Mayenga Farm (20 page)

All day she was keyed up for an encounter that did not materialize. Each time she cantered back to the house she became taut with anticipation. The sun went down, work was over for the day, and it was time for her bath. Rennie made her way to the kitchen to speak to George about the dinner. There she stopped and stared, for Tanu, Kent’s personal servant, stood at the back door, drinking the usual native concoction of boiled sugar and water from George’s mug.

"Tanu," she said blankly. "What have you come for?"

"Baas send me, missus." The mug was quickly dumped on the draining-board. "Parcel for missus, please."

With two hands he picked up from the edge of the kitchen table a flat package about twenty inches square and, with some reverence, presented it to Rennie. Both natives were watching her, though not with so much curiosity as, in her hypersensitive condition, she imagine.

"The Baas needs an answer?" she asked.

"Him say a note for receive, please."

"Wait here, Tanu. I won’t be long."

She carried it into her bedroom and sat down. Her fingers fumbled with the string but at last it loosened so that she could drag it off and fold back the paper.

In her lap lay a portrait in stamped leather, similar to the two she had many times admired in Kent’s lounge. This one was of the head and shoulders of a piccaninny; grave-eyed, round-faced, his fine black wool uncannily lifelike, the shoulders gleaming as though polished with oil. The frame also was of a rich dark leather, faintly patterned.

Beneath it lay Kent’s note: "I ordered this for you some time ago, but it arrived only this morning. The young fellow is cute, isn’t he? Sorry I haven’t been able to get over today—have unexpectedly had to devote the whole day to two old friends from the coast. I’ll drive out early tomorrow, without fail."

Foolishly, knowing that the mere possession of it would bring more pain in time to come, she hugged the leather portrait to her. He had ordered it from Johannesburg especially for her, and lost no time in sending it.

Presently she got notepaper and envelope from the drawer ready to write a polite word or two of thanks. Then she recollected that her pen was in the dining-room, and she went along to fetch it.

Michael was there, taking a glass of sherry. He grinned at her, like a

boy caught stealing apples.

"I know the drink is low, but I just had to have one. In my state I can't do without a tonic now and then. I'll try to remember to bring back a bottle or two next time I go to town."

"Celebrating something?"

"Not yet. I daren't even think along those lines. I've just had a long, stiff walk. Do you ever go to the river in the dark, Rennie?"

"I've often seen it from the car, but never walked there. My pen is behind you on the sideboard, Michael May I have it?"

He passed it to her.

"It's odd," he said. "By night the stretch of river near the bridge has an English atmosphere. Trees arching over quiet water with the faint gurgle of the shallows up-river as a background. It reminds me of a place near Bedford, where I used to go hunting and fishing—except that the trees are too big and the smell is all wrong."

"Are you looking forward to going back to England?"

"I am, rather, though this is a grand experience, in spite of disappointments. But I like my temperatures temperate, and an honest-to-goodness grey day full of drizzle now and then. Here, everything is violent: the sun, the rain, the wind . . . everything. Three parts of the time it's an effort to think—at least, I find it so."

"Until recently you've been concentrating too much, though I suppose the perpetual sunshine wouldn't suit everyone. How soon do you hope to hear from your colleague in London?"

"Hope hasn't anything to do with it. One just sits and waits." The subject irked him, and he changed it. "Kent Bradfield has a house-party tonight, hasn't he?"

"I don't know."

"I'm only guessing. I reached the Mayenga turn while it was still light, and a motorist pulled up to ask me the way to Elands Ridge. The whole car-load were in evening get-up. So was Jackie."

"Jackie?"

"Yes," he said carelessly. "I saw her, too, racing past in one of those borrowed limousines. It was dusk then, and she didn't see me."

"Was she . .. alone?"

"Practically. Adele clung to the back seat."

Rennie said, "Dinner will be ready before we are. Excuse me, Michael?"

Back in her bedroom she sat down once more in front of the notepad, pen poised. As she arranged the facts in her mind a deadly calm settled over her. Kent's note had mentioned nothing about a house-party but there was no reason why it should, particularly as Rennie had not been invited. Jackie was one of his guests, but what more natural, if

they were in love?

