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Hugo seemed in no mood for her company and she left him at the pub with the rangers, and as she prepared for bed she found herself wondering how cruel Hugo Harrington could be to a woman ... and just how kind. After a considerable time lag, thinking about these things, and in which she lay waiting for sleep to overtake her, it did, and when she awoke it was morning.

After breakfast, again at the table for four, they left for the farm; Hugo had little to say, and Tirza was determined not to be the one to volunteer conversation.

They lunched high up on the patio of a country hotel which overlooked poplar trees and valleys. In the distance, the koppies blurred to a pale pink and rose in strange and grotesque shapes. In a fenced-in area of the gardens there were sleek golden buck and some ostriches. To one side of the area white walls enclosed a garden where peacocks strutted about. Tirza glanced quickly in Hugo’s direction, as memory flooded her being, and when their eyes met she was startled by the expression in his and looked away.

‘Somewhere out there, and beneath those koppies, which either appear pink or mauve from a distance, is my father’s farm,’ she said.

‘That must excite you,’ he replied, almost carelessly.

For a moment she asked herself whether she should try to explain everything to him, but his brusquerie warned her not to say anything.

A pink organdie cloth, adrift with sprays of white blossom and green leaves, and napkins to match, billowed out from the round table. Venetian wine goblets glittered in the sunlight which filtered through the branches of a tree growing in the centre of the patio. Without any sign of bad weather, it was a romantic setting. Hugo was wearing beige slacks which accentuated his maleness, and a darker beige shirt, open at the neck, as usual.

‘W—when we leave here, would you like me to drive?’ Tirza asked.

‘Would you like to drive?’ He gave her a sudden, contagious smile.

‘Would
you
like me to?’ she asked, flustered.

‘Oblige me by answering my question,’ he snapped, and she realised that she had been a fool to be taken in by that smile. She met his eyes with her wide stare. Who did he think he was? she asked herself. His peremptoriness angered her. ‘I thought it would give you a break,’ she told him, ‘and yes, I would like to drive.’

‘Fine,’ he replied, and then surprised her when he went on, ‘When we part, it won’t be with assurance of future meetings, and yet we’ll probably meet again one day ... in Cape Town. I suppose you’ll commute between the Karroo and Cape Town?’

‘Yes—I—er—suppose so ... I will commute, of course.’ Her voice was sober.

The organdie cloth billowed out from the table and she caught it with her slender fingers and held it down. Her lacquered nails were the same fragile pink as the cloth, her eyes the same colour as the leaves which were sprigged upon the material.

Wheeling a white wrought-iron trolley with rubber tires, a waiter came towards them. Tirza glanced at the superb assortment of cheeses and biscuits but said, ‘No, thank you.’ Her golden-tanned face blended with her tawny hair, which seemed to be streaked with silver—the result of long hours in the sun, sea and pool.

‘You’ve barely eaten,’ Hugo commented.

For the benefit of the waiter she smiled, ‘No, really, I couldn’t possibly eat any more.’

They went out to the car and he handed her the keys. ‘Driving this car is nothing new to you, after all,’ he said, ‘but take it easy.’

Once again he seemed moodily preoccupied, and Tirza wondered whether he was thinking of Paige, who would probably be back in Swaziland by now, and the thought caused her to feel jealous.

Hugo’s car handled well and telegraph poles slid by, along with motionless windmills. Once, as she slackened speed until it was safe to overtake another vehicle, she noticed a rock-rabbit, sitting on a boulder. His whiskers twitched nervously, but he made no move to run and, on the spur of the moment, Tirza called out, ‘Hi there!’

‘A relative of yours?’ Hugo sounded amused. ‘Yes. How did you guess?’ The vastness soothed her, the wonderful sense of space and those wispy clouds hanging over three high koppies which were hunched together.

‘Talking about relations,’ she said, feeling suddenly relaxed with Hugo, ‘don’t those three koppies look like relations, hunched together, for comfort?’

When he made no reply she felt affronted and put her foot down harder on the accelerator.

Sheep grazed behind fences and tall sisals flourished around a farm with a dam and dried mealie stalks. The farmhouse was ugly and looked desolate in the hot sun, and she found herself wondering what Hugo was going to think of her father’s farm.

