Brittle Bondage (13 page)

As Thea had predicted, he proposed that this afternoon was as convenient a time as any for Venetia to pronounce an opinion on his garden, and mid-afternoon he drove them to his house on the outskirts of the town.

It was an old, tastefully furnished bungalow set in an acre of keejat and mvule trees with which Paul was loath to part. He mentioned the fact today.

“You’ll never have a tidy garden while you keep them,” said Thea flatly, “and you’ve really very little colour, Paul.”

“It’s hopeless to compare this place with Bondolo, ’ he answered. “There isn’t a palm or a mountain in sight. And I can’t say that I hanker for a tidy garden. I prefer my home to be an antidote to the surgery.”

“If it were mine,” offered Thea, with nonchalance,
“I’
d uproot all the trees except the borderline, set a few peaches and oranges at the back and flowering shrubs at the front, put the rest down to grass, and consider the task admirably accomplished.”

“Seeing that it’s mine,” Paul concluded dispassionately, “and that Venetia lives too far away to superintend operations, I shall doubtless leave it as it is. Come in out of the sun, you two. The heat is torrid.”

Today, apparently, his garden held no magnetism. They chatted for an hour, and had tea; then Venetia made a stroll right through the grounds an excuse for leaving them together. But when she rounded the house again, Thea and Paul were already on the path, waiting for her. They seemed to have little to say to each other. He returned them to Bondolo, thanked them both and slid away.

“Paul was tired,” said Venetia, when the sound of the car had receded.

“A doctor’s is an exacting life,” Thea remarked, and she drifted off to take a
s
hower.

Monday began with a storm, a cataclysmic torrent of outsize hailstones succeeded by a couple of hours’ tropical rain.

Venetia slept badly that night, dozing and waking in a succession of nightmares. At something after two she got up and opened the french window. Tomorrow—no, today—was Tuesday. Her respite was nearly over, and the flimsy gaiety which had clothed her mind was dispersing like the mist, being blown away by the searching wind of reality. The longing to see Blake again was more terrible than any yearning she had ever known, yet it had an element of bitter reluctance.

At length came the flame-tipped dawn. The bull terriers began their scampering, windows in other parts of the house creaked wide, and the boys blended quiet tenor with rumbling bass in their early-morning chant. Mosi brought coffee, and Thea came in to share it.

The storm had left driftweed over, paths and grass, but in the blackened and shredded plants new green hearts were already forming. After breakfast Venetia set the garden boys working on the clearing up, and with Thea she collected the snapped flowers and dropped fruit.

The plantation foreman and the messenger from the hospital arrived simultaneously, but the Zulu boy on a bicycle gloriously reinforced with copper tubing and flying coloured streamers, stepped back and held his peaked cap in his hand, while the ginger-bearded “baas” had his say.

The foreman addressed both women, or rather, he spoke to the air midway between them.

“I’ve come to report that an ox-team was struck by lightning yesterday. We lost twenty oxen.”

“Good heavens!” said Thea. “Twenty in one go! That’s a bit of a blow.”

“No people hurt?” Venetia asked anxiously.

“The driver was knocked unconscious, but he came round. It was his own fault. The boys have all been told a hundred times to outspan and scatter the oxen when a big storm blows up. This poor fool tried to whip speed into them and get them home.”

“Why didn’t you come to the house about this yesterday?” demanded Thea.

“Mr. Garrard has often said that his wife was not to be bothered with the farm. I came this morning for permission to go to Miss Benham. She borrowed a team from us, and we can do with it back.”

“You must leave it over for a day,” said Venetia.

“No use harvesting if we can’t load. We wasted most of yesterday, and about seventy boys are involved. The boss wouldn’t have them idle.”

Venetia hesitated, and Thea intervened.

“It couldn’t do any harm to ask Miss Benham if she’s finished with the team.”

So the foreman mounted and rode away, and Venetia felt, if possible, a little more sick at heart than she had felt ten minutes ago.

Diffidently the native boy approached Thea and handed her a letter. “This very important. I take answer, missus.” By now Venetia was prepared for Thea’s rueful comment after she had read the letter.