Wasn’t it lucky, and perhaps ordained, that Michael should have been in the dining-room just then, for now she knew exactly what to do about Kent’s gift. Having already concluded that the barrier must slide back between them, there was nothing for it but for her to give it the first, heartbreaking push.

Her pen moved: "Yes, the piccaninny is attractive and it was good of you to send him, but I believe he’d feel more at home in your lounge with his two aunties than among chintz and pretty pottery. Thanks to you, Mayenga is now running smoothly, so please do not neglect Elands Ridge any longer on our account."

Hastily, before she could change her mind, she sealed the note in an envelope, which she thrust under the picture before wrapping and tying it up again.

Mystified, Tanu accepted the parcel.

"Give this again to the baas," she instructed. "Hurry. He will be needing you."

When the boy had left she felt less desperate. The bath was cool and refreshing, and after dinner it was like old times when her father and Michael delved into the technical and historical aspect of the final chapters of the novel, and she curled in a chair near the open French window, stitching on buttons and darning socks.

A couple of days loitered by; for Rennie they were so many days less at Mayenga, so many days nearer liberation. The views from the house which had become so dear now rasped her like a saw. She was beginning to loathe the grass table and chairs, the red stoep wall and the young jacaranda below it. Cape Town, she reminded herself, was a large romantic city; full of color and history and set against the majesty of the famous Table Mountain. Perhaps more than any town in South Africa it could boast culture and cosmopolitanism, side by side. Adrian would wallow in it—if only he could be persuaded that it were best to put up the farm for sale at once.

Rennie drove into town to buy a chased silver candle-stick for Jackie’s birthday, and on the way home she was twisted by the realization that it would grace one of Kent’s rooms at Elands Ridge. Self-torture comes traitorously easy to the sick at heart.

She left it till the morning of the party before lifting her evening dress from its cardboard box for ironing. When Adrian had made the wardrobe he miscalculated the height by six inches, so that her sole floor-length dress crumpled round the hem when hung. Cheerfully, Rennie had folded it into the box, for she wore it seldom.

She sat back on her heels, slipped a forefinger into each of the outmoded puffed sleeves and held it up. Heavens! She dropped it as though it were alive, took the shoulders again between finger and thumb and distastefully raised the green silk to eye level. The frock fell apart as if it had been cut with scissors. From one corner of the square neck diagonally across the bodice and into several inches of the skirt a channel had been chewed by fish-moth. At least, she supposed it must have been fish-moth, for three of the silver creatures were skimming like mad round the lid of the box.

The appalling discovery had an element of deliverance: as far as Rennie was concerned Jackie’s party was off.

When Adrian was shown the dress he wrinkled his forehead.

"You have so few diversions. Couldn’t you go out and buy something this afternoon ?"

"Even if I could get the right fit at such short notice, we can’t afford the guineas," she said. "Jac won’t miss me, and I wasn’t dying to attend—her friends in Gravenburg are all strangers to us. Would you like to go with Michael?"

"God forbid! We'll be gracious and send him as our representative."

"I wonder how we can let her know there’ll be two less before this evening?"

"Two from sixty will hardly notice. Michael will be diplomatic for us."

But Michael, when he, too, had marvelled at the geometrical destruction of the frock and suggest some masculine and totally impossible renovations, decided that Jackie’s function could proceed without him.

"Why should I droop about on the fringe of her party like a deflated spare tyre?" he demanded. "She’ll wear some creation worth a year's income to me, and Kent Bradfield will be there, the rich, handsome hero in possession. No, thanks. I’d have put up with it if you were going, but I refuse to attend merely to make up the number."

"Don’t you intend giving her a little birthday present?"

"What would you suggest—a hanky with I love you’ in the corner, or the pearl necklet pinned into the shape of a heart?" Michael laughed indifferently. "We’ll send her a note; in fact, I’ll leave it at the Carlton, if you like, on my way to the bookshop."

"Is that all Jackie’s twenty-first birthday means to you, Michael?"

"What of it?" He sounded defiant. "Would you hang on to someone who’d shown you the door?"

