In coming to Lokola she had capped every other mistake in her life. Though she was not really sorry she had come. Had she sailed on down to the Cape with Dave still dragging at her heart-strings she would never have known peace. She had to see him here, in Lokola, to be aware of the infinitesimal role she had played in his life.
Meanwhile she must steel herself to meet Dave this evening and take care that the boy, Zula, should suspect nothing. She chose a book from the miscellaneous collection on the shelves, and went on reading it, through lunch and after. At about three she had a bath and got into her green suit. The shorts and shirt were shoved out of sight under the lounger and, after a second’s thought, Luke’s hat joined them.
While the boy snoozed in his hut she inspected the food cupboard and selected some tins of orange juice and a packet of rye biscuits. These were tipped into a washed flour bag and thrust alongside the felt hat. She sought scissors and took them to the mirror above the bookshelves. For a long moment she regarded her reflection. Mouth and blue eyes were tense with conquered pain, the jaw-line was inflexible. She raised a tress of the pale silky hair which curled down behind her ears and rolled under into her nape. Her hand went round to finger the scar it hid, and a sharp, agonized breath escaped her. This was one job she must leave till later.
Dave came in at half past four. He drank some tea and had his bath. It was nearly six when he returned to the living-room and began to tidy his desk.
“We’ll have an early meal,” he said over his shoulder. “Brig’s coming in. He’s been seedy after malaria, or you’d have met him before.”
“Oh.” Tess waited till her pulses were nearly normal again before asking, “Will he stay late?”
“Probably. It means keeping you out of bed. You feel up to it, don’t you?”
“What do I have to do?”
“Put on a smile and take a couple of drinks,” he said laconically. “Walt noticed you hadn’t a wedding ring, but Brig won’t.”
“What did ... Luke say?”
“Nothing. I saw him look at your hand and come to some conclusion. No doubt he decided you flung it at me when we parted. Walt reads novels.”
Tess got the impression that he would have gone on annoying her if Brigham hadn’t knocked and brought his bulk into the room.
After the meal the two men talked about tin production and wages, while Tess sat resting her head against the back of a chair, willing herself not to look at her watch. Presently cards and coins were produced. Brigham shuffled.
“Like to play, Tess?” from Dave.
“No, thanks.”
“What about Walt?’ said Brigham.
“He’s sure to be in soon.”
They played, almost in silence. Tess remained in the chair, a feverish knocking just above her eyes and the heat of apprehension in her body. Luke lounged in and stood by the table, smiling across at her. Dave hooked over another chair.
“Deal you in this hand, Walt?”
“If you like.” To Tess he said: “I expect you’re tired. Don’t stay up for us.”
Dave paused in dealing. His face darkened. “Mind your own business, Walt.”
Luke’s stare of amazement was quickly veiled. “Sorry,” he murmured.
Brig said easily, “You did say she hadn’t been too grand, Dave, and it’ll be fresher in the bedroom.”
The hand was finished and Dave stood up. “We’ll go to your place, Brig.”
No one demurred. Brigham and Luke said good night to Tess and went outside. Dave pressed out his cigarette and, without looking her way, followed them. The key snapped audibly in the lock.
Fully five minutes passed before Tess stirred. It was just after nine, so she had plenty of time. Dave wouldn’t be back before midnight. It wouldn’t do to wait till he had returned and gone to bed. He was a light sleeper and kept a gun under his pillow, and she’d bet that it was his policy to cripple an intruder first and ask questions afterwards. She didn’t fancy a bullet in her leg. So she lit a cigarette and began to undress.
It was hot. A sticky wind kept lifting the screen at the window, puffing in the moist, heady odour of the jungle. Tess felt it over her skin as she pulled on the shirt and pants and fastened the metal loop at the waist. Teeth clamped, she stood before the mirror and cut off the hair which covered her neck. She tried on Luke’s hat, shook her head and hacked off another inch. That was more like it.
Cosmetics, money, her passport and her cheque book were transferred from the white suede handbag to her pocket; Dave could sole his shoes with the bag if he wished. Her suit and blouse were folded and stuffed into the flour bag with her food.
