The Foolish Heart

by Marjorie Warby

  "There's no time for messing about," Stevie said; "this halt is for lunch."

  "Don't mind me. I must just rough in that bend in the road, and the view down there…"

  Stevie turned to Miles. "The girl's daft," she said. "I long for ice-cold cider, and sandwiches."

  "You shall have them," he replied, going to ferret in the icebox in the back of the car.

  The morning chill now seemed like - a dream, and the sun blazed down with ferocity. Judy had long since discarded her coat and was wishing she had worn shorts. The view danced and shimmered in the heat even through glare glasses.

  She perched on a boulder and began to rough in the scene swiftly. Stevie and Miles were talking and laughing together in the car but she refused to heed them. Unknown to herself, Judy was once more taking refuge from life by finding solace in the beauties of nature. Somehow Stevie contrived to make her feel the odd one out in the party at every turn. Well, she wasn't going to mind. She didn't care. Expertly her pencil flew. Miles came over and popped his wide felt hat on top of her handkerchiefed head.

  "That rag is not sufficient protection at this time of day."

  "All right, Nanny," she said meekly.

  "I don't want any impertinence, young woman. It's time you came and had your lunch, anyway. We're not staying here long."

  "I'll eat as we go afterwards. I would love to dash in a few colours. I can finish it off at home."

  Stevie joined them, never able to leave those two together long. She looked down critically.

  "The child is quite clever. Her artistic talents are wasted in this wilderness."

  "I don't agree," said Miles. He went back to the car and returned with a mug of iced cider for Judy. "The wilderness has room for talent."

  She drank eagerly, thanking him; then opened her paint-box and started to wash in some colour: a study in greens and browns and duns, with little pools of inky shadow and a brazen sky.

  Stevie became impatient at the delay.

  "We shall never reach Nairobi by tea-time if we hang about like this."

  Miles sat down on a boulder and lit a cigarette.

  "We'll give her ten more minutes," he said.

  Judy worked frantically, trying to transfer the immensity of sky and distance to her sheet of paper, striving to catch that effect of shimmering heat over the sun-baked valley.

  "Time," called Miles, getting up.

  Regretfully, she stopped working, her brows puckered with dissatisfaction. "It won't come as I want. I know exactly how I mean it to look. But it won't come."

  "Nevertheless, I think it has something," Miles said. "Finish it off and let me see it again. I might make you an offer. There is a blank space in my sitting-room that could use a good water-colour."

  "Right," said Judy, immediately deciding to give him the picture.

  Miles started the engine and they went forward again, bumping over the rough ground, so that any speed was impossible on that surface. Soon they would be on the tarmac strips, then the going would be better. Once a troupe of baboons chattered and bounced across the road and down the ravine to the valley. Otherwise they seemed to drive through a dead world, swooning beneath the noonday heat. For miles they saw neither man nor beast.

  The road surface seemed to improve and Miles ventured to put on more speed. Suddenly he shouted a warning: "Look out!" The car lurched down an unexpected pothole and out again with a jolt that flung the occupants from their seats. Miles kept his balance by gripping the wheel, Stevie clutched Miles, but Judy, taken unawares at the back, was sent high off her seat, her head struck the roof with a sickening thud, and she collapsed.

  "All right behind?" called Miles, slowing down. "Sorry about that." There was no reply and Stevie glanced back; then said sharply: "Stop the car. She's knocked out."

  Judy came back to consciousness hazily. For a few seconds she lay feeling dazed, wondering where she was and what had happened. Then she opened her eyes to see Miles's face bending concernedly above her, set in a frame of deep blue sky. He was seated on a bank by the roadside supporting her in his arms.

  Bewilderedly she said vaguely, "What happened? Was it an accident?"

  "We crashed into a pot-hole, you hit the roof and were knocked out."

  She struggled to sit up, but he resisted her efforts.

  "Take it easy. No hurry. You've cut your head a bit. Stevie's going to bathe it. Luckily there's a flask of iced water In the car."

  Judy sank back into his arms, surprised to find how dizzy she felt when she moved. She closed her eyes again, aware of the firmness of his shoulder beneath her head.