"No," she sighed. "I wouldn’t. I’ll let you have our little parcel and apologies, and you must make sure that she gets them. What time are you gomg?"

"Right away, or old Morgan will be closed. He’s the most casual bookseller I ever met. Since Gravenburg’s had a Yachting Club and there’s a library in the air, he shoots off any old time. Can I get you anything?"

He backed out the car, came back for Jackie’s gift, and weighted it in one hand, his smile a little hard.

"I wish our absence were going to wring her heart," he said. "You and she have grown apart. I almost wish you hadn’t."

Which was generous of Michael, but she was in no mood for compliments. Rennie returned indoors, to hack away, with unnecessary vehemence, at the ruined dress. What was left of it would make a blouse to go with her black skirt.

Dusk came, and Rennie examined the casserole in the oven, and made a pawpaw salad; small dice of pawpaw, chopped banana, apple and nuts, a few grapes and Cape gooseberries, all soaked in the juice from two large oranges and liberally sprinkled with sugar. What a blessing that fruit was plentiful and cheap, and that cream and butter could be had fresh from their own dairy.

George, who had worked all afternoon in the garden, had been given the evening off, so it took Rennie longer than usual to ensure that everything was ready for dinner. On her way to her room she met her father, apparently looking for her. With an eager, almost boyish smile he grasped her wrist and pulled her to follow him.

"Come out to the shed and see what I’ve found."

"What is it?"

"Look for yourself. You’ll fall for it right away."

She ran after him, down the steps and along the back path to where it branched to the first and larger storehouse. The door was closed, and Adrian paused, with one hand upon it and the other raised, warningly.

"Gently now. Don’t scare the little chap."

"Darling, you’re so mysterious. Do open up."

But he was not to be hurried. Softly, he pushed the door ajar about a foot, and Rennie could see the dim yellow light of the hurricane lamp he had left there. He stepped inside, beckoned her, and made fast the door.

Over in the corner, quivering against a bag of mealie meal, stood the smallest buck, Rennie thought, in the whole of Africa. His body was no larger than a sleek puppy’s, but his skin was beautifully marked and his legs long and slender.

"The poor pet," she whispered. "Where did you find

him?"

"Just outside, in the fig thicket. I heard his bleating and searched. "He’s

shy, but fairly tame. Think you could feed

him some milk?"

"I'll try. He looks such a baby."

"Probably a small breed. Duiker or klipspringer, or perhaps a type we’ve never heard of. Try to make friends with him while I get the milk."

Murmuring little sounds of endearment, she moved inch by inch across the stone floor, and before her father returned she had stroked the shuddering back and got the soft brown eyes to turn her way.

It was some minutes before the buck would lick milk from Rennie's fingers, but apparently he took to the taste, for he bent to lap from the pan.

"You see?" said Adrian. "He's not so young as he looks. We'll shut him up tonight and let him roam tomorrow. If he cares to make his home with us, we won’t object. Come along, my dear."

"In a minute. He’s so sweet that I hate to leave him. It would be a pity if he got frightened again. You go, if you want to, I'll lock up."

"All right. Don’t forget the lamp."

Patiently, sitting cross-legged in the dust, she encouraged the buck to lick the pan dry. His nose was wet and quivering, and he smelled of the warm living things of the earth. She talked to him in a crooning undertone, till he blinked, and let himself down on to the sack she had placed for him. When she stopped stroking, his head came up to demand more. As imperious as a human baby, she thought tenderly.

A sudden draught swept in, raising the dust and startling the buck. Rennie looked up. For a second, stark fright stilled her breathing, but recognizing the tall dark figure in the doorway as Kent’s, she took a small nervous breath of relief.

He came in, suave in his dinner jacket, and she was aware that his sharp glance embraced the whole scene: the sleepy duiker and empty pan; Rennie beside him on the floor, still in her working shirt and slacks, and very grubby; the shed palely illumined by the lamp which Adrian had absent-mindedly lodged in a dangerous position upon a bag of mealies.

"Your father told me you were here," he said. "You both seem to have forgotten the date."

Affecting not to see his proffered hand, she jerked to her feet and pushed back her hair.