by Anne Mather
Shoulders sagging, she was turning away when he emerged again, and called: ‘Helen! Wait! You can help me.’
‘Help you?’ She trudged back doubtfully. ‘Why? How are you this morning?’
A flicker of irritation crossed his face. ‘I’m all right—I told you last night. It was exhaustion, nothing more. Now, do you want to help me, or don’t you?’
‘How?’
‘You can change dressings, can’t you? Take temperatures? Tie bandages?’
‘Of course.’
‘Of course,’ he mimicked. ‘So you can help me. Come on.’
As cool as that! Helen stared after his retreating back with vague resentment. Not a word about what had happened the night before, not a hint of emotion. Just brusqueness—and detachment!
Still, she consoled herself, at least it would help to fill in the time until she could talk to him about Andrea, and it might even make their relationship easier.
Two hours later her fingers ached from handling bottles of antiseptic and gripping the narrow base of the thermometer. She had thought, remembering pictures from newsreels she had seen, that perhaps these people might object to her ministrations, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. She felt she never wanted to see another bandage or smell the acrid aroma of ammonia, and although the crowd of curious black faces had thinned there were still several women and children sitting in the waiting room. They had a dogged determination, these people, she thought, shaking her head blankly. The patience never to give up, no matter how long they might have to wait. Only the children showed any signs of irritation, and then only the older ones. The younger children suckled at their mother’s breasts when they were hungry, and crawled happily about when they were not, but the overpowering scent of humanity was gradually giving Helen a headache.
‘That’s enough for now,’ declared Morgan at last, as Helen was ushering an old man from the surgery. ‘Close the door and lock it. We can use the other door into the house.’
‘Oh, but—’ Helen gestured feebly towards the patients still waiting. ‘I mean, what about—them?’
‘I’ll deal with them later,’ replied Morgan, getting to his feet and slamming the door himself. He turned the key in the lock and then began to remove the white coat he had worn for his examinations. ‘You’ve had enough for the moment, and I could surely use a cool lager.’
‘That sounds appealing,’ sighed Helen, removing the coat he had lent her. She had had to turn back the sleeves, and tie a piece of string about the waist to give it some shape, but she had been glad of the protection. ‘I didn’t think they’d approve of a woman.’
‘So long as you’re wearing a white coat, you look like a nurse to them. Besides, you’ve had some experience of hospital work.’
‘Well, yes—but mostly out-patients.’
‘That’s all these people are.’ He pushed back the hair from his forehead with an impatient hand. ‘Come along. Just leave the coat over the chair.’
Helen put out a hand to him as he went to unlock the door which led into the body of the house. ‘Morgan…’ She hesitated. ‘Morgan, about last night—’
‘Forget it,’ he advised her brusquely. ‘I have. Come on. I want to lock the door behind us, just in case anyone takes it into their heads to raid the surgery.’
Helen doubted anyone would, but she passed through the door obediently and then walked dejectedly along the hall towards the kitchen.
There was no sign of Kori or Andrea when they reached the kitchen, so Morgan helped himself to two tins of lager from the fridge, handing one to Helen with a tall glass. Himself, he drank from the can, and after watching him for a moment, Helen did the same. The lager dribbled down her chin, but it was deliciously cold, and very reviving.
When it became apparent that he could not avoid the issue any longer, he said: ‘You said something last night about needing to talk to me. What about?’
Helen wiped the lager from her lips. ‘It—it was about Andrea, actually.’
‘Yes?’
He wasn’t being very helpful, and she glanced desperately about her, seeking for words of inspiration. ‘I—we—we had a talk.’ She paused. ‘About—about the reasons for me being here.’
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, Morgan! Stop saying “yes” in that tone!’ Her lips trembled and she pressed them together to hide the small betrayal. ‘I—I guess I made a mess of it. Somehow she’s got it into her head that—that maybe you’re not satisfied with her the—the way she is.’
‘Go on.’
