The Sea Cave

by Alan Scholefield

  *

  Charles came home most week-ends. Kate found it fascinating to see him against his own background, especially his relationship with his mother. Mrs. Preller lived for his visits. On Friday evenings she would become restless as she waited for the sound of his roadster on the gravel drive. He would leave Cape Town after work and be at Saxenburg by eight or nine o’clock, depending on how fast he drove. And he drove fast; he loved speed. The house would revolve around him for the next forty-eight hours. He would spend time with his mother and would often go with her for a drive in the afternoons, usually with Smuts at the wheel.

  But Kate was never sure about his reaction to his mother. When they were in company he treated her with deference and respect, but sometimes when he was alone with Kate he would make remarks about her curious, hermit-like existence – ‘the spider in her web,’ he called her once – that were meant to be funny but left a somewhat sour taste. She began to get the impression that he had an ambivalent attitude to his mother and wondered if it did not spring partly from childhood fears that had never completely gone. She knew that she had similar deep-seated fears of her own mother.

  Lena was also pleased to see him and treated him as the young master. She knew his favourite foods and would take his breakfast to him in bed, spoiling him as she must have spoiled him when he was a child. But again Kate realised that what she saw was what she was meant to see. Below the surface there were tensions.

  Then one day the relationships had become clearer. Charles had spilt a few drops of gravy on his waistcoat – he was a neat and careful dresser, ‘natty’, as Smuts called him – and went into the kitchen to have it cleaned. After a moment, Kate followed him to ask Betty to replenish the salt-cellar. The girl was cleaning off the spots with a moist rag. Her sharp breasts were almost touching him and he was looking down at her with a look Kate recognised. After that she noticed for the first time that Lena never left Betty alone with Charles if she could help it.

  He would leave again late on Sunday evening, or early on Monday and the house would seem empty. Mondays were always bad days for Mrs. Preller. She would be irritable and jumpy.

  One Monday, soon after Kate’s arrival, she had called her up to dictate after lunch. When she had finished, instead of dismissing her, she said abruptly: ‘What do you think of Charles?’

  ‘He’s very nice.’

  ‘How do you get on with him?’

  ‘We get on well.’

  ‘What do you do when he is here? Where do you go with him?’

  ‘We go swimming.’

  ‘In the pools?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They are dangerous. I hope you will be careful. I have told him many times. So did Boss Charles. We must have the swimming-pool mended here. Then you can use it. And the tennis-court. You can play tennis with Charles. He is not very good. Hugo would have been a champion. He could swim like a fish. What else do you do?’

  ‘He has taken me to dinner at the hotel.’

  ‘And in Cape Town before you came here? I know you saw him there, too.’

  ‘We went to the beach. He took me for drives.’

  ‘In that red car. It is dangerous, I think. He drives too fast. Where else?’

  ‘To restaurants.’

  After a moment Mrs. Preller said, ‘Long ago this whole area used to be called Prellersdorp. The family owned all the coastline and as far as you could ride a horse inland in a day. It was a huge property. Then a British troopship called the Helmsdale was wrecked on the India Reef. Two hundred and thirty-two people died. You have seen the monument down by the harbour?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That is where they were buried. The Preller family went into a decline for many years. They became poor. Almost what we call out here poor whites. But not quite. Things were bad everywhere in those days, especially around here. Then in the 1890s the feather market began to grow. The Prellers became rich again. But Charles’s father never completely trusted in feathers. That is why we have survived. That is why I have put Charles into business in Cape Town. Let him learn how to handle money. One day he will take over all this. The house. The farm. The businesses in Helmsdale . . .’ Her voice trailed off. ‘One day.’ Then she said, ‘If Hugo had lived, I would not have been so worried. Even as a child, he could do anything.’

  ‘Worried?’ Kate said.

  She drew in a breath as though to explain, but changed her mind. ‘I’m glad you like Charles. I’m glad you get on with each other.’

