The Reluctant Guest (20 page)

He pressed her down into a chair, took the letter and read it himself. “You mother says it’s not serious—that she didn’t want to distress you. What are you upset about?”

“They’re operating on the knee in Durban! The letter is three days old, so it must be over by now. My parents left the ship—they’ve been in Durban all this time!” Ann gulped and gazed up at him imploringly. “Mother will be prostrate. She’s never handled anything like this, and she just isn’t capable of it She’s written as cheerfully as she could, but she must be frantic. If only I’d read the letter yesterday!”

“You weren’t too chipped yourself, if you remember. With two of you on her hands your mother would disintegrate.”

“She won’t know about me. I’ll wear long sleeves—and I’ll soon be right, anyway. Storr, you once said that if I needed quick transport
...”

“You shall have it,” he said. “We’ll go today in the plane.”

“Today!”

“You’ll be there quicker than if you’d set out yesterday by any other means.” He stood there, weighing things up. “I intended taking you along to Hazel and Vic tomorrow morning, and telephoning your employer in Cape Town that you’d be in touch with him in a few days. We’ll leave Hazel for the moment, but I’d better put through the call to the Riding School. Get Joseph to help you pack you
r
things
.
The plane seats four, so we can take the weight.”

He was
manag
in
g
and dictatorial, just what she needed. He was also as distant as the stars, which might again be just what she needed. She swallowed the drink he gave her and got to her feet
.

“It won’t take me long to pack.”

“There’s no tearing hurry. We’ll have a light lunch at noon and leave around one. I have to get the plane ready and make a phone call to Johannesburg, as well as the one to Cape Town.” He was at the door with her, tall and impersonal but infinitely dependable. “I’ll send Joseph along to you. Just sit down in your room and tell him what to do. And don’t distress yourself—it never gets things done.”

“You
...
you don’t think I ought to try and telephone my mother first? I mean, it’s putting you to an awful lot of trouble.”

A sharp edge came into his voice. “A telephone call is not what you want, is it? You want to be with her?”

“It’s what I’d choose, of course. She’s so far away
...”

“Then we’re going. It’s settled.”

She hesitated in the open doorway, realized suddenly and piercingly that she was looking at the gay and
modern
apartment in his gracious old house for the last time and turned abruptly to leave him. She went to her room, pushed a shaking hand over her hair and began to pile her clothes on the bed, ready for packing. Joseph came in and opened the suitcase. He laid away her things with surprising care, and ponderously filled the
corner
s of the case with wrapped shoes.

Ann hovered, handing things to him and watching. She saw the slacks she had worn yesterday ... or was it the day before? Involuntarily her fingers slipped into the pocket and drew out the crushed letter from Theo to his sister. She took it to the window and smoothed it, read the rather untidy writing with eyes that ached. For Theo, it was quite brutal; but then it was possible he had known all along that his sister had no real feeling for Storr. Baldly, he stated that he would not be returning for some time to Groenkop, that he was hoping to get back on to the staff of the Airways Company. Then he said that he would be writing to Ann. And lastly came the paragraph which had infuriated Elva.

“I’ve discovered a few things up here. Storr is keen on the daughter of one of his co-directors—a man named De Vries. Storr gave the daughter the first Skipalong
—gave
it, mark you—and has arranged for her to take her father to Groenkop for a visit. The De Vries girl gave a big party the night we arrived, and her father told me that she and Storr are on the verge of announcing their engagement. Storr spent the three days at their home, and when he left in the small hours for Belati, several of us saw him off. I heard him say to her, ‘Till Friday, then,’ and they kissed. I’m telling you all this, Elva, so that you’ll see how things are. I know you’re fond of Piet. Why don’t you try to make a go of things with him
...
?”

Ann tore the sheet into little bits and dropped them into the wastepaper-basket near the writing-table. For a minute her throat was so constricted that she had to open her mouth to take in air, but presently she felt calmer. She hadn’t learnt anything new; the facts she was already aware of had been verified, that was all. Of course he kissed the woman; they were almost engaged, weren’t they?

“Till Friday, then.” Tomorrow would be Friday, and presumably the girl was coming to Groenkop. Or perhaps Storr had promised to make another visit to Johannesburg. Whichever it was, the implication remained the same. He was telephoning Johannesburg, wasn’t he? But it could be a business
call...