And now the most difficult task of all. She sat at the desk, a sheet of paper in front of her and Dave’s pen poised. Then she began to write swiftly.
By the time you read this, at about seven-thirty tomorrow morning, I shall be a good many miles from Lokola. I fixed-up transport quite easily, and all you have to do is explain my disappearance to Luke Walton and Brigham. I suggest you tell them the facts. I apologize for shaking you up, but from now on you may settle back among the whisky bottles and damp rot without fear of further invasion from me.
Tess paused, scribbled a signature and threw down his pen. She drank some water and ranged round the room a couple of times. This damned, stifling house. She would rather wait in the darkness of the trees. She turned down the lamp, saw it spurt and die, and blinked hard to accustom herself to the blackness. It was simple to roll up and secure the screen, to drop her bag of goods on to the beaten earth, and climb up and wriggle through. Perhaps she had better re-fasten the screen in case Dave or a boy took a final stroll round. That was it.
Tess grasped the twisted top of the bag, skirted the bank of rubbery weeds which divided the houses and, keeping to the black shadows of the trees, she started down the track.
At last she reached the cover of the main railway shed, and she sat down with her back against it, clasping her knees. The wet heat, combined with an undeniable weight of misery, made her drowsy. For an interminable time she gave herself up to intermittent dozing.
“Menino!”
It camp in a voice that was thick and soft and urgent. Tess grabbed her bag.
“I’m here, senhor.”
The man came forward, a short, rotund figure in khaki drill slacks and an old blue shirt. His face, square and swarthy, glistened in the arc of his torch. “You are the boy who want lift to Fort Leppa. Ha?”
She sprang up. “Yes, senhor. Is it arranged?”
“It is unfortunate, menino. The telheiro is locked up. They fear rain.”
“Telheiro?”
“The shed, menino. One cannot borrow a car.”
Tess gripped the bag tighter. “I see. Your friend told you I promised money?”
“Yes, senhorito, but it would take much money.” At the mention of cash she had graduated from “menino” to “senhorito.” Firmly she demanded, “How much?”
“Hear first what I have planned. The car is impossible, but trucks are ready to leave, loaded with ore, and other goods. There is one which is covered ... a carreta. You understand, senhorito?”
“A railway carriage?” she hazarded.
The torch wavered with his shrug. “Something like. It carry some goods, but you are not big. There is space for you.”
“Isn’t it fastened up?”
The briefest pause, before the slurred, guttural answer. “Yes, it has padlock and bars, but there is a way into it which I know. What do you say, senhorito?”
“You’re sure there’s no other way of travelling to Fort Leppa tonight?”
“Quite sure, senhorito.”
The alternative, of course, was to crawl back to the bungalow and live through more days of Dave’s remoteness and cruelty. She and Dave had nothing else to say to each other. Whatever had existed between them was as dead as last year’s mountain roses. Dead so far as Dave was concerned.
She had had enough of that brand of wretchedness; there could
be no going back...
“How much?” she repeated.
“Five pounds.”
“I’ve only English money.”
“That will do.”
Tess paid him. “Lead the way,” she said.
“Gracias, senhorito.” The money was inserted into his shirt, the torch was snicked off. “It is not far.’
She followed him round the sheds, over a loading platform and down again, beside the trucks lined up on the rails. They came to a large iron container coupled between two tarpaulin-covered trucks.
“This is it,” he whispered. “Wait.”
He dropped flat on to his back, took hold of something and pulled himself under the wagon. She heard the dull clank of iron, and the man reappeared and sat up.
“Do as I do,” he instructed. “The opening is small, too small for a fully grown man, but you are thin. Perhaps you graze a little bit, that is all. I see with the torch that only one side of the carreta is loaded. You sit the other side, my friend, and I will replace the iron trap-door.”
“But how do I get out at Fort Leppa?”
“That is arranged with the driver. When he lets you out he will expect some more money.”
She might have known. It served her right for dealing, with scum.
“Sell me your flashlight,” Tess demanded.
