The Reluctant Guest (7 page)

“Did she say that?”

“No, but she definitely doesn’t want to go out tonight
.
”

As if she were in the room with them, Ann knew just how he looked; smiling, narrow-eyed, arrogant, with perhaps just a faint hint of malice in his expression as he visualized, fleetingly, the girl he had talked to
...
and kissed, yesterday. She was so taut against the wall that she missed his reply. There came the opening and closing of the main door, the starting up of the car.

Ann’s
tension snapped like a worn spring. She went along to the kitchen and drank some water, ate a biscuit and began to assemble the things she needed for an onslaught on the living room wall.

CHAPTER
THREE

FOR three days life at the Borland house was tranquil. Except one friend of Theo’s, nobody called, and the only remarkable event was the delivery from the main Belati West store of a pair of riding breeches and six white shirts for Elva. The breeches were ready-made but an excellent fit, and with one of the white shirts they created a transformation which was almost incredible. Elva looked like the daughter of a gentleman farmer; occasionally she even acted like one.

P
erhaps the strangest thing that Ann discovered was Elva’s lack of friends. Theo, it seemed, had several who came in for cards and sometimes a meal, and they must also, in a way, be friends of Elva’s. But no women were ever mentioned by name, and Elva often spoke disparagingly of the female element in the district. They had money, but made no use of it, she said. All they thought of was new fridges and sewing machines, their children and making preserves.

It was extraordinary, but Ann found that as the days passed she knew rather less about Elva than before. The other girl was changeable and secretive, she took it for granted that Ann’s life and emotions were a very simple open book and asked few questions. It became obvious she didn’t like women, but that Ann was to be tolerated for several reasons: she might marry Theo, she was making an amazingly good job of the living room, she was handy and willing with a needle and interested enough in cooking to teach Aaron several new dishes. Almost Ann found it laughable. Not quite, because there was the dark, brooding something in the background.

Elva, with her slightly hoarse but cultured voice, her carelessness about clothes, her fanatical obsession with something she never talked about, was not a comfortable person to live with, but neither did she try to make life impossible. On the whole she went her own way, and Ann couldn’t quite make out what that way was. She herself seemed to be marking time.

The living room blossomed. The walls a fine pastel blue, the woodwork white, curtains white and gaily patterned in mid-blue, black and scarlet, and a grey material for re-covering the chairs. The cushions were to be blue, the bought lampshades were white edged with scarlet, and the bookcase had a new coat of white enamel. Only the carpet was an unaltered drab; Ann would have dispensed with it and left floorboards bare and glossy, but Elva was against it.

“We’ll keep the carpet for the time being,” she said. “It will remind people how terrible this room was before the transformation. Will it take long to cover the chairs?”

“It wouldn’t, if we could borrow a sewing machine. I can do the cushion by hand.”

Elva put on her withdrawn look, said after a minute or so, “There’s a Mrs. Newman at one of the farms—Aapie’s Drift. I know she has two machines—an old and a new. She might lend you the old one.”

“Will you ask her for me?
”

“I couldn’t. She’s one of these soft, motherly young women—I can’t stand the type. Go over and see her yourself.”

“I’ve no way of carrying the machine.”

“She’ll send it—they have two cars.”

“How do I find the farm?”

“You turn right along the Peterson land on the road, and keep going till you reach the bridge over a big sluit
—
that’s actually
th
e Drift. Turn right again and Aapie’s Drift Farm is on the left. It’s signposted. The whole distance is not more than six miles. You can use the roan.”

Ann hesitated. “Won’t it seem awfully odd?—I haven’t even met the woman. If you’d go with me
...
”

“Not a chance,” said Elva firmly. “Mrs. Newman won’t mind your asking a favour. That’s the type they are
—
always lending each other things and helping out with servants when one of them gets sick.”

“They sound nice.”

“They would—to you.” Elva caught herself up. “That’s not meant as an insult. I guess I’m just not womanly enough to mix, that’s all. You go over; she’ll be glad to see you.”

Ann didn’t decide at once, but after she had sewn a few seams of the cushion-covers she realized how difficult it would be to tailor the chair renovations by hand. The material was too thick and frayed too easily for hand
-
sewing. So after lunch she put on her dark slacks and a white shirt, saddled the roan and trotted away.

