And No Regrets (18 page)

“Very hearty, says he’s good at the work.”

“Yes, the company’s particular about that aspect
.
Fairly young?”

“A bit younger than you. I’m glad you
added that
extension so he can have his own quarters,
but the place
will be big for him when we—when I
leave.”

“Maybe he’ll send for some girl and
mar
r
y
her—if
he’s crazy enough!” Ross strode into
the room, leaving
Clare to clutch at the door jamb as though
robbed of
her breath by
a
blow. And no
regrets, Ross
said
so lightly. Look at him, already they
had eaten into
him!

Bill’s presence about the bungalow relieved the tension between Clare and Ross to some extent. He had opinions and he and Ross had arguments. He played a
slap-happy game of tennis, and slammed the golf ball so hard that three were lost in one day. He had no trouble beating Clare at draughts and chess, but in Ross he had his match and the two men would sometimes play well into the night. Clare would lie in bed listening to the argumentative rumble of their voices, and she wondered how they would get along when she departed and left them alone for three months.

Ross agreed that Bill was enthusiastic enough, but there was something lacking. One had to live and breathe a plantation
in order
to make it yield profits large enough to satisfy the company. “Don’t keep on encouraging him to study medicine,” Ross growled. “He’s got to have his mind wholly on the work here.
”

“Oh, you’re eaten up with Bula,” she rejoined. “I dread to think of the extent of your devotion when you’re bossing your very own plantation.”

“Why dread it?” he drawled. “You won’t have to
s
uffer it.”

“No, thank goodness.” She turned from him and hurried off to the kitchen, where in the agitation aroused by his cruel remark she managed to upset oil over the stove and very nearly set light to herself. Her heart was pounding after she and Luke had scotched the flames, but Bill had heard Luke clacking away in a high, frightened voice and he came hurrying in to offer his assistance.

“My dear girl, have you burned the pudding?” he demanded.

“Something like that.” She pressed a hand to her side and gave him a wry smile. “Please don’t let on to Ross. He blows his top when I have an accident. He’s afraid,” she added acidly, “that I shall bu
rn
down his precious plantation.”

Bill gave her a somewhat old-fashioned look; he’d have to be blind, she often thought, not to notice a lack of cordiality between herself and Ross.

The last week in February brought the first squall. It sprang up at dawn with a force so sudden that the house trembled and a shutter was ripped from its hinges. There was plenty of lightning, but no rain or thunder. Having slipped into a doze after the first shattering onslaught Clare rose late and had to hurry her toilet.

In the living-room, breakfast was laid and the men waiting; Bill Humphriss in a chair with a stale newspaper, Ross near the window looking out into the wind-scoured compound. He turned as she entered.

“I’m so
rry
to be late,” she said. “You boys shouldn’t have waited.”

“There’s no hurry.” A grin flickered on Ross’s lips—at being called a boy, she supposed. “We shan’t be able to get out in this.”

He pushed in her chair, and both men took their places. She poured coffee, and he ladled tinned grapefruit into plates. Leaving hers untouched for the present, she sipped
h
er hot coffee until the cup was empty. Ross began to slice cold tongue.

Shooting her a smile, he said: “Get a move on, lazy Lizzie. You’re holding up the troops.”

“Serve Bill first I—don’t think I want anything to eat.”

“Eat your grapefruit anyway.”

She was surprised that he didn’t forcibly
i
nsist that she have some of the tongue, but then he knew how the storms still gnawed ragged the ends of her nerves, and she was grateful for his understanding.

He passed the plate of meat to Bill, who then helped himself from the dish of tinned tomatoes and took a liberal dollop of mustard.

Clare finished her grapefruit and poured more coffee.

Bill, eating with enjoyment, said: “I was only in Lagos for two breakfasts, but both mornings they dished
up eggs and bacon. It never occurred to me to ask how they got them.”

“The bacon would have been tinned,” Clare hazarded. “And even our chickens lay an occasional egg. Did you like Lagos, Bill?”

“So-so. I hadn’t time to make any friends. I met several people who knew you and Ross. Which reminds
me ... He
looked at Ross uncertainly, then pushed tongue into his mouth so that speech wouldn’t be expected of him for a few moments.

“Of what?” asked Ross, without much interest.

“One or two messages,” he muttered. “I’d clean fo
r
gotten them, there’s been so much else to
think about.” Clare buttered a
corner
of roll and wondered why Bill was looking so hot and bothered. Ross seemed slightly amused.

“Who’s been sending us messages?” she asked lightly. Bill mentioned
a
few names and passed on the usual good wishes to be remembered, and hopes that Ross and his wife would look
them
up on their way home. “They didn’t seem to know
that
you’d be going home first,” Bill said to Clare.

“Is that the lot?” Ross wanted to know, lazy grey eyes fixed on Bill’s face. Clare glanced from her husband to Bill, and felt a sudden tension in the air.

Bill gave Clare a quick, drowning-man look, then answered: “No, there was one other. A—a woman was there from Onitslo—she came to see me before I left. She’d heard I was coming here. A—Mrs. Harriman.” A desperate hollowness filled Clare’s chest.

Ross’s face did not change. “What did she say?”

“She asked me to tell you that her divorce was through, and that she was staying on in Lagos until you came.”

“I see.” Ross pushed up his cup for more coffee. “D’you mind, honey?”

