Brittle Bondage (4 page)

CHAPTER
FOUR

DURING the next few days storms brewed and flooded, left the sky washed clean, and then gathered again. The sultry dryness of the atmosphere had given way to heavy,
hot humidity which was tropical in its effect on the pores of the body. One could not move without oozing perspiration.

After household requirements were met and the labourers had received their ration, the orchard fruit was wrapped, boxed and sent to the coast. Later the harvested maize would be despatched to the co-operative depot, and after that other crops would be coming along. Growth, development and maturity never ceased in this heady, moist climate.

Though sugar was the backbone of Bondolo, Venetia learned that timber, fruit and cattle were richly rewarding sidelines. The estate ran to three thousand acres of prodigally abundant crops flanked on the north by a further thousand acres of lush pasture land.

Twice she drove with Blake over the earth tracks round the plantation, and one morning he allowed her in the shed where the weekly yield from all quarters was handled. The boys chanted as they wrapped and packed, their demeanour lazy, their hands nimble and rhythmic. On a Friday afternoon she sat astride Ginger under an umbrella tree and watched the exuberant pay queue which wound away from the white cement office where the foreman presided. Activity at Bondolo was continuous and full of interest. Only the heat deterred Venetia from staying outdoors as long as Blake did.

She drifted into a routine. After breakfast, housekeeping: the day’s meals to be ordered, the grocery list, flowers and the dusting of the more precious objects. Then she would ride to the river and along the verges of the sugarcane. A dip in the pool which lay behind the tennis-court, followed by a solitary cold lunch on the veranda or a more epicurean repast with Blake in the dining-room.

At his insistence she rested in her bedroom from two o’clock till Mosi brought tea. If they played tennis it was always in the cooler hour before dusk, and when the light failed Blake bathed. Only on Sundays did they swim together, a quick couple of lengths before breakfast. He didn’t offer advice about swimming and diving, as he had at Umsanga.

On a morning when Blake had ridden down-river to the timber and taken a picnic lunch along, Margery Clarke drove up in Cedric’s old tourer. Her cropped fair hair was windblown and she wore a sun-dress which had suffered many launderings and had unashamed patches at the armholes. Difficult to realize that Margery was thirty-three and twelve years married. She had a set way with her, but her figure was young and wiry.

Venetia saw her from the dining-room window and came down to the garden.

“All alone?” called Margery in her funny, unmusical voice. “I’m going into Ellisburg. Care to come?'”

Venetia hesitated. The invitation appealed, but as usual nowadays her mind worked round it, she seemed to spend most of her mental energy upon means to avoid trouble. “How long will it take?”

“About four hours. We could lunch at the hotel and be back by three.”

“Sure I won’t be in the way?”

“Good lord, would I have racketed over two miles of mud road to ask you, if that were likely? Come on, jump in and let’s away.”

“I’ll get a hat and tell the boy to cut out lunch.”

It was not till they were out on the road, leaving Bondolo behind, that Venetia acknowledged the cautious thrill in her veins which preceded a heartwhole sense of release. The air through the window was bland as milk, the trees soughed a symphony, the sky was a flawless roof of African blue, and birds winged across it like haphazard notes of music. Naked piccanins scuffling in a shallow stream brought a bubble of laughter to her throat.

“That was nice,” remarked Margery. “You should do it more often.”

“Do what?”

“Laugh like that—as if life were not so bad after all. But marriage is dreadfully earnest at the beginning, isn’t it? Perhaps we women are too tense about it. Men carry off the upheaval in their lives much better than we do.”

“The working half of their existence goes on much as before—I suppose that’s the reason. We’re not so lucky.”

Venetia took of
f
her hat and shook out her hair. She had no wish to debate the ramifications of marriage.

Ellisburg was a large, clean town of white buildings and red roofs, the main streets wide and lined with Canary palms and ornamental trees which bloomed profusely. The shopping centre, with cement porticos to provide shade for the window-gazer, had an air of peaceful prosperity, and the people who sauntered the pavements were dressed with taste and good sense. Here and there a man wiped his brow, but the women contrived a surprising impeccability.

