The House of the Scissors

by Isobel Chace

  “Darling, Sammy doesn’t think of anything but Sandra!”

  Arab sighed. “I suppose I shall have to ask him this evening,” she said with such marked reluctance that Jill looked at her with concern.

  “Worried about being left behind, love?”

  “In a way,” Arab admitted. “My parents will expect me back for my birthday anyway, and I can’t stay here for ever, can I? Lucien has been more than kind, but I can’t stay here when you’ve gone, and I can’t afford to stay at the hotel. But I must say that I don’t relish a nine-hour flight with my ankle still in plaster either.”

  “Doesn’t look as though you have much choice,” Jill said. “Sammy must have kept your reservation.”

  “I suppose so. I shall have to go anyway. My visitor’s permit runs out then and one has to remember that this is a foreign country, though it doesn’t feel like one.”

  “Not to you,” Jill answered swiftly. “You speak for yourself!”

  Arab laughed. “I am! I wouldn’t dream of keeping you here another moment, unless your beloved husband were here beside you.”

  “That might make me see things differently,” Jill agreed, somewhat smugly, “but I find it a bit too hot for everyday living. I shall be quite pleased to see a bit of English drizzle.”

  “And slushy snow?”

  Jill nodded with decision. “And winter clothes, and eating hot, well-buttered crumpets in front of the fire!”

  Arab stared dreamily at the notes she was typing. “You’re welcome,” she said.

  Hilary was much more sanguine about Arab’s prospects when she joined the other two in the garden. “I can’t think why you have to worry about everything all the time! Lucien says that now he’s found a willing slave to work for him, he’s not going to relinquish you easily!”

  Arab blushed scarlet. “I wish you wouldn’t repeat what your uncle says all the time!” she protested.

  Hilary looked at her with interest. “I think he’s right,” she announced. “He says that you’re so much in love with Africa that you don’t want to go home.”

  Would that it were only Africa she was in love with! Arab turned grimly back to the typewriter, determined not to think about Lucien for two minutes put together. Surely that wasn’t taxing her powers too much? But it seemed it was. His writing was a blur before her eyes, and when she did manage to decipher something about the richness of the Swahili culture, it recalled his enthusiasm for the subject so vividly that she felt winded and unable to continue.

  “What’s that about?” Hilary demanded. “You’re looking at it as though you can’t understand a word of it!”

  “Yes,” Jill put in, “do you have to do that now? Surely Lucien wouldn’t object if you took half an hour off to relax with us?”

  “I want to get it finished,” Arab answered, her chin set in a stubborn line that her friend recognised all too well.

  “But what’s it about?” Hilary repeated.

  “It’s about Swahili poetry,” Arab told her. “Did you know they were composing fine lyric poems, called mashairiy in medieval times?”

  Hilary giggled. “We don’t learn any of them at school,” she said.

  Arab frowned at her levity. “You would if your uncle had his way! It seems they wrote epic poems as well, called tendi.” She consulted Lucien’s notes. “They’re still writing them today. In the old days, though, they used a kind of corrupted Arabic script and a lot of Arabic idiom as well. Goodness, there were whole chronicles written about Mombasa and Pate! Did you know that when the archaeologists started to look at the ruined cities of the East African coast they thought they were looking at Arab or Persian towns, but now they aren’t so sure? They form a distinct variant among medieval Islamic patterns. They now think it more likely that there was already a fine African culture that was slowly Islamised—in fact it’s as much Negro as Islamic.”

  Jill sat up on one elbow. “And you find that interesting?”

  Arab nodded apologetically. “I’m going to learn Swahili,” she said. “I want to read all these poems for myself.”

  “Good idea!” a masculine voice congratulated her. She turned swiftly, jarring her ankle against the table. It made her feel even more angry with Lucien than she was already. What right had he to come creeping up and overhearing their conversation? She hadn’t wanted him to know that she planned to learn Swahili, for what chance would she ever have of coming back to Africa? She had thought it would be something she could do in England that would form a tenuous link between herself and her memories of him, because there was nothing else left to build on. He belonged to Sandra, and she—she would never belong to anyone, but would go lonely all her days.