The windows of the car were down and the wind blew her hair about her face. Her eyes flickered to the dashboard and she saw she was breaking the speed limit, but the road was a ribbon and she felt suddenly reckless. Beside her, Hugo’s dark blue eyes regarded her with a speculative interest, but he did not speak.

Fir trees cast shade where shade was needed on yet another farm in this semi-desert like land. Wild scrub grew to look as if it was planned to grow that way. Horses looked over a gate. Fences appeared like man-made spider webs, glinting in the sun. For a moment Tirza slackened speed because she was approaching a settlement spread beneath a lone koppie which looked like a pyramid, and to one side of the koppie a Mexican-shaped cactus was absolutely striking in its isolation—like a sculpture, she found herself thinking idly.

Something told her that Hugo was becoming angry at the way in which she was driving, and this provoked her into going faster. ‘Look at that train,’ she said. ‘It looks like logs on wheels, doesn’t it? Or a child’s toy.’

‘You should know,’ he said, ‘since you’re acting like a damned child.’

‘Are you afraid?’ she laughed. ‘Afraid I might wreck your Alfa-Romeo? It could have been wrecked, if those elephants had charged at the waterhole.’

‘Do it your own way,’ he said sarcastically. ‘You’re a remarkable girl, after all, Miss Harper.’

The countryside was so barren, but strangely beautiful, the koppies and pale gold grasses catching the sun which was beginning to slant now. The distant koppies were drawing closer, drawing in, forming a circle. Windmills, bridges and dry river beds flashed by. Muddy dams and mirages danced wildly. Farm graveyards, with elaborate headstones which had baked all day beneath the sun— having baked there for generations, in some cases—had a forlorn look about them ... They were nearly there.

And then she was being flagged down by two traffic policemen who signalled for her to stop and to pull over on to the side of the road.

‘Now talk your way out of this one, Miss Harper, if you can.’ Hugo gave her a sarcastic excuse of a smile and folded his arms.

Furious and humiliated, Tirza reversed back to where the officers had stationed themselves. The man who spoke to her had a face that was almost austere.

‘Uu-uh,’ he said, shaking his head and looking almost sad. ‘Uu-uh, we can’t allow that. We’ve got a speed check, and you hit this point at a cool hundred and twenty plus, but we won’t go into that, right now.

Answering with some heat, she said, ‘I think it’s unfair!’ She was acutely aware of Hugo just sitting there, looking almost bored. ‘How awful to hide here in the thorn bushes on a National Road which, because of its very isolation, is almost deserted.’

‘So you think it’s unfair, hey?’ The policeman took out a notebook and his face was set in an expression of total hostility now as he lifted his lashes to give her a long look. ‘Ever heard of the oil crisis?’

Moodily she watched him write the date on the form.

‘We get too much of this sort of thing on the roads,’ the officer continued, ‘and that’s why we trap where we do, like this, with our vehicles and ourselves hidden from the road—until it’s too late. That’s not being unfair.’ He glanced accusingly across at Hugo. ‘We have to stamp this sort of thing out, sir.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Hugo voice was hard. ‘The young lady’s father will come to light with the fine.’

‘Who pays up is not my concern,’ the officer replied coldly, handing Tirza the ticket. ‘Good day to you.’

When they were alone Hugo said, ‘Serves you right. So? So—we all take chances in life. Who doesn’t? But you were chewing up those kilometres like they were going out of fashion. What the devil got into you?’

His male superiority aggravated her and she retorted hotly, ‘I’m naturally reckless.’

‘Yes, so I’d noticed, right from the beginning— as far back as the Eastern Boulevard, as a matter of fact. Okay, Tirza, shift over. I’ll drive the rest of the way.’

He got out of the car and came round to the driver’s side and with an impatient breath she slipped across to the passenger seat, where she sat in hostile silence. All she wanted was to obliterate the whole wretched scene and undo all that she had said and done, leading up to this very moment.

At the familiar turn-off a field of wild flowers made a splash of colour, defying the heat and the dryness.

‘Turn left,’ she said, a fresh surge of humiliation washing over her, ‘and you’d better slacken off.’

Hugo laughed at that, turning to look at her. He provoked in her a desire to lash out at him.