  Later, Kate tried to analyse the conversation. Why had Mrs. Preller catechised her so carefully? It was almost as though she was questioning a . . . but that was ridiculous.

  She wondered what Mrs. Preller would have said if she had known the truth, which was that Kate lived in a constant state of sexual tension when Charles was at home. He was not difficult to manage in the house. She thought he probably feared the all-seeing eyes of the servants and Smuts and what they might say to his mother. But when they were alone, she found herself waiting for his inevitable approach. Not that she always objected. She found him attractive, but the memory of what had already happened to her was too vivid to allow her to relax with him. There was an element of violence in him that excited her, but at the same time frightened her.

  He did not always come back alone for the week-end and once brought Jerry and Freda and, to her surprise, Duggie, though she knew they had been seeing each other in Cape Town. He put them up at the hotel.

  They had planned to spend the week-end lounging on the beach and eating and drinking, but the weather for once had turned sullen and a black south-easter had blown up.

  Helmsdale under these conditions was not an ideal holiday retreat and time hung heavy. On Saturday they had tried to play tennis on the ruined court. Charles had told two of the labourers to sweep it and pull the weeds from the cracks, but the net had long since rotted away and there were no lines. Jerry was determined that they should play and he found a rope to act as a net and tied pieces of rag to it about six inches apart. He then found half a brick and broke it in two, using the red, crumbling baked clay to mark off a singles court according to the dimensions he found in an encyclopaedia. Charles became infected by his enthusiasm. Three racquets were found in an old chest in the house. They were warped, but most of the strings were still intact. They made do with old balls last used about ten years before, but which still bounced on the hard concrete surface.

  ‘Who’s going to play?’ Freda said. ‘There are three racquets.’

  ‘Three can’t play,’ Jerry said.

  ‘Yes, we can,’ she said. ‘I’ll play with Charles and you hit to us.’

  ‘That’s not a game! Charles and I will play.’

  But Freda insisted, though she took part only long enough to realise that to be graceful took an experienced player. After missing a couple of balls she dropped the racquet and stood moodily at the side, clutching her white cardigan around her thin, elegant shoulders. Kate and Duggie sat in the shelter of the wall and watched the two men.

  Kate had not seen much of her brother and frowned at the sight of his papery skin and the little veins that were spreading like red threads across his cheeks. He kept a flask of brandy in his pocket which he topped up from a bottle in the car. She never saw him drunk and he was always pleasant to her, but he never seemed to be quite there. She told herself that the leg was to blame.

  In spite of the drink, he was still a good-looking man. Even she, his sister, could see that. He had a thin face that smiled easily. Dressed in plus fours, an old tweed jacket and a tweed cap, he seemed at home with these rich young South Africans, as comfortable with them as he had been on the ship with the gang of hard-drinking miners from Fife.

  Bored and impatient, Freda called to Jerry, ‘How long are you going to be?’

  ‘As long as we go on playing.’

  ‘You’d think they were playing for a championship,’ Duggie said.

  Kate knew nothing of the finer points of tennis but w
as able to see how aggressive the two men were. It was no longer simply a friendly knock-up to pass the time. They argued at least one point in every game, questioning each other’s line calls. Freda was appealed to, but she turned away and sat down beside Kate.

  ‘They’re always like this,’ she said. ‘Babies.’

  The game came to an end on an acrimonious dispute about a back-line call.

  ‘You’ve marked the bloody court wrongly,’ Charles said angrily. ‘It’s too short.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, man!’ Jerry said. ‘You lost!’

  But Charles went into the house and brought out the encyclopaedia and this time, instead of measuring the approximate length and breadth with his feet, he fetched a tape measure from Smuts’ office and they spent half an hour measuring and arguing. They then piled into the two cars, drove into town and measured the club courts to make sure of the size. Charles remained angry for the rest of the day.

  Sunday, too, was cloudy and cool, and they decided to play golf: ‘they’ being Jerry and Charles. The golf course was only nine holes and built along the cliff tops. The ‘greens’ were of blue sand and the fairways so poor that players were allowed to tee-up their balls on it. It reminded Kate, in its state of decay, of the tennis-court at Saxenburg.