  Lucien came and stood very close beside her, peering over her shoulder at what she was typing.

  “Madaka ya nyamba ya zisahani Sasa walaliye wana wa nyuniy,” he quoted softly. It sounded like liquid magic on his tongue.

  “What does it mean?” Arab asked him, despite her best intentions.

  “It means, ‘Where once the porcelain stood in the wall niches Now wild birds nestle their fledglings.’ ”

  “Oh,” said Arab, “it could be Gedi, only there weren’t any birds there, were there? Still, it could have been Gedi.” She wanted it to be, urgently, though she didn’t know why. “I’d like it to be Gedi,” she ended uncertainly, feeling foolish.

  “It was actually written about Pate,” Lucien answered her. “But it could have been Gedi.” He smiled intimately into her eyes. “Human birds get the nesting urge too,” he reminded her. “Perhaps that’s what Gedi means to you?”

  Arab’s breath caught in the back of her throat. “If I had,” she said when she could, “it wouldn’t be anything to do with you!”

  “No?” he taunted her. “I long ago learned never to listen to what a woman says, my dear. It’s her actions that count!”

  “Lucien!” she exclaimed. “You’re not very gallant, are you?”

  “More so than you deserve! How dare you deny your own instincts! Youth doesn’t excuse everything, Arab.”

  Jill stirred uneasily. “I feel decidedly de trop,” she murmured. “Hilary and I will go and get ready for lunch.”

  Arab was scarcely aware of their going. She sat miserably in front of the typewriter, wondering how Lucien could be so cruel. It wasn’t she who was denying anything—it was him! He was the one who had this understanding with Sandra!

  Lucien pushed a handkerchief into her unwilling hand. He looked harassed and as uncertain as she felt. “I suppose you’re going to cry now!” he said in goaded tones. “You’d better be prepared.”

  “I’m not going to cry!”

  Lucien sat on the edge of the table and looked down at her. He looked as stern and as unyielding as she had ever seen him.

  “If you’re not going to cry, suppose you tell me what went wrong,” he suggested.

  “Nothing went wrong! We—we both agreed that an—an affair was not what we wanted, and that there wasn’t any chance of anything else. Well, I’ve had time to think, and I don’t think I would enjoy having an affair with anyone anyway. I think I must be the all or nothing kind. So I’m quite happy to settle for nothing—”

  “You look happy!” he commented.

  “I am happy!” she declared furiously. “It would take more than one kiss from you to disturb me, let me tell you—”

  “Then I’ll kiss you again!” His arms went round her and his lips descended on hers. When he had finished, he gave her a mocking smile of triumph. “Are you still undisturbed?”

  “I hate you!”

  His hands fell to his sides. “There are times when I do a pretty good job of hating myself,” he admitted. “I’m sorry, Arab.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said dully.

  “I think it does. I’m beginning to think an affair wouldn’t suit me either. Will you stay here a week or two longer, Arab, and finish typing up my notes for me?”

  She shook her head. “The others are going ba
ck to England—there’s my birthday, you see. My parents expect me to share it with them. They—they’ve made plans for what we’re going to do. I can’t disappoint them now.”

  Lucien stared at her for a long moment. “Sammy is taking Sandra to England with him. That’s what I wanted your passport for, to get your visitor’s permit extended. You won’t be able to fly back with the others, Arab.”

  “But I have to! I can’t stay here!”

  “Can’t you, little one?”

  “I’ve told you! I won’t stay in your house without another woman being here. I’m—I’m sorry, Lucien.” Another thought struck her. “Sammy can’t leave me stranded here, can he?”

  “Not if he wants to stay alive!” Lucien assured her with a hint of a smile. “But I hope you’ll stay, all the same. When you’re twenty-one I’ll feel better about forcing a decision on you that you seem far too young to make at the moment!”

  Arab clenched her fists. “I shan’t change my mind!”

