value of the work that he, himself, would do. Yes, amazing, in this short time, the effect Willie had produced upon him, by his practical, human cheerfulness, even by his silences. Inspired, Moray told himself repeatedly how glad he was to have linked his life with a character so transparently simple yet strong – and, with it all, so good. Somehow you felt that Willie loved the whole human race.

And now it was time for him to give his lecture. Moray stepped forward and, taking him by the arm, led him towards the circle of chairs. As he did so, he was swept again by a deep, sincere wave of feeling, of affection, and more, for this thin, sickly string of a man in the faded khaki suit. He rapped with his knuckles on the occasional table, causing a cessation of chatter and a polite craning of necks.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, or rather good friends all, my dear friend the Rev. Willie Douglas will now deliver his address. Afterwards I may have just a few words to say to you.'

Facing his audience, who had come mainly from curiosity, in the secret expectation of an entertainment such as might be given by some eccentric performer, like a conjurer producing rabbits out of a hat, Willie stood awkwardly, a lanky and ungainly figure, his arms hanging loosely from his sloping shoulders, his neck twitching faster than usual. But he was smiling, a gentle and remote smile that humanized all his oddity.

‘Don't be alarmed,' he told them mildly, ‘ I'm not going to preach at you, or lecture you either, for that matter. Instead, I think it might interest you to hear how, with God's help, a little Christian colony was built from nothing in the remote wilderness of Central Africa. And please don't hesitate to interrupt if you have any questions to ask; or if I'm not making things clear.'

Moving over to the projector he cleared his throat and, in an informal conversational manner, went on:

‘First of all, how did we get there? It wasn't so easy, twenty years ago. Usually missionaries go out from our headquarters in Melopo two or three together, but that wasn't possible in this instance. All that could be spared me was a native catechist, but he was a fine man, baptised Daniel – I'll show you his photograph presently. Well, off we started, bound for the Kwibu district in the extreme north-east, one of the wildest parts of the borderland between Angola and the Congo. Since we wanted to take cattle with us and as the country was so rough and rocky, we had decided to use an old ox-waggon for transport instead of a truck. It was a blessing we did so, otherwise we should never have got there. I had made a few short trips around Melopo while gathering experience and learning the dialects, but this beat anything I'd ever seen. Let me give you some idea of the country we went through. It's not the sort of country you associate with the tropics, swamps and steaming jungles and such-like, but it had a few problems of its own. Of course these photographs, and many of the others, were taken at a later date.'

In succession he showed a number of slides on the screen: deep, dried-up river beds choked with boulders, precipitous slopes of sharp-edged black rocks in tangles, of yellow scrub, thickets of thornbush so dense as to evoke a murmur from his audience.