She
minded like hell! She hated his poker-face, his
lazy eyes as they clashed a second with hers, then she lowered hers and drew his cup closer, quenching a primitive impulse to fling the dregs in his face. The coffee-pot wavered in her hand and coffee swamped the saucer. She muttered something about her wrist still being rocky.

“I wish we’d thought of bringing a wrist strap,” grunted Ross.

Bill said he had one among his things. It was quite new. He’d bought it at some time or other and never used it. “I’ll go and get it,” he said, and he seemed relieved to escape for a few minutes into his bedroom.

Clare sat very still, looking towards the windows, hearing the dry, harsh storm that had an echo in her heart. He was finishing his coffee, and his
i
ndifference to her flayed feelings flicked like a whip. Her heart was hammering; bruised love and wild resentment had set up a primitive rhythm within
her ...
a
jungle pounding. She wanted to wrench his heart as he had ju
s
t wrenched hers, but she just hadn’t the power to do so. You could only hurt those who loved you.

“Why don’t you try and eat a little more?” Ross nodded towards her plate. “Coffee and grapefruit won’t take you far.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Ross!” she cried.

“Steady,” he said quickly, as Bill came back with the strap.

It was a good one with a tan velvet lining. He put it into Ross
’s
outstretched hand and sat down to finish his coffee. Ross cut a strip of lint and bound her wrist ... she had to let him, in front of Bill.

“The leather may set up a heat,” he explained. “The lint will soak up sweat and prevent blisters.” He secured the strap. “Not too tight?”

She shook her head and dropped the hand into her lap. They lit cigarettes, which she declined, and talked shop. Timber, coffee, cotton, palm-oil; the harvests and log-rolling; despatch and payment. The two voices went on long after the table had been cleared, and Clare roused herself to set straight the room. Ross got out the account books to illustrate some point, and they turned back to the first year’s returns and traced the increasing yields through to this fifth working year.

Bill said: “I’m lucky in following a man like you. Everything’s so straight! I’d give ten years’ salary to have your clear, calculating brain.”

“It has its drawbacks,” said Ross.

“Not in business, surely?”

“No, not in business.”

“You ought to persuade him to take up politics, Mrs. Brennan,” laughed Bill. “He’d be all right at the Treasury.”

Ross glanced up as though expecting a snappy reply, but when she simply smiled and shook up a cushion, all expression left his face and he again bent over the books, pressing at his jaw with his fingertips.

Mid-morning the two men donned storm-coats and set out in the blast for the sheds. When they had gone, almost without thinking, Clare also put on a coat. She was fastening the storm-guard across her throat when Ross came back. He entered quickly and thrust the door shut against the wind.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To the school.”

“You can’t cross the compound in this!”

“I—I need a change for an hour—” She shot a look at his hard mask of a face. “All right, it doesn’t matter.” She began to unbutton the coat

“I came back because I suspected you’d go out.” He came a step closer and latched the storm-guard across her throat again, his knuckles pressing gently where once they had ruthlessly warned her that he was a man to flee away from. “If you’re miserable here alone, then
come down to the sheds. I don’t want you to stay here brooding.”

She smiled distantly. “Oh, I’ll be in your way. I’ll stay here, find some housework to occupy me.”

“Then come out on the veranda for a few minutes for some air,” he suggested.

Curiously numb, she obeyed and followed him through the door. He planted himself firmly, back to the wind, one hand holding a wooden post, the other her shoulder. She stood, feet apart, in the shelter of his body, her face drawn tight, her hair whipping back from her scalp. Her ears became plugged against the stupendous roar.

“Say when you’ve had enough,” he shouted.

The lightning had lessened but not so the wind. Frail jacaranda saplings lay bowed across the earth. All the sturdier trees bent with the wind, and a young cotton and many shrubs had been uprooted and flung yards.
Even
as they watched, a cocoa tree cracked and dropped a heavy branch that was instantly swept across the fields to the bush. The sun was filmed by a wide scarf of yellow fleece with purple borders. In this wind the high clouds were curiously still.

At last she moved to the door, and he opened it and pushed her inside in front of him. In the comparative silence of the house she loosened her coat.

“A little of it is exhilarating,” he said, taking her coat and hanging it up. “But it’s like everything else out here—much overdone.”

The smile was still frozen upon her lips.

“Have Luke make you a pot of tea,” he said.

She nodded. A few weeks ago she would have asked him to stay and share it, but not today.

“No backchat?” he asked whimsically.

“I—I can’t think of a tiling to say. Are you going now?”

“I suppose so.”

“Don’t be late back for lunch,” she said dully, and went on her way to the kitchen without waiting to see him go, out into the storm.

The day wore on. She played the gramophone and hummed the songs in a slightly cracked voice. But not for a moment did
she
stop remembering that message Bill had delivered at the breakfast table—Ross had already arranged for Patsy to step into her shoes! It was unbelievably hard to take. Patsy in his arms— herself a memory
!

And there wasn’t a thing she could do about it, not a thing, for he had made too sure that she had no permanent hold over him.

She was lighting a cigarette with shaking fingers when Bill Humphriss came in. “My gosh, what a wind,” he said. “It’s dying, though Ross thinks it will be quiet before dark. The clouds have split up.”

“Good.” She blew out the match and crossed the room to dispose of it, and to give her senses time to recover. “Do you want something now, or can you wait till dinner?”