Her head ached with the tension she couldn’t dispel. Why was she thinking of Storr at a time like this, when her mother needed her so much? And there was her father, probably in a frightful way by now because he had placed such a burden on the wife who herself needed to be carefully looked after.

Really, Ann thought desperately, she must be firm with herself. She had expected to leave, anyway, quite soon. But if she had stayed just two days she might have met the girl Storr had chosen, the girl who, apparently, was to be “the one who loved.”

By this time, Ann’s nerves were so ragged that she could hardly bear to think at all. She went out on to the veranda, down into the garden and along one of the paths. She supposed some of her things were still at the cottage, but oddly, she didn’t care. All she wanted now was to get away. If she could have escaped without Storr she would have done so.

She walked till her shoulder was hot and painful and her brain was cooler. Then she turned back towards the house.

CHAPTER NINE

THE plane moved smoothly and sweetly. There were wisps of cloud beyond the scarlet wing-tips, sunshine glanced through the window and placed bright bars across Ann’s lap, as she sat in the seat beside Storr’s. Everything in the cabin was bright and new, and Storr looked as cool and indolent as if he were driving a car on a first-class road. He wore tropical slacks and white shirt with a flowing tie. Air conditioning made even a light jacket unnecessary. Ann hadn’t known that small planes were built so luxuriously, though she didn’t say so, of course. She hardly spoke at all, and Storr was equally uncommunicative.

After half an hour in the air he did say, “This is your first trip aloft. Like it?”

To which she replied, “Yes, it’s not frightening at all.”

“We’ve reached the coast. It sets the course for us all the way to Durban. Looks as if there’s quite a swell on.”

Yet the sea looked peaceful too, with the sun touching
the crests and an edging of pale sand punctuated by wild rocks. The land was a thick green, with tiny villages scattered over it; long spaces between the vi
l
lages, though, because this was Africa. Ann wished she had had less on her mind; she would have liked to give all her heart and mind to this new and exciting experience.

During lunch Storr had said the journey would take about four hours, which meant they would arrive at the airport around five and reach the hotel by six. At six o’clock she would see her mother! She herself would have to take over, and it would do her good.

According to Storr, Captain Wynne at the Riding School had been both understanding and accommodating. His sister-in-law was helping out and doing it very well, and Miss Calvert must not think of returning till she and her father were entirely fit. No hurry, no hurry at all. Which meant, Ann supposed, that she was no more indispensable than anyone eke. But it was a relief to know that her employer was informed; he knew her parents came first with her.

Actually, though, she thought very little about her mother and father during that trip to Durban. She sat there, in her pale green suit with the white blouse that buttoned to the throat, looking small and lonely and very young. She gazed down upon the velvet folds of the hills, the lush coastline and the distant turbulent sea and knew that she would never again be alone like this with Storr. Yet to him, obviously, the journey was a chore he had undertaken because she was alone and dependent. He would deliver her at the hotel, bid her a cool goodbye and their acquaintanceship would end. And even in these last hours of it, they had nothing to say to each other. He was probably thinking of the girl in Johannesburg.

Gradually, they were becoming surrounded by clouds
—
thick grey ones that merged with each other. There was nothing below them but the greyness. Rain lashed the windows, streamed down over the metal, but Storr made no comment
.
It was the first rain Ann had seen since leaving Cape Town. She remembered reading in the newspaper that Natal was stormy and flooded in parts.

After an hour of it the sky was darker, the banks of cloud denser than ever. At intervals, Storr used his radio
—
unintelligibly to Ann.

At last she asked, “Is it all right? Will you be able to land?”

He nodded. “It’s just routine. I phoned through to Durban for a weather report before we started. They gave me the O.K.”

He didn’t speak again till, some time later, he told her to fasten her strap. Within fifteen minutes, during which the plane circled at reduced speed, the shining wet concrete came up at them from their last dive through clouds and the Skipalong Two touched and taxied. They had arrived.

The rain came down in a noisy torrent. It beat up from the hard ground, swirled over the grass, and washed the airport building into a shimmer of light. Storr threw an oilskin round Ann and slipped on his own raincoat, looked at her silly little black hat and shrugged.

“It’ll have to take its chance. I’ll carry the small bag and my own case, and send for your suitcase. Ready?”

