Plantation Doctor (11 page)

“You’re aching to hear that we’ve missed you,” said Hazel, moving away from him, “but we can’t say with
truth that we have. Lyn's a bit of a dark horse, of course.
She may have felt the strain of parting but covered up.
She could do it better than most. Want a drink?”

“Like the deuce
—
and no dilutions, either.” He grinned at Lyn. “I believe you did miss me. There are shadows in those flower-blue eyes and your mouth doesn’t want to smile.”

Hazel intervened. “Save the personal note till I’m not here. There’s your whisky. Now tell us the worst about the plantation.”

“ ‘The worst’ aptly describes it,” he said, not very dismally. “The plant needs two thousand pounds spent upon it and the boys have petitioned for a new slice of land; they say theirs is impoverished by persistent cropping and soil erosion. Also the trees nearest the river are becoming infested with some bug or other.” He raised his glass. “Happy days!”

“A chapter of calamities. And you haven’t got two thousand, Claud!”

“How did you guess?”

“Well, how in the world are you going to handle it?”

“I don’t know, and at the moment I don’t really care. When I’ve finished this drink I’m going to take a nice cool bath and get into a civilized suit. Then we’ll go out and shake up this glorious, exhilarating city. Cheer up, Hazel, the land is still worth a bit.”

“I suppose it is, but will you consider selling?”

“Not to Denton, my dear one. I’d sooner let the timber go for firewood or pit props. Stop frowning
—
and get into your best bibs and tuckers, both of you. I’ll be just twenty minutes.”

When he had gone through to the bathroom, Hazel I put away the whisky bottle and siphon, lifted a rueful brow at Lyn. “I believe you could do a lot with him if you cared for him.”

Lyn moved towards the bedroom. “I’m not so sure, Hazel. It’s the climate, and you can’t fight Africa.”

“For you, he might sell out and go home.”

“Do you honestly think he’d be happier in England?”

Apparently Hazel was not too sure. She finished the short drink she had poured for herself, and slowly began to drag the tie from her scarlet silk shirt.

“I
believe the secret of happiness for Claud lies in his caring more for someone else than for himself.” She sighed and flipped her fingers. “He’s not so different from the rest of us.”

With Claud in command, the atmosphere of the bungalow lightened. He gave in to Hazel’s plea for fewer parties, and he made an attempt at some sort of balance sheet for the plantation. She was even less practised at accounts than he, and it fell to Lyn to sort out from the medley of notebooks and scraps of paper just how much the rubber had earned over the last year. She was glad of the task, grateful for anything which kept her thoughts from wandering to the sore subject of Adrian Sinclair.

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

One
morning
she found herself trembling with elation and anticipation, and all because Melia had received a brief typed note signed by Adrian which requested that she attend at the Denton clinic for a final examination of her elbow. Rather, it was the postscript which both scared and exalted Lyn. “I will send a car for you at four o’clock this afternoon, and if Miss Russe
ll
is free, please ask her to accompany you.”

As the day went through its phases her excitement dimmed. She remembered Hazel’s stark expression as she sat upon Claud’s bed that night, the bitterness which had imperfectly masked her grief. She, Lyn, must be careful to avoid at all costs the perils of awakening emotions. To fall in love with Adrian was a sort o
f
suicide.

At three-thirty she put on a sky-blue short-sleeved linen suit with a diaphanous white cravat, brushed her hair into coppery ripples and discreetly applied cosmetics. At exactly four the car rolled up, Adrian’s own, driven by one of the native chauffeurs who were employed at Denton. Neither Hazel nor Claud showed surprise that she had been invited to go with Melia to the clinic; they were not aware that Adrian had signed the summons.

The car glided up out of the town and through the trees, and cooler air swept between the windows. Both women in the back seat were tense, but for different reasons. They watched the speeding forests without speaking, came to the settlement, passed the house in which they had lived and crossed the compound to skirt Adrian’s house and approach the hospital. The driver stopped at the main entrance.

Adrian met them in the lobby, smiled comfortingly at Melia and addressed Lyn.

“I hope it was quite convenient for you to come with Melia? We both know how nervous she is of white uniforms, and I thought it would help her to have you in the building while we make a few tests. Will you wait in my room? There are cigarettes on the desk.”

There could be nothing more formal and chilling than his manner. Lyn nodded distantly, passed through the doorway and heard him click shut the door. She lit a cigarette and smoked it near the mesh-screened window. She could hear faint music and the murmur of conversation, and through another window across the courtyard a couple of African patients playing dice were visible; they gestured excitedly and argued. She pressed out the cigarette, and was wondering how much longer Adrian
w
ould be when he opened the door and came into the room.

Pleasantly acknowledging her presence, he took off his white coat and went to the wash-basin in the corner. He tipped disinfectant from a bottle into his palms, made the motions of washing them with it before rinsing it off with water. As he used a towel he looked her way.

