Doctor's Assistant (18 page)

Yes, she quite liked Irene Cole.

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

AS Laurette had anticipated, the second card from John Delaney arrived by steamer next morning. The night before it was written he and Mr. Kelsey had been entertained to dinner by the members of a yacht club, and a royal time they had had. He hoped Laurette was not lonely, and promised at least one more communication before they turned back for home. “Tell Ben the leg support is capital,” he ended. “I’m getting about almost normally, with the stick.”

It was arranged. Their talk turned to books and South African art, and Ben was forgotten.

Laurette took the card along with her to Ben’s house when she and Irene went there the following evening, and Ben read it with a pleased smile. In fact he seemed quite happy altogether.

During her years at the mission, Mrs. Lockley had trained herself in rigid economy, and she was so grateful for Ben’s generosity in allowing herself and her husband to live with him that she took infinite pains with the housekeeping. She was looking very well and rested, and had already taken over from him the records and accounts. It appeared that the tide was turning for Ben; he certainly deserved it.

It was an agreeable, undemanding evening, and ended on a note of conviviality, when all five agreed to go up the river for a picnic the following Saturday afternoon. Ben would do his utmost to be free for at least three hours.

During the next eight or ten days Laurette’s horizon expanded. She worked as hard as ever, but seldom spent an evening alone. One evening she dined at the hotel, and on another she drove Irene out to the mountains in her father’s old car. Then came a day when it was dusk as she walked in from the plantation, to find a lamp glowing in the small lounge and appetizing smells emanating from the kitchen. Irene had come to the doorway, wearing over her linen frock a faded apron of Laurette’s.

“Hallo,” she’d said. “I bought some chops from the hotel chef and decided to eat with you tonight. It’ll be ready as soon as you’ve cleaned up.”

That, perhaps, was the nicest evening of all.

She was expecting, any day now, to hear that the
Barracuda
was making for home. The two men had been gone over a fortnight, and though she had hardly imagined they would stick to schedule, she thought it unlikely that her father would stay away much longer. However, he was more or less in the hands of Mr. Kelsey, who knew every angler and yachtsman from here to Port Elizabeth and was likely to be held up at every stop.

A third card came from her father, and because it had been posted in an isolated spot it had taken exactly four days to travel two hundred and fifty miles. This was their last port of call, he assured her. Tomorrow morning they would stock up for the final lap. He would be seeing her next weekend.

Laurette looked over his bedroom and saw that it was as sweet and clean as she could make it. She replenished the food cupboard and planned a special menu for his first meal at home; even in the warmth of South Africa he liked steamed puddings and she was hoping to get hold of some cooking fruit from inland.

So many small things had been happening that it seemed as if they had been away months instead of a couple of weeks. He’d be surprised to hear that she’d dined out a few times and even persuaded Ben up the river for a picnic. He’d probably take to Irene, once the ice was broken. There would be heaps to talk about.

The following day she visited the plantation only for an hour or two during the morning. Everything there was going well and Bwazi and his friend could keep busy weeding, without her supervision. So she went to the store to give an order, and passed on to the post office to pick up some periodicals. As usual, newspapers were on sale at the stand in the post office doorway, and from habit Laurette gave the piccanin her threepence and received the two-days-old paper. It was published in Durban and the news it contained more often than not seemed related to another world. Only occasionally did the beautiful, mountainous region of the Wild Coast receive mention.

She cooked an egg for her lunch that day and ate it at the kitchen table while poring over her small accounts book. In the lounge, a little later, she drank her coffee and opened the newspaper.

And there on the first page it stared her in the face. Half-inch headlines: “Tragedy on the Wild Coast”. She read a few sentences; her brain reeled, her cup crashed to the floor. She tried to swallow on the burning lump in her throat, to read the rest of those cold-blooded paragraphs.

The luxury yacht
Barracuda
was lost with all on board. Smashed to bits on murderous rocks which had wrecked many a bigger ship. It was all there, even to the names. Gilbert Kelsey, John Delaney, Abram Kotu, Luke Ndovla. It had happened three days ago.

Laurette was cold and trembling, though her throat was still parched and burning. She had to get out, to look over the peaceful, dreaming garden and know that this thing could not be. He was on his way home; of course he was! Hadn’t she filled the larder against his return? Hadn’t his room been smartened with paint—the rug and bed-cover cleaned?