He opened the door and lowered the steel ladder, went first to help her down, then slammed the door of the cabin. Rain cascaded over them. With the bags in one hand he drew her close to his side and hurried her towards the lights.

Formalities inside the building were few. Storr was known, was rallied for making the trip on such a day. There were winks, as if to imply that it wasn’t hard to guess why he was here with a pretty girl. Storr looked nonchalant and made no explanations, but Ann was aware of that hardness in him. Perhaps because her own feelings made her hypersensitive she knew that his smile was only a surface thing; underneath he was as cold and distant as ever.

After talking to the desk official he came to
Ann
“No planes in, so there’s no transport to town. But I know a travel agent here; I’ll phone him to send a car. It may take some time, so you might as well go and dry your hair and have a wash. I’ll order some coffee in the restaurant. Come there when you’re ready.” He took the oilskin and placed it on a seat, nodded towards the Ladies’ Rest Room and himself went the other way, towards a telephone booth.

Feeling tremulous and depressed, Ann towelled her hair with a scarf she had carried in her bag, and set it in damp waves. The hat was a wreck, and on an impulse she left it where she had laid it, on a tiled ledge. She used lipstick, but left her face rainwashed and unadorned.

She found the restaurant, joined Storr at a table and was instantly served with coffee and sandwiches. They were good sandwiches, but Ann couldn’t swallow. She drank coffee and stared out at the stormy dusk. The windows were wide, the air they admitted leaden, warm and humid. This was Durban, she remembered; sub-tropics. Bananas, avocados, papaws and sugar cane. She found herself watching Storr’s hands; long-fingered, bony and brown, flexible and full of strength. She had to wrench her gaze away.

“Sure you wouldn’t like to telephone the hotel?” he asked.

Anything, Ann thought, to shorten this interminable, strained waiting. “Yes, all right. Now that I’m here my mother won’t worry about the air trip.”

“Would she have worried, had she known?”

“I’m afraid so. You see”—with the ghost of a thin smile—“she doesn’t know you.”

“You don’t either,” he said abruptly, as he stood up. “Blakesfield Hotel, isn’t it?”

He took her to the office of one of the officials, saw her seated and dialed the hotel number. He asked for Mrs. Calvert, put a few sharp questions which so alarmed Ann that she jumped to her feet, and then he wrote down something, expressed his thanks and rang off. He turned to her.

“We’re about four hours too late. Your father had his operation three days ago and was released from hospital this morning. Someone who seems to have befriended them
—
a director of a sugar company—has offered them his weekend place up the coast for as long as they care to use it. He and his wife took your parents there this afternoon.”

“That means my father’s all right?”

“I’d say so. It could only have been a minor bit of surgery.”

“Did you gather how my mother was feeling? I heard you ask about it.”

“I spoke to the manager. He said she was quite normal as far as he knew. Seems these new friends had taken her under their wing several days ago, and saw her through.” His smile was without humour. “You must be a lot like your mother—a tough core of courage in a small and helpless-looking being. It attracts assistance as a magnet draws steel.”

“I’ve known all along that you brought me here against your will.”

“Really?”—with icy sarcasm. “Let’s get outside and decide what to do.”

Partly, it was decided for them. An African was at the desk, asking for Mr. Peterson. He had brought a car which the master could use during his stay in Durban. Perhaps the master would be good enough to drive him, the chauffeur, back to his quarters?

Within ten minutes Storr had arranged to have the Skipalong pushed under cover for the night, and Ann was inside the small car at his side, her luggage and the African in the back seat. It was not till after they had driven round the back of the town and dropped the chauffeur, that she asked,

“Where are we going?”

“To your people. The house is, some way beyond Umbeni
zi
, but we’ll make it in two or three hours, if we’re lucky. You should be with them by ten.”

“Storr”—her fingers moved towards his sleeve but didn’t quite reach it—“I think you’ve done enough. I’ll stay at a hotel tonight and get a taxi to take me to them tomorrow. It must be gruelling—driving in this downpour. And don’t say it’s routine!”

He looked her way, briefly. “Now we’ve started, we’ll finish the job as quickly as we can. The road may be sticky, but if the car keeps going, we’ll make it.”

