Dearest enemy

by Kathryn Blair

  "Will you try to make her see differently, Fenella?"

  She shook her head. "It wouldn't do any good."

  "I'll write her a note, then, and you'll see that she gets it? I'll plead with her to behave ordinarily till I've had a chance to weigh things up. I'll make her realise the seriousness of it. She must give me another week."

  Fenella had to agree. The last couple of hours had taxed her endurance, and she was empty of everything save a desire for peace. She gave Austin notepaper and envelope and left him to his task. Later, he handed her the sealed letter, and with scarcely another word he departed. Fenella went out to the hammock and, in a surprisingly short time, fell asleep. When Antonio brought the tea she told him to take the letter to the Senhorita de Cardena, to give it to her personally, and not to a servant. Within an hour she learned that the errand had been accomplished, by bicycle. Maria had the letter which would keep her, if not happy, at least from being too miserable for a further week.

  On Monday morning Fenella greeted the dawn with a tremulous smile. She got out of bed, crossed to the window and unlatched the frame of the mosquito wire to let in more of the fragrant air. A slight dew glistened in the grass, first omen of the humid weather to come. The cannas looked stiff and velvety, the sky translucently tinged with pink. And, as was usual so early in the morning, magnolias and palms were unmoving and incredibly lovely. The houseboys were stirring; Fenella heard the distant "Saku bona" from one native to another. Antonio always said "Good morning" very correctly with a deferential bow. He was half-Portuguese and had, of course, been trained in the Pereira kitchens.

  Fenella folded her arms and leaned upon the tiled windowsill—pretty pink and white tiles with a suggestion of mosaic about the pattern. Her self-imposed penance was over. Today at a quarter to ten the car would come from the Quinta. There had been no definite arrangement, but they were certain to expect her. A whole week had passed

  since she had last seen Carlos, a week of intolerably long minutes and eternal hours. At last she could permit her thoughts to revel. For Carlos would be there from noon onwards; that was his habit on Mondays.

  She stayed at the window, encompassed by the painful delight which is part of love, occupied only with Carlos, the light and warmth of his presence; she had had enough of the icy darkness of his absence. About Antonie she thought not at all, nor did she step down out of her spurious paradise to remember the coldness with which Carlos had said good-bye last Monday, after the visit to the lacemaker. Her content did not begin to cloud till she was dressing in the freshly laundered rust-coloured linen.

  After breakfast she set the native wash-woman to work. Then there was the list of supplies to be made up, so that the boy could do his shopping before it was too hot, and a quick walk over to the mission with the stencils she had cut on Saturday evening for the little ones.

  A quarter to ten arrived; ten o'clock. Fenella studiously kept her eyes from her watch and fabricated small duties which she performed with precision. Ten-thirty; ten—forty-five. Well . . . that seemed to be that. She was not required at the Quinta today; nor, perhaps, on any day.

  With head held high and resolute step, she made her way again to the mission. The children were' inside, reciting arithmetic tables. Over their heads Mrs. Westwood gave Fenella a preoccupied smile, and went on tapping out the tables with one finger upon the book.

  Fenella turned back into the mission veranda. Her throat hurt and her knees were uncertain. She would go into the clinic and insist on relieving Nurse Silva for an hour. There was nothing so apt to give one's melancholy its true proportions as tending the sick, particularly if those sick happened to be poor and black of skin. But on her way to the clinic door she encountered her father.

  "So you didn't go to the Quinta," he said. "That's rather fortunate, because I want someone to go into town right away. We're short of vaccine, and I'm needing it all the time. I'll give you the official chit to take to the Health department and they'll let you have a supply. They won't give it to a native. You can go in the mission jeep."

  To be entrusted with a job of some importance was balm. Fenella pocketed the chit and took her place in the jeep. Very conscious of his passenger, the driver bumped down the track and drove along the smooth roads into the town with ridiculous care. With a flourish he came to rest in front of the Hotel da cidade, and leapt out to open the jeep's door.

