"You prefer it that way?"
"Well, yes. I like an hour or two round a log-fire after a hot, sunny day. It gives one a sense of home that is otherwise lacking in the tropics."
Impersonally, he commented, "Home is anywhere if you're in the right company."
"One's own four walls and a cabbage-patch," she countered. "I'm one of those idiots who plant acorns and watch them grow."
"I plant bridges," he said in a curious voice, "and then pass on."
Somehow, merely through changes of tone, the conversation had taken a disquieting turn. Karen told herself that she was becoming ridiculously sensitive to his inflections, and distorting them quite out of perspective. Or perhaps the fault lay deep in her consciousness. After all, he looked no different, except for a slight thinning of his mouth. But there was something. She could feel it stinging in the atmosphere. "Shall we see you at the weekend?" she asked.
"I have to go to Nairobi. In case I'm not back for a week or two, will you ask Justin to go ahead with harvesting the groundnuts? Tell him arrange the transport."
"All right."
"Goodbye, then."
"Goodbye." A week or two. Her heart quailed ...
ELIZABETH came home bursting with vigour. In ten days, she and Justin had done everything one could in Nairobi and now she was
eager to slip back into harness and chat, between jobs, of the dresses and shoes she might have acquired with limitless means. On the whole, though, she was satisfied with her purchases.
"It's your turn now," she told Karen. "I don't think any of the parents would mind if you shut up school for a week, so that you and Nova could go together. We're not bound by rules, and most of us would prefer the
children to have a week's holiday frequently, rather than an endles vacation once in three months."
Nova thought otherwise. "In the matter of holidays, I intend to follow the government schools. Set terms, with exams, stimulate competitioi between the children, which is important." She added that, in Karen' absence, she had begun a system whereby she could deal with all twenty odd children herself, so Karen was free to go off for a holiday whenever she liked.
"An efficient young woman, our Nova," commented Elizabeth later, "but a trifle soulless. It's hardly fair of her to take the school so entirely out of your hands."
"It was an interest," Karen admitted, "but I don't mind giving it up. I haven't been trained as Nova has. And I really would like to go to Nairobi fairly soon. It's Mother's wedding anniversary in six weeks, and I may have to buy something too hefty for air mail."
"I'd forgotten that. If we can't get you there any other way, Justin will put you on the train at Guaba."
But a couple of days later, Colonel Williamson solved the difficulty. He had to see his lawyer in town next Tuesday, and intended travelling up on Monday. He would be delighted to have Karen's company and to bring her back the following Sunday.
It was not until she was packing a suitcase that Karen realised how badly she needed another break. Farm life in Kenya, she reflected, was a series of interminable stretches on the shamba; day following day with scarcely the suggestion of a Sunday in between, except on the rare occasions when someone offered a lift to the mission church in Guaba. Naturally, the monotony accentuated out of all proportion the small excitements of entertaining or being entertained.
For the married women, occupied with household and other duties by day, and resting with a book or mending basket in the evening, existence was more than tolerable; most of them were part owners of a portion of Kenya soil, and had growing children besides to compensate for what, even in this climate of light and colour, must sometimes seem a dull life.
Karen was afforded no such comfort and now, apparently, not even the school needed her assistance. Sometime soon, she would have to think up a means of earning her living. Certainly she could not go on staying with Elizabeth as other than a paying guest, and her bankbook was beginning to look sick and sorry. What sort of work was open to a girl in Kenya? Apart from teaching, almost nothing.
KAREN'S depressed silences soon made their imprint on Elizabeth. 'S seedy, pet?" she inquired. "No. Why?"
"This mood isn't like you. Sure there's nothing on your mind?" "What could there be?"
Her cousin smiled affectionately. "You need more thrills. You're only young once, you know, and staying here on the farm with Justin and me you're missing your chances. I was certain when we asked you to come out that you'd be at least engaged within six months. Is there really nothing doing with Roy?"
