And No Regrets

by Rosalind Brett

  Clare closed her eyes and conjured up a mental picture of the girl. Tallish, slim, dark-haired, with a poppy mouth that sulked against a curiously pale skin for this climate. Clare could well see the physical attraction of her, but mentally she had seemed vapid ... but then a woman’s angle on another woman was invariably different from the male angle, and love took little heed of mental feelings when attraction planted its blind dart.

  Mark came in to prepare the table for dinner. Crockery and glasses clinked ... Clare had always loved that sound, the music that preceded Ross’s return from work to this small haven she had made as comfortable as possible for him. Mark shot a faintly puzzled smile at her. “Missus okay?” he asked.

  “Missus fine, Mark,” she said gallantly, and then saw that she had ripped her handkerchief to shreds with her fingernails and that she had been doing it unconsciously in front of the houseboy. She thrust the handkerchief into her pocket, and turned to smile at the Pryces as they came in and sank into chairs.

  “Hello,” she said brightly. “Aren’t I lazy? I haven’t even changed. Do excuse me while I put on a clean frock, and then we’ll have drinks. I can hardly wait to look at the mail the boy brought from the steamer.” Clare went into her comparatively cool bedroom, where she took a frock from the closet and gave it an habitual shake. A moth flew out of the skirt and she watched it flutter to the window with listless eyes. What did it matter if the moths were eating into the last of her dresses? Nothing was worse than the worm of jealousy and bitterness that was eating into her heart. You gave your heart to a man, and your devotion, and even risked your life in a tropical climate to be with, him, but in return he was cruel enough to give his love elsewhere. Yes, cruel!

  She slipped into the flowered frock, brushed her hair and looped it back with a ribbon. Her thoughts wandered into the future. She had flippantly told Ross that she would borrow money from her father and go to Egypt. But would she? Would she have the heart to go anywhere on her return to England? Perhaps if Simon was back in Ridgley, and still showed signs of loving her, she might fall into his arms on the rebound from Ross. Let him ease her aching heart a little with his love.

  Shoulders braced, she went out to the living-room to make polite conversation with her guests. Yes, the piccans were amusing, but it would certainly take a lot of patience and affection to get them into the routine of lessons and games.

  “But it will all be so worthwhile,” Mrs. Pryce enthused. “Clare, when we accomplish something like this schoolhouse in the bush, I really feel that everything has been worthwhile for us—for James and myself. Of course, without your husband’s help, the whole project would have gone ahead at a much slower rate. What a hustler he is!”

  “He’s certainly a worker,” Clare agreed, lying back in a cane chair with a long citrus drink, a web of lassitude and shock woven about her limbs, her heart, her thoughts. The hands of the clock moved slowly round to the moment of his return, and there was no quickening of joy in her. She felt let down, her love a maimed thing inside her.

  He came in, his shirt dark with sweat, bush hat at the back of his head, sinewy legs scratched from jungle thorns, “You ought to be more careful of getting scratched by those,” Mrs. Pryce remarked. “Many bush thorns are virulent.”

  “I’m usually more careful—thanks, Clare.” He accepted a tall gin and lime and took a long gulp. “I guess I’ve had my mind too much on one or two other things. Mmm, that was good! I’ll go and freshen up before dinner—oh, I see the mail came!”

  He went over to the wad of letters on the bamboo table and flipped through them. Clare watched him through her lashes. Was he looking for a letter from Patsy? Well, there was no pink envelope in that little lot ... what a disappointment for him!

  They had dinner, then lazed and talked on the veranda about the teacher who was coming shortly to take over the running of the school. The talk got around to England—as it inevitably did when a group of white tropic dwellers got together. “You lucky girl, Clare.” Mrs. Pryce squeezed her wrist. “You must be feeling so excited about going home.”

  Excited was not the word, but Clare smiled back gallantly at the other woman. “It will be nice to see my people. My father has re-married and I haven’t yet met his wife.”

  “Oh yes, you lost your own mother when you were a baby.” Mrs. Pryce smiled sympathetically. Then she glanced at Ross. “Your father was widowed when you were still a boy, wasn’t he, Mr. Brennan?”