Unlike some Karroo gates that collapse in a muddle of poles and clanking wire the moment they are opened, the gates to Douglas Harper’s farm were imposing. In the distance the farmhouse was surrounded by tall stately poplar trees and the area was green and lush, like an oasis, and the sight of it caused Tirza to bite into her lip in the pain she felt.

She was aware of Hugo’s eyes taking in the beautiful garden and lawns and Karroo fruit trees—plums, apricots, figs, quinces and pomegranates. Surrounding all this were the type
of
farmlands where merino sheep and black-headed Persians thrive, and it was a part of the country where the price of wool was always the topic of conversation when people managed to get together. And then, when he saw the house, white and huge, with tremendous windows, with the panes set in small white squares, he whistled very softly.

‘So this is what you have in mind. Yes, I can see it all... I hand it to you. Quite a shrewd business woman. It’s an ideal spot for a thriving weaving • industry.’

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ Her voice was like ice. ‘And yes again. I am a shrewd business woman. In fact, an independent eccentric, like my father.’

‘Shall I park beneath the pillared portico, where there appears to be room for three more cars?’ he asked, with heavy sarcasm.

‘Yes. Actually there happens to be room for
four
more cars, Mr Harrington. You’re slipping up on your calculations.’

‘I’ll try to not feel thrown off balance about it.’ He dismissed her remark with a casual shrug.

With its carriage lights on either side of the magnificently carved door, the house looked more like a hotel, which, of course, it used to be.

‘Some farmhouse,’ Hugo commented. ‘It must be the only one like it in the entire semi-desert. It’s always been obvious to me, of course, that your father ... D.H., as you refer to him ... does everything on a grand scale, like his independent daughter here, who has all the ability necessary to make a stage of every place she happens to be in.’

Suddenly Tirza felt the need to explain. ‘It used to be a hotel,’ she said. ‘It even had a liquor licence. My father bought it because it adjoined those farmlands out there, and he had it converted and modernised and here it stands.’ Her voice was abrupt. ‘Empty and waiting for someone to come along and enjoy it. Usually, but not so far as this farm is concerned, my father simply telephones ahead, alerts his staff and one of his homes is immediately brought to life. However, although nobody has been alerted now there’s a small staff, nevertheless, behind that koppie over there, and Delphina and her husband are in a cottage, at the back of this house. I have my own key, though. I have keys to all the houses my father owns, of course. Gerry Strauss, my father’s manager, has his own very attractive house, which you could see from the gates. It’s beside that other koppie over there. I’ll fix you a drink and find you something to eat and, with the memory of my future weaving industry to haunt you, you can be on your way.’

‘We’ll drive to Gerry’s place first,’ he said.

‘Why?’ She gave him a direct look.

Shrugging carelessly, he said, ‘To find out if he’s there, so that you won’t be alone here. It’s just that old chivalry in me coming out—this inclination I have to defend a girl in distress. You must have noticed that on the night that we met on the Eastern Boulevard.’

‘I’m anything but distressed,’ she lied.

‘You will be, if you suddenly discover that Gerry Strauss and his wife have gone off somewhere and you find yourself alone here.’

‘Being alone doesn’t worry me. I’m often alone.’

‘Well, I’m not leaving you alone here.’ His voice conveyed authority. ‘Let’s go. How do you get round that koppie, anyway? Does there happen to be a road, or a track?’

‘Oh, come on! Not a
track.
There’s a road, well surfaced, perfect... like everything else you see.’ As they drove round the koppie there was a tall, shady tree, where merino sheep and goats were drinking from a trough to which an outlet pipe was connected.

‘Well, the animals are home,’ Hugo cast her an amused glance. ‘I guess that’s always something, and you do, after all, have an interest in the angora goats.’

‘At least they’re polite,’ Tirza replied tartly.

Gerry Strauss was on the veranda and for a moment, he looked puzzled, then he stood up and came down the steps.

‘Well, surprise, surprise!’ he came towards Tirza. His eyes flickered in Hugo’s direction and Tirza said,

‘I’d like you to meet Hugo Harrington, Gerry. He’s on his way to Cape Town and gave me a lift here. We just wanted to make sure that you and Zelma were here, before he leaves.’

‘Zelma’s not here, I’m afraid. You see,’ Gerry flushed slightly, ‘there’s going to be a baby and she’s gone away for a few days, for the usual checkup. She stays with her mother.’