It was a brilliant afternoon. A strong breeze kept wisps of white cloud drifting across a deep blue sky, and it bent the grass and rustled the gum trees but made no impression at all on the mimosa thorn bush. The veld was remarkable, Ann thought. No fences anywhere, just mile upon mile of pastureland backed by the rocky brown hills that grew clumps of flowers and red-hot-poker aloes where were now in bud. Sheep dotted the landscape like a wide scattering of stones, and an occasional sheep-boy lay in the sun or sat on a rock, always facing the wind.

One of the shepherds Ann saw was old and bearded; he smoked a long-stemmed pipe which had a metal cap attached to it by a chain, and he doffed his worn felt hat politely as she passed on the grass verge. At the Drift, some children were playing beyond the bridge; their smooth brown faces smiled up at her and most of them waved, though one venturesome lass held out cupped hands.

“Sweeties?” she said.

Ann took from her pocket the handful of sugar lumps she carried for the horse and tossed them over the bridge amid laughter and scrambling. Smiling to herself, she turned right and crossed to the other verge. She felt free, and happier than at any time since she had arrived at Groenkop. She saw tall mealie stalks drying off to make cattle fodder, a thriving expanse of giant lucerne, a few acres of fruit trees and then again the veld. The vast growing lands seemed endless. But she found the sign pointing to Aapie’s Drift Farm, and turned along a lane between clipped acacia. A hundred yards from the road stood the house, square and rather
modern
, with a gravelled yard in front of it. Under an umbrella tree there was a bar with hooks for the tethering of horses, and Ann dismounted and made use of one of the hooks before dusting down her slacks and going up into the porch of the house. She pressed an ordinary electric bell and waited.

The door was opened by a native maid; from the way she intimated that the missus should enter the house it was obvious that she had not long left the kraal. But she was trying hard.

“I tell the missus,” she said, and departed.

The room was comfortably furnished in a solid, everlasting fashion. At one side of the large window stood a baby grand piano and at the other was a bookcase. The brick fireplace was so placed that when it was cold one could warm one’s toes and still enjoy a view of Africa.

The woman who came into the room was no taller than Ann and only a little plumper, and she had a sweet smile. She could have been no more than thirty-two or three, yet the mid-brown hair was sheened with silver.

“I’m Shelia Newman,” she said. “You’re Miss Calvert, aren’t you?”

“Ann Calvert, yet. It’s a relief that you know me.”

“There aren’t so many newcomers to the district—everyone always hears about them. I happened to see you the other day in town, with Elva. Do sit down.”

Ann said, “You’re very kind. I felt rather strange about coming here and introducing myself.”

Mrs. Newman took a chair nearby. “I’m glad you did come. Elva is a little peculiar about friendships—she’s introverted, I suppose, and just doesn’t care very much for other people. One respects the kind of person she is, but when I saw you together I thought that staying with her must be rather dull. She’s so fond of going off on her own.”

“I’m not dull, as it happens. We’re spring-cleaning.”

Mrs. Newman smiled. “This is our autumn! But we have a good clean through any time we fancy it.” She paused. “You’re Theo’s friend, aren’t you—not Elva’s?”

“You might put it that way, though it was Elva who invited me.”

“Really?” The woman looked genuinely surprised. “She’s such an amazing girl—you never know what to expect of her. You know, she never visits or entertains. The most you get from her if you meet her is a nod. Since she came here three years ago this is the first normal thing she’s done—inviting you, I mean. I’m very glad. You’re from Cape Town, Miss Calvert?”

For half an hour they talked, about the Cape and Belati West, about shops and farms, the sea and the Great Karoo. Then Ann came to the point.

“You must be wondering why I’m here, Mrs. Newman.”

“Not particularly, but if I can do anything for you
...”

She made it easy. Ann stated her needs, the old sewing machine was promised and would be delivered at the Borland house tomorrow morning. Mrs. Newman asked about colour schemes and other details. Then she rang a bell, and five minutes later the perspiring servants brought a tea tray. Ann had again expressed her thanks and was in the porch saying goodbye, when Mrs. Newman, giving that soft and charming smile, said,

“By the way, Storr Peterson is home, isn’t he? I heard he gave a small dinner party the other night.”

