Red Feather Love

by Suzanna Lynne

  'Do you go there often? To South Africa, I mean?'

  'Used to - with Dirk von Breda. The destruction of his Beechcraft will put an end to our gadding.'

  'You and Mr. von Breda are friends?'

  'Well—' he said, and paused. 'He takes understanding; but yes, I like him.'

  'And I hate him!' she blurted out.

  'All women say that; but they still all go for him.'

  Her lips tightened. 'Then this woman is the exception,' she declared with venom. 'I know it's ungrateful of me, but it's the truth. I do hate him.'

  Tactfully he changed the topic of conversation. 'I've just spoken to your doctor; he reckons you can get up for a short while this afternoon, and by tomorrow I may fetch you home. Would you like that?'

  'I would indeed!' She sounded jubilant.

  'I'll stay overnight at the hotel, and call for you tomorrow morning at eleven sharp.'

  'That's wonderful! Thanks! Tell me about the setup at "home", as you put it.'

  'As you must know, when you were little more than an infant, your father and mother suddenly left for England and just locked up the furniture in the house.'

  'He told me. Is it still there?'

  'Yes. Your coming out here was very sudden. You'll understand, I hope, that we didn't have much time to set things in order and prepare for you. We have, however, managed to clean up and air the place.'

  'I'm grateful.'

  'It's quite habitable.'

  'I'm sure it is. What about servants?'

  'I've unearthed your mother's old cook-woman. The garden boy still lives on the ranch. If you want to reemploy him, I can send for him.'

  'Yes, I would like that.' She looked at him with a dimpled smile. 'Tell me about yourself.'

  'I live in the cottage, a stone's throw away from the house, Miss McBride.'

  'Oh, don't call me that!' she remonstrated. 'I'm just Gillian to you. I must tell you from the start that I'm determined to become a good rancher. Now that Daddy's books have all been burnt, I'm relying on you to teach me.'

  His friendly eyes crinkled. 'I don't know that I'm a good teacher; but I can try.'

  Gillian warmed to him. Her look appraised him.

  'He's nice,' she decided. 'I like him. He's a gentleman - not like that other one, who's rude to me and treats me like a child.' She could imagine how tender and romantic Graham would be with the woman he loved. His Blue eyes were clear and kind, not dark and smouldering or else mocking, like Dirk's. How different the two men were — take their hair, for instance; Graham's hair, flaxen and curling free; Dirk's hair, black, smooth and silken as a blackbird's wing shining in the sun. Though they were both too old for her, she yearned to play the mother to Graham. There was something just a little pathetic and endearing about him. She wondered what role women had played in both lives. Gillian suddenly realized that Graham had spoken to her. 'Sorry, I didn't hear; say it again,' she apologized. 'I seem to have developed a habit of going wool-gathering.'

  'Don't worry; it will pass,' he assured her. He rose from his seat and stood over her, smiling. 'I merely said I mustn't tire you. I'll see you tomorrow, then. Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?' She hesitated. 'Well?' he prompted.

  'It's just that I have no clothes.'

  'How stupid of me! I should have told you.'

  'Told me what?'

  'Dirk has arranged with a friend of his - a woman - why, speak of the devil ...!' He turned to the door just as a vision in a smart tan slack suit — a model straight from a glossy magazine - glided into the room. She was followed by a uniformed Swazi, carrying a stack of gilded dress boxes piled high on one arm. The right hand parried a suitcase.

  Graham made the introductions: 'Eve, this is Gillian. Gillian, meet Eve de la Harpe.'

  Gillian stared in admiration and trepidation at this beautiful soignée brunette. Her black glistening hair was expertly piled high above the curved brow; her velvet skin was the colour of rich cream, her dark eyes gleamed under lazy, heavily-lashed eyelids. Gillian was painfully aware of her own unglamorous hospital nightshirt - grateful that, by some miracle, her face and hair had escaped the flames.

  'Put the boxes on the floor in that comer, Joseph.' There was an air of command in the rich contralto voice. The man called Joseph obeyed. 'Wait outside.' He made for the door.

  Quickly, Graham followed him. 'This is your department, Eve,' he said. 'I'll leave you ladies to it.'