“This is it, Venetia. The staff nurse has dysentery. Ward Three, according to Matron, is in chaos; will I cut short my leave by a few hours. Sorry, my dear.”

In a way Venetia was almost glad to see Thea go. She had hoped, in any case, to be alone to greet Blake, for there was no calculating what might be his mood. She helped Thea to pack, make her take a basket of fruit and a large cherry cake for “the girls,” and drove with her as far as the turn to the Ellisburg road.

As she said good-bye, Thea’s glance was compassionate. “I’ve loved being with you, Venetia, and I believe it did you good to have me here. A sort of antidote, if you
know what I mean. May I offer you some advice?”

Her tone roused a certain caution in Venetia. “You may.”

“Well
...
try to avoid bruising yourself against Blake. That’s all, my dear.”

Easy to dole out that sort of counsel, Venetia reflected, turning up the private track to Bondolo; one might as well try to avoid life itself.

Her thoughts reverted to the foreman’s visit and the small slur in the statement,
“
Mr. Garrard has often said that his wife was not to be bothered with the farm.” The slur was the foreman’s, not Blake’s, but it carried a sting. A real “plantation missus” would have been told of the mishap yesterday; she would have suggested an immediate means of tackling the loss, and herself have driven over to make the friendly enquiry of Natalie. But Blake didn’t need a “plantation missus.”

After a light lunch she straightway gave her orders for dinner. Beef rolls prepared from
thin
slices of tender steak and forcemeat stuffing, baked in a bed of sliced and seasoned onions; crisped potatoes, pumpkin and buttered cabbage; a green salad and a fresh fruit salad, cream and cheese. One of Blake’s favourite meals.

Walking from the kitchen into the dining-room, she suddenly came face to face with
him
. Unconsciously she stared and stiffened.

“I belong here,” he said softly, with sarcasm, “Remember me?”

A sharp breath forced from her throat “I was surprised. I didn’t hear the car.”

“I shut off the engine in the lower drive, in case you were asleep.”

“Have you had lunch?”

“Yes, thanks. Where’s Thea?”

“She left at about ten. She was called back by letter to the hospital.”

“So we’re alone?”—still with a hint of satire. “How nice.”

She fought down all personal feeling: her disappointment in his mood, the fresh and nearly overwhelming tide of despair.

“Blake, we had a storm yesterday.”

“So I believe,” he said. “Natalie described it as simply fiendish.”

“Natalie?” A chill petered down her spine. “When did you see her?”

“Today—not long ago,” he said carelessly. “I left the wattle estate soon after breakfast. The road passes Vrede Rust and she came down and signalled me to stop. I got out, and she gave me the news.”

“About the
...
oxen?”

He nodded. “She was distressed because you sent my foreman to commandeer those I had lent her. Apparently the team was out working her land and she had to refuse him.”

“We ... I merely gave the man permission to ask her if she could spare them.”

“I told her that was probably it.”

There was a pause. Then, low-voiced, Venetia stated, “You stayed and had lunch with Natalie.”

“She was upset, and I knew you weren’t expecting me till afternoon. I took it that Thea was still with you.” His mouth pulled in, clipping his words. “Thanks for the smiling welcome.”

But Venetia could stand no more. Swallowing on a painful obstruction, she murmured something about resting, and walked quickly from the room.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE following Saturday morning Paul came to Bondolo alone. A boy who had been picked up injured the night before and taken to the native section of the hospital had given the sugar plantation as his place of employment, and Paul had decided to confirm his assertion and to discover whether he was the victim of a native assault.

He and Blake discussed the matter over drinks on the veranda, and ran on to other questions. Venetia drank
squash, and half-listened to them. No hope of seeing Thea for a while yet. Paul had mentioned the prevalence of some sort of fever and a ban on nurses leaving the hospital grounds. Half-heartedly Venetia had said:

“There may be things she wants. Couldn’t I see her at the bungalow?”

“
They
’
re keeping a strict watch at the gate—no visitors are admitted, and you wouldn’t be, either. Thea can telephone the shops if she’s in dire need of anything. You’d be surprised how cun
ningly
the nurses get round the re
g
ulations.”

And Blake had coolly clinched it: “You’re not going into town while there’s fever about. Paul will take her a message, if you like.”