  “When I was about eight,” Ross said, in a rather cold voice.

  Clare glanced at him. Whenever his parents were mentioned, Ross always seemed to tighten up. He didn’t get on with his father, she had guessed that a long while ago. His father seemed a man of rigid views, with whom Ross had little in common. Perhaps he disapproved of the tropical life his only son had chosen to lead? Doubtless he disliked the cynical armour which Ross assumed day and night against the world.

  The Pryces retired for the night, and Clare rose to follow them indoors. This tune she was not sleeping on a camp-bed in Ross’s room. It had been at his suggestion that she have the bed set up each night in the living-room.

  “Clare,” he spoke out of the shadows where he was sitting, “you seem rather melancholy tonight. Are you feeling quite fit?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, her hand reaching forward to clench on the veranda rail. Always before when he asked after her well-being she had felt cared for, but tonight she knew that his personal feelings were not involved. He merely felt responsible for her ... didn’t wish her to be laid low just as the parting of their ways hove in sight.

  “A little depressed, eh?” he murmured.

  “Yes,” she said. “One grows used to a place, even to its drawbacks and its torments.”

  “You’re a susceptible creature.” His crisp-edged voice sounded dulled. “Do you remember our first meeting in England?”

  “Quite clearly,” she agreed, wincing at the memory of a dark face through a mirror and knuckles pressing ruthlessly into her throat as he fastened her lambswool coat. “It was midsummer’s eve,” she went on, “and we met at a party given by a social lioness of Ridgley. I saw you through a mirror, the way a girl is supposed to see her future husband on the eve of St. Agnes.”

  “You wore a dress of cyclamen pink,” he drawled. “I remember it clearly, low at the back, showing a V of pale skin and a tiny dark mole near your spine.”

  “I’m not very pale-skinned now. More sallow—lovely with cyclamen pink.” She gave a brittle laugh.

  “You aren’t sallow,” he said quickly. “I told you at Kalai that your skin has kept amazingly young and fresh.”

  “Good.” She put back her head and stared blindly up at the stars. “I shouldn’t have any trouble landing myself a second husband.”

  There was a taut silence between them after she said that. She heard him shift, the cane of his chair creaked, then a match rasped and flared and showed her his beaky profile as he lit a cigarette. The match went out and all that was left was a tiny red glow that pulsed and dimmed there in the shadows where he sat.

  “Who have you got lined up?” he asked lazily. “Simon Longworth?”

  “I might have,” she rejoined, pain locked like a fist over her heart.

  “Do you remember what I said of you, Clare, the first time I dined at your aunt’s?”

  “That I was a rather sweet little angel, but that I could be deceptive. Do you still think that, Ross?”

  “I might do.” He gave a lazy laugh.

  “Aunt Letty said you were man-of-the-worldish. I agreed with her, and even your porpoise-like antics when we went bathing never really changed my opinion. You’ve never been a boy, Ross, have you? I think that was what made me accept your proposal of marriage. I wanted to make a home for you, fuss you, make a few feminine inroads into that cynicism of yours. I swore I would never demand more than you were prepared to offer.”

  “Good scout to the last, eh?” His tone was casual.

  “I certainly d
on’t flatter myself that during these fifteen months I’ve caused any wear and tear to your heart.” She spoke as casually as he. “I daresay my vanity has suffered more than my heart that you’ve remained so impregnable.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that, Clare. I didn’t want complications, just your pleasant company, your hands on the keyboard of the piano, a whiff of scent when you passed by.”

  “And you got what you wanted, didn’t you, Ross?”

  “Yes, honey, I got what I wanted.”

  Honey! Her throat locked—no one else in the world could say that foolish word as he said it. Honey ... it would haunt her, she knew it would. With ghostly quietness she left him sitting in the shadows with his cigarette, Brutus at his slippered feet, jowls resting on them, and half an hour later when he came in, she was pretending to be asleep under the netting of her camp-bed.