  'Wait, Graham!' cried Gillian. He turned with an enquiring look. 'Please, please!' she implored hastily. 'See your bank manager. Explain my predicament and open a banking account for me and arrange for an overdraft. Then cable my attorney for money - you have his address.'

  'Certainly. There should be no difficulty whatsoever. I'll see to it directly.'

  'One more thing, Graham - sorry to be such a bother ...'

  'Not at all!' Graham assured her.

  'Could you settle with the hospital, and return Mr. von Breda's cheques to him, please?'

  'Why, Gillian,' he remonstrated, 'there's no necessity for that just yet.'

  'Please!' Her voice was insistent. 'It's most important. I don't want to be beholden to that man more than I already am. I've just told you, I hate him.'

  Eve arched an eyebrow. Her dark eyes glittered disapprovingly; then, with a graceful shrug, she turned to open the boxes.

  'As you please,' Graham said coldly, and disappeared into the passage.

  Gillian's lovely lips trembled. She felt miserable. She knew she had been ungrateful - ungracious even; but her association with Dirk had been unbearable, and she wanted to make a final end to it. Let everybody know. She feared him, yet was attracted to him in a strange way - she felt like a little bird being mesmerized by a venomous snake.

  She forced herself to smile and show interest in the beautiful array of clothes that Eve was laying across her bed for her inspection. She chose some essentially feminine lingerie, several shirts and pullovers, pairs of white, brown and cinnamon slacks, a green-and-gold dress to match her eyes, an olive tailored slack suit and two pairs of sandals - one brown, one gold. The gowns she admired but refused to consider. 'I'm here to ranch,' she explained. 'I shall hardly have use for a dress.'

  'I shouldn't like to push you,' Eve drawled, 'but the occasion may arise, and believe me, it will too, when you will want to go places and look your best. We're quite civilized, you know. The Swazi Spa is a five-star international hotel, and you're bound to be invited there.'

  'I'm not so sure about that,' Gillian said modestly. 'As a matter of fact, I've fallen in love with the white evening model.'

  'The one with the heavy pearl embroidery at the neck?'

  'That's the one, yes.'

  'Very well chosen,' Eve commended. 'An importation from France - from Paris, actually. I myself think it is a magnificent creation.'

  As Eve folded and re-packed the unwanted garments, Gillian noticed that the golden boxes bore the words in black: 'Eve's Boutique'. Curiosity overcame her, and the question escaped her: 'Are these from your boutique?'

  'Yes,' Eve replied shortly.

  Gillian sensed a feeling of enmity, then brushed the idea aside, for she could think of no reason why Eve should be hostile towards her, unless she was one of the women who, according to Graham, 'went' for Dirk von Breda. She began to regret her impetuous expression of antagonism against Dirk. There was no sense in making enemies in the new country which she now embraced as her own. She would try and appease Eve. 'I'm truly grateful to you, Miss de la Harpe, for taking all this trouble to help me.'

  'It's really for Dirk von Breda that I'm putting myself out, so there's no need for you to thank me, Miss McBride.'

  Gillian felt the rebuff, and knew that she deserved it. She must put matters right. 'Mr. von Breda is obviously a good friend of yours, and already I regret my impulsive remarks about hating him,' she confessed simply.

  'It does show lack of gratitude towards the man to whom you owe your life, I must say.' Eve'
s voice was sarcastic.

  'You're so right, and I'm sorry. It's just that he and I don't hit it off. From the first moment of meeting we showed our claws and the hissing and scratching continued till the crash.'

  Eve gave her a quizzical look. 'Ever heard the saying: "Hate is akin to love?" There's a very small margin between love and hate, you know; so mind your step.'

  'That's just what I intend doing,' Gillian said to herself, leaning back on the pillows with sudden exhaustion. She was no longer a schoolchild. She must put a bridle on her impetuous tongue and consider before she spoke. Eighteen, to her mind, was grown up, and she promised herself to behave like a mature person. Pictures of the past drifted through her mind - the three little monkeys on her bookshelf, one with its paws before its mouth - speak no evil; Reverend Mother reading from the Bible: 'Sera watch upon thy lips'. Gillian's eyelashes dropped on her pale cheeks and against her will she dozed off to the sound of crackling tissue paper.