She got to the door and hung on to it. And there, mercifully, was Ben, his arms outstretched as he came up the steps, his face pale as he gathered her in.

Looked back upon, even from the short distance of a day or two, the starkest moment of tragedy is invariably unreal. Laurette recalled Ben talking a great deal, very softly. Mrs. Lockley had read the report and told him and, of course, he had had to come straight to Laurette. She must realize that the news was three days old; that would help a little.

The coast was known to be treacherous; more experienced seamen had lost their lives on those rocks. A sudden squall and the yacht had been no more; they had had warning and were actually making for a river mouth. It was over, he reiterated. But she wasn’t alone; she must never think that.

As, very gradually, Laurette was made to believe, she didn’t talk about it. What was there to say? She could have dwelt upon the fact that yesterday she had happily read his last postcard though already he was dead. But there was really nothing to say, nothing at all.

Her silence and tearlessness worried Ben, so that he hardly dared leave her. He wanted to take her home with him to the company of the Lockleys, but she shook her head.

“I’ll stay here,” she said in a whisper; “I’ll be all right.” He had calls to make but decided to stop first at the hotel. In a businesslike manner he explained to Irene.

“I know it isn’t usual to thrust a convalescent into contact with grief,” he said rather abruptly, “but in your case it may do more good than harm. Do you think you could spend a night or two at the bungalow?”

“I’ll do anything. I feel awful for Laurette.”

His glance at her neat dark head was preoccupied, “I can depend on you, then?”

“You can. I’ll put a couple of things into a case and go up there at once.”

“Good. Get a boy to carry the case. By the way”—he gave her face a perfunctory examination—“you’re a better color. Keep it up.”

With an effort, her head averted, she said, “I’d like to say that I’m very sorry for you, too. You’ve lost a friend.”

“Thanks,” he answered briefly. “I’ll call at the bungalow this evening.”

Irene stayed two nights, and thereafter spent every other day at the bungalow. As Ben did, she yearned for Laurette to weep, to abandon herself to sorrow. She grew anxious and watchful.

Laurette was eating nothing; the healthy pink had gone from her cheeks leaving them sallow, and the blue eyes were heavy and fatigued, with dark smudges underneath. She still went down to the plantation each day, but her enthusiasm was gone. She went for something to do, because she found it impossible, even with Irene in the house, to pass her time within doors. For days the numbness refused to ease off.

The following Sunday, Ben said carefully, “I telegraphed Charles Heron and got a reply yesterday from his assistant. Charles is away but they’ve sent him a message. I expect he’ll be cut up. He was fond of the old boy.”

Laurette nodded listlessly, and he was wrung by the pity of it. Better than anyone he knew how she felt. John Delaney had been comparatively young and undoubtedly vigorous. He had found a place he liked and congenial friends, and he could have been wonderfully happy for many years, writing a little, enjoying his house and land, the companionship of his daughter and cronies. This was what he had worked and faithfully served his country for. His death shattered Laurette’s world, the world she had started to build on his retirement from the Army, and secured in Port Quentin. For a while now her existence would seem pointless.

“I think it would be a good idea,” he said quietly, “if Irene checked out of the hotel and fixed up with you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

‘She nodded lifelessly. “Yes, but what about Irene? It can’t be very jolly for her here.”

Irene spoke up eagerly for herself. “But I’d love to come, Laurette. I’ll pay my share and it will come out cheaper than the hotel. I’ll take over the cooking, and you’ll be able to keep the boy on the land. And I’ll try to be happy—to make you happy, too.”

Ben gave her a grateful glance. “So we’ll settle that, Laurette,” he said quickly. “It’s really very fortunate that Irene happens to be here.” He paused. “You do wish to stay on in Port Quentin, don’t you?”

“I don’t know.” There was utter weariness in her tones, the weariness of sleeplessness and lack of food as well as that of an excess of grief. “I’ll think about it.”

Being young and resilient, a day or two later she did begin to think about it. She would put the house up for sale and live in it till a buyer came along. Such a property, in a tiny town cut off from the rest of Africa by a mountain range, would not attract many potential clients, but she might advertise in Durban and Johannesburg. There must be people in the big cities who longed to retire to such an idyllic spot. And the bungalow, small and old though it was, had acquired a freshness and simple charm since she and her father had renovated it.

