Unknown (5 page)

They went into the house, which had high, thatched ceilings, and Tirza’s eyes immediately went to the mohair curtains, muted striped mohair upholstery on the long sofas and chairs, mohair wall-hangings and off-white carpet which, no doubt, all came from the Swazi Signature Weaving Industry.

Thunder rumbled menacingly on the mountain-tops surrounding the Ezulwini Valley and the windows of the house rattled faintly.

‘You’ve arrived just in time,’ said Cathy. ‘There’s going to be a terrible storm, by the looks of things.’

‘Thank you for putting me up ... Cathy,’ Tirza used the name with difficulty. ‘It’s very kind of you.’

‘You’re most welcome. I’ll hustle tea up, or coffee, Tirza. Which do you prefer? Anyway, let me show you to your room first.’

Feeling slightly embarrassed, Tirza followed the woman her father had nearly married, wondering what had gone wrong with the romance.

The room had dusky-blue walls and more hand-woven work—a pure new wool and mohair boucle-weave bedcover, fine golden mohair curtains and an off-white carpet. Against the pale blue and cream the rich honey-coloured curtains, thatched ceiling and supporting wooden beams looked superb. After a moment Tirza ventured to say, ‘What a beautiful room. At a guess I would say you patronise the Swazi Signature. Do you, Cathy?’

‘Why, yes.’ Cathy’s dark eyes scanned the room. ‘Everything you see in this house comes from there. Is this where you have come to buy?’

‘I’m hoping to place an order. By the way, Cathy, I’m also doing a stint of modelling, while I’m in Swaziland. I didn’t mention this to my father, though—he worries so. In fact, one of his stipulations was that I should stay with you, if you would have me, of course.’

‘Nothing gives me more pleasure,’ murmured Cathy.

‘By the way, how far is the Swazi Signature from here?’ Tirza felt her face grow warm.

‘Next door, practically, as the crow flies.’ Cathy laughed lightly, but there was an edge to the sound. ‘Let’s get something straight, Tirza. You’ll be buying from Hugo Harrington and you’ll be modelling for him. Is that right?’

Suddenly Tirza’s muscles tensed. ‘Do you know him, then—Hugo Harrington?’

‘Do I know him? I should do. He treats this place almost as a second home, when he’s in Swaziland. How well do you know him?’ The words sounded coldly polite.

‘Not very well.’ Tirza’s mind was busy with the way in which she had deceived Hugo by telling him that her surname was Theron and the blunder she had made by telling Cathy that she was scouting— that was the damaging word—around in view of the fact that she intended starting a weaving industry. ‘Just on a business level, really.’

‘I see. Well, settle in, then, and—what would you like, tea or coffee?’

‘Tea will be lovely, thank you, Cathy.’

Hugo Harrington, Tirza thought worriedly, after Cathy had left the room, had an assortment of opinions about her already. What was he going to think when he discovered that she had lied to him about her name? What would he think when he learned that she intended going into business on her own, after having used the Swazi Signature as a kind of stepping-stone for ideas and know-how?

Over tea, Cathy said, ‘Talking about the Swazi Signature, you must know, of course, that Hugo started the weaving industry—which is already world renowned, I might go so far as to add.’ Cathy was slim and tanned and not very tall, and elegant in a white skirt and a black top which had a wide collar, turned up, against the edge of her dark hair, which had silver threads in it.

‘I didn’t know, actually.’ Tirza felt strangely depressed now.

‘What’s more,’ Cathy went on, ‘Paige, who runs his Mbabane boutique, is also modelling at the Royal Swazi Hotel. I’m—well, wardrobe mistress.’

‘It’s a small world,’ Tirza’s voice sounded forced, even to her own ears. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘Not really. We just all happen to be moving in the same circles, I suppose,’ Cathy replied abruptly.

‘Have you seen him, by the way, since he got back?’ Tirza asked. ‘I mean, has he found out that I’ll be staying here with you?’

‘I didn’t know he was back.’ Cathy sounded frankly peeved at this piece of news.

‘I arranged to phone him directly I arrived in Swaziland. Being in the country like this, Cathy, I don’t suppose there’s a bus service? I mean, I could take a joyride,’ Tirza found herself beginning to flounder, ‘and announce myself.’

‘I’ll drive you there if you like, although there’s going to be a storm,’ said Cathy, and the knot of tension pulled tighter.