  A fortnight later, the Johnsons arrived, causing a passing disturbance by the size of their family. Mr. Johnson, the native schoolteacher, had brought a wife as glistening and dark of complexion as himself, and three children.

  Clare, watching their approach from the schoolroom window, hoped that the schoolhouse accommodation would be sufficient. There was a living-room, kitchen, large bedroom ... an extension could be added. She would tackle Ross.

  They looked a nice family, and the children were delightful. Clare shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, bestowed smiles upon the piccans, and left them to get settled in. She walked slowly back to the house.

  Ross was inside and she was reluctant to enter. For some minutes she fidgeted about in the garden, taking off dead petals and yanking out handfuls of weed. Her poor garden when she left it! Cotton and maize would be allowed to overgrow to the walls of the bungalow again. The earth rusted beneath the dying sun; birds shrieked across the compound to the cover of the trees, and away to the right some small beast darted back into the bush.

  She heard Ross’s step and turned. “The Johnsons have arrived,” she said. “There are five of them.”

  “Hm, that presents problems. D’you think they’ll be able to cope?”

  “I should think an extension was necessary. They can’t all kip down in one bedroom.”

  “It might be managed, we’ve still got some of that seasoned wood—do they look decent people?”

  “Oh yes. The piccans are glossy, and decked out in starched cottons. Mr. Johnson seems very eager to start work.”

  “Swell.” Ross put back his head so that the raw gold of the westering sun poured over him. Clare caught her breath as she watched him looking over her head at the blackening trees in the distance. She walked past him and mounted the house steps, but he was ahead of her, pushing open the doors of lobby and living-room. His hand on her arm detained her.

  “Don’t run off,” he said above her head. “You keep doing that nowadays, and I find it disconcerting. Let’s have a drink together.”

  She hesitated, then nodded, and rested holding the back of a chair until he brought her a glass that tinkled. They drank in silence, then he placed the empty glasses on the table. Coming back to where she stood, he took her hand and held it pressed warmly between his. Clare stiffened; she could smell the pine-scented soap he used.

  “Feel a little more like my pal, my girl guide?” he asked whimsically.

  She nodded. Pal ... girl guide ... honey!

  He’d called Patsy darling. Mockingly, but still darling.

  “I—I miss the piano rather badly,” she said quickly, wanting to pull away from him. “It used to solve so many of my problems.”

  “Yes, shame it went for a Burton. Not much point in having it repaired.”

  “None,” she agreed. “Unless the new man has a musical bent. Do you think he might have?”

  “I doubt it, kitten.” A large hand ruffled her hair. “He’ll probably be a hard, tough type like me.”

  “The planning and building of the schoolhouse was not the act of a completely insensitive person,” she said quietly.

  “The schoolhouse has greatly improved the Bula property,” he said laconically. “I do nothing without a motive.”

  “Have you got every step of your future planned, Ross?” she asked. “Doesn’t it ever include a proper marriage, or am I overstepping the boundary line in touching upon such a personal matter?”

  He put her a little way from him then, gripping her wrists with work-roughened fingers and treating her to an unsparing appraisal that drove heat to her cheeks. .She saw the shimmer of angry fire beyond the flint of his eyes, and she thought his anger aroused by the substance of her question—until he said: “That boundary line was laid for your protection, not mine. It’s easier for a man to forget himself, and to forget afterwards what he has done in the heat of an aroused moment.”

  “A moment that might easily have tied us together for life, is that it, Ross?” Her heart was leading her on, and she could feel moisture gathering in the palms of her hands. “That would certainly have upset all your plans, wouldn’t it?”

  “Without a doubt,” he agreed harshly. “There’s no place for you in them, Clare—there, now. It’s out, said, and I’m sorry to hurt you. But better hurt now than later.”

  He let her go, and with a groping gesture she turned and crossed to her bedroom. Inside she dropped into a chair, covered her face with her hands and let despair sweep over her in a wave. Now he had put it into words—there was no place for her in his future plans. Whatever they were, they had been made and she was excluded.

