“House-warming?” Tess echoed. “I can’t believe it. Who is he inviting?”
“The farmers, and people he knows in Parsburg. I expect he’ll ask you, too.”
“I wish he would, to give me the pleasure of refusing. Have you been into the house yet, Martin?”
“Once, a week ago. I was going back in the evening and he had to jolt along behind my bus. When I stopped, he told me to change cars and go up for a sundowner.”
“I hope you were suitably abject.”
He laughed. ‘I’ll confess I’m glad he’s not my boss. I got the impression that only geniuses should get their work published, and that all other writers are superfluous. But he told me some good yarns about the Gold Coast. Sounded as if he’d like to go back to the tropics.”
“I wish to heaven he would!” she said sincerely. But now that he had accepted Martin, Dave made no trouble for the store.
If Tess happened to be within view when he passed on his way to town, he nodded amicably but never stopped, which suited her very well. When news trickled through that the house party up at the farm had been a great success, she merely shrugged. One doesn’t hobnob socially with one’s grocer; at least, men like Dave Paterson didn’t. Ah well, she was quite content with Martin’s companionship. No snobbery about him.
They had formed the habit of having a knockabout game of tennis every Sunday morning, lunching together, and driving to the river in the afternoon. Tess often had an urge to slide into the cool water, but she never mentioned this to Martin. Possibly it wasn’t safe for him to bathe.
One Sunday he brought along a book of obscure-sounding verse and read to her. He lay with one hand under his head and the other lodging the small volume on his chest, while Tess sat with her back to a tree-trunk, hearing his expressive voice without dissecting the words.
Even out of the sun the air vibrated with heat, and scarcely an insect stirred in the grass, nor a bird in the trees. Martin’s tones melted into the lazy gurgle of the river. Abstractedly, Tess watched the movements of his lips and the pleating of his forehead.
“You’re not listening,” he accused her.
“I am — to your voice. The meaning is too wrapped up for a hot Sunday afternoon. We had a large lunch.”
“You did,” he teased, flinging the book aside. “You’re of the earth, Tess. A greedy, graceful sapling. It’s a happy thing to be.”
“Are you glad you came here?”
“I can’t tell you how glad.” He cast a swift smiling glance up at her. “I never found writing so easy before, nor such an abundance of material — and I enjoy the store, smells and all. But you’re what I’m really grateful for.”
“I? You’ve just acknowledged that my feet are firmly planted and I haven’t a soul above vittles.”
“That’s why. You’re so sound, Tess.” He raised himself on his elbow, twisted, and rested his head in her lap. “You don’t mind?”
“Not if you don’t. My slacks probably reek of paraffin.”
“A bit. But I prefer paraffin on you to Chanel on some other girl.” He settled more comfortably. “I’d like to sketch you from this angle. You wouldn’t recognize yourself.”
“You’re taking an unfair advantage.”
“That’s all you know about it. Why do you keep your hair so short, Tess? It’s lovely, but why?”
“Katie’s cut it for me ever since I was a kid. Let’s talk about something more thrilling.
His smile faded and the bluish lids half-closed over his eyes. “To me, nothing more thrilling exists. I’m falling in love with you.”
Tess had to pause before she could laugh. “Is it pleasant?”
“It would be, if there were any hope of your marrying me.”
“Marriage is stodgy. It seems a pity that the excitement of falling in love should so often end that way.”
Martin’s mouth narrowed. “I shall never ask you to marry me. You deserve someone better than a crock and a half-baked journalist.” His face turned into her waist, his hand found hers and gripped. “I’ve never loved anyone, Tess — never been loved. This is new, and painful.”
For a change she had no reply handy. An unfamiliar little ache had started just below her throat, and she fought away from it. For a man he was so dreadfully sensitive.
“I’d make a rotten wife,” she said huskily. “Give me a cigarette, Martin.”
He waited a minute, then dragged himself up to sit beside her. His smile, as he hollowed his hand round the lighter, was tight.
Quietly, he asked, “You won’t let it make any difference, will you, Tess?”
“Of course not.” But she knew, as well as he, that a thing once said is said for ever.
The following Saturday they went to supper at Inchfaun. Martin had met Everard and Cath Arnold up at the farm, and in their usual hospitable fashion they had insisted that he must soon come over for a meal and a chat. His explanation that he was working with Tess at the store had delighted them.
“Grand!” Cath had exclaimed in her large way. “Make Tess come with you. It’s time she grew up.”
That Thursday, it being the day when the Arnolds’ monthly supplies were delivered, Tess sent up a note, and Jacob brought it back, scribbled over the margin with, You’re both welcome, Tess, and bring your guitar!
For nearly a year Tess had forgotten her guitar. At lunch-time she turned out the cupboard in her room and found it, dusty, rather smaller than she remembered it, with two strings missing. She cleaned it, rootled out some strings from old stock at the store, and spent a blissful hour tuning up and practising.
So, at six on Saturday evening, Martin, Tess, in slim-fitting blue linen, and the resurrected guitar, arrived at Inchfaun Dairy Farm, and were inclusively greeted by the bluff Everard and his wife. Hazel, the small Arnold daughter, slept peacefully in her back bedroom.
