Mayenga Farm (22 page)

"Well, I'll go now. Thanks for the sundowner."

The wine cupboard was empty, but Rennie didn't tell him so. She lay in her chair while he moved out to the stoep. Grief, and the sudden release from it, seemed to have paralyzed her senses.

Kent spoke over his shoulder "I know you don’t wish me to pick up

Adrian for you tomorrow. Probably you’d rather I didn’t even call after he's home, but I’m afraid I shall. So long."

Rennie was spent. She gave Michael permission to use the car and said goodnight to him, ate a little salad, and went to bed.

She was awake again at dawn, and her first eager thought was of Adrian. Had he slept well, and did he feel like tackling a good meal? A year had passed since they had greeted each other at this time yesterday. Her father was by no means a bustling man, but the house was dead, and existence pointless, without him. He was all she had.

At noon Michael returned, and soon afterwards they both set out for the hospital. Except for lines of weariness at his eyes and a blotch of pink each side of his neck, Adrian looked normal, but he was not allowed to walk to the car. The sister said firmly that he must take care for at least a week; he was free of poison but the experience had exacted its toll of his stamina.

So Adrian lay on his bed for a couple of days. Kent came and had a talk with him, and the news of his misfortune must have percolated through the town, for the large old judge brought some books and a fund of good stories, and Mr. Morgan braved dust and pollen in order to gossip about the library and join with Adrian in producing lists of the more expensive literature.

Since work had become anathema, Michael drove into town each afternoon, either to tennis or to lend his strength at the library. The fifth evening after Adrian’s mishap, Rennie had prepared dinner and changed her frock by seven o’clock, and she was pacing a little impatiently, wishing Michael would come. He knew that since Adrian had to be in bed by nine, dinner must be early.

She walked into the empty lounge, increased the glow of the lamps and emptied the ashtray. At the sound of a car she said, "It’s about time," below her breath, and crossed to the door.

As Michael burst in she stepped hastily out of his way.

"Rennie!" His eyes were dancing, his square jaws working. "Rennie, it's happened. The cable from London."

It took Rennie some time to become infected with his excitement. "Good news? Oh, Michael!"

He tore the pink scrap from his pocket. "Read it. Isn’t it wonderful! I know it by heart and I still can’t believe it"

The cable said: "Have first-class publisher keen on the novel and a film company interested. Fly home pronto and finish the good work."

"Isn’t it astounding how things happen?" he exclaimed. "But for a stroke of sheer luck I might have had to go on stewing till tomorrow for this."

She forbore to remind him that if he hadn’t known he wouldn’t have

minded.

"I was chowing with old Morgan in the shop," he went on, "when one of the post office clerks came in . . . you know, the short thin man who smiles a lot. He told me a wire had just been sent through for me, but that Mayenga was too far out for the boy to deliver tonight. I went back with him, and there you are!" He stopped for a necessary breath. "I had bother with the car battery, or I’d have got home sooner. Where’s your father?"

"In his room. He’s just taken a bath. He’ll be so glad for you, Michael."

He smiled into her face. "You’re the grandest couple, you and Adrian. I shall never forget how much I owe you, and if I ever get the chance, I'll put it into print."

"Please don’t. That would frighten us both. When will you leave Mayenga, Michael?"

"In about a week, certainly no longer. I travelled out light and haven't bought much, so there'll be hardly more than my manuscript and me."

"Are you going to tell Jackie?"

'"Jackie?" The unruly brows came together. "Probably. I’d like her to know that I'm heading for success ... without her leading strings."

The knowledge that his work was to be rewarded seemed to sweep over him in a fresh wave of gratitude. Youthfully, he grasped Rennie’s wrists, as though he would have liked to dance her round the room.

"You were my inspiration, Rennie—not Jackie, but you. Remember that first evening in Gravenburg when I meant to get tight and you told me to cook up a plot for the novel instead? And then you invited me out to meet your father, and agreed to let me live here. I wish it were possible to thank you, Rennie . . . really thank you."

She smiled, her red lips sweet. "Send me a copy of your book."

Unexpectedly, he tugged her close, put his arms about her and kissed her. Still holding her, he laughed shakily.

