Authors: Rosalind Brett
“Who looked after it?” he wanted to know, a frown between his dark brows.
“Mrs. Pryce. She knows all about those things.
”
“What did she do?”
“Cold water and iodine. It’s all right now.”
“Was
t
he skin broken?” The question cut like a lash.
“Only a graze across the thick part of my hand. It’s q
u
ite clean; nothing to worry about.”
She retreated to the kitchen, still muz
z
y from
a
touch of the sun.
After dinner, when the table was cleared, Mrs. Pryce settled down again with a book. Ross and Mr. Pryce played chess, and Clare, unable to sew and not in the mood for a book or a magazine, laboriously arranged with her left hand a pack of cards face downwards, in four rows of thirteen, and played Patience. She was too muddled to remember which cards had been turned up, and only by cheating managed to finish the game.
At half-past ten Mr. and Mrs. Pryce drank their nightly glass of malted
milk, said goodnight, and went into the bedroom.
When they were alone, Ross brought in the camp-bed and covers. “Tell me how you like it made,” he said.
“I can manage.” She could hear herself being terribly cool with
him,
and couldn’t stop.
“Come on, honey, how do you like it made?” She had never heard so much weariness i
n
his voice.
And, too tired herself to argue, she directed operations. He sprayed the room against night-invading insects, then lifted the blind to let the air through. He bolted the outside door and came back into the room, and lingered. She sat on
the side of the bed, nursing the hurt hand, her eyes large with pain and fatigue.
“You’re quite sure you need no help in undressing?
”
he asked.
“Yes. Except that....” she hesitated
.
“Except what?” He stood tall above her, looking down.
She touched the bandage at her wrist “Mrs. Pryce swathed me rather much. My sleeve is fairly tight above the elbow, and I don’t think it will come past the bandage.”
He examined it. “No, it won’t
.
Let’s have this bundle of stuff off you and make a decent job of it
.
”
“She’ll be upset if she finds in the morning that we’ve tampered with her dressing.”
“Who cares! Does she think you’re a piccan to he impressed by the size of a dressing? You’ve got to get some sleep.”
“I’d rather you didn’t take it off. But... Ross—”
“Well?”
“This is almost my last decent frock; I. can’t afford to hack it about. My left hand is hopeless with scissors. Will you snip the stitches of the sleeve seam for me? It’ll be easy to get off, then.”
“
C
ome near the lamp so that I make the least possible mess of it
.
”
As he cut the stitches she looked away from him, fixing her gaze on the lampshade. A butterfly moth swooped into the top of the hot glass and stayed a few seconds, then fluttered out again and rested on the hot glass, beating its
wings in dreadful agony till it dropped to the table below and jerked in its death throes.
Clare gave an uncontrollable shiver. “I shan’t be long now,” Ross muttered, his dark head bent over his task. “There. Will that do?”
She rubbed her left hand up the other arm, pushing the sleeve piece over
the shoulder. “Nicely, thanks.”
“You’re shot away and tired,” he said. “Want help out of the dress?”
She submitted, and when she stood slim and defenceless before him in her slip, he barely looked at her, folding the dress for her and laying it across the back of a chair. “Get some sleep,” he said.
She nodded and sat on a chair to pull off her shoes. “Goodnight, honey.”
“Goodnight, Ross.”
His door closed behind him.
She sat on for a while, hot thinking or feeling, and when finally she completed her undressing her forehead was cold
and
wet, and her hand unsteady. She turned out the lamp and got into bed, remembering how last night he had left the lamp glimmering, as though for a child who was nervous of the dark.
The next morning the missionaries made a final tour of inspection. The children were lined up and told to say thank you and goodbye
.
Mr. and Mrs. Johnson stood together und
e
r a large umbrella and formally shook hands. Mrs. Pryce turned away hurriedly, and walked so fast to the house that she had to sit down for five minutes to recover. Clare accompanied them to the landing-stage; the women kissed, Mr. Pryce shook hands. Conventional promises to keep in touch were exchanged. The couple got into their boat, and moved off.
Without emotion—what had happened to her feelings? she felt strange and dead—Clare watched the Pryces go out of her life for ever.
CHAPTER TEN
A COMMOTION behind Clare drew back
her
thoughts, from wherever they were, and she turned round from the landing-stage. A boy was talking to Johnny, his consonants clicking like drumsticks upon teak. Johnny nodded and smiled and came over to where she stood.
“New white master come two-three hours, long’ river,” he informed her.
Bidding him stay and offer his help when the boat put in, Clare started up the track alone. She was weary, and regretted now that she had disobeyed instructions to use the ‘chair.’ She was wearing breeches for which she had grown too thin. They were uncomfortable at the waist, and her shirt clung against her body. Her right hand throbbed, and she realised disturbingly that she could have picked up an infection.
It was tea-time when she got to the house. Mark and Luke were asleep in the shade, but they leapt to their feet when she called them, and hastened to carry put her instructions. The bedrooms were rearranged and swept, water heated for a bath, tins looked out for a nourishing hot meal.
She thought:
:
Thank goodness for the coming of this man. He’ll bring new books and records, and news about the latest plays and films.” It would have been torture to be alone with Ross at this stage in their relationship, and she was glad to the heart of her that Humphriss was coming today.
He arrived three hours later, and his grip almost cracked the bones of her fingers. “Delighted to know you, Mrs. Brennan,” he said. And he really sounded as
though he meant it, though Clare knew full well that she wasn’t looking at her best. A sleepless night had ringed her eyes with shadows, and it was beginning to show that she was losing weight
.