  An icy application to her head caused her to start convulsively.

  "That's right, dear. Steady now. It's nothing very terrible after all," said Stevie's voice in its most professional accents. "I could manage better if you sat up," she added.

  Judy removed herself from Miles as if stung, realising the implication behind the words. Stevie, obviously, did not consider such support necessary. Firmly and expertly she bathed the wound, keeping up a flow of encouraging small talk the while, and Miles stood by in concern.

  "I'm most awfully sorry. And I nattered myself I was a good driver."

  "You are. It would have happened to anyone. I'm all right now," she stood up and smiled, feeling her sore head gingerly. "There doesn't seem to be much of a bump, thank goodness. I was afraid I'd have one as big as an ostrich egg."

  "You'll live!" smiled Stevie; "but I don't know what Larry will say if we don't take better care of his girlfriend."

  "Ah, Larry," said Miles, looking at her rather oddly, Judy felt. "You're right to remind us about Larry. Do you know, I'd forgotten all about him."

  The rest of the journey continued uneventfully, and presently they were approaching the outskirts of Nairobi. Stevie's mention of Larry appeared to have quenched further efforts at conversation. Miles drove in silence, Stevie dozed beside him, and Judy tried to compose herself to face a future without Miles and without the farm. Perhaps she would have a chance to see if any opportunities for a suitable post for herself were available in Nairobi. Stevie's constant linking of her name with Larry's was prompted by Stevie's desire to get rid of her, Judy knew. It also gave Miles a wrong impression, but since Miles wanted to marry Stevie it hardly mattered what he thought about her and Larry. He no longer objected to Larry evidently, or he would never have arranged this trip. Judy's head was aching, and she felt absurdly nervous when Miles slackened speed at last, and said over his shoulder:

  "This must be it, I think."

  The Brownlow ménage were scattered about the front veranda when the car arrived.

  The house was low and sprawling, built of grey stone, and red tiled. It was situated about three miles beyond Nairobi Township towards the Ngong forest, and surrounded by a well-kept though sun-baked garden. There were not the facilities here for irrigation as there were at the farm.

  The house-party had been playing tennis, rackets were lying about, and the figures sprawling in cane chairs were attired in conventional tennis kit.

  Judy felt something akin to terror as the car drew up; a desire to cry to Miles In sudden panic, Don't leave me!

  They were dropping her first, then Stevie would be taken to her destination, and finally Miles would make for his Club.

  Larry sprang down the steps to welcome them as the car stopped. He was followed with more dignity by a plump young woman, with a pleasant smiling face and a mop of fair hair. No need to be told this was Larry's sister: the same cornflower blue eyes, the same build, the same fresh complexion.

  Nothing would suit Larry and Lola but that all of them came in for tea. It had just been served, and surely they must be dying for a cup.

  "Come and be introduced," said Lola Brownlow, leading them up the steps; "we have quite a house-party for the weekend. I shall dispense with surnames. They are not worth bothering about. Reading from left to right…" she indicated five people assembled on the veranda, all regarding the new arrivals w
ith interest… "meet Lance, Nan, Peggy, Bob and Nina. This," she ended, introducing a large genial man wearing horn-rimmed spectacles, "is my husband, Joe."

  "How do you do," said Judy, acutely embarrassed, conscious of a wet and sticky patch on the top of her head, and wishing she'd had the sense to whip out her powder compact just before they had arrived, as Stevie had done.

  "You play tennis, don't you?" Lola purred in Judy's ear. "After you've had tea you must come and have a game. That is, if you are not too tired."

  "That girl's never tired," laughed Stevie; "her fragility belies her."

  "She was knocked out on the way down, though," said Miles; "how's the head now, Judy?"

  "Quite all right," she said quickly, ignoring the headache stoically.

  "What happened?" inquired Lola.

  "I literally hit the roof," Judy laughed and explained in more detail as Larry hovered attentively at her side, seeing she was kept well supplied with tea, sandwiches and cake. Stevie and Miles sat together, and soon they asserted they must be going.