He finished the lager in his can and watched her with narrowed eyes, and her legs gave out on her. Seeking the refuge of a chair, she continued: ‘I—I think she’s very—self-conscious about her appearance.’
‘I know that.’ His voice was curt. ‘Is that all you have to say?’
‘No. I mean—well, maybe. Morgan, I honestly didn’t think—’
‘Oh, don’t worry.’ Morgan tossed the empty can into the waste bin. ‘You’re not responsible for Andrea’s hang-ups. Her mother holds that distinction, I think.’
‘Her—mother?’
‘Yes, her mother. Pamela. My wife.’
‘Your—ex-wife,’ she interposed softly, and was startled at the sudden anger in his eyes.
‘Where did you hear that? Oh, God—Kori, I suppose,’
‘No!’ Helen swallowed with difficulty. ‘A-actually, Andrea told me.’
‘Did she?’ His lips twisted. ‘Oh, well, you had to know eventually, I suppose.’
‘Yes.’ Helen bit her lip and got to her feet again. ‘I’m sorry if—if you’d rather I didn’t know, but—well, Morgan, you have to accept it sooner or later. I mean, it’s happened to hundreds of people, and just because it’s happened once it doesn’t mean—’
‘What the hell are you babbling on about?’ he snapped furiously. ‘What are you trying to say? That you sympathise with me? That you believe I still care about that disastrous relationship? My God, you couldn’t be more wrong. When I signed the form that meant I was free of Pamela, I was relieved, do you hear that? Relieved! God, how relieved I was!’
‘But—’ Helen was trying confusedly to absorb these new facts. ‘But—’
Morgan moved then, coming round the table towards her, thrusting his face close to hers. ‘Oh, you poor fool!’ he exclaimed cruelly. ‘I know what you’re thinking. You thought the reason I had told you that there could be nothing between us was because I was married, and then, when you discovered I was divorced, you told yourself that I must be suffering from some romantic delusions of a love gone sour! God, it would be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic! Did you really think I wanted to marry you? Did you honestly believe that if I’d made love to you last night—and God knows, you asked for it—I’d have been obliged to do the honourable thing by you?’
‘And—and wouldn’t you?’ she asked, forcing back the tears that threatened behind her lids.
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Helen, I’ve said it often enough, goodness knows! Don’t you believe me? Can’t you accept that I don’t want to marry anyone?’
Helen felt numb, but at the same time she felt a resurgent charge of anger against him. How dared he stand there and shout at her that he didn’t want to marry her? How dared he treat her like some dreadful harpy who wouldn’t take no for an answer? It didn’t matter what she had thought, what she had believed. He was only guessing. He couldn’t know for certain what dreams she had nourished.
‘You really have some opinion of yourself, don’t you?’ she got out now, summoning every ounce of stamina to defend herself against him. ‘And such old-world charm! Well, let me tell you, you have the mind to go with it! Do you honestly think that I’d expect marriage from you, just because we’d spent the night in bed together? How old-world can you get!’
‘You told me—’
‘I told you what?’ she overrode him. ‘That I didn’t go in for that sort of thing? That Barry had never touched me? Did you believe that? Now who’s n
aïve? Oh, Morgan, England’s not what it used to be, and we girls know exactly how to have our cake and eat it!’
His hand stung across her cheek, and her gasp of dismay was echoed by the girl who, attracted by the raised voices, had come to stand in the open doorway.
‘Daddy!’ she choked in horror, as Helen pressed her palm to her stinging flesh. ‘Oh, Daddy, how could you?’
Morgan stared at his daughter as if he couldn’t believe she was actually there, and then he looked at Helen again. ‘Oh—God!’ he muttered savagely, and brushing past Andrea he left them.
CHAPTER NINE
NRUBI was quite a sophisticated town by Osweban standards. Its buildings were clean and reasonably modern, and it was possible to buy practically anything in the stores that lined the main street. Many of the store-owners were Asians, Indians and Pakistanis, with a fair smattering of Chinese among them. These people lived in the larger houses set on the outskirts of the town, but not far from Nrubi the African villages were as primitive now as they had been fifty years before. However, there was little antipathy between the races, and Helen’s impression was that generally speaking they were a contented people.