The exchange was made. She lay and pulled herself under the wagon, looked up into the interior through a hole about eighteen inches by twelve. Her bag was thrust into the aperture, then her arms, so that her elbows could take purchase. The metal edge scraped her sides and hips. Thank heaven for the voluminous shorts. She knelt inside the wagon, panting.
“You are all right?” from the Portuguese.
She replied with a doubtful, “Yes.”
“Good. I will replace the seal. Boas noites, senhorito!”
The trap fitted back into its place, and Tess subsided into a sitting position, feeling like a lone sardine in an outsize tin.
In the quietude her tenseness eased. She moved back a little and noticed a round ventilator in the roof of the wagon, a circular pattern of sky through the metal wings of a fan, which would serve to remind her that she was not altogether cut off from the outside world. But it wouldn’t do to flash a light while they were stationary.
She sat on, worn and hopeless, till, with clangour and screaming, the train began to jerk forward. No yelling, no whistle; merely a gathering speed over wet, protesting rails. Now, the fan in the roof was whirling, puffing down gusts of warm air.
Tess got out a handkerchief to wipe grime and sweat from her face and hands. She pressed on the flashlight and surveyed her surroundings. She was in an ordinary goods van, her only company a pile of flat wooden boxes which, she thought, were conveniently sized to slide through the trap-door. Leaning over, she read the words stencilled on each box, “Alluvial Holdings Ltd., Fort Leppa.”
She caught her breath. Grimly funny that she should leave Lokola in Dave’s wagon, with Dave’s consignment to the head office of his firm in Fort Leppa.
For a goods train it was travelling fast. At this rate they would reach Fort Leppa by dawn. She would be able to hide somewhere and change her clothes, and later present herself at the station to buy a ticket for the coast. Not for Cape Ricos, though. Some other port would have to do. For Dave’s sake, she must be careful. A woman travelling alone in West Africa was bound to draw comment.
For Dave’s sake. With the distance widening between them, Tess allowed herself to think about him. His dark hair and tanned skin, the twist to his mouth; the hardness which had angled his features. He couldn’t blame her for the change in him; it had happened inside himself. Now, she doubted whether he had ever loved her in the marrying sense. There might have been other women since Zinto.
But Tess knew, with heart-wrenching certainty, that she could never love anyone as she had loved Dave Paterson. Richard had been sincere, generous and tender; he had helped to bridge the frightful chasm between Dave and a sane way of life without Dave. Richard had implied that their experiences were parallel, and for that reason alone their marriage must succeed. In Port Cranston it had sounded plausible.
Tess sighed to herself. No; Richard was out. He had filled his purpose by providing solid and convincing evidence to her brothers that she would be happier in South Africa. He had also proved a fillip to her self-esteem in dealing with Dave. But she couldn’t face him again. It would be best for them both if she kept clear of Port Cranston.
Where to, then? Tess lifted her shoulders. What did it matter?
Then, so suddenly that she was flung on the iron floor the train jostled and shuddered to a halt. It sounded to Tess as if all hell were free. Rain hammered all round her, thunder cracked tremendously right overhead, and through it all she heard staccato, but unintelligible, shouting.
Unmistakably came the clatter of a tool upon the floor of her wagon. Tess jumped up and backed into a corner. She saw the oblong seal removed and two leathery arms inserted. The hands searched, grasped one of the boxes and manoeuvred it down through the hole on to the track. Heart pounding, Tess witnessed the removal of box after box, and heard exclamations in Portuguese from other men outside. Train thieves, of course. But what in the world did they intend to do with the contents of Dave’s boxes? The stuff still had to be processed before it would yield gold.
There came an English voice. “You have counted the boxes?”
“Yes, senhor. Eighteen.”
“The note says twenty. Look again.”
A dark curly head thrust up into the wagon, a white beam of light moved slowly round it, illumining the other two boxes ... and a pair of slim ankles. “Por deus, senhor! There is a boy in here.”
“A boy? What the hell! Yank him out.”
“A white boy, senhor.”
“Have him out, damn you.”
