by Anne Weale
As Sarah paused to absorb this first impression, from close behind her Neal said in an undertone, ‘Hell! I was hoping we might have the place more or less to ourselves. This lot look like a painting group.’
She smiled at him over her shoulder. ‘Don’t be so antisocial. If they’re artists they’ll be interesting people.’
He returned her smile, but his tone was sardonic as he said, ‘I doubt if they’re professionals, honey. Their tutor may be, but art groups are usually made up of amateurs with more enthusiasm than talent. I’ve tangled with them before.’
‘I haven’t, so I’ll enjoy it.’
‘You’re here to tangle with me.’
The glint in his eyes brought a rush of colour to her face. She turned to look at the farm and, hopefully, hide her blush from his amorous grey eyes. Moments earlier his use of the American endearment had sent a small thrill of pleasure through her. Now his last remark had stirred her up even more.
She wondered if he meant to make love to her as soon as they were alone in their room. She was impatient to be kissed again but a little nervous of what would follow the kisses. Unlike Naomi who quite often went away for weekends with men, Sarah was conscious that her own experience didn’t amount to much compared with most people’s.
As she approached the first of the easels they had to pass on their way to the entrance to the farmhouse, the elderly woman working at it looked up and said, ‘Good morning,’ her smile embracing them both.
Some of the others were too intent on their work to notice the newcomers. Near the door Sarah stood aside to let Neal take the lead. Swinging the pack off his shoulder, he dumped it on the veranda close to the wall, then stepped inside the building.
Following him, Sarah found herself in a large room with several dining tables, a bar and a wooden staircase leading to the floor above. Behind the bar was the owner or manager of the establishment. Neal was already talking to him in Nepali.
A few minutes later he turned to her. ‘The artists are occupying the house. We’re in the annexe.’
After re-shouldering his pack, he returned the way they had come, veering off in the direction of a long low building she hadn’t previously noticed. With an overhanging thatched roof forming a brick-paved veranda, it was fronted by a strip of grass and a border filled with white and yellow chrysanthemums.
Again Neal dumped his pack, this time next to a door which was standing open but had a cotton screen hanging from inside its lintel and hiding the room within.
‘You’re in here...Number Six,’ he said, taking a key from his pocket and handing it to her. ‘I’m next door...Number Seven.’
She was surprised into saying, ‘They don’t have any double rooms vacant?’
‘These are double rooms,’ he answered. ‘Let’s unload our gear and then go and have coffee and maybe something stronger?’
Holding the heavy pack by two canvas handles, he disappeared into the other bedroom.
Baffled by why he should think that, having agreed to come, she would want a separate bedroom, Sarah did as he suggested. Holding aside the screen, she entered a room with sky-blue rafters and a yellow-boarded roof space. The walls were bare brick painted a coppery colour. Between the twin beds, a tiled floor was spread with a Tibetan tiger rug. On the wall was a picture of a holy man with long hair flowing on the ground on which he was sitting. The frame was draped with a white silk scarf.
Exploring the adjoining bathroom, she found it had modern fittings, including a shower and hand basin.
She was unpacking some things from her wash bag when she heard Neal knock on the door frame.
‘Come in.’ She stepped out of the bathroom as he ducked under the door screen.
‘It turns out the views are better than the amenities,’ he said.
‘They seem fine to me. It’s a very nice room.’
‘But lacking a clothes closet.’
She shrugged. ‘With my wardrobe, a few pegs are good enough. What’s the significance of the scarf draped over the picture?’
Because the walls of the bathroom formed a corner with the beds in the area beyond it, Neal had to move to the foot of the beds to see the picture.
‘It may have been put there by someone who was presented with a scarf when they left where they were staying before. Scarves like that are a traditional farewell present.’
He sat down on one of the beds and gave it a couple of test-bounces. ‘The mattresses don’t seem too bad, but I’ve slept under kapok-filled quilts in other places. They’re bulky and heavy, but not warm. The nights are cold at this height We’ll need down sleeping bags. I bought mine and borrowed another.’
