Doctor's Assistant (17 page)

By now, Laurette and Ben were back on the jetty and John Delaney was waving from the deck. The native deckhands cast off the ropes, the yacht moved slowly and surely to mid-stream, turning to head out between the “Gates”.

Naturally, Laurette’s hand found Ben’s. With a little catch in her voice she said, “I’ve got so used to having him around that I shall miss him.”

“They’ll be back in ten or twelve days. Sure you’re not going to be lonely at the bungalow?”

“I shall be all right. I’m really awfully glad he’s going with Mr. Kelsey. They get on so well together, and enjoy the same things. I’d have been in the way.”

“I doubt it.” Ben smiled at her. “The old chap is fond of you. He’s quite sincere when he says it hurts him to know you work so hard. In his young day women were merely ornamental.”

“Some of them—the rest had to be governesses and servants, but he’s forgotten that. Look, they’re waving again. Doesn’t the yacht look splendid!”

The
Barracuda
had reached the open sea and the full glare of the sun. Her sleek lines grew briefer as the headland got in the way, and then there was nothing more to see; just the blue, white-flecked ocean, a fishing craft, a few low-dipping birds.

They turned back to mount the slope, and Ben said, “I’ve got the Lockleys coming to see me today. Will you come up to tea?”

And Laurette, much as she disapproved of his taking the married couple into his house, acquiesced. Ben was the dearest friend she and her father had found in South Africa and at the moment she felt she needed him.

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

AFTER the first day or two Laurette quite enjoyed being alone at the bungalow, the more so because she knew her father was doing something he had rather hankered for. Instead of resting when she came in from the plantation, she spring-cleaned the various rooms and used a little paint where necessary. Bwazi was instructed to put in all his time
on the land, and she existed on scratch meals consisting mainly of fruit, cheese and coffee. By nine-thirty she was too spent to do more than take a bath and tumble into bed.

She grew even thinner and browner. The yellow-brown hair lengthened and was twisted into a knot with a ribbon. She had no time or occasion for cosmetics, and when, sometimes, she caught her own image in her bedroom mirror she felt as though she were looking at someone else. That girl in the mirror looked young and countrified and unfledged, whereas Laurette knew herself to be old and seasoned and painfully wise.

On mail day there came a card from her father, posted in a coastal village. The sea was calm as a reservoir, he wrote, and they were having a wonderful time; he had actually caught a fifty-pound barracuda from the deck of the
Barracuda.
What did she think of that!

She smiled affectionately, and looked at the other two letters. One was addressed to her father, from Peter; the other, for herself, was in a small unfamiliar hand and postmarked Mohpeng. With fingers that shook a little she drew the epistle from its envelope and straightway turned to the signature: Kevin Seymour.

He was writing, he said, because in eight or nine weeks he would be going on leave and he would like a holiday at the coast before going to England. She must let him know if she would still be at Port Quentin because, of course, he would love to see her. There wasn’t much news, he went on. He was still conserving soil and playing polo. Maris was still with him, and there seemed to be some sort of understanding between her and Charles Heron, but Charles was terribly busy and just lately had spent much time away from Mohpeng. He was up-country at this moment, right away in the mountains conducting one of those never-ending witchcraft cases.

The letter, though fairly uninformative, was like a breath of sharp Basutoland air. She saw the settlement of Mohpeng against the misted mountains; the white houses and thatched roofs, the native huts and the innumerable footpaths scoring the foothills. She saw Maris, tall and tawny-haired, lively and inconsequential, responding to Charles’ comradely treatment happily and without reserve.

It didn’t pain her to think that Charles might marry Kevin’s sister. No, it wasn’t pain, this weight she carried about with her. It was a blinding, and at times intolerable, ache.

She thought back once more to her visit to Mohpeng, and she wondered again whether that dash of insincerity in Maris were to blame for the radical change in Charles’ attitude during that fortnight. Kevin had suggested that his sister might be mildly infatuated with the District Commissioner, and it was just possible...

