Winds of Enchantment (13 page)

When the club team came out, Pat leaned forward and gazed hard at Nick’s unmistakable figure on the big black horse. She frowned and recalled something he had said about a bet. Darn the man—he was as bad as Bill when it came to taking dares. A nerve jarred in her throat. Suddenly the sun felt too hot, and the crowd round her grew hazy. “Next time he’ll break your neck!” she had cried down the telephone, and her mind was suddenly filled again with a picture of Bill being thrown headlong out of that canoe.

She stood up, unaware. She wanted to run out of the pavilion, and then she heard Whittaker say something and she sat down again, feeling a trickle of sweat coursing down between her shoulder-blades.

From the start it was a gruelling game. Polo at its best is the fastest, most dangerous and colourful sport on earth. This afternoon the play was superb, the pace breakneck. The pounding horses and ringing oaths, the smack of stick on the ball, the twisting and turning and wheeling of men and horses in the height of condition, combined to excite an already vibrating audience.

It was grimly obvious to Pat that Nick, in back position, was determined to let no ball through. In perilous moments his perfect back-hand stroke came into play, obtaining a clear-away for his own side, and a few times he left Howell to cover while he followed through and placed the ball for the forward. It was from one of those mad sweeps down the field that the first goal for the club was scored.

Whittaker rubbed his hands. “Did you see the forward waiting near the boards for the ball? He knew just where it would come. Hard and accurate, that’s Nick.”

Pat’s pulses were plunging with the horses, her heart thudding with the hoofs.

In the fourth chukka one of the army players was thrown. It was a nasty spill from which the rider was carried off unconscious and the horse led away limping. Pat had gone cold with horror, but when Whittaker suggested she go inside for tea, she shook her head. She now had the absurd feeling that so long as she was watching nothing would happen to Nick—then a cheer rent the air as the club scored a second goal.

As the sixth chukka ended, Whittaker lumbered to his feet. “I promised Nick to give you tea,” he said.

“Please sit down, Whit,” she spoke firmly. “I don’t want any.”

“He was emphatic about it. You’d better come.”

“But I don’t want tea, and if I did I could have it here.” She rubbed the palms of her hands with her handkerchief. The last chukka was due to start.

“Look here, I promised Nick
...”
Whittaker sounded a bit desperate.

She turned to look at him. “I can’t help that. I’m a person, not a chattel.”

Whittaker raised his shoulders as though leaving everything in the hands of the gods, and sat down again. A minute later he thumped the table. “Here he comes!” he exclaimed.

It was Nick, superbly astride Black Adam. Again Pat’s heart turned over and her bones ran to water. Whittaker was chuckling.

“Why does he have to ride that creature?” Pat spoke in a low, shaking voice. “He’ll be killed!”

“Well, the bet’s up next Wednesday,” Whittaker remarked.

“And what exactly does that bet entail?” she demanded.

“That Nick last a full match on Black Adam. He’ll do it yet, if the other horses don’t excite the beast. Look at that!”

But now she couldn’t look. Her mind was full of agonizing pictures. Bill in white, plunging into the water. Nick in white, plunging to the hard ground of the polo field.

“Don’t worry,” Whittaker said casually, “Nick knows how to fall if he gets thrown.”

The crowd were standing and shouting, because out there the great black horse was getting up to his tricks, rearing, snorting, fighting Nick every inch of the way down the field—and Nick was leaning out of the saddle to undercut, managing the stormy beast with all his determined, utterly controlled strength.

Seizing his chance, the army forward was attacking all the time. A swipe that seemed a certain goal sent the ball clear between Black Adam’s legs. Nick reached out and saved and the crowd cheered, but a second later the cheer turned to a roar as the black nosed a post and shot up, pawing the air, before Nick had recovered his seat.

Paralysed, Pat watched the slick pulling in of his knees, the downthrust of his head, the sure grip of the saddle. Then she turned and fled.

She ran down into the gardens at the back of the pavilion and along the path to the pillared arbour that was deserted now, and cool. She clung to one of the pillars, faint with haste and fear, and presently moved over to the semi-circular seat and collapsed on to it, taking off her hat to allow the air to her damp temples.

A long cheer signalled the end of the game, but she could not move. The babbling diminished and she guessed that most of the spectators were taking drinks in the pavilion.

On the path before her Nick appeared, loping, a grin on his face. Hate flared anew in her. At the entrance to the arbour he stopped dead, his expression gone grave, then came in. He looked hot from the race, his eyes alight with green fire from the chase, the conflict, then the victory.

“You won, of course,” she said coldly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Go away!”

“You’re trembling. Pat, tell me!”

“The hero,” she said through her teeth. “All puffed up with his own courage and daring. Playing to the gallery on that damned black thing. Nick the conqueror. Nick the showman...”

He stared down at her, and the smouldering fires went out in his eyes. A nerve kicked in his jaw. “You caught the end of the match?” he said.

“No, not quite the end.” She spoke through gritted teeth. “That—that bet. That beastly bet! You knew how I hated that horse and you didn’t care.”

“You weren’t meant to see.”

“I’m well aware of that.” She stood up, fingers clenched on her lace-rimmed hat, a whiteness under her golden tan, her eyes a dark amber. “Risking your neck for—for money and cheers...”

“Pat, look at me. That’s it. The bet was made months ago—at a time when my neck didn’t seem to be worth much to me—or to you.”

“Was—Bill alive?” The pupils of her eyes had dilated.

“Well—no.”

“Bill was dead, and you thought it wouldn’t matter if that black horse threw you a—and broke your neck?” She was passionate with dislike as her eyes swept his dusty figure, black hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, a red welt on his forearm.

“I’ve hurt you, Pat—I’m sorry—”

Her chin tilted. “Go back for your laurels, captain. I’m going home.”