Margery did her shopping, then led the way into Ellisburg’s large Edwardian hotel.

They ate soup, fish, beef olives and pumpkin fritters, and smoked a luxurious cigarette with coffee. For the first time in many weeks Venetia enjoyed a meal. The cigarette tasted good, too, much better than the expensive Egyptians she smoked at night with Blake.

They were five or six miles on the road home when the sky darkened and lightning played through the branches.

“I wonder if we shall make it?” queried Margery blithely. “This contraption leaks like fits and the tyres are badly worn. Oh, well, I can only jam her on at full blast and trust to fair fortune!”

The car bounced and creaked over the gravel road, but at the first sweep of rain Margery had to slow down. The strongest headlights could not have penetrated far into that grey wall of water, and the tourer was no pioneer. With the engine silent, the thunder roared about them and the rain tumbled into the canvas roof as if to tear it apart.

“Filthy luck,” Margery sighed. “After such a grand morning, too. We’re only half a mile from the turn to Lawnside, but Cedric can’t come for us because he hasn’t any means of transport. Blake
—
”

“He won’t have reached the house yet,” Venetia said quickly. “When he takes lunch he arrives back at about four. The rain will have held him up.”

“It’s just after three. This may go on for another half an hour, and at the end of it we’ll be too waterlogged to
l
ove. I’m awfully sorry to have you got into this mess, but you can’t come to much harm.”

Venetia was not concerned with the physical discomfort of the constant drip upon her ankles and shoulders. She had remembered, with a sinking sort of qualm, that she had not told Fumana where she was going. She simply had to get home before Blake.

“Couldn’t you jog along slowly?” she asked desperately.
“
Even five miles an hour would help.”

“We’re stuck in a swamp with smooth tyres, my dear, and if the thing would budge, there’s no visibility to speak of. We just have to sit tight and wait.”

Venetia swallowed, resolutely. “Margery
...
I’m going to walk.”

“So am I ...
when the rain stops.”

“I mean now.”

The other woman turned and looked at her, her fair brows tented rather comically. “Haven’t you had an experience of this kind before? It’s always happening during the summer rains. No one bothers.”

Impossible for Venetia to explain her anxiety. Margery would think her stubborn and foolish, but it couldn’t be helped.

“I’m going, though. A soaking won’t kill me. Keep my hat, will you?”

“Venetia, this isn’t a bit necessary. If you were South African
—
”

“But I’m not.” She gave a small, strained laugh. “Don’t reproach yourself for bringing me, Margery. I’ve loved being with you and I’m going to get a kick out of this tramp in the rain. Goodbye. See you again soon.”

The car door swung back, admitted the tang and rush of the torrent, and slammed shut. For a few seconds Margery saw Venetia held taught against the flailing rain and wind. Fitfully, her receding figure was silhouetted by the lightning, and then the road twisted and she was gone.

She sank back behind the wheel and shook her head. How crazy is youth! And all to save Blake half an hour’s fret. By now Venetia had discovered that one doesn’t “tramp in the rain” in sub-tropical Africa. She had entered upon a grim and fearful tussle with the elements, a slithering, blinding nightmare, with thick, pinkish water boiling up round her calves and the stinging of a thousand whips about her body. All this apart from the terrifying stabs of lightning and tremendous thunder. Margery would not care to tackle it herself; she had outgrown the courage of the young and foolhardy. Also, she admitted regretfully, she had outgrown the rending pangs of love which made one commit such follies.

An hour later, when Venetia staggered into the porch and wrung out her hair and dress, the rain had lessened in ferocity, and the more noisy part of the storm had passed on. Her limbs ached as if weighted with lead, her skin smarted, and her jaws had gone tight and painful. But she had got here first.

She collected a dressing-gown from her bedroom, fled into the bathroom and peeled off her clothes. Rubbing down and drying her hair speeded her circulation, and the numbness faded, leaving her glowing and warm. Now that it was behind her, she felt pleased with her victory over the storm.