"We've never been more than friends. As for other men—well, I'm not fluffy or siren enough to attract them."
"Don't be a goose. Men play up to the fluffies but the more sensible ones don't marry them. Look at me, for example! You're too reserved, Karen. You're prettier than half the women here and why you don't pick on someone and go all out for him I can't imagine. Men take a girl at her own valuation and it's up to you to set the price high."
Karen shook her head. "You don't really mean that. You know as well as—better than—I do, that love is something which grows between two people without forcing."
From Keith and Nova, Elizabeth had gathered that Mark had been attentive during her holiday. Perhaps it was unwise to let her cousin go to Nairobi while he was there but, on the other hand, Karen's family hotel was discreetly removed from the club and Nyeri racecourse, where people of Mark's means congregated.
Karen left the coffee farm with Charles Williamson in a dispirited frame of mind. For some hidden reason, she shrank from meeting new people and taking up with former acquaintances, and her desire to see Mark was tarnished by the certainty that where he was, so would Inga be.
"Are you comfortable, Karen?" Charles asked solicitously.
"Very. This is the first time I've travelled over the new road."
"So far it only reaches Guaba. One of Mark's reasons for visiting Nairobi just now is to get permission for an extension to where this road joins the Nairobi-Kisumu road. It would be smooth-going the whole way then and the journey would take half the time. He's a great engineer. It will be bad luck if he goes south."
"Isn't he sure yet? Indecision doesn't sound like Mark."
"One never knows but he still hasn't closed with the South African company. I believe he has private business to settle first."
Charles was not a man one could accuse of envy, yet what other explanation was there for the bitterness in his expression as he summarily sought a different subject?
At three that afternoon, he left Karen at the small hotel in which she had stayed on her previous trip to Nairobi. "Tonight you will want to rest," he said, "and I shall be tied up most of tomorrow. I'll ring you on Wednesday. My hotel is the Ashley, if you should wish to get in touch with me."
She thanked him and saw him start off before following the boy who had taken her suitcase. Tea was brought up to her bedroom veranda and she did not come down till dinner was being served. She just couldn't afford sun-
downers on the terrace this time. A couple of residents whom she remembered nodded vaguely, as though uncertain where they had seen her before, but she was not sorry to have been given a small table to herself, overlooking the garden, dark now, and starred with fireflies.
DURING the following days, she shopped for her own needs and her mother's gift, which was a pair of typically Kenyan watercolours done by
a well-known local artist. They were expensive but her mother would delight in having them appropriately framed and hung in her new house at Hampstead.
It was odd how, in a city where every possible diversion was available and shops displayed attractive goods, that week dragged for Karen. Twice she was invited for car trips with fellow residents and, one afternoon, someone offered a lift out to the Lawsons' place. Nova's mother listened proudly to the tale of her daughter's clever handling of twenty children ranging from four to nine and several older ones to whom she was giving special coaching.
On Thursday evening,
Karen dined with Charles at the Ashley. Later they danced for half an hour in the adjoining salon and then Charles begged her to accompany him to Inga Sanderfield's. "As you know, Mark has lent her his house for a stay in Nairobi, so she does his entertaining for him. They have guests this evening, and I was invited. I told them you were in town and that we were dining together, and both Inga and Mark suggested that we go along for a drink and a chat."
"I'd rather not, thanks. It's been a lovely evening, Charles."
"Do come. I'll bring you back early."
"No, really. It's awfully kind of you."
Charles's persistence forced her to pretend the first dull throb of a headache.
"Oh well, I've no option," was his final remark. "But you must definitely spend Saturday evening with me at the club. You're much too sweet to be allowed to tuck yourself away!" With a flourish, half-gallant, half-serious, he raised her hand and pressed his lips to the fingertips.
Karen was beginning to loathe her pastel-pink dress. It was not old-fashioned and it cleaned beautifully, but there was no getting away from its demure outlines, which gave her small, clear features a primness she would rather be without.