  "Do come and see us again some time," drawled Lola graciously, as she walked down the steps to the car with them.

  Judy wanted to have a final word with Miles, but could think of nothing to say. He had gone off to the car, not looking at her, his tall head bent attentively to something Lola was saying.

  Everyone here seemed nice, thought Judy; they appeared to be kindly, pleasant people, yet she experienced a sudden overwhelming longing for the farm; the familiar house and garden, the dogs, the atmosphere of home. She had lived up there quietly for so long that this sudden plunge into society alarmed her. She had heard people say that if you lived long alone in the wilds, company frightened you. She had thought the idea far-fetched at the time, now she knew it to be true.

  With the departure of Miles the last link with her old life went, too, and she turned her blankly smiling face to Larry, for however much her spirit might yearn to flee, she knew she must act the part of the polite guest and control such impulses.

  Judy was a child no longer. She had grown-up.

  As soon as the car had disappeared people began to move. A foursome went off in the direction of the tennis court, and Lola suggested showing Judy her room. It was large and cool, with a view of the garden and the hard tennis court, where already an animated set was in progress.

  "If you feel like a game, and care to change at once," Lola said, "perhaps you'd make up a four with Larry, Joe, and me. It will stay light for quite a while yet…" and she went away, leaving Judy to take a hasty shower in the adjoining bathroom and scramble wildly in her suitcase for her shorts and tennis shirt.

  Shyly she emerged and walked down to the players. Larry bounded to meet her.

  Prom then onwards she lived in a whirl. After dinner they danced to a radiogram on the wide veranda; up early next morning for a ride before breakfast; then a round of golf, terminating with a gay gathering for drinks at the Country Club; an interval for rest after lunch, then tea, tennis, and a visit to the cinema, and once again to the Club, this time to dance.

  There was a girl in the party who tried hard to monopolise Larry. Her name was Peggy, and she obviously considered she had a claim to Larry's attentions. She was a decorative young person and had shown marked coolness towards Judy very soon after her arrival, sensing keen competition.

  But knowing the pangs of jealousy herself, Judy had no wish to spoil the party for Peggy. Larry had no doubt been flirting with her outrageously prior to her own arrival. He was really very naughty, and she felt sorry for Peggy, for nothing put Larry off more quickly than easy conquest, and nothing intrigued him so much as inaccessibility. She wondered if she dare give Peggy a hint, should the opportunity arrive.

  The pace kept up by the Brownlows and their guests was such that she now fully realised why Larry had not found time to write to her for so long; in fact, she marvelled that he ever found them to write anything at all.

  "It's a bit hectic at the moment," he admitted. "Lola carries on like this until everyone's exhausted. Then we go into retirement to recuperate and I write up my diary."

  There were books on Judy's bedside table, and though having little time in which to read, she glanced at one during her afternoon siesta. Dipping into it she was thrilled and delighted to find several anecdotes which Larry had related to her and Stevie the night he had first come to Kahawa. Written in the first person, he had told the stories almost word for word… she glanced at the author's name on the cover, not Larry's own, but a nom de plume, of course; for he must have written it, and been too modest to say so.

  That day at tea she mentioned her discovery.

  "I've been reading your book, Larry."

  "My book? Which book?"

  "The one you wrote. Why didn't you tell me you'd already had one published?"

  "But I haven't."

  Judy stared. "I don't understand. It is full of your adventures. The ones you told Stevie and me about, up at the farm. That episode in the Valley of a Thousand Hills and the time your car crashed off a bridge into crocodile-infested waters…" She trailed off, aware of something peculiar in the atmosphere.

  Then Larry laughed, and Lola said, "You mustn't take all this lad tells you for gospel truth. He's a born story-teller. You mean that book about a trip through South Africa—I forget its title-quite interesting, isn't it?"

  "Yes. But I don't quite see; Larry told us as if all those adventures had happened to him."

  "He would," said Lola.

  Judy looked shocked.

  "But why?"