They ate beef hash with pumpkin, and a pineapple salad, and afterwards Cath played the twangy little piano, Tess pinged at the guitar and the men sang.
It was later, in the kitchen, when Tess was helping to prepare savouries to accompany the nightcaps, that Cath mentioned Dave Paterson.
“He’s likeable when you get to know him. We forced ourselves upon him in our usual steam-roller fashion and more or less compelled him to give a house-warming. It was quite a binge — at least thirty guests — and he was a charming host. There were younger folk than you there, Tess. Why didn’t you go?”
“I wasn’t invited.” Tess sounded just a trifle smug. “We don’t care for each other.”
Cath smiled. “He does show a preference for married women, but I expect it’s only temporary. A man of his age and looks is sure to have had plenty of experience.”
“Too much.” Tess deftly sliced a hard-boiled egg. “I’d pity the woman who married him. Once she’d changed her name to his she wouldn’t have a thing to call her own.”
Cath laughed outright, and began setting out biscuits and toast-fingers. “I don’t wonder you two are enemies,” she said cryptically. “You’ve so much in common.”
CHAPTER THREE
MARTIN had been asked by his agent to try a short story with native characters. The letter had hinted at a market for a book of such tales once his name had appeared in good magazines. Uplifted, he had conned over his notes, found them insufficient, and straightway begged an old native customer to allow him to do some prying in his village, which lay in a valley of the Witberg foothills. It was arranged that he go there bearing sweets, tobacco and a few hair ornaments, and prepared to listen to the elders without making notes. To write while the old men of the village ransacked their memories would be in the worst possible taste.
“I’ll go with you,” Tess had offered. “What you let slip I may pick up.”
It was dusk before they got away, waved off by the entire grinning village. Both Martin and the natives had spent a profitable afternoon.
Martin never stayed at the house with Tess after dark. Before they parted he asked if he mig
ht work most of tomorrow in her lounge, where it was cool and quiet.
So Tess did not wear her tennis kit on Sunday morning. She compromised with navy shorts and a clean white shirt, and decided to do some gardening. But the garden was large, the weeds legion, and she perspired. She drank grenadilla and took some to Martin, but though he broke off from his work she could tell that the disturbance was unwelcome.
So she collected his glass, went to her bedroom for her swim-suit, got into Martin’s car, and racketed along the road to their usual spot by the river. The water had lowered, leaving a short silt bank on either side, but it still ran clear and fresh, a benediction as it lapped over her body and cooled her scalp.
Tess twisted on to her front, found her feet, waded over to the other bank and heaved herself up on to the grass. Critically she walked from tree to tree, occasionally pressing at a bright orange and finally selecting a couple of navels. She returned to the bank and sat down, her legs dangling over the shallow water.
There were sounds back in the trees; a dog’s growl, and then a man’s shout, “Seize ’em, Carlo!”
Swiftly, Tess turned her head. She saw the wide jaws and stretched underpart of an Alsatian, felt the dog’s impact and shot headlong into the river. The dog was on her, treading her below the surface and snapping round her face and neck. A spear stabbed her nape, and terror stopped her breathing, but her arms still flailed, punching the beast’s head and swinging at the heavy paws that pinned her. Oh God, the great brute was ... killing her.
She didn’t know the details of what happened next, but in a minute or so the dog was gone and a man was lifting her to the bank. Her breath returned in terrible sobbing gasps against his chest, and scalding tears chased down her face. She could not see the blood gushing from her wound over Dave’s wrist, but she could feel the hot, dragging pain which intensified with every drawn breath.
“You did it,” she panted. “You set that hound on me. Leave go of me, you beast. Leave go!”
She pummelled him as she had punched at the Alsatian, with doubled fists and a frenzy of strength. “Stop it!” he commanded, still holding her tight.
“I won’t!” She scarcely realized that she was screaming. “You saw me sitting there eating one of your rotten oranges and you made the dog go for me. I heard you, I tell you. I heard you!”
“Will you shut up,” he bit out, “and for God’s sake stop struggling, or I’ll knock you out.”
“Take your filthy hands away!”
Her nails dug fiercely into his bicep and he dropped his arm. She swayed back, her eyes dilated at the red pool and runnels over his knuckles and forearm.
A muscle jerked in his jaw. “That’s your blood, and if you carry on like this you’ll lose more,” he said grimly. “I’m going to take you to my house.”
“No,” she answered dazedly. “My things are the ... other side of the river. I’ll swim across ... and drive home.”
“It’s my guess and earnest hope that in a few seconds you’ll collapse in a dead faint.”
“I never ... fainted in my life.”
Her fingers went up over her eyes, slid through her wet hair, and she reeled. David slipped both arms under her and carried her through the trees to his car. He put her in the back, pulled off his shirt, folded it and carefully inserted it under her shoulders, and went round to the driving-seat.
The next half-hour passed in a series of nightmares. She lay in a bedroom and had to swallow tablets. The torn flesh was soaked with something searing and dressed. She drank a horrible draught from a glass, was covered and left to sleep.
