And No Regrets (19 page)

“Just a drink. I’ll get it
.
”

She slipped down on to the lounger, pulled the cushion below her shoulders and leaned back her head. Her body was one enveloping pain.

“Can I pour you one?” he asked.

“No, thanks.” She watched her cigarette smoke spiral
upwards.

Bill’s arms, she noticed, were sinewy and dark with hair; not brown hair that glinted gold in the
sun ...
like Ross’s
.
And though he had shaved that morning, his chin was again badly in need of attention. He drank quickly, then sat astride a
c
hair, looking at her across the back of it
.

“I’m going to follow your suggestion and send home for some medical books,” he said, looking pleased with himself.

“You—you can’t go wrong with learning.” Her smile was faint. “It gives point to existence.”

“Point to existence—I need that pretty badly. I’ve never been first-class at anything, only passably good. The halfway line contented me. But what you said about three years’ solitary study decided me. If I don’t get through with a start like that, I shall know I’m no good to anybody.”

“No man is that,” she argued. “You’ll get through, if the will to do so is there.”

He tapped with his spatulate fingers on the chair-back, and frowned to himself. “Funny how you get a yen for something, isn’t it? And it always seems to be something a bit out of reach, that you’ve got to strive after. I wonder what it feels like to be—well, brilliant, and keen, like Ross? Though in some ways he’s—” and there Bill broke off, and stared at the leopard skin carpet
.

“He’s what?” Clare encouraged. “Don’t be afraid of treading on my corns—Ross has walked all over them long ago.”

“Well, I was going to say that he’s a bit like a machine—never shows a sign of fatigue, does he?”

“I suppose not;” She smiled dryly. “Do you like him, Bill, or do you find him unsettling?”

“I admire him,” Bill spoke gruffly, as though scared of hurting her feelings. “He’s one of those who obviously thrives on challenges—I like life a bit easier than that. I should imagine you did as well, Clare.”

“Most people do,” she agreed. “Ross is one of those untamable exceptions—a tiger you can’t cage.”

“I bet he bagged that leopard down there, didn’t he?”

The eyes of her heart closed in pain as she agreed that Ross had gone out after the leopard one moonlit night.

“I’d like to have a go at that,” Bill said eagerly.

“Would it be okay if I asked him to take me out on a hunt one night?”

“Ross doesn’t ask my permission to go hunting,” she said, thinking of Patsy Harriman, whose divorce was now through, leaving the field clear for Ross to claim his trophy.

Bill grinned to himself, as if already picturing a trophy of his own, then he climbed to his feet. “I thank I’ll go and grab a bath,” he said.

“The water’s low.”

“Then it’ll have to be a shower. Can I use Mark?
”
She nodded, and when the roo
m
was emptied of his cheerful, chattering presence, Clare closed her eyes and listened to the wind that now held a sad, wailing note. Tears stung behind her
cl
osed lids. She missed
Lucky, and his spontaneous, unquestioning
affection. He had been someone to pet, to say silly things
to ...
she had needed an outlet of some sort, when she had to bottle up her love for Ross all the time.

After dinner Ross suggested a
game of cards. They played penny-point solo, with a dummy hand played by the dealer. Clare was not up to the mark tonight and she played a poor game.

“You’ll never make a gambler, Clare,” Bill laughed.

“I quite agree that I’m not cut out to win a game of chance,” she agreed coolly.

“Ross tells me that you play a good game of tennis. I hope you’re not as good as he is.”

“I’m not as ruthless as he—at any kind of game.”

“Well, you’ll beat me anyway.” Bill gave his lip a nibble, and kept his dark, inquisitive eyes on his hand of cards. “That is when you
r
wrist is strong enough for you to play again.”

“The rains will make a mud-bath of the tennis court, and by the time it dries out I shall be gone,” Clare said. “Then you two will have to do without a woman about the place.”

There was complete silence from Ross’s side of the table, then Bill said: “The place won’t seem the same. A home turns into just a house when there’s no woman in it—don’t you agree, Ross?”

And then Ross got up so suddenly that his chair overturned with a startling crash. “It’s stifling in here,” he exclaimed. “The wind has dropped—shall we all take a walk?”

“Yes, let’s,” Clare agreed, without looking at him.
“
The air is always invigorating after a squall—you’ll enjoy it, Bill.”

Bill jumped up with alacrity and fetched Clare’s coat and his own. Ross was moodily lighting a cigarette, almost as if, Clare thought, his conscience was troubling him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THERE was intermittent rain for several days, then it held off and Ross suddenly decided that he and Bill should go and take a look at the rubber trees before it grew too wet up there to see to anything.

“You’ll come, Clare?” He spoke casually. “You don’t like being alone when there are storms about.”

“If you’d like me to come,” she said. “Shall I have
s
upplies packed for about ten days?”

“No, let’s say a week. We can’t trust the present
w
eather, and that rest-house is pretty ramshackle.”

It was evening time. Bill was in his room writing letters, and Ross was seated in a deep chair near the table-lamp. Clare was mending a blouse, and it was really alarming how her clothing had deteriorated until she now possessed just one decent dress, a pair of breeches too large for her, a couple of faded and patched shirt-waisters, a lace evening-top and an orange poult skirt. She had noticed earlier that day the tiny moth holes in her beautiful skirt, and she could have wept.

She could also, warmed by Ross’s insistence that she join this trip to the rubber plantation, have cast aside all her recent restraint and gone over to perch—as in the old days—on the arm of his chair. She wanted to feel his arm curling lazily about her waist
... she had never wanted anything quite so much. I’m like someone thirsting in a desert, she thought wryly; seeing a mirage that would turn to dust if I rose and braved the mood of that lazy tiger.