‘Oh, no, Cathy, I wasn’t hinting ...’

‘I know you weren’t—but look, take the car yourself. It’s not far once you get on to the main road and continue until you see the signpost on the left-hand side of the road. I’d overlooked the fact that a friend is dropping in this afternoon to collect a parcel.’

Cathy, Tirza thought, seemed eager to get rid of her.

‘It seems an awful nerve, on my part,’ she felt compelled to say, but nevertheless she knew an urgency to explain things to Hugo Harrington before he got the story second-hand.

‘Fine, if you’re not afraid of storms?’ Cathy surveyed her with an unfathomable expression.

‘No, I’m not, as it happens.’

‘Well then, that’s settled ... take a drive out there. You can’t miss it.’

The storm had broken by the time Tirza reached the weaving settlement. In fact, she thought, the weather seemed to have gone insane, all of a sudden—like this whole venture.

She asked for Hugo Harrington and was told that he was at the studio, and directed there. The studio was only a short distance away from the settlement, but it was necessary to drive there.

Getting out of the car, finally, she ran through the drenching rain in the direction of the studio. He was there, looking just as she remembered him, only much, much better, and she felt a sudden exhilaration at the discovery.

Two Swazi maidens, in traditional colourful Swazi garb, featuring orange-red print toga-like garments—the
mahiya
—and beehive hairstyles, stood stirring bubbling cauldrons, in the Macbeth style, of aniline dyes, which would take a new load of mohair. Even while they were working, there was a radiant look about each girl which suggested the singing and rhythmic dancing which was so much a part of the country of spectacular views, cool mountain streams and almost every other example of African landscape.

To the full orchestration of rain and thunder, lightning played along the looms, at the far end of the white-walled, thatched studio. For a moment, Hugo’s dark blue eyes didn’t seem to focus properly when he saw Tirza standing there, with the storm raging behind the square opening to the building, her fabulous tawny hair wild and free. In the peculiar light of the storm her scarlet silk shirt seemed very bright and accentuated her grape-green eyes. Her perfume pervaded the room.

‘Hello,’ she said nervously. ‘Remember me?’

‘What are you doing here?’ His eyes went over her damp clothes. ‘You were going to phone me from your friend’s home.’

‘I decided to drive out here instead.’

‘Looking at you, standing there,’ he said, ‘I know I’ve seen you before.’

‘Let me fill you in,’ she tried to sound flippant. ‘On the Eastern Boulevard, Cape Town. Now, do you remember?’

‘You’ve appeared in magazines,’ he went on, ‘newspapers...’

‘Well, of course. Models often do.’ Her heart was racing. ‘Tell me, I have come to the right place? This is the Swazi Signature Weaving Industry?’

There was a terrific flash of lightning, followed by a loud explosion of thunder. The Swazi girls shrieked and Hugo said, ‘Why don’t you come
right in,
damn it, out of the storm, Tirza.’

‘I was waiting to be invited. In any case,’ to hide her nervousness she continued to be flighty, ‘I have waterproof make-up which is immune to rain and tears.’

‘Well, unless you happen to carry your own lightning conductor around with you, come in.’

Shaking back her hair, she said, ‘I’m not afraid of storms. I’m
excited
by them. I enjoy nature’s pyrotechnics.’

She was aware that the white denim jeans she was wearing were damp and that her scarlet shirt was clinging to her bosom.

The rain, gathering over the mountains, swept towards the opening to the building in fierce squalls of wind. ‘A stormy start to our contract,’ said Hugo. In an abrupt yet not ungraceful movement, he took her by the shoulders and drew her right into the building, which was without a door. She saw that his skin glowed dark and tanned. He was wearing jeans and a blue cotton shirt, open at the neck. The sensation his fingers had caused to surge through her, as he had drawn her right in out of the rain, flustered her, and the steady drumming of the rain on the paved area outside sounded very loud. They stood like this for a brief moment, then he dropped his arms to his sides while Tirza brushed her damp hair from her face.

‘You haven’t told me why you’re here. Is there some kind of snag?’ he asked.

‘No snag,’ she went on dragging her damp hair through her fingers, shaking it back from her face.

His eyes went past her. ‘You were supposed to fly. How come the car?’