  Larry shrugged, quite unabashed. "Makes a better story. If I'd said, 'I read about an adventure which happened to some chap…' well, it loses strength. The thing is much more gripping from the word go, if one says, 'This is an adventure which happened to me! '"

  "But it isn't true."

  "Does that matter?"

  "I think it does."

  "There's no harm done." Larry sounded slightly huffy. "I gave you good entertainment, didn't I?"

  "Oh, yes. We were enthralled." She said no more, not wishing to cause embarrassment, but inwardly she was scandalised to find Larry could view such behaviour light-heartedly.

  The conversation became general, and laughter and noise rose to fill the slight awkwardness.

  "I wonder how Beresford enjoyed his weekend," Larry said lightly; "I saw them together, Judy."

  "Where and when was that?" she tried to sound casual.

  "When I left you with the crowd at the Country Club last Saturday, I nipped along to an hotel to meet a bloke for half an hour, you may remember."

  "I do. Yes."

  "They were there. Having morning tea together."

  "So what?" said Judy, with elaborate unconcern.

  "Nothing. Thought you might be interested, that's all." He strolled off, knowing by the expressive face she had not yet learned to control that his shaft had told. Later, after dinner that night, he was contrite. Dancing again to the radiogram he held her close and whispered: "I was a cad. Telling you about Stevie and Miles. I hadn't intended to mention it. But then, of course, I am a cad. Sorry, Beautiful."

  "I suppose it was true?"

  "I don't lie about those sort of things. But cheer up. The Big White Chief did not look particularly Jovial."

  "What difference does that make?"

  "I don't know. You tell me!"

  "Oh, Larry," she half laughed with a catch in her throat, "you are impossible."

  "Am I forgiven?"

  "What for?"

  "For pulling your leg about those anecdotes."

  "Oh, yes! It doesn't matter."

  "Enjoying yourself?"

  "Marvellously. Everyone's so kind. And we're having such grand fun…"

  "And yet," said Larry, "it's all dust and ashes without him, isn't it?"

  "Oh, Larry!" said Judy piteously.

  He knew too much. He saw too much. Prom their first meeting, he had been too discerning. He was an irresponsible person, and ye
t so likeable. They danced on together, not talking, then Larry said unevenly, "I wish you could care for me like that."

  "You don't, really. I'm too—ponderous."

  "Oh, rot!"

  "I'm not your sort really, Larry dear. I'm quiet, and silly and romantic. You hate roots. I love them."

  "Perhaps you're right. I couldn't stay put anywhere for long."

  "And I'd hate to racket round the world."

  "That's that, then. But I hope, one day, you'll find your heart's desire."

  She smiled. "The trouble is I've got such a foolish heart!"

  … Meanwhile, Stevie was having an interesting though less hectic time.

  Her friend with whom she rented a room, and whose house was her home when she was free between cases, seemed pleased to see her. After dinner the first evening they sat together in the sitting-room exchanging gossip and the latest news of mutual friends.

  After the spaciousness of the bungalow at the farm, Mary Porter's little house seemed cramped. The bedrooms all opened off the sitting-room, and a small veranda ran along the back and front. The voices of the servants and the clatter of dishes could be heard coming from the back premises, and the sound of cars passing frequently along the road beyond the short drive was in noticeable contrast to the dreaming silence that so often wrapped Kahawa.

  And yet she found herself liking it; feeling pleased to be back in the bustle of a township again. Maybe she had stayed too long, been dependent for human contact on too limited companionship.

  Miles had dropped her at Mrs. Porter's bungalow without any future dates, other than an appointment to pick her up for their return at the end of the stay. Stevie had allowed him to depart without attempting to make him arrange to take her out. There were limits to the lengths even she was prepared to go in the pursuit of a husband.

  She saw him drive away almost with relief. The constant effort to out-manoeuvre Judy had become exhausting. She would be glad to relax.

  Mary's husband was out, and Mary herself eager to hear her friend's news. She was a plump little woman nearing forty, who had a great admiration for Stevie, which Stevie found soothing. Mary was older, and less attractive then herself. Here there was no competition, no rivalry, only a sincere friend eager to listen and sympathise.