Laurette shook herself. It was useless to go back over all that. In any case, Charles was not one to be guided by a woman unless it suited him, and the rift between them had really got under way on her very first night in his house before she had met Maris. He had touched his lips to her temple, and involuntarily she had swayed closer to him—and got what she had deserved.

Well, it was all over. What happened in Mohpeng could have small impact upon the life of Laurette Delaney; she was only too glad to be so many miles away. As for Kevin’s tentative demand to be invited to Port Quentin, she would return him a polite but decisive refusal. The less she heard about Mohpeng the better.

The letter unsettled her, though; so much so that that evening, after washing up her plate and cup, she changed her slacks for a frock and walked down to the hotel. Why she had chosen the hotel she could not have said. Perhaps it was the fact that, through Ben, she had become acquainted with the manager and his wife, or maybe it was merely the magnet of seeing people who did not belong to the Wild Coast but were down for the holidays which drew her there.

She went into the stone-floored vestibule and saw that the native assistant was in charge of the desk. The manager and his wife must be at dinner. She went through to the lounge, sat down and ordered an orange squash. The proceeding was so unfamiliar that it was quite some minutes before she realized she hadn’t a penny with her; not that it mattered. They’d trust her, here.

She leant back in a chair which was remarkably comfortable and took an interest in the people who were straggling in from dinner. They looked well-fed and sleepy, had probably been wearing themselves out, as tourists do. Family groups, mostly, though there was one woman alone who hesitated a little way inside the lounge, and stared round her as if undecided whether to stay. She must be around twenty-seven, Laurette decided, and she didn’t look well. She was pale and languid, and when at last she made up her mind to take the nearest chair to Laurette’s, her movements were graceful but slack.

As she sank down she gave Laurette the ghost of a smile. “Have a cigarette?”

“No, thanks.” She smiled back and pushed the ashtray on the wine table nearer to the other woman. Candidly, she added, “I don’t smoke much because I can’t afford it.”

“Neither can I, really.” She struck a match with fingers which appeared to Laurette abnormally thin and white, inhaled and took the cigarette from her mouth. “One must do something, though. I’ve only been here five days and I’m so bored I could pass out.”

“It’s a pity to feel like that on holiday. Are you alone?”

The other nodded and pensively regarded her pale pink fingertips. She was good-looking in a colorless way. Her darkish hair waved gently back from a wide forehead and formed an impeccable knot; her nose was longish and straight, her mouth, moderately reddened, was firm but drooped very slightly at the corners. With womanly speed, Laurette’s eyes had taken in those ringless hands, the well-cut but inexpensive tailored frock in peach and white stripes.

“Are you staying long?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve been ill and am supposed to have three months’ rest. Someone advised Port Quentin and here I am.” It was spoken in a lack-lustre voice while she lay back, gazing without any apparent enjoyment at a
copper bowl of flowers on a pedestal.

“Port Quentin is very healthy,” Laurette said, “but I don’t believe I’d care to be stranded here with nothing to do. In fact, I wouldn’t care to live anywhere under such conditions. Still, if it’s rest you need you’ll have to tolerate the boredom, won’t you? As you feel better you’ll go for long walks, and they’ll tire you so that you’ll sleep heavily.”

The other woman turned upon her a hazel-brown glance. “I wish I were as young and vigorous as you are. I’ve come to an age when nothing seems to be very important.”

“But you are young!” exclaimed Laurette, shocked. “And vigor is one of those qualities which increases the more you use it. You’ll see!”

A half-hearted smile. “I believe I would, if I had much to do with you. You’re a local, aren’t you?”

Laurette took this as a compliment, and gave a few details about herself, in return for which she learned that her companion was Irene Cole, that she was a schoolteacher in the Orange Free State and that a bout of pneumonia had become complicated into a nervous collapse. Her family were not very well off, and no one could be spared to accompany her to the coast. Her father and mother were dears, though; they’d been endlessly patient, and had promised to spend a couple of weeks with her later. Meanwhile, somehow she had to climb out of the slough.