In desperation, she bought some rose-coloured sequins, and most of Friday she spent fashioning them into a small garland of flowers which could be stitched to the waist of the dress. Nothing, she despondently told her reflection in the mirror could disguise the fact that it was her old dress doubtfully pepped up with sequins.
On Saturday evening, Charles called for her at seven-thirty, and drove straight to the club, where they took cocktails on the terrace. He was very well known, and several times Karen intercepted knowledgeable smiles. While he remained in Kenya, Charles Williamson would never quite live down his wild oats, but he was not disliked for them.
The table he had reserved was in an exposed central position and made even more obvious by the huge basket of deep red roses which stood at one corner. Karen and Charles sat at right angles to each other, and the Malay waiter brought champagne and hors-d'oeuvre. As the meal progressed, Charles was charming and attractive. Once, between courses, while describing an amusing incident at the races that afternoon, he laid his hand lightly on her wrist and kept it there for a few seconds.
The waiter was serving poulet aux asperges. Over Karen's shoulder Charles smiled and inclined his head. She turned, and mechanically turned back again, her appetite gone.
CHAPTER VII
A MOMENT or two elapsed before she inquired, "Have Mark and Mrs. Sanderfield been there long?"
"They were here before us but I hadn't caught their eye. The chicken is good, isn't it? Don't you care for the wine?"
"Yes—yes, of course." It might as well have been water.
Charles had beckoned for his bill when Mark and Inga paused on their way out. "You notice the roses, Mark," she slurred huskily. "Red, very red, like the heart's blood. In Sweden they have a meaning. And in Kenya, too?"
His tone was negative. "In Kenya, my dearest Inga, red roses mean that someone has taken the deuce of a lot of trouble to grow them. Are you coming yet, Charles?"
"Yes. If you're ready, Karen?"
The natural movement was towards the terrace. Out there, the peeling bark of eucalyptus trees scented the night air. Banana leaves soughed gently together, and the pale glow of the stars silhouetted the grotesque branched palms down near the roadway. Karen shivered, not altogether from cold, Inga came beside her at the low wall, and the men split up, Charles at Inga's side and Mark at Karen's.
"You have cool, fragrant nights here, Mark," Inga said. "Nights that should not be neglected. Charles agrees, do you not, Charles?"
"One has to like the nights here—there's so much of 'em," he observed. As always with Inga, his manner was direct. "I didn't know you two were coming tonight or we might all have dined together."
"Tomorrow," she said, dangerously calm, "you are going back to Guaba. Not once this week did you dine or lunch with me. We are not enemies, Charles?"
"What a question Inga! One never quarrels with a beautiful woman. I'm sure you and Mark have been too engrossed with his associates from Johannesburg to notice my absence."
"And you with Miss Ainsley from the coffee farm?" she rejoined, not altogether playfully.
"Exactly," Charles admitted suavely. "Will you excuse us while we dance?"
Karen felt Mark take a firm but impersonal grip of her arm. "Sorry, Charles," he said curtly. "Our young friend has just consented to dance with me."
As he led her into the brilliantly lit ballroom and slipped an arm about her, Karen felt the blood singing up into her throat and flooding her cheeks with a flush that seemed merged with the lovely web of pain that swathed her heart.
LIKE most tall, lean men, Mark danced easily, managing Karen on the crowded floor as though she were so much thistledown. Once, when an
energetic couple circled close to them, his arm tautened across her back to shield her from threatened impact, but the instant the risk was past he slackened and she felt his chin jerk up, away from contact with her hair. "Seeing rather a lot of Charles, aren't you?" he murmured.
"I'm alone here. I appreciate his kindness very much."
"Even to holding his hand in a public dining-room?"
"That's unfair," she said unevenly. "The gesture was Charles's and probably he doesn't even remember he did it."