Separate rooms and sleeping bags...it wasn’t the scenario she had visualised.
Neal beckoned her to him with a crooked forefinger. As she came closer, he stood up. ‘I also have two sets of thermal tops and long johns, but I don’t think we’re going to need them.’
He put his arms round her and kissed her, starting with a butterfly brushing of mouth against mouth and then a break, gradually increasing the pressure until, about six kisses on, he drew her closer against him and kept his lips locked to hers.
Last time it was she who had broken off their embrace. This time, just when she was starting to melt with pleasure, he put her gently away.
‘Let’s go and find that coffee.’
Trying to work out the conundrum of why he had stopped made her oblivious to the views as they returned to the main house.
The art group were having their coffee break. Like the group Sarah hadn’t gone trekking with, they were all well past middle age except for one man about Neal’s age, presumably the tutor, who hadn’t been around when they arrived.
Spotting two strangers, he detached himself from the others and came over.
‘Hi! Where have you people come from?’ Before they could answer, he offered Neal his hand. ‘I’m Roger Kent...from England.’
This is Sarah. I’m Neal.’ Evidently Neal thought surnames unnecessary and assumed that his accent would make it clear where he came from. ‘’We’ve come up from Kathmandu. Have you been here long?’
‘Arrived yesterday,- staying for three nights,’ said the other man. ‘I’m in charge...for my sins.’ Having his back to the rest of those present, he rolled his eyes and made what was clearly intended to be a comical grimace. Lowering his voice, he added, ‘One can overdose on grey panthers, as the Americans call them. Nothing very pantherish about this lot. Hippos would be more apt.’
‘Are you an artist or just the group’s minder?’ Neal asked.
‘I’m a pro. They’re Saturday painters. Where are you heading from here?’
‘We haven’t decided yet.’ Neal turned to Sarah. ‘I’ll get the coffee.’ He moved to the bar, leaving her to continue chatting.
‘Where are you going next?’ she asked.
She wasn’t taken by Roger. Although she herself had been put off by the prospect of trekking with people many years her senior, she didn’t approve of his making fun of his group to a couple of strangers. Anyway the artists looked a lot more interesting than her fellow trekkers. Their clothes alone revealed them as a bunch of ‘characters’ and their animated conversation was punctuated by roars of laughter.
‘To Bhaktapur,’ said Roger. ‘Have you been there?’
‘Not Yet.’
‘Fabulous place...one of my favourites.’
He was showing off about his travels when she saw Neal carrying their coffee to another part of the room. As soon as Roger paused for breath, she said, ‘Would you excuse me?’ and escaped. In addition to being what Naomi would call A Giant Ego, he had an assessing way of looking at her that she didn’t like.
Having put their coffee cups on a table in a sitting area reached by a short flight of stairs, Neal was scanning a shelf of books. ‘This must be the “library” I was told about,’ he said, as she joined him.
‘I haven’t read that.’ She tapped the spine of one of the larger volumes. �
�Have you?’
Opening it at random, he held it so she could see the photograph spread across two pages. ‘No, I haven’t seen this before. Let’s have a look through it.’
Sitting elbow to elbow with him at the table, browsing through the beautiful pictures the book contained, Sarah found her attention split between what she was looking at and what she was feeling about the man whose long leg was almost but not quite touching hers.
His kiss had changed her hesitance to impatience. So much of her life had been wasted in vain regret for a longlost happiness that, had it had time to mature, might not have fulfilled her youthful dreams. She was a different person now, with so much to catch up on, so much to learn. Instinct told her that Neal would be an expert tutor.
The Nepalese man brought them two small glasses of liquor.
‘What is this?’ she asked, when he had gone.