  Eve's businesslike voice startled her from sleep. 'As it was impossible for you to fit these garments, I'll enter the accepted clothes in the approval book. The suitcase is also on appro through another shop. Be free to return to me anything you wish. Also, we're prepared to make alterations, though I doubt whether that would be necessary.'

  'By the way, how did you know that I'm a standard thirty-two?'

  'Dirk von Breda guessed it. He's quite an authority on women's figures.'

  Gillian felt the colour rise once more to her cheeks. She was thankful that Eve, on her way to call Joseph, was not a witness to her confusion.

  When the door finally closed and she was left alone, she wondered incongruously whether Dirk von Breda would be impressed by her white pearled evening gown or not. She hoped that he'd never have the opportunity of seeing her in it

  CHAPTER TWO

  Gillian, attended by a nurse, stood at the ramp of the Mbabane Hospital, waiting for Graham's car to arrive. She felt weak and unable to stand for any length of time. She looked very smart in her tailored olive slack suit.

  'I think I'll stretch my legs,' she told her companion.

  'Do that,' the nurse encouraged her. 'I'll keep an eye on your suitcase, and a look-out for the car.'

  Gillian wandered up the ramp and down the passage to the right. The sound of babies crying caught her ears. She pushed open a swing-door and realized that she was in the children's section of the hospital. An infant, the dusky little body naked but for a coarse disposable napkin, came crawling up the passage. She hurried towards it and picked- it up; but the child squirmed in her arms and shrieked in terror at the unaccustomed sight of a strange face. A nurse appeared and took the screaming child from her. 'Can I help you?' she said with a friendly smile.

  'No, thanks,' Gillian replied. 'I've been a patient here and have just been discharged; I'm waiting for a car to fetch me and I was just looking around. I love children.'

  'Would you like to come with me and see the babies' ward?'

  'I'd love to.'

  A little later, after a happy tour, Gillian returned to the ramp just as Graham's car drew up. She was touched by his solicitude as he helped her into the car and placed a soft cushion behind her neck.

  The hospital was on the outskirts of the town and they drove into Mbabane to make a few necessary purchases. She could see that Graham was feeling ill and hurried from one shop to the other as fast as her rather weak legs would carry her. It was rather cooler along the old-fashioned sidewalks with their balconies shading the broad tree-lined pavement. As she was about to enter a chemist's shop to lay in a stock of cosmetics, soaps and bubble bath oil, a car passed and her attention was caught by the driver's white, bandaged hands on the steering wheel. She thought she recognized Eve in the passenger seat, but as the car was out of her sight too soon, she was unable to be absolutely sure.

  The drive to the Impala Ranch, mostly over rough country roads, was long and tiring, but the scenic beauty was magnificent. Inspired, and in a soft musical voice, Gillian spoke lines from her favourite nature poets. She was thrilled when Graham's cultured voice joined hers - sometimes even taking over where her memory failed. Graham was an easy companion, and fed Gillian's voracious appetite for information about Swaziland with interesting anecdotes about Swazi kings and customs. He pointed out the lonely Mdimba mountain where the Beechcraft had crashed. 'We know that high up in that mountain peak there are the burial caves of the Swazi kings, but the exact location is kept a close secret.'

  They passed the five-star hotel, the Swazi Spa, with its magnificent golf course and famous casino. Further along, the House of Parliament was an impressive sight. 'To the right lies Lozita, the King's capital; to the left is Lombaba, the capital of the Indlovukati or Queen Mother.' Gillian's interest grew, as Graham's voice continued: 'Hers is the ceremonial capital of the Swazi nation, where the famous Incwala or first fruits ceremony takes place at the end of December or beginning of January, according to the relation of the sun to the moon. If you're a good girl,' he added playfully, 'I'll take you there to see the dancing.'

  She clapped her hands in childish delight, and gave little birdlike chirps of excitement! 'Really? Truly? Promise?

  They were becoming fast friends. Though both were feeling far from fit, and in spite of the trying heat and dusty roads, they were enjoying the drive together.

  At Sipofaneni, Graham stopped the car and helped his companion out. He spread a rug for her beside the mineral springs and came to light with iced tea with lemon, and cool pineapple sandwiches. It was then that she noticed how ill he looked. His pallor was ghastly and his hands shook as he tried to pour the tea from the flask.

