by Jan Andersen
How had it all happened? How had the disease struck with such swiftness? She almost felt that fate had taken a hand. Last night she had got out every book she could find on citrus growing and not one of them suggested that red scale could get a hold so quickly. The more she thought about it the more she wanted to find a reason. There would be another year, and another, and if none of the farmers in the district had experienced anything like this, then they had to find out what weakness lay hidden at Green Bays.
The next morning Tracy overslept. The sun was high and work would have been started an hour ago. Just when, with Roger’s illness, she was needed most. In future she must insist on Noni waking her whatever the occasion.
The house seemed very quiet when she got downstairs. She went into the kitchen to find Noni, but she was not about, neither was the girl who came in to help with the cleaning. She then had the queerest sensation that something was wrong and instead of calling for Noni, went out to the front of the house.
Noni was there all right. So was Dinga. And in a little group in the yard were the rest of the workers.
She looked from one face to another. Neither Dinga nor Noni could meet her fully in the eyes.
“All right,” she said crisply. “Something’s wrong, I can see that. Dinga, will you please tell Noni what it is so that she can tell me.”
“I know what it is, missie, we didn’t want to wake the master while he is ill ... we are frightened of his anger.”
“Well, you’re not frightened of my anger, and I want to know what it is.”
“Dinga says you must go with him so he can show you.”
“All right.” She turned to Noni. “But you’d better come too, in case there is something I don’t understand.”
They went down the path to the orchards and at a respectful distance behind followed the other African workers. They had not spoken a word, as if they thought the devil was with them.
They reached the beginning of the lower orchard and Dinga stopped, turned to Tracy, his eyes sad and haunted. For a few seconds Tracy stared round her, then she clapped a hand to her mouth.
“Oh, no, Dinga, no, it can’t be true!”
She touched the nearest tree. The leaves looked as though they were dying, but the fruit, the beautiful ripening oranges were disfigured with ugly brown stains. It needed no expert to know she was looking at a completely ruined crop.
She swallowed, trying to keep calm and clear-headed now that Roger wasn’t here. Last night things had looked bad enough, but this was a thousand times worse.
“But, Dinga,” she said slowly, “the disease can’t have worsened overnight like this. Besides, the area we are looking at now was not even affected. Isn’t that right?”
He nodded.
“Well, what is it, then?”
With many grunts and gesticulations with his hands he tried to make himself understood. It was Noni who said haltingly, “I think he is saying it is something to do with the spray.”
“The spray! But that was supposed to prevent this kind of thing happening. Why, they were here working for hours.”
“That’s what he says, missie.”
It was no good blaming Dinga, it was only saying what he thought. She must get things moving herself. In a voice of command she said, “I’m going out for half an hour. I don’t want anything touched round here, in fact I don’t want any of the men near the fruit. And, Noni, on no account is Mr. Roger to be told of this if he wakes.”
“But if he asks, missie? You know, he will want an answer.”
“Well, for once you can’t give him one. Say I’m out, that you assume all is well and that Dinga is at the other side of the farm—that one of us will come and see him the moment we get back. You understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“And you, Dinga?”
The old man nodded and looked so near to tears that she could not help adding, “And I know it’s not your fault, Dinga, it’s just that I’m worried and trying to do something about this.”
Dinga’s hands thrown to the skies and his few grunts spoke worlds, but Noni said, “He says there is nothing you can do with this fruit except eat it ourselves.”
She was well aware of that and bit back the waspish remark. It was not their fault; she must not vent her anger and disappointment on them.
She got out the car and drove—too fast—to White River. There she made her way to the local citrus board office and asked that someone should return with her immediately.
The man in the office looked doubtful, so she said sharply, “Look, it’s not just the rest of my crop I’m thinking about, but every farmer around. No one seems to know why this should have happened overnight, when the trees were sprayed only yesterday. My manager’s in bed ill and I simply must have an expert opinion.”
He seemed to come to at the imperiousness of her tone, got on the telephone and told her that one of the local men would be close on her heels.
“Thank you.” She strode out of the office, but in the car her confidence vanished, leaving only dejection and hopelessness.
The giant of a man, Stobart, who arrived in record time, looked as if he knew exactly what he was about, took one look at the trees and said, “What were these sprayed with?”
She no longer had the scrap of paper that Roger had given her, but she tried to recall the figures.
He shook his head. “Not accurate enough. At least if that’s the strength of spray used, this wouldn’t have happened.”
“Then it is the spray?”
“You can say that again, Miss Jamieson. These have been sprayed with a double strength oil spray—almost enough to kill them off.”
She just stared at him. “But I don’t understand. Mr. Lawson’s men did it. He would surely know that was too strong?”
He laughed without humour. “Of course he would. Either one of his men made a mistake, which again seems unlikely, or he simply received the wrong instructions which he followed without checking the quantities. Did you tell him in what proportion the liquid was to be added?”
“Well, yes ... at least, Mr. Louw wrote it down for me and I repeated it over the phone.”