‘Khukri rum. It’s the best of the local spirits...good with coffee.’ He picked up his glass, tipped half the contents into his cup and lifted the glass toast-fashion. ‘To a happy time that we’ll both look back on with pleasure when we’re my grandfather’s age.’ He downed the rest of the rum in a single smooth swallow.
Unaccustomed to hard liquor because she couldn’t afford it, Sarah sipped it more cautiously. ‘Mm...it’s smoother than I expected. Wine is what I mainly drink.’
He gave her an appraising look. ‘But not very much, by the look of you.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘Women who knock back a lot tend to have puffiness here—’ using his middle finger, he traced a line under one of her eyes ‘—and dehydrated skin. You don’t have either.’ His hand brushed her cheek before finding its way round to the back of her neck. ‘They’ve all gone back to their easels.’ He leaned forward and kissed her.
Last time her excitement had mounted gradually. This time, in a flash, she was at the pitch where their last embrace had broken off. She wanted to press herself close to him, to have her arms round his neck, her fingers stroking his hair.
At the same time she was inhibited by the fact that, although the painters had gone, the man who had brought their drinks might reappear. Knowing that open displays of affection between men and women were frowned on in Nepal restrained her from responding as eagerly as she wanted to. But even to have her hands on Neal’s hard chest was a thrill. He felt as solid as a tree, his body warm through his shirt. But she couldn’t feel his heart beating, only her own.
The ringing of a telephone and the patter of feet across the dining area brought the kiss to an end. Neal released her mouth. His hand left the nape of her neck and slid slowly, caressingly along the top of her shoulder and down her arm.
Looking deep into her eyes, he said softly, ‘You go to my head.’
She drew in a long breath. ‘It’s mutual.’
‘Then why don’t we do something about it?’
Though neither of them had finished their coffee and Sarah’s glass of rum was still more than half full, he took her by the hand and led the way up the few steps and out of the building.
They were walking in the direction of the annexe when they were intercepted by Roger. ‘I say, are either of you two clued up about malaria?’
Neal frowned at him. ‘This isn’t a malarial area. The Terai is the only risky part of the country.’
‘I know, but one of my people was bitten by a mosquito the evening we arrived and now she’s having a shivering fit I’m not too sure how to deal with it.’
Sarah saw a muscle bunch under the taut brown skin of Neal’s jawline. ‘Where is she?’ he asked curtly.
‘Over there.’ Roger pointed towards two women, one sitting on a camp stool and the other bending over her.
Neal had already let go of Sarah’s hand. ‘I’d better take a look,’ he said to her.
‘Of course.’ She followed him across the grass to where the standing woman was speaking in a low tone to the other.
When Neal reached her, he went down on his haunches so that she didn’t have to crane up at him. ‘You’re not feeling well, I hear. What’s the problem?’
She gave him an anguished look. Although she was in the sun and wearing several layers of woollies, she was shaking with cold.
‘I had a pain in my back...between my shoulder blades. Now I feel terribly cold and I can’t stop shivering. Oh, dear, I do hope it’s not malaria. My grandfather had it all his life. It used to make him feel ghastly.’
‘When did the pain in your back start?’
‘About an hour ago. I was feeling all right till then...apart from a bit of a cough.’
The other woman spoke. ‘Maureen had a bad chest cold a fortnight before we came away. The cough has hung on, but her coughs generally do. She’s always been chesty. We’re sisters. I’m Delia.’
‘My name’s Neal. I’m a doctor,’ he told them quietly. ‘Maureen, you should be in bed. I’ll come and listen to your chest when I’ve fetched various things I need. I’ll be there in about five minutes.’
Maureen was able to walk without assistance. As she and her sister headed for the house, Neal beckoned Sarah to accompany him to the annexe.
‘I’m sorry about this, but I think she may have pneumonia which, at her age and stuck up here, isn’t funny.’
‘What makes you sure it isn’t malaria? Even though Kathmandu isn’t malarial, couldn’t a mosquito have hitched a lift from the Terai on somebody’s backpack?’