  “Circumstances change—”

  “But people’s feelings don’t!” she exclaimed sharply.

  He smiled at her, his eyes suddenly warm and amused. “Is that a promise?” he asked her.

  She tried to stop the blush that crept up her cheeks. “Don’t you think you ought to ask someone else that?” she countered with dignity.

  He put a hand on the nape of her neck so that she couldn’t escape his searching glance. “Whom would you suggest I ask?”

  “S—Sandra,” she stammered.

  His grasp tightened on her neck. “Sandra has nothing to do with you,” he ripped into her. “Or do you resent her success with Sammy Silk?”

  “Oh, but,” Arab said before she had thought, “that doesn’t mean a thing! She only wants to make sure of a job with Sammy. She’s waiting—” She broke off, appalled at how easily she might have broken the other girl’s confidence. “I mean—”

  “Yes?”

  “I mean she’s in love with someone else,” Arab ended dismally.

  His hand fell away from her. “Oh, Arab, spare me that! Is it likely that Sandra would confide in someone like you? She’s practically old enough to be your mother! Nor does she have much time for anyone as ingenuous as you are, as you’ve heard her say yourself. No, my dear, you may be too young to be sure of your own emotions, but don’t try to shift the responsibility on to anyone else. You have exactly one week, my love, to sort yourself out, and not a moment longer!”

  Arab gritted her teeth together. “I shall be back in England then,” she muttered with a toss of her head.

  “Perhaps.”

  “I told you! I’m going to celebrate my birthday with my parents and—and that’s in a week’s time. So you see—”

  “One week!” he repeated.

  He strode off into the house as though he couldn’t stand her company an instant longer. Arab sat on in the garden for a long time, exhausted by the interview with Lucien and, damn it all, she believed she was going to cry after all! She found she was still holding his handkerchief and, holding it close against her cheek, the tears brimmed over and ran unchecked down her face. He knew, she thought, he knew he had only to touch her and she was helpless against him. He probably thought she would share him with Sandra, and would still think that Sandra was none of her business. He had lived too long in a Moslem environment to see anything wrong with that! But how dared he blame it on her? No, she decided wearily, the sooner she went back to England the better. In England, her parents would make a fuss of her and she would forget all about him. She sniffed pathetically and dabbed at her face with his handkerchief. Sandra was welcome to him! They were very well matched. They were both adult and sophisticated and would doubtless understand if they each had less than an exclusive interest in the other! Whereas she was young and foolish and wanted nothing else than the whole of Lucien’s love. And a lot of chance she had of that, with only her gamin, ragamuffin ways and charm to help her. She might as well make up her mind to that, no matter how much it hurt.

  If she was still red-eyed and a little tearful at lunchtime, everyone was far too tactful to remark on it. Only Hilary asked her if her ankle was hurting her and, when she admitted that it was, began to tell her uncle that Arab had had enough of sitting round the house. “You ought to take her to see the Giriama dancers,” she said, looking quaintly up at him. “Typing all your stuff doesn’t take her mind off the pain!”

  Lucien shot a glance across the table at Arab.

  “Perhaps it isn’t only her ankle that’s hurting,” he said.

  But Hilary only laughed at this suggestion. “Her head has stopped aching,” she told him with an authoritative air. “One’s head only aches when one actually has malaria, but Arab hasn’t got it now, and I see that she takes her paludrin every day, so she probably won’t get it again.”

  Lucien raised his eyebrows. “All right,” he agreed. “I’ll make arrangements to go and see the dancing.”

  Arab lay on the sofa, striving not to think about the pain in her ankle. It was the hottest part of the afternoon, when the very air itself seemed to be catching its breath before the cooler time of the evening:. What, she wondered, was she going to say to Sammy? The same question had been turned over and over in her mind ever since lunch, and she couldn’t put it off for very much longer because Sammy would soon call it a day. They had finished the whole assignment a day early and the next day had been declared a celebratory holiday. If she didn’t see him this evening, she might not see him at all.