  Among the many large cool offices which looked out over palms and flowering shrubs, Fenella located that of the Health department. Her chit was received with respect, though she gained the impression that her Portuguese was still on the scanty side. Would the senhora kindly sit down for ten minutes, or send in a boy to wait for the parcel? Fenella decided to instruct the driver to do the waiting while she strolled in the grounds.

  Boys were lazily working on the lawns and flower-beds; a mower whirred and hoses hissed. On the long drive a number of cars were parked; the jeep was on their tail. And . . . yes! There was the big sapphire-blue saloon which Carlos mostly drove himself. He was probably attending a meeting of the town council.

  As if in answer to her swift, intense longing, he came out on to the semi-circular steps and descended them. He saw her and, without hesitation, altered his course and covered the few yards which divided them. He was hatless again, in the hot, vital sunshine.

  "Good morning, senhorita." His politeness had an edge of polished steel. "I hope you are well?"

  "Yes, thank you, senhor."

  "You are on business for your father?"

  "Yes. He needs vaccine."

  "Can I help you to obtain it, perhaps, more quickly?"

  "They're packing it now. The driver is inside, waiting."

  "I see. You have come in the jeep." He paused, impersonal, without a vestige of expression. "If you are sure that I can be of no assistance, please pardon me if I go now. I am taking Antonie and her aunt to our English friends in Alimane. There is a celebration of some kind to which we are invited. Adeus, senhorita."

  He bowed and was gone. The blue car swerved out of the drive and into the traffic on the Avenida.

  With care, Fenella slipped back into the jeep and pulled shut the door. She sat very still. Every nerve in her body seemed to stab. This was worse than not seeing Carlos at all . . . much worse. Because now she knew for certain that as far as he was concerned she was again the "good doctor's" daughter and not the friend of Antonie and himself. He had placed the most obvious construction on her anxiety to call at the camp last Monday, and had probably concluded, during the days which followed, that one so close to the superintendent he despised had no place at the Quinta Agostinhos. His arrogance and displeasure were turned upon her in full measure, and somehow she must school herself to bear them.

  Soon the jeep was again set in motion to wind its way towards the mission. Fenella sat stonily staring through at the shops, her nails picking abstractedly, yet with some violence, at the string which bound her father's parcel. The familiar ruts of the mission track rocked her; the unnecessary apologies of the driver went unheard.

  Outside the mission stood a black coupe, a smart little affair of gleaming exterior, under a coating of red dust, and with excellent grey leather upholstery.

  Fenella went round it to the veranda steps, mounted them, and stopped dead. She had the queer sensation of this being an important moment in her life. The person who stood before her was a woman in her middle years, neatly suited in white. She had a pointed, birdlike face and a youthful smile. To Fenella, in that instant, she was the essence of stringent sanity.

  "Miss Brean," she exclaimed. "I'm so glad you've come!"

  * * *

  * * *

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AS was to be expected of a woman of means and strong character, Miss Brean had a way with her. Actually, her strength lay more in her ability to understand others than in her power to sway or control them. She had travelled almost everywhere and been drawn into the varied lives of many people. It would never have occurre
d to her to withhold sage advice and practical help; the incidents which made such qualities necessary were a valuable ingredient to her happiness.

  For four months she had been entertained in Lourenco Marques, had wallowed in the rich public gardens, the graceful buildings, the amazingly sophisticated night life. She had not meant to stay there so long but, Portuguese hospitality being what it it, the days had winged away, till at last she had called a halt and set about packing her trunk and grips. She really must spend some time in Machada before the tropical summer rains drove her north again.

  So she had invested in the coupe, which comfortably held the whole of her travelling gear, and set out over rough roads through a wilderness of timber and jungle growth for the town of Machada. Last night she had slept at a farmhouse, and she had covered the last one hundred and fifty miles at a leisurely speed this morning.

  All this and much more she told Fenella during the course of the afternoon.