She dressed in cream linen, dabbed perfume over the springing chestnut waves and disposed of her wet things. As she came along to the lounge a sudden shaft of gold light cut across from the half-open door. The fireworks were over, thank the stars.

Blake came in smiling. “Some squall, wasn’t it? I’d have been earlier, but the horse took fright and I had to humour the poor beast.”

“Did you get wet?”

“A little. I left my mac outside.”

“Would you like some tea?”

“Too late.” He sank down beside her on the chesterfield. “Reading again? What is it?”

“The novel you bought me the other day.” She flicked it shut and pushed it into the crevice between two cushions. Her fingers stayed tight over the binding, as if gripping on to a supply of courage. “Blake, Margery Clarke drove me into Ellisburg this morning.”

“Did she? Good thing it wasn’t this afternoon.” He was looking her way, the smile still playing at his lips. “You’ve washed your hair. It sticks out and smells sweet. You’re getting a fine golden tan, Venetia. With your colouring you ought to freckle, but you haven’t a single one. In fact, you’re growing really beautiful.”

This rare softness in him was not lightly to be wrecked. “How gratifying,” she said. “For that you shall have a drink. Whisky-and-soda? No, let me get it. Pouring whisky always makes me feel dashing.”

As she poured his customary proportions she felt his eyes upon her in the old companionable grin. She placed the glass on the table he had hooked near, and bowed, anticipating his thanks. Instead he leaned forward.

“Where did you get those scratches on your legs? Have you been walking among thorns?”

“I suppose so.”

“You must be more careful, Venetia. Some thorns are poisonous. In any case, you don’t want to spoil your legs.”

“You fuss over me too much.”

“Most women like being fussed. It tones up the vanity. You could do with a little more confidence and conceit, my child.”

“Self-confidence grows when others have confidence in you. I was never unsure of myself with my father.”

His glance had sharpened, but his tone was non-committal. “There’s a whole universe of difference between a father and a husband. Fathers make no demands, but a husband is making them all the time. Have you ever thought about a husband’s rights, Venetia?”

Carefully, because the question was seemingly only an abstract one, she answered, “They’re more or less unlimited, aren’t they?”

“Unlimited, but used with discretion.”

He took a pull at his drink, then paused, listening. As he got to his feet, Fumana knocked and came in. A cold hand gripped Venetia’s heart, for in one hand the boy held her wide-brimmed straw hat, and in the other a note which he extended to Blake.

She jumped up, said, “Thank you, Fumana,” in a dismissive voice, and twirled the hat.

Blake unfolded the sheet of notepaper, read a line or two, stared at her, and went on reading. By the time he crumpled the note his whole bearing had gone steely. “Why didn’t you tell me you were out in the storm?”

“I did start to tell you, Blake
...”

“I didn’t notice it. How far did you struggle from that car?”

“We were nearly at the Lawnside turn when the storm broke. That was all.”

“More than two miles! Why the blazes hadn’t you the sense to stay with Margery? You expect me to have confidence in you, and you behave like a child of seven, and lie to me into the bargain. And, great heaven, that’s something I won’t stand for! You didn’t wash your hair at all—it got soaked and you used perfume to take off the smell of rain.” He was talking rapidly, snapping out the words in an uprush of rage. “You knew damn well where you scratched your legs, but you let me draw my own conclusions. You set out deliberately to deceive me. Haven’t you any conscience at all where I’m concerned?”

“It wasn’t like that,” she pleaded above her frantically pounding pulses. “I tried to tell you the moment you came in
...
” How could she explain that she had hated to destroy his mood; or the fear which had prompted her to wade through the avalanche? She made a bleak attempt. “You see, when we left this morning I forgot to tell the boy where I was going. Margery said we’d be home by three, and we would have been but for the
storm. The car became bogged
—
”

“You needn’t go on. It’s all in the note, tied up with Margery’s apology. In future you’ll stay near the house while I’m away.” He went to the door. “Fumana!” The servant came
ru
nnin
g.
“Keep the boy from Lawnside. I’ll give him a letter to take back.”