“Melia’s arm is pretty good
—
even better than I expected. She fluttered again, so I left her to relax over a cup of tea with the nurse. We’ll go into the house for ours.”

He didn’t get into his jacket but came over to her, tall and slightly smiling, his glance appreciative of her clear features and the slim shoulders clothed in blue.

“Melia tells me you’re still taking quinine,” he said. “Does it make your head buzz?”

“Not much.”

“And in any case you’d rather buzz than have the
yellow mepacrine complexion. I don’t blame you—I favour quinine myself, though it’s more difficult to get hold of than some of the other preventive drugs.” He pulled the door closed after them and locked it. As they emerged into the sunshine, he added, “If you stay on into the rains you’ll have to take further precautions. You’ve been here nearly two months—you’ll soon need a check-up.”

But not by you! she thought swiftly and hotly.

Side by side they walked the long path from the hospital to the house. This time he did not take her to the charming little library but guided her round to the enormous lounge, where a low table
w
as already set with a lace cloth, petal-thin china and heavy silverware. He placed her chair and almost before he had seated himself the native servant brought the teapot, a jug containing tinned milk and a dish of biscuits.

“Will you pour?” he said.

It was rather unreal and not altogether enjoyable, acting hostess to Adrian in his own house. He talked in leisurely tones about the newest books and an art show in London which had been reported in one of the magazines, about people he knew at other stations up the Coast. Later he mentioned his aunt.

“She’s the dearest thing but, like all women without husbands, she’s restless. My latest information is that she’s bought a yacht and may brave the Bay of Biscay in it to visit Denton. She threatened it some time ago and I hastily cabled that she must do nothing of the sort
—
she was too old for the tropics.” He cocked an amused eyebrow. “She wired back that I was the rudest man on earth.”

“So you were; that’s a frightful thing to tell a woman. Has she ever been here?”

“A couple of times, when her husband was alive, but she never stayed long. I’m hoping the yacht is a myth.” Indolently, he stood up. “The sun’s going down. How about a look at the flowers?”

They sauntered among the trees, sharing a tranquillity which to Lyn was miraculous and acid-sweet. Again and again as he said something dangerously endearing, she told herself that he had spoken thus to Hazel and probably to many other woman; she, Lyn, must not allow herself to be misled. When he slipped a hand round her arm at a narrow corner her mind’s eye saw him holding Hazel’s arm and talking down to her—wounding Hazel as he would wound Lyn if she let him. At every yard Hazel came closer, adoring, accusing, infinitely pained. As if Lyn’s tortured thoughts had somehow got through to him, Adrian slowed and looked at her keenly.

“What’s happened?”

“Happened?” she echoed.

“Why the tension?” he said. “You’ve tightened up till even your face has gone stiff.”

“Maybe you’re the reason.”

“I? Great heaven, a doctor is the last person to cause tension.”

“Except that you’re not
...
always a doctor, are you?”

An instant’s silence, while he glanced at her through narrowed lids. Then: “No, I’m not. I’d have to be superhuman to stay entirely on the official side of the fence. Why should I, anyway?”

She had no direct answer to this. In his opinion there was nothing in the least reprehensible about seeing a lovely young woman as often as he could while she was available. What he didn’t seem to realize was that his own magnetism was considerable, that any woman singled out by him would find her imagination, seized, her emotions involved, and heartbreak inevitable.

In that moment it smote Lyn that her own imagination and emotions were irrevocably at his command. Fear and pride struggled briefly. She wished she could talk off-handedly and manage a shrug.

“As a doctor, you’re faultless,” she said, “but in your private life you’re horribly selfish.”

He stopped dead and stared at her with a mockery that changed gradually to something cold, satirical and vaguely ominous. “So you’ve found me out. What are you going to do about it?”

“Fortunately, it doesn’t affect me personally. I have the utmost pity for Hazel, though.”

“Hazel!” So she comes into it. D’you mind telling me how?”

In tones gone harsh with strain, Lyn said, “Why did you make her fall in love with you if you’ve nothing to offer in return? You must have seen how she felt, yet you went on seeing her, raising hopes which you had no intention of fulfilling. It was hateful of you
...
brutal.”

His hand descended suddenly and roughly upon her shoulder, grasped it and shook it. “Be quiet! You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, I do. I’m not an idiot. Maybe you think it isn’t my business
...
”

“You’re right,” he bit out. “It isn’t anybody’s business. I thought you had more sense than to concoct such drivel.”

“If you sincerely believe it’s drivel you must be completely self-centred and unfeeling. You’ve made Hazel terribly unhappy.” Lyn was too choked with distress to say more. She wanted to run away.

“Have I now?” he said in a voice of polished steel. “And how do you propose I remedy her wretchedness? Shall I marry her?”

Lyn breathed deeply and turned from him. “You’re impossible.”