  "Although we knew one another for only a few days on the boat, I remembered you quite often while I was in Lourenco Marques. You were so thrilled with the little you had seen of Africa, so blissful at the prospect of a long holiday with your father in this place, that I wondered whether realisation had lived up to expectation, Letters are so inadequate, aren't they?"

  "I did try to make mine informative, though I think you have to live in Machada to get the spirit of the place. How long can you stay?"

  "A week, a month, or even more. It depends to a large extent on you." Miss Brean smiled. "I don't see why you and I shouldn't travel together."

  "That would be grand." Fenella sounded as if she meant it. "We'll talk about it later. Will you mind having to squash in with us?"

  "Not a bit. Even if Machada owned an hotel I wouldn't want to patronise it. I'm not a tourist. I'm an enlightened traveller. Tell me about some of the people here; many of them are well known down the coast. Have you met the descendant of the dukes ?"

  It took Fenella a moment to grasp her meaning. "Senhor Pereira? Yes, I've met him."

  "And by your tone you don't care for him," said Miss Bean promptly. "Yet he's thought much of all over the Province, you know. The consul whose guest I was in Lourenco Marques was very anxious to give me a letter of introduction to him, but I refused to have it. Introductions place one in the category of sight-seers, and though I would be enchanted to see the Castelo Agostinhos. . . ."

  "The Quinta," interjected Fenella. "When it suits him he's very democratic."

  "I see." Miss Brean laughed. "You've got it in for him, haven't you? I suppose he's lordly—people belonging to those old families are inclined to be that way. I'd like to make his acquaintance."

  "If you remain here a month you probably will."

  Miss Brean lightly passed on to other topics. Before coming to Mozambique she hadn't realised it was such an exotic country, so enthralling in its variety of wild scenery, so continental in its cities, so Portuguese in its way of living and its customs. Perhaps it was being English which made one so much less conscious of the native than in other parts of Africa; one was too busy being conscious of the Portuguese. And weren't some of them good-looking! Her speech was lively and amusing; she left Fenella no time to brood.

  While the weather was rainless there was no difficulty in accommodating a third at the house. In the dry season many people slept on verandas and used a bedroom only for dressing. Fenella took to the veranda almost happily;

  on sleepless nights one could always watch the stars, and it was good to awaken with the freshness of dawn all about one.

  In the thoroughly acclimatised way she had, Miss Brean roamed round the town and conversed with the inhabitants in a marvellous Portuguese pidgin which bad nothing in common with that in use in the district yet got results. She wandered into the church and unhesitatingly named the architect, and the artist responsible for the interior paintings. She was an honoured guest at sherry parties and collected an astonishing number of invitations to lunch and dinner; so much so that her presence in the doctor's house was never given time to become a burden.

  Her instant popularity had its roots in her splendid memory and a valuable gift for compliment. Presented to Senhor Lopes, she exclaimed. "I have heard of you before, senhor, from your excellent son in the bank at Lourenco Marques. You have a fine son who is proud of his parents!"

  And to the old Senhora da Sousa, "So it is you who have the most exquisite collection of goblets in all Mozambique. How I should love to see them."

  With enviable ease she glided in and out of those old houses near the church, and back at the mission she talked of the families and their ramifications as if Machada were home. No wonder she extracted so much fun from travelling.

  "In four days I've met practically every individual in the town social register and a great many who aren't," she said. "But I shan't be satisfied till Senhor Pereira has clicked his heels and kissed my hand."

  "He doesn't click heels," Fenella remarked, "and he's conservative with his kisses. He has Scottish blood."

  "A strange mixture, but it should be an exciting one. I gather that all the women in Machada and Alimane are in love with him."

  "They were, before his cousin came."

  "I've heard about her, too . . . and that you and she have been friends ever since she arrived." Miss Brean's tone was meticulously casual as she tacked on, "We might slip over and see her, don't you think?"

  An instant's pause, before Fenella replied, "One doesn’t `slip over' to the Quinta without being asked."