Laurette’s instinct was to beg Irene to call at the bungalow whenever she wished. But while her father was away the house remained empty all day, and she herself was not really free till about this time of an evening, which was rather late for a convalescent to be out.

“Will you come over to lunch on Saturday?” She asked impulsively. “There’ll only be us two, but I promise you a decent meal, because by then it’ll be time I had one myself. I’ll be tired of bread and cheese!”

“As a matter of fact,” Irene stated, with rather more life in her manner, “I’m not at all a bad cook. Let me come at about eleven and I’ll help you to make the lunch. You’re sure I won’t be in the way?”

“Quite sure. Our friends are all men and they won’t come while my father’s away. Ben might, but he’s different.”

Is Ben your fiancé?”

Laurette smiled. “He’s the family doctor—the easiest person in the world to get along with. I’ll introduce you to a few people. You’ll feel much happier once you have friends around.”

Irene said quickly. “I’d prefer not to meet too many people. I know it’s awfully silly, but since being ill I find new acquaintances an ordeal.”

“You spoke to me before I spoke to you,” Laurette pointed out.

“Yes, but you’re different ... and a woman. I never have got along with men—and now I seem to be worse than ever. If one addresses me, I simply close up, I can’t help it.”

Laurette said no more about it. As Ben’s assistant she had met odd consequences to an illness, and it occurred to her that Irene’s breakdown was likely to make a shy person highly-strung. She understood, because under the smiling candor she was shy herself.

She felt sorry for Irene, who was no bigger than herself and still weak from a gruelling illness. As soon as her father was back, Irene could come over to an early supper whenever she liked. It might help her a little.

They talked on for a further half-hour; and when Laurette got up to go home Irene stood, too, and went with her to the vestibule. They parted cheerfully, and it was not till Laurette was back in the bungalow and lighting a lamp that she remembered the unhappy conjectures which had driven her out to find companionship. Which went to prove that one didn’t have to look far to find others with problems as unsettling as one’s own. Irene Cole had had to give up her earnings as a teacher for six months, and she and her family had been forced to find the money for the protracted convalescent period at the coast. Laurette was rather looking forward to seeing her again.

For Sunday lunch she only had to buy a small piece of beef for braising. There were vegetables, salads and fruits galore in the five-acre garden at the back of the house, and it was a treat to walk the paths with Irene, to choose a papaw and a fine bunch of bananas and hear her wondering exclamations.

The other girl came from the dusty, treeless veld and during vacations she lived with an aunt in an uninspiring villa in Bloemfontein. To her the Wild Coast was a fairyland she had never even hoped to visit, and her only complaint was that she would rather have been in a robust condition to enjoy it.

However, she certainly made the most of that day with Laurette Delaney. Because she considered it good for her companion, Laurette allowed Irene the free run of the kitchen. As usual, she herself had had a wearing week, and she was more than content to laze while the other was busy. The food which turned up at the lunch table was excellently cooked and served, and Irene made a good cup of coffee, too.

After the meal they sat in the shade of a mvule tree and exchanged experiences and views. Irene had never before met a girl who had worked in an office in England, and Laurette was equally interested in small-town South African life. It helped Irene to talk about her brothers and sister; she was the eldest but they were all very near in ages, though their interests differed widely. Laurette eventually came to know them almost as well as she knew Irene herself.

At four-thirty Laurette made the tea and brought the tray to the low table in the lounge. Here, they could sit one each side of the table near the open door and watch the shimmering greenness of growth and the narrow blue band of ocean below the paler, hot blue of the sky. And as Laurette had anticipated, Ben turned up.

He took the shallow steps into the veranda porch and smiled into the room in faint surprise. “Don’t stir,” he said. “I’ll sit in a veranda chair, just here.”

Pleasantly, he acknowledged Laurette’s introduction and put a question or two to Irene. The fact that that young woman answered him only in monosyllables and appeared to find her cup much more interesting than his thin, tired features, apparently escaped him. Laurette fetched another cup and he relaxed, as was his wont on Sunday afternoons.

