Authors: Mairi Wilson
“Helen! Helen, I have them!” Gregory’s voice had boomed through the hallway from the moment the front door had opened to admit him. Helen had almost knocked over the silver tea tray as she’d leapt up, and the flush that had sprung equally suddenly to her cheeks had nothing to do with the abruptness of the interruption, Evie was sure.
Gregory had stopped midstream when he’d lurched onto the verandah and seen Evie there, sitting in the shadows.
“Evie! Hello. Forgive me, I had no idea—”
“Don’t mind me, Gregory,” Evie said, fluttering a hand as if shooing away a fly, amused rather than hurt at his evident disappointment in finding Helen had company. “I’m sure Helen is as anxious to see the plans as you are to show them to her.”
That was all the permission either of them had needed. They’d forgotten Evie in a second as they retreated inside and Gregory opened the charts and spread them out on top of the piano, Helen hastily removing the silver-framed photographs that peppered its surface.
Evie had felt old and wise, worldly even, watching them. Evie, the innocent daughter of a minister, saw their love long before they acknowledged it themselves. She wondered that neither of them would admit to it as its strength radiated from them when they were together, or was Evie truly gifted with some mystical insight that allowed only her to see it? Despite his illness, Helen’s father must be blind not to realise what was going on between his daughter and his General Manager, and if he’d done nothing to keep them apart, surely that meant he must sanction it or at the very least have no objections?
Evie resolved to meddle. Not something she would ordinarily allow herself to do, but they’d been in Africa nearly three years by then and she cared about them both too much to watch them dance around each other, crippled by shyness the one and delicacy the other. Even Helen, with all her worldly ways, didn’t believe a woman should be the one to declare herself, to make the first move. But Evie couldn’t forget the bruises she’d seen. When Helen’s father died, as he would surely do before too long, then she would be a wealthy woman, and an unprotected one. More desirable than ever, and more vulnerable. Not even Cameron would dare to touch his brother’s wife.
It was some weeks later that the opportunity arose. Again Evie was at Helen’s, but Helen was upstairs with her dressmaker having a final fitting for whatever stunning gown she’d wear to the Club’s Annual Ball. Evie was downstairs on the verandah in her usual spot, sipping lemonade in the shade of the mimosa watching the shadows from its branches dance across the manicured lawn and the polished teak of the verandah floor.
Evie heard the door and Gregory’s familiar voice greeting the housekeeper and asking for Helen. Helen must have heard him too, so Evie knew she would be chivvying the dressmaker to hurry up, as she’d be anxious to come down again and join them. Gregory declined a glass of lemonade and sat down opposite Evie, his fingers twisting around themselves, clasping and unclasping, a sure indication of his impatience.
They discussed the weather, and the Club and the forthcoming ball. The silence then hung heavy between them, as both strained for the sounds of Helen descending the staircase, until Evie realised this was her opportunity.
“Gregory, why don’t we take a turn around the garden? The bougainvillea are so beautiful and it’s hard to appreciate them from here.”
No one could ever accuse dear Gregory of inscrutability. Evie could see him struggling to find a reason to refuse, to stay here waiting for Helen to appear so as not to waste a single precious second of her presence.
“I … well of course, if you like. But isn’t it too hot? Wouldn’t you rather stay in the shade, where it’s cooler?” A desperate attempt, but Evie was ready for him. Reaching down let her hide her smile.
“Oh, dear man, how thoughtful, but don’t worry. I have this” – she wielded her parasol in triumph – “and you have your hat so we really won’t be bothered by the sun at all.” Trapped. He knew it, so with a swift glance back through the open verandah doors, he gave in with characteristic gentle grace.
“If you’re sure, then.” He was such a charming man, Evie almost felt guilty at forcing him to do this when he so clearly didn’t want to, but she was sure he’d appreciate it in the long run.
As they strolled along the path that bordered the lawn, he chatted as best he could about the flowers they passed, the neatness of the grass, the skill of Helen and her gardener. On this last subject he was happier, of course. When they reached the bench at the furthest point from the house, Evie suggested they sit and again saw him struggle with his impatience to return to the house, before he agreed and humoured her.
“Dear Helen,” Evie said, following neatly on from his most recent proclamation on Helen’s many talents. “And she is, isn’t she?”
He looked confused and so Evie continued. “Dear, that is. To us both.”