  Miss Brean did not pursue the matter. Some way or another she invariably got what she wanted.

  Early on Saturday morning she went into the clinic with Dr. Harcourt and Fenella. She was interested in the doctor's experiments in nutritional feeding and wished to know which were the most common diseases, and why. She patted little black woolly heads and smiled at the native men and women who waited their turn outside the clinic door. The nurses, too, came in for a word of cheer.

  "Your father is a clever man," she said to Fenella as they walked along the veranda, "and he has a tremendous sense of duty. You'll hate to leave him."

  "I shall," Fenella agreed soberly. "I'm not able to help him nearly as much as I would like, but he's all I have. He's keen for me to go home and marry."

  "To go home—for that reason? But there are hundreds of eligible young men in Africa. . . ."

  Miss Brean broke off. They had turned an angle of the building and come rather disconcertingly face to face with a tall, sinisterly handsome man and a pale and beautiful young woman who was dressed most strikingly in a slim-fitting emerald silk suit. Miss Brean was not, of course, looking at Fenella, but she caught the stifled gasp.

  The man bowed. "Good morning, Fenella."

  With an effort, Fenella said, "Good morning, senhor . . . and Antonie." She turned to Miss Brean. "Senhora Antonie de Bordone and the Senhor de Castilho Pereira . . . Miss Brean."

  Again Carlos bowed, though lower, and in the direction of the older woman. "I am charmed to meet you, Miss Brean. We shall, perhaps, have a few minutes together while these two young ladies view the mission. Fenella," his head inclined suavely towards her, "I am displeased that Antonie has not yet seen the good work performed by Mr. and Mrs. Westwood and your father. The care of the less fortunate is everybody's business. Will you take her inside?"

  "Why have you not been to the Quinta for two weeks?" demanded Antonie. "I tell Carlos he has made you angry

  that day when he dragged you so quickly away from

  Senhor Frankland, but still he refused to send the car."

  "You are causing embarrassment, little cousin," Carlos said evenly. "Miss Brean and I will sit here and wait for you. It is not inconvenient, Fenella?"

  "No, Carlos. This way, Antonie."

  Miss Brean sank into the chair which Carlos placed for her and, without flicking an eyelash, she accepted one of the long, thick cigarettes from his gold case and twisted it about admiringly in her fingers. Her
hearing had not missed a syllable nor an inflection; and she had not needed particularly good eyesight to notice the colour drain from Fenella's cheeks and the hands tighten at the girl's sides. That "Carlos" stuck out a mile; Fenella hadn't meant to utter it at all. And who was Frankland? The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Miss Brean hadn't time to set her memory to work on it. She would do so later.

  Carlos leant over her with his lighter. "I have heard about you, Miss Brean—not only from friends in the town but also in a letter from your late host in Lourenco Marques, with whom I happen to be acquainted. Your intrepid journey by road roused consternation and anxiety there. I trust you have sent his wife a telegram?"

  "Oh, yes, senhor, on the day I arrived in Machada." She inhaled with some enjoyment. "I'm accustomed to such journeys and one cannot take the wrong road when there is only one road to take."

  "It was not wise, however, particularly for a woman. A flat tyre, or a dry radiator with no river nearby . . ." an expressive shrug concluded the sentence. "One does not find service stations in the jungle." He smiled and the note of censure left his voice. "I understand that we are not to treat you as a tourist. You will not haunt our street corners with binoculars and camera."

  "I don't carry binoculars and camera—grew out of them years ago. That's the main difference between me and other travellers, because I do still collect guide books and curios. As to your street corners, I have haunted them already and found them rewarding. I'm hoping one day to see the Castelo Agostinhos at closer quarters."

  "The Quinta," he said, and paused. "Why are you smiling like that?"

  "Pardon, senhor. I made the same error when talking to Fenella the other day and she corrected me in the same tone, as if it were sacrilege to call the Quinta by any other name. It must be infectious."