  The club-house was a small wooden building with a corrugated iron roof, and Duggie elected to remain there with his brandy flask.

  The primitive conditions made no difference to Jerry and Charles. They played as though they were at St. Andrews, and again there were arguments about lies and strokes and stymies. Towards noon, the black south-easter cleared away and the day turned warm. They decided to have a picnic at the rock pools. Charles found some bottles of cold wine in the paraffin refrigerator at the hotel.

  As they were about to drive away, Miriam came along the pavement towards them. She was dressed in a cream-coloured skirt, cream blouse and a black and cream silk scarf worn as a headband, tied so the ends hung down behind her right ear. The creamy colours contrasted with her jet-black hair and olive skin. She looked fleshy and nubile and very different from the two other women. Kate remained half hidden in the car. She told herself there was no need to feel embarrassed, but she knew how Miriam felt about Charles.

  They all chatted for a few moments, then Jerry said, ‘We’re going for a picnic. Why don’t you come, too?’

  Charles and Kate were in the roadster, Jerry and Freda and Duggie in the big Pierce Arrow.

  Miriam seemed to consider the invitation for a moment, then she said, ‘Why not?’ and got in beside Duggie.

  It was lunchtime when they reached the rock pools. Duggie and Charles built a small fire of driftwood and cooked sausages and chops while they all drank the wine.

  The day turned hot and the wind dropped. Miriam pulled up her skirt as she had done when she and Kate had been there together, and opened the front of her blouse to expose her skin to the sun.

  Kate watched, fascinated, as she flirted with Duggie. She gave him all her attention, used his Christian name caressingly and saw that he had everything he wanted. She sat next to him and asked him to tell her about himself and his life in Edinburgh. He seemed to forget his painful leg. He had always been a man who could charm women and now he turned it on like a tap. From where she sat, Kate could see his fingers touching Miriam’s hair. Their voices had dropped and she could no longer hear what they were saying, but occasionally Miriam would laugh huskily.

  Charles watched with hooded eyes.

  The rock pools were glassy and crystal clear. Kate lay on her stomach and looked down through the water. The pool’s sandy bottom seemed close enough to touch. Strands of weed waved in the wake of tiny fish, pink anemones lay like open flowers; here and there in the rock crevices she could see the purple spines of sea-urchins.

  ‘Is anyone going to swim?’ Miriam said.

  She had rolled up her dress even further and her blouse was open to the fourth button.

  ‘My costume’s at the hotel,’ Freda said. ‘I didn’t think it would be swimming weather.’ None of the others had brought bathing-costumes, either.

  Charles passed the wine. Kate felt the sun and the wine loosen her muscles and undo knots in her brain.

  ‘Why don’t we take our clothes off?’ Jerry said. ‘Come on, Miriam, I will if you will.’

  She smiled at him. Her eyes were large and black. ‘I’ve often swum in the nude,’ she said.

  ‘Come on, Charles,’ Jerry said. ‘What have you got to hide?’

  Charles was lying on his back, his head on Kate’s cardigan. ‘I don’t feel like it.’

  Jerry looked at Kate, who shook her head.

  ‘So it’s only Miriam and me?’

  Freda watched sullenly as he started to take off his clothes. His powerful, chunky body looked pale in the bright sunshine. He dived into the water.

  Miriam pulled off her blouse and head-scarf, and dropped her skirt. She was wearing a white brassiere and a pair of the new, brief knickers, pictures of which Kate had seen in advertisements. Swiftly, she removed them and dived in.

  They watched her play with Jerry in the water. They were like two friendly seals, splashing and somersaulting. Duggie watched Miriam, a half smile on his lips, but Charles lay with his eyes closed against the sun.

  As Miriam, giggling, climbed onto Jerry’s back, Freda stood up abruptly. ‘Tell Jerry I’m going back to the hotel.’