When she awoke Dave was there, reading a newspaper. He dropped it to the floor and came over. “Don’t move till you’re wide awake. It may hurt.” She knew better than to ignore the advice, but as soon as she had him focused and the immaculate room had steadied itself, she rose cautiously on her elbow.
“I’m going home,” she said dully.
“All in good time. I sent a boy for Cramer’s car and your things—a white shirt and some pants. He couldn’t find anything else.”
“That’s all I had.”
“No shoes?”
“No. May I have the clothes?”
He brought them from a chair. “I’ve slit the shirt right down the front so that you’ll get into it easily. Here, let me help.”
“Damn you,” she muttered, clutching it against her. “Get out.”
He stood over her, his mouth thinning into an angry smile. “You’re blaming me for this morning’s incident. Do I strike you as the sort of man who’d set a dog on a girl? Since the citrus started to ripen we’ve had natives from over the river haunting the bank. I’ve been training the dog to scare them. I heard a noise and sent him, that was all. How the hell was I to know you bathed there?”
Her hair, dry now and tousled, fell forward in a rough wave over her eyes. Her tongue came out to moisten her lips. “I shan’t ... any more. Please go.” The defeat in her tone subtly changed the atmosphere. She said nothing when he drew the short sleeves over her arms and turned back the blanket so that she could push her feet into the shorts. His hold, as he assisted her to the floor, was firm and gentle, and he closed the zipper at her waist as if it were a duty performed with the ease of regularity.
“There, you’re a boy again,” he said. “I’m just as relieved as you are.”
Tess could not smile. Her neck held stiffly, she walked round the bed to the door, grasped its edge for a moment and passed into the corridor with Dave at her side.
“Before you leave you must have some warm milk and toast,” he told her. “It’s nearly five o’clock and you’ve had no lunch.”
Her voice cracked. “I want to go. Can’t you understand? I want to go home and be alone!”
They had reached the panelled hall. He faced her, but apparently deemed it wiser not to touch hex.
“Look, Tess. I can’t apologize for what happened this morning — it’s too big. I’ve spent the whole day cursing myself and that blasted dog. I’d rather the Africans had stripped every tree on the estate than have risked such a thing. I know what it is that’s upsetting you...”
“You don’t.”
“I believe I do. For five minutes you did everything you despise in a woman. You clung to a man and cried, you lost control and practically passed out — and worst of all, the man was me. What you fail to realize is that a boy of your age wouldn’t have reacted much differently in those circumstances. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”
“You mean I’ve nothing to be proud of.” Her lips trembled and she blinked rapidly. “If you’re really anxious to do what’s best for me, take me home ... now.”
He gave a brief sigh. “Sit down till I’ve brought the car round.”
Dave went with her as far as the steps of the house. “Don’t forget the hot milk, I’ll come down tomorrow to see if the dressing needs renewing.”
“You needn’t bother. Martin can do it for me.”
“I’ll come just the same, and it hadn’t better be tampered with before I see it. Is your servant there to help you?”
“Yes,” she replied wearily.
“Go along in, then, and get to bed. And let the rest of those tears out of your system. So long.”
Next morning Martin came early and called first at the house. Tess was up but still pale and heavy-eyed, and his worried enquiries made her edgy.
“I’m sorry to be like this,” she said. “It’ll wear off. Jacob took the store keys. I’ll come down later.”
“You stay here, Tess,” He paused. “I told Paterson he ought to have shot the Alsatian.”
“What good would that do? He only obeyed his master. I was in the wrong, and paid for it.”
“The episode shook Paterson.”
“Not so much as it shook me. How did you get on with your writing yesterday?”
“I can’t trouble with it while you’re sick. Everything else has become so unimportant. I’ll never let you go off alone again.”
“Let’s forget it,” she said abruptly.
She had a sudden longing to escape, though she was not quite sure from what. She only knew that Dave Paterson had so spoiled her delight in an unflurried existence that its charms were in danger of disintegration. The only way to handle the situation was with her usual insouciance. At nine o’clock she walked over to the store and checked over with Martin some goods which had been delivered last Friday.
It was just gone ten when Dave came in. He addressed Martin in a cold, clipped voice.
“You undertook to run this place on your own for a while. That’s what you’re here for — to take charge when necessary.”
Tess came round the counter, a smooth smile on her lips. “Good morning, Mr. Paterson. Can we sell you something?”
“I’ll talk to you over at the house.”
He stood aside. She shrugged and preceded him out into the sunshine.
As they crossed the yard she said, “At your age you should have learned that it’s bad psychology to call down another man in front of a woman.”
“So you’re a woman today,” he replied with irony. “That helps to clear the air. How does the neck feel?”
“Normal. I’d forgotten it.”
“Cut out the bravado and tell me the truth.”
“The truth, Mr. Paterson,” she returned blandly as they reached the veranda, “is that I’d rather die of rabies than allow you to touch it. Will you have a drink?”
“No, thanks.” He sat on the grass table, his regard disconcertingly shrewd upon her face. Unexpectedly he asked, “Heard from your father lately?”
“I had an airmail last week.”
“Where is he?”
“In South America.”
Love This Stranger Page 3