Bill Humphriss was of medium build, dark-skinned, with dark, quick eyes. His father was a brassfounder in Birmingham, he sociably informed Clare. Bill had wanted to study medicine, but his father would not hear of it. His son a doctor? Phugh!
Bill sat back and his observant eyes took in every aspect of the living-room. “I don’t know what I was expecting,” he said thoughtfully. “Nothing like this—this is all amazingly civilised.”
“You should have seen it when my husband and I got here fifteen months ago,” she smiled, and shook her head as she remembered. “The jungle had encroached and there was green mould everywhere. Ross and I have worked hard to make this place habitable.”
“It’s stunning,” Bill said enthusiastically. “I—I hope you’ll be leaving some of this stuff behind? I’m a bachelor. Haven’t many possessions to make a place look homey.”
“Yes, we’ll be leaving the furniture,” she said with a pang. “It belongs to the company—and you may keep a good few of the books—”
“Does that piano belong to the company?” he asked, trampling unknowingly on her heart
.
“No, the piano is mine,” she spoke quickly. “It was a gift from my husband and I shall be taking it with me when I leave. The steamer will take it as far as Onitslo for me.”
“Pity.” His eyes raked her face. “I couldn’t persuade you to change your mind? I rather like tickling the ivories myself.”
“It needs repairing, anyway. More tea, Mr. Humphriss?”
“You’re to call me Bill. After all, we’ll be seeing
a
lot of each other in the next few weeks—unless hubby’s the sort who doesn’t like you being familiar with other men?”
Ross referred to her as her ‘hubby’ made Clare want to break into hysterical laughter, and though she rather thought that she was going to find Bill Humphriss a bit hearty and trying, she resolved not to give way to nerves.
“So you had dreams of becoming a doctor?” she said.
“Aye, I had ’em all right, but the old man clamped down on the idea. He’s tough, self-made, you know the sort. Thinks us kids owe him our souls because he piped us into the world. The trouble is,” Bill heaved a sigh, “you do find yourself giving in to your parents more often than not, when they’re tough types like mine. Then he makes me an allowance—I wouldn’t get that if I decided to cross him.”
“How come you’re now in forestry?” Clare asked. “That’s a bit far removed from brassfounding, and doctoring.”
“It’s what
he
had me go in for. I’m the youngest son, y’see. My two brothers went into the business and— well, there wasn’t much room left for me. I don’t mind forestry. I’m quite good at it.”
“But you see yourself administering to the sick, eh?” she smiled. She noticed his strong, spatulate fingers, and supposed that he would make a good surgeon. “It’s not to
o
late for you to study medicine, Bill. You could study up during your two or three years out here. It would keep you occupied in the evenings.”
“Keep me from brooding, what?” He gave a guffaw. “I can’t blame Brennan for bringing his little woman out here—bit of a sticky climate for a woman, though, what with the rains.”
“The rains are the worst,” she agreed. “The atmosphere gets a bit hellish then.”
“You look as though you’ve stuck this place remarkably well.” Humphriss looked her over with hearty interest. “By golly, a gal would have to love a man a devil of a lot to take on the jungle and being miles from dress shops and cinemas.”
“Too true,” she smiled, with bitter-sweetness. “I must admit that I shall take in every film in London when I go home, and spend hours window-shopping.”
“Sorry the company asked Brennan to stop on a few more weeks,” he apologised gruffly. “Hate to break up the happy jungle home.”
“You aren’t doing that,” she assured him. “Why don’t you think seriously about studying medicine while you’re here? By the time you go home, you’ll have saved enough to keep you while you sit for your exams.”
“Hm, it’s certainly worth thinking about.” He scuffed a hand over his dark jaw. “Say, I must look like a sweep—got a devil of a beard. Could I have a bath and a shave? Have you the facilities?”
“Yes, we have the facilities, Bill.” She smiled as she
s
tood up. “There’s hot water out in the bath-house now, so if you’ll bring your toilet things I’ll show you how our various gadgets work. They’re pretty ingenious. Ross rigged up most of them.”
After taking Bill Humphriss round to the bathhouse, Clare went out to the veranda to sit in the shade for a few quiet minutes. It was a good job this new man was not Don Carter’s type. In her present mixed-up mood she might, like a kitten turned off a warm knee, have turned to someone like Don for reassurance that she was a desirable woman. It would never have gone beyond reassurance—feeling as she did about Ross—but it was just as well that Bill Humphriss made no sort of appeal to her.
She let her heavy head drop back against the cushioned head-piece of the lounger, and through her lashes watched the westering sun above the jungle trees. The sky to the west was soaked in fire, and soon the sun would dip out of sight and darkness would take over. Yes, she would take in all the London films, and window-shop
... sublimation, didn’t they call it? Then maybe she would return to Ridgley for
a
while, because she owed that much to her aunt. But having been bitten by the tropical bug, she would
have to
travel again in such places. Secretaries were
needed all over
the globe; she shouldn’t have much
trouble
finding a
job that would give her the shadow of
what she really
wanted.
Her lashes drifted down over her eyes,
and she
dozed
off
to sleep, to awaken with
a
start and
the
immediate awareness that someone was standing
looking down at
her. “You shouldn’t fall asleep out
here in dark
,”
Ross said, giving her
a
hand up.
“Anything could come
up on to the veranda and take you
unaware.”
“Clare,” he turned her to face him
in the doorway of
the living-room, “I hope you aren’t
getting careless.”
She shook her head. “I’m just
a little tired
after entertaining the Pryces. Ross, the
new man is here.
”
“Yes, the boys told me. How does he seem?
”