One afternoon she forced herself to look through John Delaney’s desk. She found odd poems and drawings, a very sweet sketch of her own head and shoulders and, in the locked drawer, about twenty-five pounds in cash. A bankbook showed a modest credit of seventy pounds, and in a notebook her father had worked out a budget to cover his pension. This last, which even provided her with a dress allowance, sharpened the ache in her heart. She locked everything away and went to the kitchen to help Irene.

Early that same evening, the man who owned Port Quentin’s one and only garage came to the bungalow. Awkwardly he broached the purpose of his visit.

“I was wondering, Miss Delaney, whether you were
thinking of selling the car. The Captain bought it from me, and I’d like to buy it back. You see, it was only a week or two ago that one of the traders in the reserve asked if I had something small and cheap. I’ll give you what your father paid me for it.”

She said slackly, “It isn’t legally mine yet.”

“We can put that right. We have an old chap here who’s
a commissioner for oaths. He’ll fix it.”

She really had no use for the car, so she agreed to drive it down to the garage the following morning, and collect a cheque for a hundred and seventy-five pounds. She would now, she thought emptily, be in a position to discharge her debt to Charles Heron.

During the next few days she tried very hard to throw off the lassitude which washed over her like an unceasing tide. She thought back to the last year or so in England, when she had been anticipating her father’s discharge and, later, preparing for the journey abroad. They had had great times on the voyage and still better ones while they were making habitable the bungalow. But their period together had been so short, so very short. A mere taste, and he was gone. The heartbreaking pity of it was too much; she couldn’t even shed a tear. She felt she would never laugh or weep again; never again know true joy or pain.

She went on marketing the salads and quick-growing vegetables. She read novels that neighbors, unable otherwise to display their sympathy, gave to Irene for her. She took an occasional bathe and once, while changing from her swimsuit in her bedroom, she caught a queer angle of her face and leaned forward to examine it more closely in the minor. It was the face of a woman, stark, bony and lifeless.

That Saturday, the second since John Delaney’s death, she decided to write to Peter. She had sent him a cable but so far shirked following it up with details. Legally, Peter was not entitled to any property left by John Delaney, but when the house was sold she would send him half of whatever it fetched.

She was at her father’s desk, trying to get it down into words, trying not to think too clearly about what she wrote. There came a tap at the door and she called quietly, “Come in, Irene.” As the door opened she looked up, sideways, then leant back. In a flat, dry voice, she said, “Good morning, Charles. No one told me you were expected.”

“No one knew,” he answered, and came right in.

His great height and width of shoulder filled the workroom. He wore khaki drill and the dark hair was rough from the breeze which had sped between the car windows. His face was set in an angular mould, and he stood above her, his lip drawn in as if he, who was never at a loss, now found it necessary to form his sentences before uttering them.

He laid a hand on her shoulder. “I wish to heaven I could have got here sooner,” he said. “I only received the message the day before yesterday, and I’ve been travelling, by horse and car, ever since.” He sat on the edge of the desk and bent towards her. His fingers raised her chin, and the sea-green eyes moved keenly over her features. “You poor kid,” he said almost roughly. “I know it’s a thousand times harder for you than for me, but I can see you’re letting yourself go. That’s bad for you, Laurette.”

Swiftly, she twisted her head from his touch and got to her feet. “Let’s take all that as said, shall we? I don’t think I can stand your kind of condolences.”

He straightened abruptly. “Seen Ben Vaughan lately?”

“He calls about every other day.”

“Hasn’t he told you that you look sick as hell?”

“How do you expect me to look?”

He didn’t answer that. With his hands in his pockets he moved back, behind the desk and in front of the window. Without much expression he said, “I came here as your friend, my child. When I heard about the ... wreck, my first thought was for you. My uncle was well on in years and he loved the sea; I believe it’s the sort of end he would have chosen. But John was much younger...”

“Stop it,” she exclaimed, her face white. “You mean well, Charles, but I can’t discuss it. I’m glad you’ve called here because there are one or two business matters I have to see you about. First there’s the loan to Peter...”

“For God’s sake! Can’t we shelve trivialities?”

“To me it isn’t a triviality, but just a debt I’m now able to repay. I’ve already paid the amount to your credit at the little bank here. Another thing; I’ve been told the
Barracuda
was insured. If you’re claiming, I ... I don’t want any part of the money.”