“Well, between you you’ve got your lines crossed. There’s nothing I can do to help. It won’t spread, of course, so there’s no danger there. But I’m afraid it’s the end of this part of the crop. The main one too, I see. Good job your father isn’t here to see it.”
His bluntness was meant kindly, but she felt she could not take any more of it. She let him go without even offering him the customary tea or beer.
“Well, that’s that,” she sighed, slumping into an armchair and accepting the coffee handed her. “We really have hit rock bottom this time.”
But where, where did the blame lie? It was too big a mistake to be made by men who were doing this kind of thing all the time. And she could not believe that Paul Lawson would merely hand over her instructions to an unskilled man. The instructions—if only she had kept the scrap of paper Roger had written on, but she had thrown it away when she finally went to bed. By this time all the rubbish would have been taken to the incinerator.
Roger had not yet woken and she intended to drive immediately to the Lawson’s, so she gave the same instructions as before to keep this from him. She wanted to be as sure as she could of her facts before confronting him with the news.
Paul Lawson was not at the house when she arrived, but once she had persuaded Mrs. Lawson of the urgency of her mission, then someone was dispatched to find him. She sat on the terrace with a fruit juice, fidgeting, trying to keep up the polite conversation. Mrs. Lawson, it appeared, knew nothing of the trouble last night at Green Bays, so she did not feel like enlightening her.
At last he came. He shook hands formally, remarked on the weather and said, “Now, Miss Jamieson, what seems to be the trouble today? Don’t tell me that my lads didn’t do a good job last night.”
“Frankly, Mr. Lawson, I don’t know who is to blame for what has hap
pened, but a good proportion of the main crop is ruined. I’ve had an expert up this morning who tells me that a double strength oil spray was used. I’m wondering if you can tell me how it could possibly have happened.”
He gave a deep laugh. “Now, I’m not doing that because it’s funny, Miss Jamieson, but because you think I can provide an answer. You gave me instructions over the phone which I personally saw were carried out. Not any of my lads, mind, who could just possibly have made a miscalculation, but I myself.”
“Could you not have misheard me Mr. Lawson?” she persisted. “Or did you write down what I said? Perhaps we could check that?”
“I did jot it down at the time, but where I haven’t the slightest idea. Have you first asked your Mr. Louw if he got his figures right? I would just have done exactly what he told me to. It’s not my place to offer advice to other farmers.”
“Then you noticed something in the figures was wrong?”
“Of course I didn’t,” he snapped. “Anything quite as wrong as you make out I would hardly not have mentioned had I noticed it. No, Miss Jamieson, I’m deeply disturbed at what has happened, but I’m afraid you must look for the fault on your own doorstep.”
“I see.” She spoke through tight lips, realising that she was getting no further help here. She might have guessed that Paul Lawson was the last man to get involved in anyone else’s troubles—unless it was going to benefit him personally.
She rose, and so did he. “Can I offer you some more refreshment, Miss Jamieson?”
“No, thank you, I must get home and do something about repairing the damage.”
He shook his head sombrely. “Another year, Miss Jamieson, it will be another year. Exports are the devil, aren’t they, yet they’re our lifeblood.” He said this so blandly that she knew he did not care a damn for what had happened.
For the first time since she came to South Africa she was reluctant to drive back to Green Bays. She wanted to tell herself that if she stayed away perhaps the trouble would go. And then there was Roger to tell. For some reason she dreaded that above everything.
In the end she was able to postpone it for that day. He was a lot better, but glum and disinclined to talk about the previous evening. By tomorrow he would be more or less on his feet again and at least able to take decisions—if she would allow him to take them. There was still the blame to be laid at someone’s door.
She let Noni take all his meals up and only looked in on him once, polite, but a little distant. He looked faintly puzzled at her sudden change of attitude, but made no comment. She went to bed that night with a heavy heart, having shouldered the burden alone all day. Did this mean the end of Green Bays, or would they merely have to pull in their belts until next year?
She lay awake for a long time going over and over the same points, but coming to no conclusion.
Next morning Roger came down soon after breakfast. He looked pale, but seemed much more himself.
“Well,” he said, with a show of cheerfulness, “by tomorrow I should be back in harness. I should think I could even manage a stroll down to the upper orchard today. Or perhaps you’ve found in my absence that you no longer need a manager?”
She could barely summon a smile.
His eyes narrowed. “Well, Miss Jamieson, out with it. I’m always one for wanting to know the worst, and it looks like the worst is about to come—but nothing worse than red scale, I hope.”
She took a deep breath. “The crop that had signs of red scale is ruined, so is a fair proportion of the surrounding orchard,” she told him bluntly.
“This time you really must be joking. They came to spray, you told me they’d been.”
“They came all right,” she said bitterly, “and used an oil spray so strong that—well, you’ll see for yourself later. I’ve had an expert up already and he says there’s no doubt that’s the trouble.” She went on before he could say anything. “I’ve been across to Lawson and he’s quietly gloating, but he insists that he measured out the quantities I told him. And I told him the quantities you wrote down. Unfortunately I no longer have the scrap of paper.”