He nodded slowly and Evie’s own heart lurched at the pain that swept into his face, his eyes holding hers briefly before turning back to the house and looking up at the upper floor, where Helen would be standing behind the closed shutters of her room, tapping her toes no doubt as she urged the dressmaker on.
“Yes, she is,” he whispered.
“Gregory, I know it’s wrong to interfere in other people’s business, and I wouldn’t except that you both are so very dear to me. We’ve a bond, I think, forged on the journey out here, no doubt, and our shared experiences of arriving in this beautiful but strange country.” He was still staring at the house, but now he was nodding slowly. “And that strangeness, I think, is a good thing. It means we too can be different, a little, that the same strictures and rules don’t apply.”
He turned to Evie, eyebrows gathering in that frown he wore when trying to follow an argument or understand one of Cameron’s faster witticisms.
“Gregory, she loves you.”
His eyes widened, hope flickering briefly before he turned away, leant his arms on his knees and clasped his hands so tightly Evie could see the knuckles blanch beneath the tanned leather of his skin.
“No.” The single word was tight and painful.
“Yes, Gregory. She does. I can tell. I’ve seen you together.”
“But she … I’m just the … It couldn’t be.”
“At home, maybe not. But she
does
love you, and here, Gregory, anything is possible. Would you rather see her carried off by one of those young idlers at the Club, or a titled diplomat? Have her languish as a spinster or sent home to find a husband? Or worse, have her fall prey to some honey-tongued gold-digger the moment her father dies and she’s left vulnerable and alone?”
“What I want is irrelevant. She’s the owner’s daughter, and I’m an employee. Her father would never allow it, even if she were to agree … to return my feelings, I—”
“Stuff and nonsense, Gregory. She isn’t your typical Edinburgh young lady, you know. She insisted on coming here and, just as importantly, her father allowed it. That says something about both of them, doesn’t it? That they aren’t answerable to the matrons of Morningside and redundant codes of behaviour?”
“But it wouldn’t be right. I’m so much older than she is, so much duller—”
“Gregory, stop. Trust me. Tell her how you feel. And do it now. Her father won’t last much longer and when he goes it will be harder—”
“There you are!” Helen was standing on the verandah waving at them. “Shall I come down to you or will you come to me? I’ve ordered tea.”
“Do it, Gregory.” Evie squeezed his forearm as she stood. “Just coming, darling.” Evie walked back to the house, leaving Gregory on the bench behind her. She could only imagine what was going on in his mind.
“Helen, darling,” Evie linked her arm through Helen’s and led her back into the house to give Gregory time to recover himself. “I need to go. I’m so sorry. I forgot entirely about Douglas’s visiting ladies, the Friends of the Hospital. They’re coming to the house to discuss rotas for teas at the clinic. Can you imagine anything duller.”
“Oh poor you,” Helen groaned in sympathy, but not before Evie had seen the delight in her eyes.
“I know; you can see why I forgot, can’t you?”
Helen laughed that tinkling little laugh she had.
“But Gregory’s here to keep you company.”
“Yes,” she smiled, her face tingeing pink as she looked back over her shoulders at the man still sitting on the bench, staring down at the ground between his feet.
“Helen, before I go …” Evie looked into her eyes. “You love him, don’t you?”
Her chin tilted slightly, as if she felt the need to be defiant. “What if I do?”
“If you do” – Evie took her hand, squeezed firmly – “you should find a way to let him tell you that he loves you too.”
Evie didn’t know exactly what happened next, as she left to see to the supposed horrors of her husband’s tea-serving acolytes, but she could imagine. And she felt, even now, the warmth of knowing she’d had a hand in engineering their happiness. For they were happy. They radiated it. The gossips had their moment of course, whispering of inappropriateness and suspected scandal at the Club, over lunches, behind fanned hands as the couple were fêted and their engagement celebrated. But no one really had much heart for mischief-making; it was so clearly a love match. And Helen’s father was their staunchest supporter. Evie had never seen the old man so happy. He even seemed to rally briefly.
But then he collapsed one hot afternoon some months later in the yard outside the new warehouse. He should never have been outside in that heat. No hat, no shade, no sense. At least it was quick, and Helen and Gregory had both been with him at the time, although Evie failed to see that there was really too much comfort in that. He would, though, Evie was sure, have died reassured that his daughter, and his business, his life’s two loves, were safe in Gregory’s protection.