  There was a strange noise in the hall and Arab turned her head, trying to make up her mind whether she ought to go and investigate it. It was such an effort moving anywhere with this lump of plaster on the end of her leg! The door into the sitting room opened slowly and a totally strange woman stuck her head into the room.

  “Hullo,” said Arab.

  The woman jumped, then smiled, coming right over to the sofa and looking down at Arab with amused, familiar eyes. She was really very like Lucien.

  “You must be Arab,” she said in a delightful, contralto voice. “The one who didn’t know enough—”

  “To take off her shoes!” Arab finished for her.

  The stranger laughed. “Hilary was quite right—you’re nice! But, forgive me, has Lucien been beating you up? You look a little the worse for wear!”

  “I broke my ankle,” Arab explained.

  The amused eyes twinkled at her. “I thought Lucien had been less resourceful than usual for a moment, and that was the only way he could get you to stay!” Arab veiled her eyes behind her long eyelashes. “I don’t know that he wants me to stay,” she said.

  The eyes lost none of their amusement. “My dear, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry into what is, after all, your own business. I should have introduced myself, instead of embarrassing you, but then the Manners never did think before they spoke! I’m Ruth Dark.”

  “Does Hilary know you’re here?”

  “No, not yet. You’re the only person I’ve seen. I received this odd letter from Lucien.” Ruth Dark hesitated almost imperceptibly. “Do you know my sister-in-law?”

  Arab nodded, saying nothing, in case it all came flooding out, even the details of how Lucien affected her and how he only had to appear for her to feel weak at the knees and short of breath, and a lot of other unpleasant things besides!

  “She’s an unhappy sort of person,” Ruth continued. “What is all this about her taking your job? Did you agree, or were you pushed into it?”

  “I agreed,” Arab said. “Sort of. I didn’t have much option really. I could hardly model the clothes myself with a broken ankle and washed-out with malaria.” She broke off, aware of an underlying bitterness in her words. “This was the big opportunity of my career, and I should have minded very much, but I didn’t. I thought I was heading straight for the top! But I don’t think I’m a very ambitious person after all.”

  Ruth sat down on the leather chair opposite the sofa, crossing her legs in front of her with an
easy elegance that Arab wished Sandra could have witnessed. If Sandra’s legs were admirable, they were quite put in the shade by those of Lucien’s sister.

  “Ambition is a funny thing,” she remarked. “I never wanted to do anything much when my husband was alive. It was only after he died that I found I had this driving urge to achieve something—and not just anything! It had to be something as worthwhile as what Lucien was doing. Does that seem ridiculous to you?”

  “Oh no!” Arab exclaimed.

  Ruth smiled. “A lot of people do. Most think I ought to devote myself to Hilary and not gad about the countryside. Lucien encouraged me to do my thing though right from the start. Without him, I never could have done it!”

  Arab’s eyes became soft and dreamy. “I’ve been typing his notes for him,” she said.

  A chuckle was her only answer from Ruth and she became guiltily aware that she had sounded exactly like a stage-struck teenager. She tried to regain more solid ground by rushing into an explanation as to how she had been a shorthand-typist before she had been a model.

  “Whatever made you admit such a thing?” Ruth demanded. “My dear girl, Lucien will never let you go! Nor will I, come to that! I don’t suppose you’re interested in anthropology? I have a mountain of notes that all need putting in order. Enough to keep you here for weeks!”

  “But I don’t want to stay here for weeks!” Arab wailed.

  There was another telling chuckle from Ruth. “Of course you don’t,” she said comfortably. “I expect you’re longing to get home. By the way,” she added, “what are all those people doing in the garden? Sandra looks very much at home in their midst.”

  Arab made a face, an expression she had caught from Hilary. Ruth recognised it immediately and burst into laughter. “She has made a hit with you!” she drawled. She swivelled round in her chair, leaning forward to see better out of the window. “I hope my daughter hasn’t been sharing her prejudices with you. My word, poor Sandra!”

  “She looks as though she’s doing all right to me!” Arab said grimly.