The House Called Green Bays

by Jan Andersen

  THE HOUSE CALLED GREEN BAYS

  by

  JAN ANDERSEN

  When Tracy inherited her father's South African fruit farm, Green Bays, she realised that she could never hope to run it without the help of the indispensable manager, Roger Louw. But how could she be sure that Roger had the interests of Green Bays at heart, when so many signs pointed otherwise?

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE jet flight from London had been comfortable but boring. With each brief stopover, at Lisbon, Las Palmas and finally in the sticky heat of Luanda, Tracy had grown more and more impatient. She had been several weeks making the decision to come to South Africa. Now it had been made she wanted to arrive as quickly as possible and greet the father she had not seen for eight years.

  Her ears had begun to buzz again, a sure sign they were coming down for the last time. Far, far below her the red, dusty plains took shape, then, as the great plane dipped and turned, she saw in the distance the red turn to fertile green. Johannesburg at last. And with that thought came the first flicker of nervousness.

  Half an hour later, safely through all formalities, she stood surrounded by luggage in the airport lounge. The last of the flight passengers from London had gone. The plane had not been late. Her letter had been quite specific about date and time, so there was little doubt that she was not being met, at the airport at least

  Her spirits rose a little when she remembered she had told her father the name of a hotel she would go to if there were any difficulties. Of course, he would be there, probably waiting for her now instead of trailing out to meet her in the impersonal atmosphere of an airport! Only then did it strike her that it must be almost worse for a father to face a grown-up daughter whom he last saw as a leggy schoolgirl.

  What would he think of her? Would it shock him that she was so like her mother with her slender build and black, almost raven hair and in particular her thickly lashed eyes—blue, deepening to violet in certain lights?

  Impatience swept her again as the bus ambled into town. Another delay while she found a cab, then at last she was at the hotel, asking at the desk whether there had been a call for her.

  The porter shook his head. “Nothing, madam. If there had been a message we would have it. There’s the lounge over there—perhaps there’s someone waiting for you.”

  But the room, in mid-afternoon, was empty.

  Depressed again, she followed the porter up to her room where, alone at last, she sat down to think and to wonder whether her decision to come had been too hasty after all.

  Memory of her father had blurred over the years, but they had corresponded, particularly during the past two years, when she felt they had grown close again, as he had reached out to her, asking her every single detail about herself, her plans for the future, her friends, so she could not but think he longed to see her again.

  After the war, so her mother had told her, Jack Jamieson had been unable to settle down to any job longer than a few months. South Africa had beckoned him as a land of sunshine and promise, the land of his childhood that he felt was home. With his engineering experience he had got a job in a mining company, but it had only lasted eighteen months before he was on the move seeking greener pastures. He had tried every land of job from running a small hotel to tobacco farming. But nothing had quite suited him. Then, when Tracy was thirteen, her grandmother in England fell ill and expressed a desire to see her daughter and granddaughter again, sending the fare for them both.

  Tracy’s mother had never returned to South Africa.

  Tracy learned the details of her parents’ story when she was about eighteen. Once, she had asked her mother why she did not return to South Africa now that time had healed old wounds and Jack Jamieson had been in a permanent job for four years. Her mother had looked rather distant and answered, “If he asks me then I’ll consider it, but not before.”

  It was then that Tracy realised her mother might have had some regrets about the step she had taken but was too proud to admit it, so it became Tracy’s ambition to reunite her parents. Her mother had not minded her and her father corresponding, in fact she had encouraged it, saying that Tracy was old enough to make her own decisions. When Tracy cautiously had suggested the idea of going to South Africa for a visit she had hesitated, then stipulated only that Tracy must wait until she was twenty-one.

  So Tracy had worked and saved for her fare. She was a highly qualified secretary and she had spent the past six months reading every book on South Africa she could lay her hands on. In particular she had read about fruit farming, because her father’s enthusiasm for the farm he ran came through all his letters. She was quite determined to make herself useful to him. Then she hoped that within a few weeks he could be persuaded to send for his wife.

  All this flew through Tracy’s mind as she sat and wondered why he had not met her. She had written about her plans to visit him many times and he had seemed delighted. The only letter he had not answered was the one telling him the day of her arrival. Perhaps she should have waited, but by then she was packed and all her plans made. Her savings were drawn out and in a way it was too late to back out. Even her father’s displeasure was worth risking, though she did not doubt being able to dispel that. Once she had met him face to face, she would show him she could earn her keep and not be a nuisance to him.

  She rummaged in her bag and re-read his last letter, written a month ago. It sounded rather nostalgic, if anything, dwelling on her childhood and asking for a recent snap of her mother and herself. That was when she had decided to advance her booking and leave England almost immediately.

  Well, there was only one thing to do. She picked up the telephone and asked the switchboard to find the number of a farm called Green Bays.

