Brittle Bondage (17 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

BONDOLO offered no convenient means of escape. Public transport was non-existent and the nearest railway station was at Ellisburg. If she could get into town on some pretext it would not be difficult to ascertain times of trains, and arrange for a taxi to be at the
corner
of the private road at a certain time to collect herself and her belongings. But how to contrive a casual visit to town? The decline in the number of fever patients had not altered Blake’s command that no one but the lorry-driver was to leave the estate before next week-end.

The matter had tormented her all night. At moments she had told herself that another night in this house was unthinkable. She wanted to be away from Blake’s shattering presence, out of reach of his abrupt and bitter voice.

She would walk headlong into the bush rather than face
him
again. Then reason reminded her of the vicious daytime heat and the dangers which lurked just off the main roads; the impossibility of carrying more than a small handbag. Was it cowardly to wish that she could take her own life?

Fumana came to enquire whether she wished to have her breakfast in bed.

She shook her head. “No, thank you, Fumana. Where is the Baas?”

“He has gone, missus. He take lunch.”

“No message?”

“Only to tell you he come back late.”

“Thank you, Fumana. I’ll have some orange-juice and toast on the veranda.”

Her head had the dull weight of sleeplessness ,and her tongue the rank taste of stark depression and too many cigarettes. She took a shower and drank the orange-juice, then nerved herself to enter the study and borrow the Union time-table.

Her destination would be Durban. She discovered that there were slow trains today and Thursday, an express on Friday night and another on Saturday morning. She called Mosi into the hall.

“I need things from town, Mosi. I wish to speak to the lorry-driver.”

“That boy already go with Baas, missus.”

“But there are two lorries.”

“Other lorry lend to missus at Vrede Rust.”

Natalie again!

“Is the car in the garage?”

“Yas, missus.”

“T
h
en you can drive me to town.”

Backing from her, Mosi wagged his large woolly head. “No, missus. Only special times Baas let me drive that car, like to get doctor when missus sick with sun. Baas say Mosi and Fumana stay here at the house.” He jerked an emphatic thumb to the floor.

And the Baas, naturally, must be obeyed.

“All right,” she said, defeated.

In the cool quiet of the house her head cleared and she began to plan. On Thursday, at about three, the Durban train would halt at Ellisburg. Somehow she must reach town in time to catch it. With luck the lorry or the jeep would be available, and she rather thought an outside boy would be more corruptible than Mosi and Fumana. If the lorry failed she decided with the calm of desperation, she would ride along the river to Lawnside and ask Margery to run her into town—fabricate some fiction about Blake picking her up later. That way her clothes would have to be left behind, but just now frocks and shoes were insignificant

The train was scheduled to arrive in Durban at nine
-
thirty; presuming it ran more or less to time, she should have no difficulty in fixing up at an hotel for the night. Next morning she could travel on to another port and await a boat there. A boat ... for England.

She fought down the fears that crowded and wounded her. England, and a job to do; studying each evening for a career that would expand her existence into something worthwhile. If only she could delude herself that there was anything in the world so worthwhile as being wife to Blake!

The afternoon sky acquired the rich tinges of sunset. Venetia remembered that Mervyn Mansfield was coming to dinner. She worked in the kitchen,
str
ainin
g
the pot
-
roasted fowl and stuffing it with cooked forcemeat and chopped bacon ready for the final half-hour in the oven.

She heard Blake stride down the corridor; her spine stiffened and her skin went cold and clammy.

Mosi’s white-clad hulk towered beside her. “The Baas has visitor. He wants missus in the lounge.”

She washed her hands, dabbed at her nose with a powderpuff, examined the laid table in the dining-room and went on to enter the lounge.

There was no need to look at Blake. She greeted Mervyn, accepted a Martini and sat silent except when their guest addressed her. Her quiet replies drew an awkward smile from Mervyn. He wasn’t so dour and hardbitten as his outward appearance suggested. He even issued a hesitant invitation that she come one day and stroll round his game sanctuary; he didn’t care to kill animals either.

Later, during dinner, Mervyn mentioned Neil. “To succeed as an engineer you can’t get along without a mathematical brain and a driving urge,” he said. “Neil is devoid of both. His mother was keen to keep him out of his father’s antique shop, but it’s my considered belief that he’d be in his element charming the ladies into paying large sums for old Dutch and English period pieces. Certainly he ought to be a success at it.”

“He’ll never settle in Ellisburg,” said Blake bluntly. “When is he going?”

“He can please himself. I’ll get down to facts with him tomorrow.” He shrugged. “I had great hopes of his turning out to be the right sort of partner. It was uphill work to forge connections with so many local authorities and big builders, but it’s done, and at the moment Mansfield’s is a progressive business with a very bright future. I rather fancied his marrying in a year or two and eventually having a son to carry it on.”

The pause was barely perceptible before Blake suggested coolly: “The alternative is simple. Get married yourself, and start a family.”

Mervyn studiously forked at a peach tart. Venetia, made sensitive by her own anguish, noticed the deepening of the lines etched between nose and mouth, and the straight frown of his brow. She stole a glance at Blake, saw his lean contour as arrogant and expressionless as a stone casting.

Mosi brought coffee to the table. Venetia drank hers and stood up. She wished Mervyn good night in a manner intended to convey to Blake that as far as she was concerned the evening had ended.

That night she slept for a while, and on Wednesday morning the procedure followed the pattern of Tuesday. Blake breakfasted early and took a picnic lunch, and Venetia was confronted with another long and solitary day. The waiting was nerve-wrenching. She counted her ready cash and found it frighteningly low. The small amount her father had left would pay her passage and see her through for two or three months; after that she must rely on her earnings.