“Thanks. Tell me something. How did you discover that Hazel had placed her heart in my careless keeping? I’m certain she wouldn’t confess to you herself, and she’s a pretty good actress.”

“She’s told me enough! Seeing you so often in town her unhappiness has reached a climax. She’s sensible; she doesn’t expect anything from you—but your heartlessness has taken the life out of her.”

He gave a hard, unpleasant laugh. “Is that so?” Aren’t you rather overstepping the bounds of friendship? How do you suppose Hazel would react if she heard that you’d been revealing her inmost secrets to me?” His mouth twisted and his eyes were glittering stones as he added, “You didn’t answer my earlier question. Would you suggest that I marry her?”

By this time Lyn was beyond caring what he said. The scene was nightmarish and past her control. She was not conscious of the hairy trunks of palms festooned with climbers, of geranium-red flowers and thick leaves as wide and round as dinner-plates, of the gilding twilight and the melancholy notes of homing birds. She felt only his presence, the cold and merciless anger of which she was the focus, because she had dared to call him to account.

“No!” she managed. “I’m too fond of Hazel to wish to see her married to you. You’re ruthless and overbearing, too officious and conscious of your position as overlord of this little piece of the tropics. West Africa needs men like you but women get along better without them.” The reckless note died and she faltered. “I ... I didn’t mean to say this today—or at any time
—
but I’ve been feeling rather deeply about Hazel. You won’t let her know that I’ve discussed her with you?”

“Don’t try to extract any promises from me,” he said curtly. “At the moment I feel like doing whatever would hurt you most—so perhaps you’d better go back to the easy-going Claud. His hide is thick enough to stand any amount of insult. Mine isn’t!”

She raised a white face, eyes in which the pupils were so dilated that they engulfed the blue irises. Adrian was not pale. Furious blood darkened the high cheekbones and his nostrils had thinned and arched. He looked as she had thought Adrian never could look, burningly, violently angry.

“Adrian,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.
”

“It’s too late to be sorry!”

He was obviously on the point of saying a great deal more, of flailing her with a whip-like tongue. But from his height he looked down at her, at the reddish curls, the eyes which were bluer now, like pure but troubled water under an African sky, at the delicate face with its wide, intelligent brow, the sweet red mouth which moved with distress.

He averted his head and began to walk towards the hospital courtyard.

And that was the end of it. He reached the car a couple of paces ahead of her, opened the door for her to get in and closed it again with a thud of finality. Then he strode away. She sat there quivering till the cheerful Melia was brought out by the nurse and the chauffeur slipped behind the wheel. Adrian did not appear again.

The car swept them back to Palmas. Lyn never knew what Melia, voluble with relief, chattered into her ear. When eventually she roused herself to leave the car and go into the bungalow it seemed to her that for a while she had been numb from the heart outwards. But inside the house she had to come alive, and pain drove off the numbness. Her pulses throbbed despairingly, beat out a rhythm to Adrian’s last words: “It’s too late to be sorry.” He was right; she had gone too far and it was too late.

His tone, his whole attitude showed plainly that he was finished with Lyn Russell, and, despairingly, she acknowledged that that had more significance for her than his carelessness over Hazel’s heartsickness. Finished. The word echoed mockingly. Finished with what? the silence demanded; how can you finish with a thing which has never begun?

Hazel was in the bedroom penning one of her long letters to an actress friend in London. She glanced up at Lyn with an abstracted and absorbed sigh, then went on writing. Claud was stretched along the divan in the lounge. Lazily, he held out an arm as though he would have drawn her down with him had she been near enough; he was adept at the intimate gesture. Lyn contrived a flippant smile and passed him to go into the kitchen. But there was nothing for her to do there; the boy was opening a can and Melia was whisking eggs.

So Lyn walked out into the rough, untended back garden, which still had a swamp at its lower end because neither Claud nor Hazel had bothered to instruct anyone to fill it in. Flies were thick over the surface and the intent gaze could detect the pulsing of giant bullfrogs. Egrets had landed near by and were waiting for her to disappear before they sought the insects at the water’s edge.

Sick and defeated, she flicked off a mosquito and wandered back to the house. Weeks ago, when she had first heard of Mrs. Latimer’s death, she had guessed that to stay in West Africa would be dangerous and probably shattering. She had ignored the premonition of disaster because all her being strove to cling to this steaming wilderness, though then she had not known why.

Now, she saw
i
t with fatal clarity. She was in love with the sarcastic and soulless doctor, and it promised to be a blighting, tragic experience.

The next mail brought Lyn’s first letter from England. It was five weeks old and exuded all the quaint aroma of the little antique shop in Bournemouth. At the date of writing, Mr. Latimer had not heard of his sister-in-law’s death, so he ambled through the details of purchases and sales in that quiet meandering way of his, and chuckled with glee over certain acquisitions which he had stored away upstairs to enjoy for a while before placing them on the market.