“Yes, he did.”

“My husband was saying that he wished Storr would stay, but it seems unlikely. With him, the farm always came second to planes.”

“I suppose that happens sometimes—a member of a farming family going off into something quite different. I believe the farm is in good shape, though.”

“It’s bound to be, but it’s not the same as having the owner always there. How long is Storr likely to be here this time?”

“A week or two, I thi
nk
.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard whether he’s going to live in Johannesburg after his marriage?”

“His
...
marriage?” queried Ann.

Mrs. Newman gave an embarrassed little laugh. Tm shameless, aren’t I—but I did think the Borlands would know all about it. Through friends of ours who often go to Johannesburg we heard that Storr is going to marry the daughter of one of his partners in Peterson Airways.”

“No,” said Ann a little hollowly, “we’ve heard nothing about it.”

The woman’s smile faded a little. “I think it’s true enough, but please don’t say anything to Elva or Theo. I wouldn’t have mentioned it if we hadn’t heard it only recently; our friends told us last night.”

“They may have been mistaken.”

“They’re not gossiping types; they were just happy about it because it may mean that Storr will spend more of the year here at Belati.”

“Oh, well, when he wants people to know he’ll make it public, I suppose,” Ann said brightly. She repeated her goodbye and went down the steps.

Five minutes later she was out on the road and making for the Drift. She felt disturbed and annoyed, and wasn’t quite sure why. It wasn’t as if she cared what Storr Peterson did, and it certainly wasn’t her business to wonder why he had been silent about the woman in his life. He had made it fairly clear that he intended to marry some time, and it was natural that he should find someone in Johannesburg, where he spent most of his time. He had no illusions about
love
...

But what about Elva? She was carefully and circumspectly doing her darnedest to show Storr that she was not only a good horsewoman and passable farmer, but a housewife with ideas and ambitions. For months, perhaps for a year or two, she had mulled over the possibility of marrying Storr Peterson and allowed herself to fall in love with him. Was Storr unnoticing, or just uncaring? Had he ever whipped up Elva into some mood where the only remedy was one of his merciless kisses?

Ann found her hands clenched tightly on the reins, and with an effort she slackened off. She didn’t really like Elva, but she did not want her to get hurt. But was it possible to hurt a person like Elva Borland? She seemed so self
-
sufficient, so utterly untouched by people and events; yet she had said, baldly, “I’m in love with Storr Peterson.” Surely no woman, least of all one like Elva, would make such a statement to someone who was almost a stranger, if she had not decided to make an all-out bid for marriage with the man?

Ann found herself wishing to heaven she had stayed in the house this afternoon. Sheila Newman at Aapie’s Drift hadn’t meant to be gossipy or ill-natured, but her natural curiosity about the owner of one of the largest farms in the district had led her to disclose more than she had learned. At least one other family knew about the woman in Johannesburg, but Elva, because she cut herself off from her neighbours, might never know till the marriage became a fact
.
Yet Ann could see why Mrs. Newman had not wanted the news carried farther. In any case, none of it was Ann Calvert’s business. Elva was twenty-five and extremely capable of running her own life.

But the nearer she approached to the house the more uneasy Ann felt, and somehow most of her uneasiness was unconnected with Elva. It had a deeper root, in some part of her consciousness of which she was hardly aware. She walked the horse along the lane, felt the breeze through her shirt and looked to the west, where the sun was spreading a vast haze of gold over the blue. Southwest was Cape Town
...
home. The little villa in Newlands had never seemed more like home that at this moment, when she knew it was locked up and empty of comfort and companionship.

On the path in front of the house stood an old station wagon whose wings had been bent and straightened many times. It was green and lustreless, the tyres needed air and the sun-visor was crooked. A delivery van from town, probably. Ann slid from the roan and unsaddled, gave the flank a smack and carried the saddle into the shed. She was reaching to place it over the bar when the doorway darkened and she felt the load taken from her arms and shoved into position. She stared at the thin brown face and gleaming fair hair, the familiar nonchalant smile.