"When men are emotionally lost for words they have to kiss," he said.

Rennie stiffened. Kent had hinted the same. Kent! He was there in the stoep, looking in at them with a calm, merciless curiosity. And then he was gone.

She broke away from Michael and ran out.

"Kent!"

He strode down the path. Heedless of everything but the imperative urgency for some sort of explanation, she raced after him.

"Kent, please stop."

He did. "Well?"

"Michael’s beside himself," she panted. "His book’s accepted."

"Congratulations," he said expressionlessly. "To all three of you. I came to see Adrian, but you can give him a message. Tell him that I’m moving up-river in the morning to start clearing the new plantation. Maxwell will be in charge at Elands Ridge and will have instructions to do whatever your father asks of him."

"Will you be away long?"

"Two or three weeks."

"Camping ... all that time?"

"I may drive in at week-ends for polo."

"Oh." Rennie fell back from the steely dislike in his eyes. "I'll.. pass on the message."

"Thanks. Good night."

His car raced away. Rennie avoided the lounge. She skirted the house and entered the back door, into the kitchen. Mechanically, she prepared the trolley with plates and dishes and cutlery, and wheeled it into the dining room; placed dinner mats and laid the table. Adrian came in, sniffing ostentatiously.

"My appetite must be returning. It smells like a genuine English mix-up of beef and vegetables," he smiled. "You’re certainly good with a casserole, Rennie."

His geniality, though precious to her, was hurtful. Everything hurt.

"Heard Michael’s news?" she said. "He’s going to be an author."

"My dear, is this true?"

"Here he is. Just look at him."

Adrian had to read the cable and shake Michael warmly by the hand. The men sat down and Adrian heaped their plates.

"This is a great day, Michael," he beamed. "I wish we had champagne to offer you, but we’ll have to make do on the Witzenberg you brought the other day."

"I couldn’t have managed without your literary experience to put me right, sir."

"Nonsense. It might have taken you a little longer, that’s all."

The talk blurred in Rennie’s ears. She brought in the fruit pudding and cream, and obediently drank her glass of wine. When she went to bed she wished she could cry. But there were no tears in her, only solid, unutterable despair.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

AS RENNIE suspected, her father had prepared a reply regarding the lectureship, setting out a proposed course of ten talks, and formally

applying for the permanent post the college had offered.

"Subject, of course, to the way you feel about the matter," he told Rennie. "You're certain about giving up Mayenga?"

"Quite certain. I can't be content here anymore. If the farm isn't sold before we have to leave we'll arrange for the house to be kept clean and aired, so that it will make a good impression on prospective buyers. With luck, we should get a few bites within the next month."

"We may have to live in quarters at the college, among the professors. Would that suit you?"

"Nicely."

What did it matter where she lived, so long as Kent were a thousand miles away and she had work to do, plenty of it?

"So you agree wholeheartedly with my sending this letter?"

"Yes, darling," she said steadily. "I do."

The letter was posted, and once it was on its way Rennie felt the sense of peace which follows irrevocable decision. To save agents' fees they drafted an advertisement, citing the farm's advantages and requesting interested farmers to call for an inspection. It would be inserted in the local paper at the week-end.

Straightway, Rennie had stout cases made to take Adrian's books, and carefully packed away everything breakable except a minimum of table china for daily use. An auction was held in the pasture of the cows and chickens and smaller implements, and the resulting cheque was paid into the bank. The dairy was scoured till it shone, and then Rennie locked it up. The only items of livestock about the place now were the two horses and the young buck, who. after a few ventures up and down the farmlands in search of companions of his own breed, had decided to make his home in the willows at the side of the river. Almost every day he came up to the fig thicket, and a few times he trotted right on to the lawn and tasted the grass. Foolishly, Rennie wished they had kept one cow, so that she could feed him some milk.

During his last week Michael was out for practically the entire length of every day. He talked facetiously about a girl at the tennis club who was shattered by his imminent departure. His tennis friends gave him a bachelor party, and subscribed to buy him a brand new portable typewriter.