  ‘I’ll drive you,’ Charles said.

  ‘I’m going to take the car.’

  Kate watched her walk bare-footed across the beach. Then she put on her sandals, climbed the path up the cliff and vanished.

  In the late afternoon, they all piled into the roadster, Miriam laughing as she squeezed between Duggie and Jerry in the dickey. Charles drove into Helmsdale and dropped them outside the hotel.

  ‘Come for a drink,’ Miriam said, looking directly at him. ‘My father’s away. I need company.’

  He frowned and shook his head. ‘I promised mother I’d be back early. She hasn’t been feeling well.’ He turned to Duggie. ‘I’ll pick you up later.’ As they pulled away, Kate saw Duggie and Miriam walking up the street together.

  Charles drove her back along the cliffs. The wine and sun had produced an effect in which her mind, for once, was not on her constant fear of pregnancy.

  He stopped the car outside one of the ostrich houses. ‘Have you ever seen over one of these places?’ She shook her head.

  He drove through the open gates and onto the overgrown drive. The house loomed ahead of them: mock-Tudor, with heavy, fake beams. The garden was overwhelmed by grass grown yellow in the sun. A wind had come up and thorn trees tossed their branches. Some of the windows were broken, but what panes remained shone like copper in the last of the sun.

  He had stopped at the back of the house and taken a bottle of wine and two glasses from the picnic-box in the dickey-seat. The back door was locked, but he pulled a key from his pocket and opened it. The lock looked new and Kate saw a dark stain of oil on the wood around it. They entered a back passage. ‘Mind where you put your feet,’ he had said, pointing to holes in the floor-boards. She followed him through an arched doorway and came into the front of the house. Here the sunlight streamed through the dirty panes. Dust covered everything. To her left, a great marble staircase, many of the treads cracked and broken, rose to the first floor. Some of the window panes were broken and the winds had blown in spray from the sea and the summer sun had bleached and warped the wooden panelling. Originally the place must have been almost as grand as Saxenburg.

  ‘This way.’ Charles had taken her hand.

  They went onto the first floor and along a gloomy passage. Paper had come away in strips and the walls were stained with water that had soaked in from blocked gutterings.

  Once this house would have been filled with members of a family, she thought. The rooms would have echoed with laughter, perhaps with anger, but would have echoed with something. Now she heard only the whine of the wind as
it found its way through the broken glass and round dark corners.

  Charles opened a door.

  She had stood on the threshold, transfixed. This room was entirely different from the others. They were bare of furniture, their walls peeling and cracked. But this beamed room, with its bed and chairs, its carpet and its curtains, looked as though whoever lived there had just gone out for a few moments.

  ‘How . . .?’ she began.

  He had closed the door behind her and put the wine on a table. ‘I did this. It’s where I used to come to smoke.’ He had taken out his case and offered her a cigarette. ‘I found the furniture in other rooms and brought it together. The Berrangés used to live here. He shot himself at the end of the last feather boom.’

  He opened one of the bottles and spread newspaper on the table-top as a cloth.

  She went to the window. The sun was going down in a mass of red and yellow cloud. She said softly, ‘“Sister Ann, Sister Ann, do you see anyone coming?”’

  He handed her a glass of wine. ‘You’d better drink that before you frighten yourself.’

  ‘I’ve done that already.’ She had shivered. ‘I think it’s knowing that someone killed himself here. Did you know them?’

  ‘The Berrangés? Of course. We knew everybody. This was Louise’s room.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘One of the daughters. We used to play tennis and swim together when I came home during the school holidays.’

  She had thought of Miriam, who had told her she had not seen Charles once he had gone to boarding-school. Perhaps it had been because he had Louise.

  The room was filling with the dusk of evening. Only the area around the windows was still lit by the last of the day. She lay back in the large armchair and stared idly at his silhouette. She felt her muscles slacken. Carrying the bottle, he had crossed the room and sat on the arm of the chair. He poured her half a glass of wine and she swirled it round and round. ‘It’s beautiful.’