She swept past him and walked rapidly along the path. She arrived home very weary, anger drained and an aching hurt in its place. Even an hour later it was an effort to stir herself to bathe and dress. Wherever she looked there was Nick in white, the sun glinting on his brown arms and throat, his teeth glittering in a devilish grin as he careered about that polo field on Black Adam.

She drew a long, shaky breath
...
how she hated him!

That night at the polo dinner and dance, she partnered everyone but Nick. She couldn’t bear the thought of his arms around her—then abruptly he came over to her. “It’s been a full day,” he said curtly. “Shall we go now?”

She nodded. She thought he would drive her straight home to the villa, but instead he made for Winterton Terrace. “Come in for a drink,” he said. “We’ve had no chance to talk.”

As she entered the grey lounge there was constriction in her chest and a nerve jerked at the corner of her mouth. He gave her a drink and suggested that she sit down.

“What are we going to talk about?” she asked, without looking at him.

“The boom in rubber, if you like.” He lounged in a favourite position, against a table, and out of the
corner
of her eye she could see the starched whiteness of his dinner-jacket and the long, narrow black trousers, the gleam of polished sh
oes.

“You’re good at wresting the utmost out of the elemental,” she said coldly. “Out of rubber, the jungle, horses—and women.”

“I’ve only tried to be as good a—friend as I know how, Pat,” he replied. “I’m not a god, and if I make mistakes—”

“You’re Nick Farland, aren’t you?” she cut in. “Master of your own destiny, who needs no one. It was quite a blow to the friendship I thought was ours to see you this afternoon, risking your neck on a bet. It showed me how little I’ve mattered—”

“Pat, for heaven’s sake!” His glass rang on the table and he came striding over to her. He caught her by the shoulders and pulled her up roughly to face him. “I won’t be put into Bill’s place, do you hear? I’m not your father! I am Nick Farland—a separate individual.” He gave her a shake, then abruptly drew her against his shoulder and pressed a large hand against the back of her head.

“You’re still so young,” he murmured, “and I forget that. A sensitive little cuss who can’t help bruising herself against the toughness that I can’t help. Well, if it’s any consolation, pet, I shan’t use Black Adam on the polo field any more. It would mean breaking his spirit, or breaking my neck, and I guess you value both, eh?”

She nodded, there against his white shoulder. A transient sense of peace had returned, and then a little to her surprise she heard herself saying to
him:
“Nick, couldn’t we take a short cruise on one of our own vessels?”

He was still for a long moment, then he cupped her chin in his large hand and gazed down at the pale blur of her face. “You’ve voiced something that I’ve been chewing over in my own mind,” he said at last. “People might gossip, Pat.”

“There would be the captain and crew.” She smiled up at him. “Do let’s, Nick.”

“A cargo boat isn’t exact
l
y a rose bower,” he said quizzically.

“I’m used to the smell of rubber,” she wrinkled her nose. “When you come from Makai you carry it with you on your clothes.”

He gave a laugh. “Okay, child, the cruise is on, but I warn you it won’t be exact
l
y luxurious.”

“I’m tired of luxury, of the villa, of garden parties and flirtatious young officers.” She threw back her head and breathed deeply. “I need to be on the sea, Nick.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps you do, Pat,” he said.

It took a week to scour and disinfect the Bullbat and a further three days to install new mattresses and bed linen, a bath and tinned food.

On a cool white morning they steamed out of Kanos Bay. Pat, in blue slacks and an ivory silk shirt, hugged the rail with folded arms and felt Nick beside her.

That first day was marvellous. Not a cloud anywhere and a sweet spicy breeze that went cold and heady with darkness. The stars came low enough to be plucked, scintillating on the curly black crests of the Atlantic like diamonds on ruffled satin.

The next few days were breathless and cloudy. They bathed in the deeps, and Pat stretched her limbs healthily in the salt water, smiling to herself as she recalled the icy grip of the English Channel and compared it with this rocking languorous bath.

Mostly, she and Nick took their meals on deck. There were four cabins and the spare one had been converted into a dining-room, but it smelled stale and at dusk hordes of cockroaches made it unbearable.

On the fifth day out the wind stiffened and Nick at once ordered that the boat put in at the nearest harbour. This happened to be a curve of white beach with a drunken little landing stage at one end and no other visible sign of life. A storm came up, the trees quarrelled, the sea lashed at their roots, and the pewter sky contracted and emptied itself, later spreading a boundless cloth of gold that tarnished suddenly with darkness. The night was soft and cool and the moon carved a brilliant pathway through the sea to the edge of the world.

Pat was suspended on the rim of happiness. She felt freed and young, delighting in everything they saw. She could go into the sea, and watch it from the rails of the boat. Watch it in calm and in storm. Once she said dreamily: “If only we could stay like this for ever.”

“We’re already running short of toothpaste and soap,” he said drily.

“You beast, Nick.”

He grinned. “Civilization has its uses. I prefer my house to be free of vermin, and I do rather like a crease in my trousers and a hair
trim every third Wednesday.” The days were not idle. Nick, accustomed to feeding and doctoring his labourers, naturally noticed cases of infection and malnutrition among the people of the villages they visited. He used upon them the bulk of the ship’s medical supplies, and impressed upon men and women alike that they would be happier and healthier and lose fewer piccans if their diet was more wholesome and varied. They must clear a large section of bush and plant the seed he would send them. They must not eat the dead fish cast up out of the sea, nor brew strong medicines from bush plants, and if a baby’s eyes showed sign of infection he should be at once taken to the nearest village that owned a doctor.

He took Pat on short expeditions into the bush, following the age-old paths worn by countless native feet between giant trees and weed growth. They ate red bananas and drank coconut milk, and at an inland village were presented with some fine pineapples from a tree in the chiefs compound.