She had to leave it at that. They skirted the town once more, made for the road to Umbezini and kept going. The rain roared over the roof of the small car, drenched down over the windscreen and swept along the road in a tide. Visibility was so restricted at times that he had to slow down considerably to see at all, but they passed small lights which Ann thought must come from houses among the plantations. An occasional vehicle came towards them, feeling its way and sending out huge sprays of muddy water. Then they left the tarmac, turned along a gravel road that was an expanse of mud and lakes; and there was no other traffic, nothing in the teeming flooded world but Ann and Storr in the valiant little car.

It seemed to Ann that they travelled that appalling road for many hours. The car lurched into holes, ground over boulders, skidded across clay that was under water and somehow avoided becoming waterlogged. And every mile seemed to take them farther from civilization. Now there were immense trees on both sides; the road ran through a forest that bore the torrent stiffly, as if conditioned to such things.

“Do you know this road?” she ventured once.

“I’ve been this way to St. Lucia Bay. It’s generally the eager fishermen who build on this coast
.
”

“Is it much farther to Umbenizi?”

“A couple of rivers,” he said laconically.

It was the rivers, Ann found, that disturbed her most. They tore along under the narrow bridges, most of them hardly a foot below the road, and one bridge had actually been several inches under gushing water as they crossed it
.
But it was no use reiterating that he shouldn’t have come
this
far tonight
.
He seemed ruthlessly bent on getting rid of her as soon as he could. So she sat and watched the tropical torrent, noticed a few flashes of lightning and wondered what on earth her mother would think of her turning up at ten o’clock in such weather. She looked at her watch and found it was a quarter to ten already.

Then suddenly Storr braked. They were on the edge of a raging river, and peering through the windscreen, Ann saw a lopsided bridge that moved as she watched it.

“We can’t go any farther, can we?” she whispered, a little hoarsely.

Storr backed and reversed. “We’ll find a by-road through a plantation. There’ll be another bridge.”

“Storr ... honestly, there’s no need for this. I know you want to get back to Groenkop
...”

“Stop it,” he said tersely.

But Ann was too wound up to remain quiet any longer.

“I won’t stop it! I’m grateful to you for bringing me to Durban, but I didn’t ask you to take on this car-ride. Let’s go back, so that you’ll be able to get away again.”

“I’ll go back to Durban alone,” he said grimly. “I said I’d take you to your mother, and I will.”

“There’s nothing urgent about it now. You must see that!”

“We’re a lot nearer to Umbezini than to Durban. And there’s urgency for me. I have a date in Johannesburg tomorrow.”

It was like the shock of icy water on burning skin. Ann’s burst of spirit died as suddenly as it had been roused. She knew no conflicting emotions, only the bitterness of a defeat which was so complete that her world was empty of everything else. She said nothing more.

He found his by-road, drove through swampy lanes for a mile or two and arrived at another road like the one they had left. The bridge he had expected to find was there, at water level, and he drove across it and on into fields of cane. Half an hour later they passed the Umbezini Trading Store, and within minutes came to a drive which was signposted with the name Storr had written on the telephone pad. He took the turn through squashy gravel, came to a white thatched house that was completely dark. It was ten forty-five.

Ann found her voice, wearily. “They’re in bed, I’m afraid. It’s just occurred to me that
...
that those people who own the place may be here too. How am I going to explain things?”

“Floods don’t need explaining,” he said curtly. “Leave it to me.”

“Just a
moment ...
please!”

Ann had been going to remind him that there might be no spare bedrooms, that their unexpected arrival at such an hour was hardly fair to people who had befriended her parents, and that her mother would be upset if her father were roused from sleep. But none of it was spoken because her voice caught, and the tears she had been striving to check slipped at last down her cheeks. There weren’t many tears, but when she looked at him in the beating darkness he flicked on the interior light and saw her deeply
shadowed eyes and moist lashes. With a tight exclamation he jerked off the light and sat there for a moment with his hand clenched on the wheel.

He said roughly, “If you go in there looking like that they’ll wonder what the hell’s been happening. We’ll find somewhere you can rest and decide what to do.”

Possibly the noise of the storm drowned the roar of the car’s engine as he turned and found the lane once more. He must have known this type of dwelling rather well, for he unerringly took the way towards the sea, where a wooden shack belonging to the house stood above a rocky beach. Not that the rocks and sea were visible tonight; one merely got the sense of them, out there in the rushing darkness, where the ground sloped. He stopped the car as close as possible to the shack, slipped out and under the narrow shelter of the thatch tried the door. It was locked, but the window beside it had been left unlatched by whoever had used it last. He pushed fingers through the crack and lifted the bar, found the opening too narrow for his broad shoulders and came back to the car.