  They were some time connecting her, then finally came the ringing tone and a woman’s voice answered. When she asked for Mr. Jamieson there was silence and she thought the woman had hung up. But she waited hopefully, nervously until a man’s voice came through, strongly. “Yes, who is it?”

  “Father, is that you?” she said eagerly. “It’s Tracy, I’ve arrived. I’m in Johannesburg.”

  Again there was silence, but this time it was brief. “I’m afraid this isn’t Mr. Jamieson. He ... he isn’t here.”

  “I see.” She did not like the cool, hard tone of voice. Her own voice sharpened. “Then perhaps you would tell him this is his daughter and that I’ll be coming out to the farm tomorrow.”

  “I shouldn’t do that, Miss Jamieson. I’m the manager. It would be better if I came into town and talked to you. What hotel are you staying at?”

  Her immediate reaction was, He doesn’t want me to come. She could not, she would not be put off now. “I’m still coming,” she said. “Please see that my father gets the message.”

  “But...” She put the phone down before she could listen to another excuse.

  She realised suddenly she was trembling, partly from worry, partly from tiredness. She was so very, very tired; all the last week’s build-up of tension, the sleepless night on the plane, the sudden exhausting heat—and now this. The pillow looked very inviting. If she could just lie back for a moment perhaps her head would clear and she could think things out sensibly ... Within a few minutes she was fast asleep.

  When she awoke the room was in darkness and a faint breeze blew in through the open window. Lying for a moment trying to collect her thoughts, she realised she was still in the clothes she had worn from London. And it was mid-February there. By the time she had bathed and changed into a linen dress some of her worries had slipped away. How foolish it had been to jump to the conclusion that something was wrong simply because of an abrupt telephone call with a stranger.

  After dinner
she sought out the friendly porter and showed him her father’s address. He pondered a moment, then studied train timetables and told her she would have to leave at eight the following morning. There would probably be a road journey at the other end, depending on how far afield the farm lay from Nelspruit.

  Many times in his letters had her father described the rich farming area of the White River which, though fairly small, produced acres of peaches, bananas and citrus fruit. Through his letters she had come to accept his growing love of the land, so it was difficult for her to imagine the man her mother had once loved but left because he could put down no roots.

  The next morning the train carried her eastwards across the farming regions of the High Veld. She found she remembered little from her childhood. In the last years England had become home to her. But she did recall the yellow mine dumps, shaped like upturned baking tins, scattered round the outskirts of the city. And she remembered the heat, dry and intense, not unpleasant, but tiring at first.

  Just before the train came into Nelspruit she combed her hair and smoothed down her dress yet again, half hoping that her father would be at the station. Yesterday she had been keyed up to meet him. Today, although she could not explain why, she felt a little fearful.

  The station dozed under the midday sun. There was no one who could possibly have been her father. Out in front there was no sign of a taxi, but the porter told her that if she waited one would come eventually. A scent of flowers drifted across to her. Here the air was fresh and sweet, untainted by city dust and smoke. A small African boy gazed at her from huge eyes, then held out his hand hopefully. In her pocket she found a peppermint and gave it to him. He hid a shy grin and ran fast.

  “Miss Jamieson?”

  She swung round. From a car parked at the far end a man had got out and was striding towards her. She got an impression of height, of rather sallow skin and deep-set eyes that examined her without looking at her.

  She nodded. He did not look or sound particularly welcoming. “Did my father send you?”

  “No, I came on my own account. I’m Roger Louw, the manager of Green Bays. We spoke briefly on the phone yesterday.”

  “That’s right.” He offered no hand, nor did he offer to see to her luggage. So she was forced yet again to take the initiative. “My cases are still inside. Shall I find a porter?”

  He seemed to hesitate, his eyes boring through her. “Miss Jamieson, I tried to stop you coming when I spoke to you. You’ve had a wasted journey, I’m afraid, not only from Johannesburg, but from England too.”

  “I don’t think I understand. Isn’t my father here?”

  “Your father’s dead, Miss Jamieson.” He said it baldly as if he were deliberately trying to shock her.

  For a moment she thought he must be fooling. But the expression in his eyes looking down at her, hard and unblinking, told her a different story. It also told her she could expect little sympathy. She had come without invitation, therefore she must take the consequences.

  It was in that split second that the realisation came that she was on her own—that in fact she had been on her own since she was grown up. When someone had to stand firm or make a difficult decision it had been made by her, not her mother; the whole weight of coming on this trip had been made by herself. Always at the back of her mind had been the thought that one day her father could take that weight again. But it seemed that was not to be.

  When she faced Roger Louw finally she was controlling the panic that had swept over her. “When did he die—and why were neither my mother nor myself told?”

  “He died a few days ago, Miss Jamieson, but it was not unexpected, he had been ill for several months with a kidney infection. And I am indeed surprised that neither you nor your mother was told. You understand now why I tried to stop you coming this morning.”

  “Yes,” she said slowly.