“I see.” He lit his pipe very slowly and thoughtfully. When he turned back to her his eyes were black and cold. “It seems to have gone through your mind that I wrote down the wrong amount, and since with such a lot at stake I would hardly be likely to make a mistake that big, then the implication is that I did it deliberately.”
“I didn’t say that,” she came back defensively.
“No, but you damn well thought it. You’re as open as a book, Miss Tracy Jamieson. It hasn’t taken me long to find that out.”
While she was trying to decide whether that was insult or compliment he went on in the same hard voice, “In turn, of course, I’d be right to think that you gave the wrong information over the phone, since you’ve conveniently lost my notes. All I know is that the crop that I’ve worked for all these months is gone through a single stroke of carelessness. It was going to be the best crop I’d ever produced.”
By now her temper had risen. “That’s the trouble, you think of it as your crop, your farm, just as you did when I first arrived here. I was a fool to believe you had changed. I could just about stand your ego-centricity, because it seemed to make you a good manager, but when I heard you practically offering to sell out for a seat on a miserable board, then I knew how wrong I was!”
Suddenly his eyes were no longer cold, but tired. “So that’s the way it is. And I thought you were the one wanting to throw yourself into the arms of the Lawsons.”
“At least you’d get a packing station. I’d only get a few lions!” Now it was said, and she was shocked at herself.
He stood up and she saw that his legs would hardly hold him. She hung on to the chair to stop herself going to his help. In a stiff voice he said, “I imagine you will eventually want to find a new manager. Perhaps you would be good enough to let me know when you have, then I’ll find myself another job.”
She gave a little bow that was neither yes nor no. She could not have spoken, for her throat was thick with tears.
For the next few days they avoided each other whenever possible, and when they met at work treated each other like polite strangers. It was intolerable for both of them.
As soon as she saw he was reasonably fit again she said one morning, “I think one solution is to try to find my uncle. There seems to be nothing here for a day or two. I’ll book a ticket on the night train to Kimberley.”
He nodded. “You’re probably right. At least he would act as mediator. We can’t go on like this for long, can we?”
She shook her head. An apology was on the tip of her tongue, but something held it back, some imp of mischief forced her pride into thinking that he should apologise first.
She drove over to the station that day to book her ticket on the train that went all the way from Johannesburg down to Cape Town. She was able to get a sleeper in three days’ time and at the same time she booked a hotel at the other end for two nights.
Coming away from the station she ran into Julia Lawson and was struck, not for the first time, by the coolness of that lovely smile. Her distress over the ruined fruit sounded genuine enough, and she added, “I hear that poor Roger has been rather ill, to make matters worse. Farming is full of pitfalls, isn’t it?”
“I imagine you learn to live with them,” Tracy replied briefly. “By next year I hope I’ll know enough not to let something like that happen—whosever fault it is.” She kept a bland smile on her face to match Julia’s.
“Tell Roger to come and buck himself up with a swim,” Julia called as she got into her car, “and of course come yourself.”
“Thank you.” But this time Tracy had no intention of taking up the invitation.
“By the way,” Julia called once more, “you’re not leaving us, are you? Trains always signify journeys.”
“No, I’m going to Kimberley on Tuesday—to see if I can trace my uncle!” That should make her realise t
hat Tracy had no intention of letting Green Bays go. The message would undoubtedly reach Paul Lawson and give him food for thought.
Roger insisted on driving her to the station on the evening of her departure. She had protested mildly at first until she realised it was his way of taking the first step towards peace.
Half way there, after an awkward silence, she took the next step. “Roger,” she said, “there’s no need to look for another job if you don’t want to. I probably would be tempted to sell Green Bays if you went.”
“I’m not as valuable as that,” he replied dryly. “Besides, if you find your uncle you may find too that all your problems are solved.”
“I don’t know much about him, but I have a feeling his farming experience is not very great He certainly hadn’t done any farming when I was a child. He was an engineer of some sort. I wrote and asked my mother and she said that too. I hoped she would be more specific, but she’s much too vague a person.”
“Did she ever regret leaving your father, do you think?”
“I believe so, after the first few years. She had never taken such a decisive step in her life and it sort of changed her. If my father had asked her to return—certainly in the last couple of years—I think she might. But he probably felt the decision was hers to make. So—deadlock. It was one of my dearest hopes that I should bring them together. But I was too late,” she ended sadly.
“Will your mother be happy out here, do you think?”
“I’m sure she will,” she answered positively. “You see, she’s not a person who likes a great deal of responsibility. Here she can take it easy if she wants and have a bit more social life than she was ever able to do at home. I know I’m not giving you a good picture of her, but she’s worked in a dress shop since we came back to England and hated every minute of it. I want her to have a rest while I do the work for a change. I know she’ll love the farm and White River.”