On his last night he gave a modest dinner at one of the town's restaurants. Rennie and Adrian went, and Jackie was there, too. A pale, unusually silent Jackie, wearing a simple tailored suit with a white ruffle at the throat. She smiled at Rennie, but made no attempt to sit near her. In fact, she avoided conversation till the last moment, when the two were repairing complexions in the rest room before leaving.

Then Jackie from a cloud of face powder, lamented: "I wish we were back at Christmas, Ren. I’d give the world for a second chance to be real friends again."

"The world, Jackie?" Rennie laughed a little. "Such extravagance! You don’t mean that at all. We’re different people from the two schoolgirls at Castledene. And anyway, with you miles away in town close friendship was nearly impossible. We’ve had fun together a few times."

"That isn’t true. I’ve spoilt your fun. I’ve behaved rottenly—I didn’t know how rottenly till my birthday party, when you stayed away rather than borrow a frock from me. You wouldn’t have done that three years ago. I’ve lied, shown off, stolen the limelight whenever you were around, and generally acted like the foulest sort of pig."

"I assure you I’ve never noticed it!"

"You wouldn’t. You’d cheerfully do your best for your worst enemy." Her voice shook and big, childish tears welled up. "I wish I were like you—that I had the courage to say all that I’m thinking. Ren, please don’t think too badly or me."

"As though I would, idiot. I can’t imagine what’s come over you. Stop weeping. You’ll ruin your make-up."

"Who cares? I feel so despondent"

"Because Michael’s going?"

"No. Because I’m hurting people, and likely to go on hurting them, till the end of time. Most things come right for me, but somehow other people get pushed around in the process."

"Why, Jackie!" Rennie rallied her gently. "This isn’t like you at all, and most of what you’re saying isn’t a bit true. Do cheer up."

Jackie let the tears flow out, snuffled a great deal, dabbed her eyes, and hugged Rennie. Then she had to get out her compact all over again. Before they went out to join the others she was nearly as merry as usual.

Next morning, Michael was up at five. He had had the luck to charter a private plane which would land him at Johannesburg in good time to catch the noon service to England. All very expensive, but he seemed to have given up counting the costs.

They were not to see him off, he said. A car would come for him at six-thirty, and he’d bid them goodbye in the stoep, where they had spent so many enjoyable hours together. Any other sort of parting would be grim.

So that was how it happened. The pressure of hands, promises to write, repeated thanks . . . and the household was down to two again. Rennie had no appetite for breakfast that morning. Michael’s departure was the beginning of the exodus from Mayenga.

At about nine a prospective buyer for the farm drove up in a ramshackle sedan; he was a bearded Afrikaner who, Rennie guessed, possessed negligible means but a mint of shrewdness. He surveyed the land with Adrian, criticized the layout of the house and the fact that it faced south, accepted strong sweet coffee and pretzel sticks, and drove away again, without even the polite reassurance that he would "think it over."

"That one knows too much," observed Adrian, with his usual good humor. "And we were too affable. Take it or leave it: that’s the attitude we have to adopt."

"We’re not made that way, I’m afraid. Still, he’s only the first."

There was so little to do outdoors that Rennie spent the morning turning out cupboards and destroying an accumulation of receipts and circulars. Astonishing the amount of excess impediments one could collect in the brief space of eighteen months. She carried sheaves of it to the kitchen stove, and more of it to the end of the back garden, to be consumed by Adrian's bonfire.

They had had a cup of tea and she was in the lounge with the writing-table drawer wide open and the wastebasket handy, when Adrian made so loud an ejaculation that she flew outside to where he sat with a book at the grass table. Questioningly, she followed his glance, and at once quelled an exclamation of her own.

Adela Caton, haggard-faced and leaning pronouncedly on the arm of a middle-aged escort, was making her way up the path. For a moment Rennie simply went on staring. Then she slid forward a chair and helped Adela to subside into it.

"Are you ill, Mrs. Caton? I'll get you a drink."

Adela waved feebly. "No drink, thanks. I’m not ill, only terribly ... terribly shocked."

The man gave an embarrassed little cough. "I’ll wait in the car, Adela," he said, and walked quickly away.