But on reflection Venetia could think of nothing she wished to say to Thea beyond sending her love. So she sat forward from the men and pretended an interest in the garden boy, who squatted at the end of the lawn hooking weeds from the grass. With so little to hold her attention it was inevitably attracted to the horseman who became visible between the branches as he trotted across the adjoining pasture.

He rode out of sight and dismounted, appeared again, threading the screen of trees towards the house.

Behind her, Paul said: “Young Mansfield, isn’t it? He’s probably at a loose end. Several people have closed their offices for a few days to help break the epidemic. I believe Mervyn is one of them.”

Neil approached, flourishing his hat. His hair was fair and springing in the sunshine, his skin ruddy.

“Good morning, everyone. Am I going to be in the way?”

Of course not,” Venetia cried instantly, and with warmth. “Come and sit down.”

“Thanks.” He sprang up the steps, hovered near the fourth chair and turned a smile both youthful and apologetic upon Blake. “I expect you’ve forgotten me. We met last week at my cousin’s office.”

“I remember you,” said Blake, as if it wouldn’t have mattered much if he hadn’t. “What will you drink?”

“May I have squash, with a dash of gin?” He sank down, and lowered half his drink directly as it was placed before him. “That was good. It’s a long ride from Mervyn’s place. I tried to jolly him into coming, but it was no go, though he’s rather keen to see you on a business matter. He wondered if you’d come this evening, and bring Venetia?”

“I
think
not,” Blake answered, with aloofness. “Perhaps I’ll drive over tomorrow.”

“Right. I’ll tell him.”

A slight tension had fallen on the group. Paul, tired from overwork and conscious that he must soon return to battle, did nothing to lessen it. Neil finished his drink and cast an appreciative glance over the vista.

“Marvellous view from this veranda,” he said conversationally. “We can’t see much of the mountains from Mervyn’s place.

Venetia seized the opening. “Come and see the garden, Neil. You didn’t bring a racquet, by any chance?”

“No,” he replied quickly, “but I will next time.” Charmingly, his eyes sought Blake’s approval.

Blake said, “Go ahead,” siphoned more soda into his whisky and went on talking to Paul as though the young man had never shown up.

As they wandered down between the borders a lightness was evident in Venetia’s step.

Neil was all admiration. “Bondolo’s a wonderful estate. You have everything Venetia. Honestly, I don’t blame you for marrying Blake Garrard.”

She turned slowly. “What
are
you saying?”

He laughed uncomfortably. “Nothing that you need notice—I talk too much. There’s no gossip about you in town. The impression was merely my own—that you and Blake don’t quite hit i
t
off.”

“You leap too fast to conclusions. This morning was the first time you’ve been to our home.”

“I know—I’m sorry. A comparison came to my mind. Last week-end I went to the villa of a fellow who works at the bank below our office. He’s been married a year—they’re perfect idiots about each other, and don’t care who knows it. Almost everything they do seems to be a kind of lovemaking. But people differ.” He was still endeavouring to cloak an awkwardness. “Why, even you are not the same person I had sport with in Ellisburg.”

“If it’s sport you’re after”—she evaded a waving branch—“bring your racquet and a girl-friend.”

“This afternoon?”

“Well
...
tomorrow.”

“Must I bring a girl? I never have the least inclination to talk to anyone else when you’re about”

“That’s sweet of you,” she told him with a smile. “Shall we go back to the house?”

“Not yet.” He twitched at her short sleeve to detain her. “Blake and the doctor are deep in business, and I’m shunning the desk for a whole week.” He grinned at her. “Is that good news?”

“Can a fever outbreak ever be good news? How bad is the epidemic?”

“It’s only local. The doctors have it under control, but the precautions will last for a time. I offered to help in inoculating the natives, but they turned me down—they were inundated with volunteers who’d had previous experience of the procedure.”

He was idly tossing an orange she had given
him
into the leaves overhead, giving a flick of the wrist so that he could not be sure where it would fall. Each time his hand shot out to catch it but once Venetia’s hand got there first and into the next throw he put more dexterity. So much so that his orange disappeared vertically into the tree-top and they both stood staring expectantly upwards.