Much later, it occurred to Tess that she could have defied the command, and perhaps had an amusing time over the impotent struggle of the Portuguese to enter the wagon. At the moment, however, she was too scared to disobey and, in any case, the English voice was disarming. In fact, she was almost glad to surrender and scramble out into the storm. The rain beat down upon Luke’s hat and ran in rivers over her shirt-clad shoulders. But it had the good fresh smell of freedom.
“What were you doing in there?”
The peremptory query issued from beneath an oilskin-covered topi. The man was of average height, but his build was obscured by a large cape.
An Englishman would not easily be deceived. Tess answered in low tones: “I don’t mind being caught, sir. I can explain.”
“You’ll have to, but there isn’t time now. The man turned. “Umberto! Give this boy a coat and take him to the house. I’ll question him in the morning.
A sweat-smelling covering was dropped over Tess’s back.
“This way, menino.”
Rain lashed through the trees, lightning zipped horizontally among the branches. Tess waded, calf-deep in red mud, beside the corpulent Umberto. “Where are we going, senhor?”
“You hear the boss. We go to the house.”
“Which house?”
“You are not to mind,” he said sharply. “If you were not white we would kill you.”
“So?” she said, with something of his accent. “You are brave, senhor.”
“And you, menino, have the impudence. How did you get into the wagon?”
“Someone hit me and put me there. I cannot remember.”
“You come from Lokola?”
“Where,” she blandly enquired, “is Lokola?”
He stumped on. “So you cannot remember. The boss will see about that in the morning.”
They came upon the house unexpectedly. It was a small log dwelling among the trees, unlighted, except for a dim lamp high in the banana-thatched veranda; the sort of place one would have small chance of finding by daylight and no chance at all of locating in the darkness.
Umberto opened the door. “Come in,” he sa
id. “On a night like this I think we may have a light. Is that you, Maria?”
The woman entered, large and ponderous in an old white nightgown, her head tied in a cloth. Her colour was light and she spoke Portuguese, but she had the flattened nostrils and thick mouth of the Negro. She listened to the man’s explanation, and turned to peer at Tess.
“You are hungry, young master?”
“No. Only thirsty and very wet.”
“You shall have warm drink and a towel, and I will find some dry clothes.”
“Don’t make him too comfortable,” warned the man.
The old woman showed yellowed teeth at Tess in a smile. “Umberto makes much noise, but he is kind. Give me your hat, young master.”
Well, this was it. The lamp would choose this moment to burn with exceptional brightness. Tess whipped off her hat and shook back her hair. Nonchalantly, she threw off the rainproof and pretended to warm her hands at the glass lamp-shade. The glow lit up fine features and drenched curls, the shirt pasted flat to her body.
“A ... girl,” the woman muttered hoarsely. “Umberto ... what have you done?”
He passed a thick shaky hand over his face. “I did not know. The boss did not know, either.”
Maria was almost on her knees to Tess. “Umberto did not mean to harm the missus. He only do what he is told.”
“I swear it, senhora,” the man mumbled. “I would not hurt a white woman. Three months ago I am just a plate-layer, with the railway. Then the boss come. He give me this house so that he can use it. Sometimes he sleep here. Every month he give me money which I save, to go back to Nazare, in Portugal, where I was born. I swear that is all, senhora.”
“I believe you,” said Tess. “Give me dry clothes and a mule, and show me the road to Fort Leppa, and you’ll never hear of me again. You can tell your boss I ran away.”
The old woman broke into voluble thanks, which Umberto silenced with a groan.
“Quiet, Maria! We are both mad. The girl cannot be allowed to leave this house. She knows about the guns.”
The guns. With studious abstraction Tess wrung drops from her hair. Luke had mentioned gun-running, and so had the education officer on her first evening at Lokola. Dave hadn’t said anything about it, though. Those boxes had borne the name of his company and were presumably intended for the headquarters at Fort Leppa. They had been padlocked within a special wagon which, however, had a concealed opening that several people knew about. Gun-running and Dave didn’t mix, and whoever was at the back of the shady business had a good idea that they didn’t. That was a possible reason why Dave’s mine was used as a cover.
Love This Stranger Page 13