‘I suppose that’s a possibility, but the time between the mosquito bite and the onset of symptoms is ten days to a fortnight for malignant malaria and longer for quartan malaria. Roger says these people flew in less than a week ago.’
At the door of his room, he said, ‘Come in.’
Like her, he hadn’t unpacked much. Delving inside the big backpack, he brought out a plastic box and a waterproof drawstring bag.
‘How serious is pneumonia?’ she asked.
‘It used to be very bad news in the days before antibiotics. Now it doesn’t usually last long but patients, especially the older ones, may take several weeks to get fully back to normal.’
‘What a godsend for them that you’re here.’
‘But not such a godsend for us,’ he said dryly. ‘Never mind: we can play doctor and patient later on...after lunch. Lock up for me, will you?’ Making a kissing noise at her, he headed back for the house. on her own, Sarah strolled round the garden, thinking about how if it hadn’t been for Rose’s accident she probably wouldn’t be here, and now she was here the fundamental reason for her coming had been postponed because of someone else’s illness.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Roger. ‘Do you know what’s going on?’
‘Neal has some medical knowledge.’ She thought he might not want everyone to know the extent of it. ‘He’s very good when there’s trouble. I’m sure he’ll know what to do for the best.’
‘I hope so. It’ll be damned awkward if the old girl has got malaria. She’s not a bad artist actually...was at art school a long time ago. But like most women of that generation she gave it all up to wash some guy’s socks. Now he’s popped off and she’s free again, but too late to do serious work. We get a lot of widows on these jaunts.’ He gave her a speculative look. ‘I’m divorced. How about you?’
Sarah ignored the question. ‘It’s never too late to exercise talent.’
‘What’s yours? I’m sure you have one.’
‘I’m into clip art.’
Roger looked blank. ‘What’s that?’
‘Stuff people use on computers. Not your sort of art. Excuse me. I’m going to my room.’
She was sitting outside it when Neal came back.
‘Is it pneumonia?’
‘All the signs say so. Anywhere else but here, I’d send her straight off to X-ray for confirmation. But I’m ninetynine per cent sure it is pneumonia so I’ll get some medication started and she can go down to the clinic tomorrow morning when her fever is down.’
‘Have you told Roger?
’
He nodded. ‘Can’t say I take to him. Don’t like his attitude.’
‘I don’t either.’ She told him about her conversation with Roger.
‘He’s probably disappointed that the group doesn’t include someone like you,’ said Neal. ‘Although I should think what he really likes is a gullible twenty-year-old who will swallow his Great Artist act. Some top-class painters do lead these groups, I believe, but I doubt if he’s one of them. I’ve never heard of him. Have you?’
‘No, but that doesn’t prove anything. I don’t know much about contemporary artists.’
Neal glanced at his watch. ‘Nearly lunchtime. I’ll just put my stuff away and then I’ll be with you.’
On the way back to the house, he took her hand, looking down at her with undisguised desire. ‘Let’s hope this isn’t going to turn into one of those French farce situations where every time we’re about to make love one of the painters chokes on a bone, or breaks one,’ he said dryly.
Sarah laughed. Suddenly she felt wonderful. Not only was she close to the top of the world in the geographical sense, but she felt on a high peak emotionally. To have met ‘a truly gorgeous guy’ was incredible luck; but a ten-out-of-ten with a sense of humour was something else, as Matthew would say.
She pushed the thought of her son to the back of her mind with everything else she didn’t want to think about.
Where she was now, like cyberspace, was an escape from real life. She would have to return there eventually. Meanwhile she was here, in a place very close to paradise with an afternoon in Neal’s arms just a short time away.
Only a fool would let thoughts of where it would end tarnish these golden hours.
CHAPTER FIVE
MOST of the painting group were already seated at the long table when she and Neal entered the house.
He steered her to the round table furthest away from the others. ‘Don’t expect too much of the food,’ he murmured. ‘Away from Kathmandu, it’s never anything special.’