“Heard any more from your father?” he asked Laurette.

“I expect there’ll be a card tomorrow. When he was in the Army he sent a card every mail and a letter every month. The cards were grand; he’s rather good at expressing an incident in a couple of lines. But those letters!”

Ben laughed. “They were a labor of love,” he said, “with the accent on labor. Being something of a poet he prefers the more succinct method of expression. You were a schoolgirl then, remember, and a closed book to him. I hope his leg is all right.”

“That beautiful casing of yours would stand up to anything. I believe he’s having the holiday of his life.”

After that Irene was drawn into the conversation, though she tried hard to be only a listener. Ben must have guessed that her reticence had fairly deep roots; he refrained from addressing her deliberately but when he held forth he looked from one to the other, impartially. No one would have guessed he had been disappointed not to find Laurette alone. At five-thirty he looked at his watch and got up.

“Back to it, I’m afraid. I’m watching a bad case of amoebic dysentery. By the way, Laurette, Mrs. Lockley will be glad for you to come in for supper one day. Let her know when—and bring Miss Cole, if she’d care to come.”

Laurette raised her brows. “
Entertaining
, Ben? At this rate you’ll soon be normal.”

He smiled at her with affection, bade them both a casual goodbye and went out to his hardworked car. Laurette looked at Irene, but waited till the noise of the car had receded before saying,

“Well, you got through that remarkably well. I didn’t notice any faltering.”

“Doctors are different aren’t they? Though I was actually prepared for someone much older. Our family doctor is nearly seventy. Dr. Vaughan looks awfully overworked, which is odd in a place like this. You wouldn’t think there’d be much sickness here.”

“The Indians aren’t particularly healthy, and he puts in a lot of work at the native reserve. To Ben, one race is no different from another where illness is concerned. He gives equal attention to everyone, and he’s the type to get very upset when modern methods of treatment aren’t available. He’s a dear.”

“You like him a lot, don’t you? He’s fond of you, too. Why don’t you marry him and make things easier for him?”

Laurette smiled. “I’m old-fashioned. I’d rather be in love before I marry.” No bitterness in her voice and not even a tremor. “I do hope that Ben will marry some time, though.”

“He won’t, if you don’t marry him.”

“How can you say that? You’ve only just met him.”

Irene shrugged. “I may not talk much to men, but I do notice and reason about them.” Rather abruptly, she added, “How can he help but love you? You’re young and strong and smiling, and on the practical side. You even know enough about nursing to be a boon to him. Do you think he’s too old for you?”

Too old? Ben was younger than Charles by a year or two, and there was a gentleness about him which would span any gap of years. He dealt compassionately with children and adolescents, had a manner which appealed tremendously to some of the old ladies whose husbands had retired in Port Quentin. No, it wasn’t a question of age.

She said, “We just don’t care for each other that way.” And before Irene could pick a flaw in this statement, she went on, “Shall we go to supper with him? What about Tuesday?”

It was arranged. Their talk turned to books and South African art, and Ben was forgotten.

Irene Cole left in good time for dinner at the hotel, and under her arm she carried a couple of borrowed books and the white beret she had been wearing when she arrived that morning.

Leaving her where the path angled down to the main street, Laurette watched her for a few moments as she picked her way over the gravel. Irene, with her dark, knotted hair and tailored frocks, was such a tidy person and, on the whole, so unrelaxed. Even with Ben and Laurette, both of whom she thought “different”, she couldn’t help but be a little self-conscious. She was a good companion, though; much easier to get along with than Maris Seymour or Alix Brooke.

Meeting some women, she thought as she climbed back to the bungalow, was unsettling. They either irritated or put one on the defensive. Irene was not like that. She didn’t create an upheaval; rather, she strove to slide unnoticed into one’s circle, and in her frankness she widened that circle. Laurette felt that never in her life had Irene inspired a passionate friendship; but perhaps she had something better, more lasting if less spectacular, to offer.