“Look here, none of this is important. You’re making it so because you’re lonely and suffering. I don’t want to seem callous, but for your own sake you’ve got to snap out of it. I’ll do anything for you—you know that—but I won’t condone a defeatist attitude. Your father wouldn’t care to see you looking as you do now.” He paused, his manner exasperated and urgent. “There was a time when you found life beautiful and happy. You told me so yourself. You really must get back into that frame of mind, Laurette.”

“If you remember,” she said unemotionally, “I also told you that to be happy one had to live among people who cared for one.”

“I remember well enough. You mentioned your father, my uncle ... and me. I’m still here, and I do care for you—quite a bit. The fact may be hard to swallow, but it’s true. I came down for no other reason than to see you.”

“Are you sure,” she asked coolly, “that you weren’t a little conscience-stricken? The yacht was almost as much yours as your uncle’s, I believe, and you must have known he might make a mistake when threatened with a squall. You were capable of handling the yacht in a tempest, but you probably knew that Mr. Kelsey’s age and physique wouldn’t stand up to that kind of hazard.”

His face darkened and a whiteness showed at his nostrils. “I see,” he said slowly, in clipped accents. “This mood of yours isn’t defeatist at all. You’re blaming me for something I knew nothing about. I’ll admit that I’d had an inkling of what my uncle planned—a trip with a man who was temporarily disabled—I’d have discouraged it. But I was a good many miles away, and there were others here who could have warned my uncle—but didn’t. In any case, according to my information, the storm they hit was brief and entirely unheralded. No one could have saved them from it.”

There was a silence. Then Laurette slipped the letter she had been writing under the blotter, and she paused there, resting her hand on the desk.

“I’m sorry I was unjust,” she said, her head bent. “I was going to write to you, some time.”

“Some time,” he nodded laconically. He shifted. “Have you any plans?”

“Nothing very definite. There’s no hurry, because I have someone living with me.”

“Yes, she let me in—Miss Cole, so she said. A visitor?”

“She’s here for three months, recuperating after an illness.” Laurette’s tongue stole out to moisten her lips. “I’m going to advertise the house.”

He came nearer. Had she not stiffened away from him he might have touched her. His mouth twisted. “We’re a long way apart, aren’t we? You wish I weren’t here, and I’m beginning to wonder if I was wise to come. Unfortunately, it’s difficult for me to take even one day’s leave just now, and I have to get going again tomorrow evening and travel through the night, so I haven’t much time to win your goodwill, have I?”

“You’ve been managing to get along without it.”

“I haven’t let myself think about it. I’ve been up to the ears in work. Laurette”—he stopped, till she gave him a fleeting glance—”will you go back with me to Mohpeng?” Before she could react he added, “You couldn’t stay in my house, of course, but the Seymours have a spare bedroom and they’d be good companions—far better for you than the pallid Miss Cole. As a matter of fact, I asked Maris to get the room ready, so they’re half expecting you.”

She kept her head bent. No, she told herself, she wasn’t any longer jealous of Maris Seymour. That wasn’t the reason she would not fall in with his suggestion; she merely had no wish to be near Charles. Charles had once been synonymous with pain, and she couldn’t bear any more.

She said unemotionally, “I’d rather stay here, thanks. Apart from selling the house, there’s the new plantation to look after now.”

“New plantation? I hadn’t heard about it.”

“We bought one of the plots at the boundary.”

“John couldn’t have worked it. Who did?” And, instantly, “You? But that’s crazy. Apart from the fact that you’ll never make any money at it...”

“But it is making money,” she put in coolly. “Not a great deal, but enough, to make it worthwhile. The land is cleared and planted, and I think one of the local residents will buy, eventually.”

Angrily, he said, “What in the world has got into you? You’re not built for farming in this climate, and compared with the work you’ll have to put into the land the returns will be negligible. You must give it up.”

“I’ll give it up when I sell,” she answered.

“Very well. I’ll buy it. From this moment it’s mine and you’ll leave it alone.”

“I wouldn’t sell to you, Charles. Since I first knew you, you’ve done no end for the Delaneys. You rescued my father—and me—from the native reserve and kept us up at the house for three weeks. You gave my father work to do on the Sesuto book—he loved doing it and I was grateful that he had it while his leg was at its worst. You paid my brother’s debts...”

His mouth was thin. “That kind of generosity is easy. I find it more difficult to be generous to you in spirit. You’re too damned young!” He took a savage breath. “Lord knows, I didn’t drive down here to quarrel with you!”