Her own contentment had never materialised, although strangely enough the antagonism between herself and Morgan had achieved what gentleness and straight talking could not. Andrea had become her friend, her protector almost, and while Helen went through agonies over her feelings for the girl’s father, she was able to console herself with the bitter knowledge that Morgan’s purpose for bringing her out here had been achieved.
Since that terrible row they had had the morning after her arrival, she had scarcely spoken to him. Oh, they exchanged politenesses, of course—Good morning and Goodnight, and an occasional Pass the salt, please, but little more than that. She supposed she ought to be grateful he had not ordered her back to England regardless, but the more she thought about it, the less of a deprivation that appeared. It was all very well to tell herself that she had come here for Andrea’s sake, and truly she had begun to like the girl for herself, but if she was completely honest she would have to admit that with Morgan’s final rejection, the bottom had dropped out of her world. She had wanted to run away then and hide, conceal herself until she could draw the shreds of her torn emotions around her. But instead she had been forced to behave as if the matter was of no consequence. And she had won Andrea’s admiration.
The girl had been so sweet. Perhaps witnessing someone else’s humiliation had made her realise that she was not unique after all, that beauty and personality could just as easily be spurned. Perhaps it had reassured her that rejection was not always motivated by physical characteristics, but much more by a condition of the mind.
Whatever her private feelings, during the past two weeks Andrea had taken up a defensive attitude towards her father on Helen’s behalf, and after a few tentative conversations, the two girls were slowly developing a genuine companionship. As yet, Helen was still wary of overstepping that tenuous bond, but gradually Andrea was beginning to show an interest in Helen’s clothes and the perfumes on her dressing table evaporated more quickly than could be blamed on the heat. Judging by the aura of rose petals that surrounded Andrea sometimes, Helen guessed she found the toilet sprays irresistible, but she never complained. The child had had so little encouragement in her life so far, and Helen was simply relieved that their relationship had given her that freedom.
Helen’s ability to drive had proved a boon. An elderly Fiat had been resurrected from its resting place in the yard of the garage in Nrubi, and with Morgan’s permission the two girls had taken short trips into the surrounding area. With Andrea, Helen had discovered the falls which fed the stretch of water behind the villa, and learned that Hawk’s Drift was in fact the name of the water and not the house. It in turn ran into a river which tumbled and splashed its way down to the plain to join the swampedged waters of the Tsinga. They visited Dushombi, with its round thatched dwellings, gazed awestruck at the massive rocky outcrops which were said to be the relics of that ancient subterranean upheaval that had torn the savage fissure of the Great Rift Valley, and visited a farm where mangoes and pawpaws were grown. Helen had been persuaded to taste the fruit, but although she had found the mango quite pleasant, the pawpaw she decided was an acquired taste. They even explored the ruins of a city which was believed to have been inhabited by the Persians. Standing in the forest, surrounded by tall trees, it was very eerie, and the local tribesmen insisted that it was haunted. Pushing her way between the creeper-clad pillars that were crumbling into dust around her, Helen was quite prepared to believe it.
The night before Andrea’s birthday, however, Helen knew she would have to speak to Morgan alone. She had known, of course, that the girl’s birthday was at hand, but coming into the kitchen unexpectedly that morning, she had surprised Kori in the process of spreading icing over a fluffy sponge cake, and found it was nearer than she had supposed.
‘This is kind of you, Kori,’ she exclaimed, admiring the efforts he was making to cover the cake before the sugar melted. ‘Did Massa Morgan ask you to do this?’
Kori finished what he was doing, and hastily put the cake away in the refrigerator. Then he turned with some indignation. ‘Massa not know!’ he declared firmly. ‘Massa prob’ly forget birthday.’
‘Oh, surely not, Kori!’ exclaimed Helen in dismay. ‘He—wouldn’t!’