  CHAPTER NINE

  IN the days that followed, Clare was deeply grateful for the Pryces, the Johnsons, and the piccans. The Johnsons were an amiable, humorous family. Mr. Johnson, gravely learning the ropes, let out remarks that caused even Mr. Pryce to raise his glasses and mop his eyes. His wife was large and maternal, with a great jolly laugh, and a nature full of encouragement.

  “They’re both gems,” said Mrs. Pryce enthusiastically. “I must write a really appreciative letter to the society. At first I was rather taken aback that they should plant so large a family on us, but now I can see that it was all for the best. A family like the Johnsons is a wonderful example. In years to come Bula will be a model village, and you have the satisfaction of knowing that you began the good work, my dear.”

  Clare shook her head. “You’d have got your schoolhouse somehow.”

  “Not one so well built and good to look at. We’d have had to wait and then the Johnsons would have been sent elsewhere. We’re deeply indebted to you, aren’t we, James?”

  Her husband agreed heartily. West Africa was all the better for people like Mr. and Mrs. Brennan, God bless them!

  “The pity of it is,” said Mrs. Pryce, “that now we have nothing more to keep us in Bula.”

  “Couldn’t you stay just for a rest?” Clare suggested.

  “We might, for a week,” said the missionary. “It will be a long time before we live in such a house as yours again.”

  Clare was relieved to hear them accept her offer. Within a week the new man, Humphriss, would he here. “We’ll all three have a real week’s holiday,” she said eagerly. “We’ll picnic and play tennis, and maybe go up-river.”

  Mrs. Pryce opened her mouth, as if to say that Clare had no need to lay on any special entertainments, and then with a shrewd look that took in all of the girl’s rather strained face, she agreed with a nod that it would be lovely to do holiday things with Clare during the coming week.

  Ross had long since set aside a portion of the compound for tennis, and Clare and he, during the cool of the evening and before the sun flared home, took on their guests and found them remarkably active and excellent to play with, “We’ll see you at Wimbledon yet, Mrs. Pryce,” Ross laughed across the net as he missed a cracking lob from his opponent.

  “I had such ambitions as a girl,” Mrs. Pryce laughed back. “Oh, the dreams we indulge when we’re too young to know that what has been set aside for most of us is service and reality,”

  “Have you eve
r felt—robbed in any way?” Ross wanted to know, his deep voice ringing across the court and startling some birds in the trees at its verge.

  “Not for a moment,” Mrs. Pryce assured him. “James and I have had our rewards—love brings them, as you will learn, Mr. Brennan. Love is all that is necessary in any venture, so long as it has its roots firmly planted in the heart. Love imparts its own brand of strength.”

  The following day Clare and the Pryces set out for a picnic up-river. Clare had made chicken and tongue sandwiches, small tasty pastries, and two large thermoses of lemonade. Johnny carried the picnic hamper down to the landing-stage, for he and Mr. Pryce were going to paddle the canoe. Clare’s pet dog, Lucky, followed the picnic party all the way to the canoe, and after they had climbed in he stood on the stage, wagging his stick of a tail and whimpering so pathetically that Clare hadn’t the heart to leave him behind.

  “Come along then, fidget,” she called out, and with a bound of delight the dog, who was now quite big, leapt into the canoe and almost tipped Clare into the water in his eagerness.

  “Do you think it quite wise to take him along?” queried Mr. Pryce. “He’s a frolicsome animal, and we don’t want him tumbling into the water.”

  “I’ll watch him,” Clare smiled, and made the dog lie down. “You going to be a good boy, Lucky?”

  The dog regarded her with mischievous eyes, and though Clare sat down with some misgivings, she was too fond of her leggy pet to put him out of the canoe now she had invited him in. They set off, Johnny breaking into one of those tuneless chants that were strangely good to listen to, while Mr. Pryce sat at the other end of the canoe In topi and short-sleeved drill jacket, looking, Clare thought impishly, oddly at variance with the gum-blue, chanting bush boy who moved his paddle with a rhythmic ease.

  “We’ve chosen an excellent morning,” remarked Mrs. Pryce. “Rather a pity your husband couldn’t come along.”