And not a moment too soon, as it turned out. Cameron was about to arrive, and that would change everything.
Back up in her room, Lexy showered, selected the least wrinkled of her clothes, and went the extra mile with a stroke or two of lipstick and a brush of mascara. When she was satisfied she looked respectable enough for hospital visiting she glanced at the clock. Still more than an hour until Robert the Rude would be here. She looked over at the backpack. The more she could read, the more she knew before she met Evelyn, the more use the old lady would be to her investigations.
Although she was keen to find out more about Ursula from her diaries, she reminded herself Ursula had assembled the contents of the folder in a particular order for a reason and she might miss something if she didn’t follow her path. She put the first batch of diary pages to one side and picked up the next item. A letter. A
long
letter, from Helen Buchanan.
Zomba, 12th April 1949
Dear Ursula,
I hope this letter will find you well and happy. It seems an age since we were all together, although I had hoped to find myself in Blantyre again long before this, but many things – of which more later – have kept me here in the capital. And, of course, we’d both hoped you would have been able to come to the wedding, although we do understand how you must put your responsibilities to the hospital and its patients first – your diligence is commendable. How lucky they are to have you, and it came as no surprise to either of us to hear of your appointment as Ward Sister – congratulations, dear Ursula. Such an achievement so young! Oh the joys of living in a country where merit is the only thing that matters, where the old conventions can be flouted!
But back to the wedding. What a day. What a marvellous, marvellous, MARVELLOUS day. You’d have loved it. We most certainly did, and we knew you were thinking of us even before your telegram arrived. Thank you, my darling; it meant so much to us. Evie, of course, will have given you all the details – spared you none, I’m sure, in her meticulous way, so apologies in absentia if we inadvertently bored you! I will not risk doing the same all over again, but I did want you to have this, the enclosed photograph of our small gathering, and to know that we raised a glass to you with much, much love. Was it really only on the voyage out that we met? I feel we’ve been friends for so much longer, know we will be now, for life. Perhaps that’s what adventure does to you. Binds you, ties you fast to one another. I count myself fortunate indeed that we three have become so close. I can’t imagine life here without you and Evie to share it with.
But enough. I must get to the point of this letter, as I have little time this morning for correspondence. We have a new shipment arriving and Gregory has just left for a meeting with the Missions along the Shire River so I must oversee the docking and unloading on my own. And then I must go home and make preparations for our guest. There is no gentle way to say this, Ursula, and I know it will be unpleasant news for you, as it is for us all. Cameron is coming.
I know we’ve never really talked about what happened between you, but I can guess enough of it to know that this will be a shock to you, so I wanted you to hear it from me, first, before the gossip mills start grinding. Cameron will always be a source of delight to them, such is his charm and notoriety. We expect him this evening. His letter was slow to arrive and there is nothing we can do to deter or delay him.
I do not know what his plans are or how long he will stay, but I do know Gregory is of a mind to employ him and I will not stand against him in that. For all that I would rather Cameron disappeared from our lives forever, he is Gregory’s brother, half-brother at least, and Gregory promised their mother he would watch out for him. My husband is a man of his word, and I wouldn’t have him otherwise, so please, dear Ursula, forgive me for allowing him that.
I feel I must also share something of the reasons behind Cameron’s unexpected visit, again better you hear it from me. Cameron is once again in the thick of scandal. He took up, it seems, with that widow he flirted with so outrageously on the boat. You remember her, surely? Gertrude von something she was then, his darling Gertie as he called her, Gertrude Steencamp as she now is. She married not long after arriving in Cape Town – money, of course – but her husband was a good deal older and it seems she was soon looking for diversion, just as it seems Cameron was only too happy to provide it. I’m sorry if I sound judgemental, harsh even, but after the trouble he has caused I struggle to be charitable. We all of us would be better off without him in our lives. But I will put a brave face on it, out of love for my husband, and hope we find a way of sending him far from our lives here in Zomba, to the remoter districts perhaps. It is a little against my better judgement to have him out of our sight, but I do not want him tainting our life here or, worse yet, yours, if we send him to the Blantyre office. I won’t let that happen, I assure you my darling friend. Although I know you hardly have the time to socialise at all these days, I wouldn’t want you coming face to face with him if you are out and about, nor avoiding visiting us here in case you do.