Now that it was definite that she was going home
i
n just three weeks, the
pain
had dimmed to a dull
ache. She was thankful for the queer strength that sustained her and allowed her to carry on with stretched heartstrings, and a smile on her mouth.

T
hat gallant smile had been sorely tried the other day
w
hen Bill, little knowing how she dreaded her departure, had asked her if back in London she would order a batch of medical books for him and have them despatched out here to Bula. They would be fairly expensive, but he would give her a cheque
... he had added, rather shyly, that he would like to give her a kiss for encouraging him in his true ambition.

“You’re the most understanding person I’ve ever met,
Clare,”
he informed her. Then, with his eyes fixed on the ground between his number nine shoes, he had mumbled: "I hope that was all right the other day, that—er—message from Mrs. Harriman for Ross? I’d hate to think I’d done the wrong thing—she was a bit —well, you know!”

“I know, Bill.” Clare had squeezed his arm. “A bit of
a man-eater, eh?”

“I can’t abide the type!” Bill had declared fiercely. “They’re home-wreckers. I don’t know how any man could—a man would be crazy to—”

“Shut up, Bill,” she had ordered. “Concentrate on your forestry.”

“But I worry about you, Clare—”

“That’s kind of you, but you don’t have to.” She had tilted her chin in her own particular way; the way that always made Ross refer to her as a girl scout. “Living here in Africa has made me pretty tough, Bill. I can take anything, now.”

She had said it almost believing it, then had clamped shut her mind on thoughts of
severance
from Ross, and turned briskly to some household task
... woman’s eternal bolt-hole.

Now, in a transient peace, Clare shared the living-room with Ross and heard the beating of the clock here
inside, and the various creaks and calls outside
i
n the impenetrable night. The moon had waned and would not return for three weeks
... by then she would be gone. No more would she watch it glowing pagan over Bula land....

“Why are you looking like that, Clare?” Ross had glanced up suddenly from his book and now their eyes were meeting, holding, and all sound seemed to die. “What is it, are you picturing me an old, lonely man with empty hearth and quiver? One more tropic-wearied planter thrown on the scrap-heap?”

“In the end I see you like that.” She broke cotton with her teeth and re-threaded her needle. “But not immediately.”

His eyes narrowed, perhaps at her tone, then he shrugged and gave a grin. “No, there’s plenty of work in the old dog yet. Honey, you don’t regret these months here with me, do you? I’d appreciate the truth.”

“We’ve gone all over that.” She smoothed a da
rn
with her fingers. “This sojourn in the jungle has matured me—I’m a different person.”

“Only for that light streak at the front of your hair.” His grey eyes dwelt on it. “It’s rather unusual. I’ve seen it happen after a bad go of fever, but never just through the climate.”

“The sun has bleached it,” she quipped, knowing full well that love and heartache had caused that silvery
s
treak in her hair. She had noticed it days
ago;
this was the first time Ross had mentioned it.

“Do you mind about it?” he asked.

“Not out here. I may do so when
...
I’m back in England and people stare.”

“You shouldn’t mind.” He gave her a brotherly smile. “It rather adds to your attractions
... if that were necessary.”

“I’m sure you mean to be kind," she said lig
htl
y,
dragging her heart down out of orbit, where
i
t was In too much danger from the rarefied air of his praise. He was having pangs of conscience so he said something nice; worrying the lobe of his ear, now, and having trouble with the wheel of his lighter. It was bound in buffalo-hide and with schoolboy-like affection he clung to its interior imperfections.

That even went for love on the grand scale; knowing a person had faults did not stop you from caring. Patsy Harriman was no angel, but she evidently had what Ross wanted.

“It’s a great thing we’ve had in common, a taste for light comedy,” Ross drawled, knocking ash from the knee of his slacks. “Who’d believe it if you told them that a shared taste for farce kept a man and a woman
cold-bloodedly
sane in the wilderness for close on eighteen months?”

“I know you hate tenseness,” she said. “I agree that one is safer with laughter.”

All next day Clare didn’t laugh once—if those cracked responses to Bill’s remarks could be called laughter?

Her left foot had been, feeling painful for some time; this particular day it began to hurt badly, and she found herself hobbling to and from the kitchen. Luke was laid up with fever, and this meant that she had to do all the cooking.

It was inevitable that Ross should catch her hobbling about, and he at once demanded to know what was wrong. Had she had another fall and sustained a sprain? She shook her head. “I—I think I’ve got a splinter—or something—in the ball under my big toe,” she said reluctantly.

“Off with your sandal and I’ll take a look.” He lifted her with easy strength and sat her down on the lounger, then before she could bend to unlatch her sandal, he was down on one knee and deftly slipping it
off her foot. Her toes curled as his warm hand slid underneath her foot and lifted it to the light of the window. For several minutes he scrutinised the sole of her foot. Then he gave a grunt.

“You’ve picked up a couple of jiggers—don’t jump like that, my girl. They’ll have to come out, or you’ll develop a poisoned foot.” He glanced up at her apprehensive face, looking stern. “How long has your foot been hurting you?”

“A—a couple of days. Will you have to cut the ball?”

“Looks like it. We can’t afford to leave any particle of the jiggers in your foot. I’ll go and get the first-aid box.”

He brought a couple of fingers of neat whisky as well and made her drink them down. Then he had her lie face downwards on the lounger, and clenching her teeth she submitted to his careful, not too painful surgery. “That’s one,” she heard him say, after a few minutes of probing. “Hang on, honey, I’m now going after number two.”

‘You sound like Pilot Errol Flynn winning the last war,” she giggled woozily.

“You sound tipsy.” There was a note of somewhat husky amusement in his deep voice. “There, bingo! Out comes the blighter—blast, I’ve missed his tail! Clench your teeth, Clare. Mustn’t leave any debris behind.”