"You're too modest," he said. "Charles admires you and why not? You're pretty enough to deserve a second glance from any man. But Charles isn't quite your type. His years and experience make him a dangerous playmate."
That seemed to be that. She wasn't going to quarrel with Mark over Charles Williamson.
"Why didn't you tell me last week that you were coming to town?" he next inquired.
"It was Elizabeth's idea. Life had gone rather flat and Charles offered the lift, so I accepted."
They danced for a minute. "And what is your excuse," he went on steadily, "for refusing to come to Carlyon Drive for a drink the other evening?"
" I took it to be the sort of invitation that calls for conventional refusal." "I don't believe it," he bit out.
His grip on her fingers was painful. As the music crescendoed for the end of the dance, she felt an anger in him; no, not so much anger as throttled violence, from some inscrutable cause.
In silence, he led her to the lounge, where Charles and Inga were seated. "Hallo," said Charles politely. "We thought we'd lost you."
"You both have the look disagreeable." Inga offered Mark her hand; the sultry glance darkened. "Dance with me, darling, and I will soon have you happy again."
As they glided away together, Karen looked at Charles. "Is anything wrong?" he asked.
"No, but I'd like to go back to the hotel. There's no need for you to come though. I'd hate to spoil your evening."
"I'll take you. I can come back later if I feel inclined."
In the hired car, he was quiet and he said good night in the small foyer. "We'll start back to Guaba early tomorrow. I always enjoy Nairobi but it's a good place to leave." He might have added, 'Especially when you are broke and the woman you love treats you like a tramp.'
HAVING decided to walk back to his hotel, Charles dismissed the car and set out along the wide, tree-lined avenue in the aromatic darkness.
Well, it was over. Inga's reply had been an unequivocal "No". Not that he had expected anything else, or would have dared pose the question but for the ineffable sweetness of those weeks together in Stockholm a year ago. What had she said?
"They will always be my dearest memory, Charles. For us, the world stood still. Let us leave it like that."
She could be as beautiful and cold as the snows amid which she was born; she could also yield, like the snows in Spring.
He had first met Inga the day she had married George Sanderfield in Mombasa. Mark was in Burma at the time and George and he had had to rejoin their regiment three days after the wedding. Up in the desert, George had read out bits of her let
ters and Charles had wished he wouldn't; he didn't want to be reminded of Inga. Yet when George was invalided home with a stiff knee, life became blank and pointless and Charles longed for the end of the war when he would return to Kenya.
It was about six months before George had died, that Inga confessed to having married him for his money. Charles was not shocked; he had always moved with a fast crowd to whom money spelled almost everything. Rather, he saw Inga as a lovely impoverished woman driven by Fate into marriage with a stolid, unimaginative game-hunter. He was actually in Cape Town when Mark brought the news of George's death.
Charles could still feel a slight stab of shock when he recalled his next meeting with Mark and learned that Inga had returned to Sweden. By that time he was practically down to living on his Army pension, and he had actually been forced to sell his final block of shares to finance the trip to Stockholm. But it had been worth it. Lack of funds had driven him back to Kenya—lack of funds and Inga's promise that she would join him within a few months.
So he had taken on the house above Guaba and put out innumerable feelers for a job. And, somehow, by remaining clear of expensive Nairobi, he had managed to cling to his self-respect. He hadn't bargained for Inga's complete switch-over to Mark. But what more natural? Released by a year's deference to the dead, Mark now considered himself free to approach
George's widow. It was possible that he, too, had been earlier captured by Inga's blonde beauty, but had suppressed his feelings in the belief that one doesn't trespass on the territory of one's best friend. Despite his cynicism, Mark was the sort who would push his code of honour to the extreme. It was also true that, if he loved Inga, he would move heaven and earth to have her. Well, he wouldn't have to move heaven and earth. Inga was his.
"You see, my darling," she had said in that maddening, husky voice, "George's income died with him. The family send to me a small allowance. If I marry again, that, too, will come to an end."
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