  'Let me do that.' She took over.

  The mineral spring bubbled beside them.

  'Listen!' cried Gillian. 'The water is saying: "Sipoff! Sipoff!" - Is that why the place is called Sipofaneni ?'

  'Most probably,' he said with a wan smile.

  Slightly refreshed, they continued the journey. The country was changing. They left the blue high veldt mountains behind and travelled over rolling plains with the precipitous Lubombo mountains to the east. For miles the car swept through low veldt scrub, brightened by fiery patches of golden aloe spears and interspersed with dark green, sinister-looking euphorbias. Now and again they passed a small hamlet sporting colourful creepers and blooming low veldt shrubs.

  'This is the typical ranching country,' Graham informed her.

  They swept past large sugarcane plantations and delicate green rice-fields with typical Chinese pagodalike entrances. Here the labourers wore Chinese hats and smocks. Then there was mile upon mile of sym- metrically-planted citrus groves - Gillian distinguished grapefruit, orange and lemon trees.

  'This surprises me!' she exclaimed. 'I thought you said this was typical ranching country.'

  'Yes, I must explain that. The Usutu river has been diverted into irrigation canals, watering wide areas of low veldt, and many farmers are switching over from cattle to sugarcane, rice and citrus fruit.'

  A little pucker formed between Gillian's brows. 'Do you think we should also ... I mean, is that the advisable thing to do?'

  'That's something you'll have to decide.' For a second he gave her a searching look, then returned his glance to the road. 'With ranching there is always the danger of foot-and-mouth disease. When that strikes even the well-to-do ranchers can be ruined.'

  'Oh, well,' she replied flippantly, 'it won't happen to us. We'll ward it off with positive thinking - what say you? Oh, look!' she sat forward excitedly. 'Why didn't you warn me? We're home!'

  The car slid through an impressive stone entrance, arched over, with wrought-iron letters.

  'Impala Ranch,' she read. 'I can hardly believe that I'm here at last!'

  Suddenly Graham braked the car in a cloud of dust, and switched off the engine. 'Watch!' he whispered, placing his hand over hers. As though drilled to perform in an official welcome ceremony, a herd of copper-red, white-flanked impala buck began vaulting with exquisite grace
and in single file high across the road before the car's bonnet, Gillian sat breathless, enthralled by the easy grace, the power, the harmony of form and movement displayed before her very eyes. It was indescribably beautiful. When the last buck had disappeared into the high tamboeki grass, she became aware that her hand still lay warm and sensitive in Graham's clasp. They turned smiling towards each other; he, to savour the effect of the scene upon her; she, happy to have shared this idyllic moment with him. Then he gave her hand a friendly little pat and switched on the engine.

  They drove through an avenue of giant bluegum trees and came without warning upon a big, dilapidated, old stone house, in a weed-choked, formal garden. Gillian's happy face clouded. Disappointment threatened to overwhelm her. Fancy had woven a golden web of memory around her childhood home; stark reality rent it asunder. The stoep pillars were no longer vertical, the roof sagged, its red paint was peeling, a shutter hung loose and a broken pane was pasted over with brown paper.

  Stoically, with Graham supporting her arm solicitously, Gillian walked to the front door. This at least was massive and beautiful. As they stepped up to it, it opened.

  A beaming, fat, treble-chinned Swazi woman in a faded old-fashioned dress, blue print apron and a bright red kopdoeck wound round her fuzzy hair, stood bare-footed, rubbing her podgy hands in excited welcome. Her beady, black eyes, shining with friendliness, peered into Gillian's face; then, recognizing the green- gold eyes of her charge of long ago, she flung up her great arms and shouted: 'Missie Gillian!' Then she enveloped Gillian in a fat hug. 'Hau! Hau! Hau!' she cried, laughing and weeping at the same time. 'Madelisa's baby has come back to her.' Wiping her tears with the apron, she rejoiced: 'Jabula! Jabula! Jabula! I am glad!' She grabbed the suitcase from Graham, who was leaning weakly against the side of the door, and steered her outsize bosom down the cool, dark passage.

  Graham gave Gillian a gentle push. 'Go on!' he said weakly. 'I'll see you later, but please take things easy. Remember, you're still on the sick list.'