Money was the least of it. How could she endure living with her thoughts? In less than a year Blake could be free of her and married to Natalie, who would make an eminently suitable wife and “plantation missus.” Would she, Venetia, ever be able to school herself into a state of satisfaction that she had done what was right and good? Would the turbulent craving to be beloved and possessed by Blake begin to fade when he was no longer near? Supposing this pain went on and on, tearing her to pieces, so that three quarters of the time she didn’t know what she was doing?

Almost unwittingly she was gathering together the mementoes of the years with her father: his small and select stamp collection, a beloved, worn copy of the
Rubaiyat,
the old-fashioned golf cuff-links and wrist-watch. She came to his photograph, dropped the things in a heap before it and sank on to her bed. The bright hair slid from its fastening as her hot eyes and cheekbones dug into the pillow. But she couldn’t cry.

It was just after five when Thea called from the hall, “Anybody at home?”

Venetia emerged from the kitchen. She hadn’t dared to think about Thea beyond a vague desire to write her a brief explanation of her departure from Bondolo.

“What a welcome
!
” said Thea gaily. “Not a soul about and the dogs spread sulkily over the porch, as if a storm were brewing. What’s biting everyone?”

“I suppose we’re all bored with being imprisoned,” Venetia replied. “Are they letting you out now?”

“They are, and how glad I am! I feel like a released homing pigeon.”

“How long can you stay?”

Abstractedly Venetia had moved forward into the strong light. Thea’s smile ebbed.

“Till nine,” she said. “I’ve asked Paul for dinner. No objections?”

“I’m very pleased.”

Not only pleased, but profoundly relieved, guessed Thea. What could the girl be dreading? And how thin her face was in repose. Had she been sobbing, or had a nervous twitch developed in her throat?

“Do you sleep badly?” she enquired abruptly.

“Sometimes.” Venetia’s shoulders lifted dismissively, and she settled herself in the opposite
corner
of the chesterfield from Thea. “You don’t look too exhausted
...
nor particularly miserable, considering everything.”

“I shed my cares with my uniform at three o’clock today. Paul and I had tea together, and then he had to shoot off, but Dennis is taking over from seven, so he’ll be free. Have a cigarette?”

Thea watched the scraping of the match, the kindling of the two cigarettes. By the stain on her forefinger, Venetia must have put in some practice this last fortnight. “Blake’s late, isn’t he?”

“He’s working at the other end.”

“What doing?”

“I don’t know. How is Paul now?”

“Recovering. He’s been promised a locum to allow him a break at the coast He’s put in a hard year at Ellisburg with scarcely a full day’s holiday.”

“I like Paul.”

Thea didn’t care for Venetia’s manner. It had an element of retrospection, as if she were contemplating a friendship which had been agreeable while it lasted. There were other
signs
about the girl which pleased her even less. Venetia looked really ill.

“I expect you’ve been lonely out here?”

“Not particularly. Neil haunted the place last week while his office was closed, and Natalie Benham was here from Friday till Monday. Mervyn Mansfield came to
dinner last night.”

“Really? You should have had Natalie and Mervyn together,”
smiled
Thea, “and taken a chance at blowing upon smouldering embers.”

“F
r
om my observations,” said Venetia in a small dead voice “Natalie’s portion of the embers is colder than last week’s mutton ” Aware of Thea’s anxious eyes trying to reach through to her, pleading with her, she added, with an attempt at airiness, “Pay no attention to me—I’m beginning to feel my age. It’s about time, too. Tell me the latest news of the nurses and give me a good laugh.”

The diversion served till Blake could be heard addressing the boy. Venetia got up, squashed out her second ciga
r
e
t
te, inserted her hands into her belt and took an interest in the dusky garden.

From the doorway Blake said: “Your half-size bus gave me the warning, Thea. How goes it?”

“Pretty well.”

Venetia turned, her-smile brittle. There’ll be four for dinner. I must tell Mosi to cook double vegetables and prepare a larger salad. Excuse me.”

For the first time in her life Thea could summon not a single sentence to say to her brother. She lay against the rose-coloured damask, regarding
him
through half-closed lids, and seeking to reconcile the present situation with what she knew of him. She had seldom experienced anything but kindness from Blake. To be sure, he had not disguised his impatience and annoyance over the wretched affair of a couple of years ago, but she did not hold that against him. He had been a shrewd onlooker; he had foreseen disaster and been brutally outspoken, but that was Blake, striving to spare her the worst.

Before the coming of Venetia, Blake had been approachable even if he did resent interference. Now, one would hesitate to confide in him for fear of some cynicism from the inflexible mouth, or a shaft of unsmiling mockery from his eyes. How could Venetia have accentuated the hardness in him? Fantastic that Blake could dwell with Venetia, share dozens of trifling intimacies and make passionate love to her, and still keep to his own side of the steel wall. It just didn’t make sense.

A query darted with snake-like venom through Thea’s brain. Did Blake make passionate love to Venetia? She went cold with the unfamiliar sensation of terror, and got quickly to her feet.

“I need some hankies from my room. I’ll get them now, in case I forget when Paul’s here.”
Thea trod swiftly along the corridor, but once enclosed within the expensively severe bedroom her energy waned. She leaned against the wall, quite spent. She must listen for Paul’s car and run down to meet him, have an urgent word with hi
m
before he greeted Venetia and Blake.

CHAPTER TWENTY