‘Massa very busy,’ said Kori, putting his dirty dishes into the sink, and Helen sighed.
‘I know that.’ It was true. Since Morgan’s return, he had scarcely had a day off, and while she was glad to avoid the inevitable difficulties his presence would create, she was concerned about his health. So far as she knew he had had no more attacks like the one she had witnessed, but as she saw so little of him, how could she be sure? She was sure a town of Nrubi’s size should have more doctors, but although she knew there was an Asian doctor actually practising in the town itself, so long as Morgan was available, people were prepared to make the trek to the villa. In addition to which, Andrea had told her her father had a laboratory adjoining his surgery where he was making a study of tropical diseases, and Helen guessed he spent any free time he had in there.
But Andrea’s birthday was something special, and she determined that whatever kind of reception she might get, she would have to speak to Morgan about it. For herself, she had already chosen to give her a necklace of her own which Andrea had particularly admired, and intended to combine it with a length of jewel-bright poplin in a particularly attractive shade of blue. She hoped Andrea might permit her to make her a tunic suit in a style she chose, but until she knew what kind of reception the material would get, she was making no plans.
Her opportunity to speak to Morgan came that evening immediately after dinner. Andrea disappeared as she usually did to get the coffee, but when Morgan moved to make his usual departure for his surgery, Helen asked if he had a moment to speak to her.
‘Yes?’ His voice was wary as he stood behind his chair resting his hands on the back. ‘What do you want?’
‘Not here,’ exclaimed Helen awkwardly, glancing round, afraid that Andrea might come back and overhear them. ‘I mean—privately.’
Morgan straightened, his eyes assuming the hard glint she had come to know so well. He had never apologised for his actions the day he had slapped her, and the memory of that always lay between them, like some ugly chasm.
Looking at him, Helen tried to keep her own eyes as guarded. But it was difficult when the sight of his lean hard face and lithe muscular body made every nerve in her body tingle. It was impossible to dissociate these thoughts from the memory of his knowledge of her body, too, and she knew that no matter how he treated her she would never be able to repulse him as he had repulsed her.
‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea,’ he said now, his voice as hard as his eyes. ‘If you have anything to say to me, I suggest you come right out and say it.’
‘I—can’t!’ Helen’s face
blazed with colour. ‘Morgan! Please! It’s important.’
He thrust his hands into his pockets with obvious impatience. ‘Oh, very well. Come to the surgery in fifteen minutes. I’ll speak to you there.’
‘Thank you so much.’ She couldn’t keep the bitter sarcasm out of her words, and he nodded as if it was nothing more than he had expected, and left the room.
Getting away from Andrea was less easy. Eventually, Helen lied and said she had a headache, and the girl made no objections when she said she was going to her room.
The surgery door was ajar when she reached it, and she pushed it open tentatively and slipped inside, closing it softly behind her. There was no sign of Morgan, but the door to his inner laboratory was open, and even as she hesitated, he came to the laboratory door to speak to her.
‘Well?’
Helen sighed. It wasn’t the most auspicious opening and she never found it easy to broach personal topics with him. ‘I-it’s about Andrea,’ she ventured at last, and he made an offhand movement of his shoulders.
‘Is it?’
‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘It’s about—tomorrow.’
‘Her birthday. Yes?’
‘Oh, you know!’
Morgan’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘You didn’t seriously believe I didn’t.’
‘Well, I—Kori said—’
‘Oh yes? What did Kori say?’
Helen shrugged. ‘Just that—that you’d been busy. That you—could forget the date.’
‘Indeed? Well, I haven’t. Was that all you wanted?’
Helen pressed her lips together. ‘I suppose so.’ She linked her fingers together. ‘Do you know Kori’s made her a cake?’
‘He usually does,’ retorted Morgan laconically. ‘But we waive the party.’
This last was said with obvious mockery, and Helen’s teeth clenched. ‘That’s all right then, isn’t it?’ she declared. ‘I’m sorry I troubled you.’