Tirza’s cloud of apprehension grew. ‘It belongs to my friend. Soon after my arrival in Swaziland, I found out that you know her ... Cathy Mobray.’

A sudden change came over his face and she felt that he was aware of the fact that, despite her outward self-assurance, she was unsure of herself.

‘It never occurred to me that you might know her,’ he said, ‘but you know what they say, it’s a small world. So you borrowed Cathy’s car and came all the way out here, in a raging storm, just to tell me that you’ve arrived?’ This appeared to intrigue him. ‘I have learned one thing about you, and that is you can be pretty silly at times.’

The women at the looms were packing up now, preparing to leave. A mini-bus had pulled up outside. Suddenly, lightning struck nearby, possibly a tall tree, and although Tirza’s teeth went down on her lip she did not even blink. The thunder which followed almost immediately was almost deafening, but Hugo remained unmoved. He was not the type of man who would be the victim of any kind of situation ... he would always be the conqueror and, what was more, he would not take kindly to any form of deceit, whether it concerned his love-life or his business.

As she stood there watching him, she was aware of her clothing and the way in which her damp shirt was clinging to her bosom. Her mind flitted to the fragile lacy tanga-briefs and bra she was wearing, for his eyes had passed over her again, and she put one tanned arm across her chest and held her other arm with tense fingers. She had been shocked at the expression in those dark blue eyes, behind their thick black lashes.

‘You’d better get back and change,’ he said, ‘as soon as the rain lifts a little.’

Outside, however, the rain was still hissing and pelting down, while lightning continued to dart round the white-walled studio, lighting up everything. Hugo glanced at his watch. ‘I was about to leave here, as a matter of fact. The women have been doing shift-work. We’re working on a changeover scheme. The office is closed already, and so is the showroom. This is what we call the studio.’

‘I know. They told me back there, when I asked for you. They told me you’d be here.’

‘Was there something special you wanted to see me about?’ His voice and manner had authority.

‘Well, no, not really.’ The noisy confusion of the storm and the fact that she did not know how to prepare him for what Cathy Mobray might have to tell him about the real reason of her visit to Swaziland caused her to swallow. ‘I’m...’ she broke off and glanced around the room, ‘interested in weaving, you know.’

‘You’re interested in weaving, but you don’t weave. I remember, we discussed this over a drink on the Eastern Boulevard. You said you merely had a knowledge of looms—
and things
,’ he added, with unveiled mockery.

‘Well, I often model garments which are made from superfine mohair, after all.’ Somehow she couldn’t tell him that her real name was Harper and not Theron and that she was interested in the weaving industry for the very simple reason that she wanted to start her own business. What she wanted, really, was to obliterate this whole wretched visit to Swaziland ... to undo all that she had told Cathy. But it was too late.

‘I can’t show you around now. Perhaps another time.’ His male superiority aggravated her and she felt snubbed and tried to hide it by saying, ‘Do you live near here? Near to your work?’

‘I have a cottage, which I use when I’m here. It’s not very far away—quite near to the Mobrays, in fact. I’ll have to show you some time.’ His eyes lingered on hers a second too long to be indifferent.

Glancing at the square opening, Tirza said, ‘Well, the rain seems to have lifted, even if just a little. I must go.’

. Hugo went out into the rain with her and when they were next to Cathy’s car he said, ‘I’ll be in touch.’ The smell of drenched eucalyptus trees was strong in the hissing air. One of the trees had been stripped of its bark, and several branches lay upon the ground. The tree had a burnt look about it.

‘It’s been struck, hasn’t it?’ Tirza had to raise her voice over the rain and thunder.

‘You shouldn’t have come out. Couldn’t you see there was going to be a storm?’ His eyes rested on her mouth and it was almost as if she could feel the pressure of his lips on hers. He opened the door for her and she brushed against him as she slipped into the seat. When she looked up at him, the truth exploded in her. She was more than just a little attracted to Hugo Harrington.

She put the car into reverse and began to move, then she swung the car round and drove back down the rainswept hill.

Cathy Mobray’s thatched bungalow dripped in the pelting rain. Tirza parked the car in one of the open garages. In a lawned courtyard, around which the house was built, a beautiful erythremia tree was moving in the wind and shaking off the rain from its leaves and branches. In the sombre light, the branches appeared almost black. The atmosphere was rustic but beautifully elegant, thought Tirza.