  “I’m afraid there is about a two-hour wait before the train back to Johannesburg, but I would be happy if you would join me for lunch.” If he was happy then he hid it well!

  “How far away from here is Green Bays?” she countered.

  “About forty minutes’ drive.”

  “Then,” she said briskly, “I would much prefer that you took me out to see it. My mother will be certain to ask what it was like. Besides, he ... described it so often in his letters that I couldn’t bear to come all this way and leave without seeing it.”

  “Just as you wish.” But his voice was curt as if it were the last thing in the world he wished.

  For a while he drove in silence, with set face, while she wondered just why he was so loath to let her see where her father spent his last days. For the moment her mind was still numbed by the news she would not see him after all.

  With an effort she said, “Was my father in hospital, Mr. Louw?”

  “A couple of months ago, yes, but when there was nothing more they could do for him he begged to be allowed to come home. His farm was everything to him.”

  She frowned. “His farm? Then he actually owned part of Green Bays?”

  “He owned all of it, Miss Jamieson, surely you knew that?”

  She did not answer. Both she and her mother had assumed he helped run the farm, but that he had saved the money to buy it had never entered their heads.

  She glanced at the lean face with eyes hidden now behind dark glasses and wondered just where Roger Louw fitted in. A manager, he said. Things were growing even more confused.

  “When did you join my father?” she asked.

  “About six months ago, when the doctor ordered him to take things easy. I’ve managed the farm for him since then.”

  “And will you stay on?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what, Mr. Louw?” she asked quietly.

  It seemed a long time before he answered. The straight road stretched ahead of them mile after mile while on either side of them the tall spiky plants of the banana massed in great fields. England seemed suddenly very small and very far away.

  “On the future ownership of Green Bays,” he said abruptly.

  Tracy was out of her depth. Her mother had taught her to think of her father as a nomad, so the idea of him owning any kind of property was alien to her. Why, she wondered, had he not said in his letters that he owned Green Bays? For that matter why had he not mentioned Roger Louw? She knew practically nothing about property, but it seemed likely that the farm was small and there was a heavy mortgage on it. Though technically her father might have been the owner it would now probably pass back into the hands of a bank or building society. But she did hope there would be a little money for her mother. It was time she stopped working and settled down to the normal life of a woman of her age.

  “You make no comment, Miss Jamieson,” said Roger Louw.

  “Because I’m even more in the dark than you appear to be,” she answered. “I can’t yet believe my father is dead, and to be perfectly honest neither my mother nor myself had any idea that he even had a stake in Green Bays. We just thought he managed it for someone else.”

  He glanced at her and it seemed that anger flashed briefly across his face. With a certain vein of contempt he replied, “Your father had little time for women. He probably thought it would be a waste of time explaining the exact nature of his position to her.”

  Tracy flushed and bit back a retort. Roger Louw appeared to be judging her father by his own low opinion of women. She did not like the man one little bit and wished heartily her father had found an older more considerate manager to run Green Bays for him.

  Suddenly they turned off the main road on to an untarred one. The car set up a cloud of dust in its wake. Here were fields of maize and a golden acre of blooming sunflowers. She wanted to exclaim at the beauty, but did not want to be crushed again by an unfriendly remark from Roger Louw.

  He slowed down as they came to a gate across the road. She guessed that he expected her to offer to open it, but she sat tight while he opened it himself. Heat came through the
open door like a wall now that the car was stationary.

  “Is this Green Bays?” she asked, and he nodded.

  She began to study everything she saw carefully, determined to show she knew something about fruit farming, even if it was only in theory. She recognised the peaches whose season was just over and saw that the orange and lemon trees were beginning to ripen. One of the few things she could remember from her childhood was climbing up to pick the ripe juicy peaches from a tree in one of the many gardens they had owned.

  The car rounded a corner of the drive and there, set up on a grassy terrace, was the house.

  By South African standards it was old, probably about a hundred years, with white walls, shuttered windows and a thatched roof. Ripening paw-paws clustered at one end of the house and the doorway was thick with crimson bougainvillea.

  “But it’s beautiful!” Tracy burst out. From the terrace she could see the distant mountain range and below her the fruit trees sloped gently away.

  “Tell me, Mr. Louw,” she asked, “just how big is this farm?”

  “About five hundred acres.”

  She stared at him, repeating the figure in her mind. It was unbelievable. All this little paradise had been her father’s. She glanced at the man standing stiffly beside her. No wonder he had tried to stop her coming. She was a potential destroyer of his peace, an intruder in his masculine world.

  “Look, Mr. Louw,” she said impulsively, “I think I’m beginning to understand why you tried to keep me away from here, but my coming surely can’t change anything for you. Now that my father is dead your own position must surely rest on a legal decision—only the new owner of Green Bays will be able to tell you what that is. For all I know my father might have borrowed heavily to buy this and paid little of it off in four years.”