“I’ll have to put you through the window; it’s only about
a yard from the door.”

Ann
was glad to move. She climbed into a small room, groped for the lock and twisted the knob. Storr came in and struck a match, saw the paraffin lamp and struck another. Light flowered in the room, revealing a few thonged chairs and cushions, a table and log walls hung with fishing tackle. There was a crude log bench against one wall, and Storr at once heaped the cushions along it.

“Lie down there,” he said. “I’ll think out something.”

“I’d rather stand for a minute or two. May I have a cigarette?”

He gave her one and lit it, took one for himself. Then he went to the open door and stared out at the endless storm. She wondered what he was thinking, but was too tired to care very much. She smoked slowly, sank down on the edge of the bench and leaned her back against the wall
. I
t was uncomfort
a
ble, and soon she stabbed out the cigarette and lay down, with her hands under her head. There was no ceiling, only the thatch lashed to the poles which supported it; just one room, seemingly, a small, easily-constructed refuge where a fisherman and his friends could eat lunch in windy weather, or play cards when it rained.

Storr stepped back into the room and closed the door, and instantly they were more alone than they had been even in the plane. The rain on the thatch was a dull sound, and outside it was muted by the grass. There were no gutters to gurgle, not even a stone step to throw back sound. There was only the soft enveloping roar which must have been a blend of the sea and the storm.

He got rid of his cigarette, walked round the small room with his hands in his pockets, and then took off his jacket and sat down, looking hardly any different from the man who had dealt so casually with the controls of the Skipalong. The lamp sputtered and went low.

“Running out of gas,” he commented. “Can you sleep?”

“I daren’t. What are we going to do?”

“Stay here till morning.”

She got up on one elbow. “You
...
you can’t mean that!”

“We’ve no choice. You can’t rouse your parents.” A pause. “Didn’t it occur to you that they might have gone early to bed?”

“No. I’m sorry, but it didn’t
.
”

“It occurred to me.”

She lay back again, spoke in strained tones to the ceiling. “Your sense of humor is a bit ghoulish tonight
.
”

“It isn’t. It’s missing altogether. I’m not being funny.”

“If you thought of it, why did you bring me here?”

“I decided it might do you good to face a ticklish situation.”

Ann bit at the inside of her lip, controlled her tones. “You actually foresaw something like this? Don’t you think I’ve stood enough lately?”

“Of physical pain, yes—more than enough. If it had been humanly possible I’d have saved you even the fright of being shut up with that horse.” He leaned over the table and turned the screw of the lamp; the light flared, and then dimmed to a small glimmer. “Do you ever think of anyone else besides yourself and Theo?” he asked impersonally.

“I must do, or I wouldn’t be here.”

“How would you feel if you were alone here with Theo tonight?”

“I don’t know.”

He was silent for some moments. Then: “So your way of dealing with difficulties is to try and ignore them. I thought rather better of you, little one.”

She was too tired to choose her words. “What did you expect me to do
—
sit up and have a heart-to-heart talk with you? I’ve nothing to say.”

“Nothing?” As if the question were another turn of the screw the lamp went out. His chair creaked as he sat back. His tone was cool and jeering. “Frightened?”

“No. Only
...
rather unhappy. Is it necessary for us to part enemies?”

“Why should we? I don’t hate you, and you’ve no reason to hate me. After all, I’ve brought you to your parents, and I shall be helping your
fianc
é
to gain his self-respect. By the way, there was a letter for you today from Theo
—
I forgot to give it to you. Pity the light’s left us; you’ll have to put it under your pillow and guess what it says.” She heard movements and felt her whole body become tense. He was there at her side, bending to feel for the cushion under her head. She saw the letter and quickly put up a hand to take it. The hand was grasped, he leaned over and found her mouth in the darkness, kissed her hard and bruisingly but without touching her in any other way. For a second his eyes were visible; narrow and glittering.

He heard her gasp, and he straightened. “That’s for Theo,” he said in an icicle voice. “Good night.”

Without haste he crossed to the door, opened it and went out. The door thudded, the lock clicked, and
Ann
was alone with her palpitating heart. Her f
i
ngers moved tremblingly over her lips.