by Anne Weale
Cold with fury, she went out onto the veranda.
He had poured himself a cup of tea and was glancing at a magazine. At the rustle of her skirt he stood up and pushed out a chair for her. His face was expressionless.
Now, face-to-face with him, she could find no words. What was there to say? How could she possibly express her hurt at what he had done? With trembling fingers she poured herself a cup of tea and attempted to eat a slice of cake, but it was like sawdust in her mouth and she put it aside, sick with misery and despair.
It was almost dark now and the attendant came to close the glass shutters.
“I think I’ll have a bath,” Alex said. She wondered half-hysterically if Jonathan was going to spend their entire honeymoon buried in a magazine.
Lying in the steamy water she wondered forlornly if there was any hope of happiness for them. Except for the night of the engagement party when Mrs. Lance had interrupted them at what had seemed to be a crucial moment, he had never attempted to make love to her. A light kiss on the cheek, a pat on the shoulder had been the extent of his caresses, and now ... Sometimes she thought she must have imagined that fiery embrace under the pergola at the E. & O. Hotel. If only Carey had not come back. If only she had let Pippa go down to him.
She was sitting at the dressing table in her slip, brushing her hair with slow disheartened strokes when there was a knock—not the attendant’s discreet tap—at the door.
“Yes?”
Jonathan came in.
“I think my shirts are in one of your cases,” he said stiffly.
“Oh, yes, they are. I’ll find them for you.”
She went over to the largest suitcase, which she had been in the process of unpacking when the boy came in. The shirts were under some of her blouses.
“Thank you. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” He took them, not looking at her.
“Jonathan...”
“Yes.” He paused, his hand on the door knob. He was wearing a dark silk dressing gown and his hair was wet. He looked much younger and less forbidding. Her heart melted with love for him.
“Yes?” he said again.
“I—I forget what I was going to say.”
For a second his glance swept her slender figure in the thin nylon slip. Then he said briefly, “Dinner is at seven,” and went out.
When she was ready in a black poplin dress with a shocking pink cummerbund Alex went into the lounge. There was a log fire crackling in the brick hearth and the waiter was busy setting the table.
“You like drink, mem?”
“A gin and orange, please.”
It would be easier, she thought, if there were other visitors. As it was the evening yawned interminably ahead, every moment an ordeal.
The waiter brought her drink and set dishes of salted peanuts and chips on the coffee table beside her. His comings and goings with napkins and sauce bottles and his wide grin whenever he caught her eye were vaguely reassuring. Alex wondered if he knew they were a honeymoon couple and thought it odd that they would occupy separate rooms. He probably considered all the English crazy anyway.
Jonathan came out of his bedroom.
“You look very elegant,” he said. “We would have done better to go to Kuala Lumpur. I’m afraid you will find it rather boring here.” He asked the waiter to bring another drink for Alex and a whiskey and soda for himself.
“If you care for tennis there’s a court just up the hill I daresay there are a couple of rackets somewhere around.”
“I’m not very good at it,” she said. “I was never much good at any games.”
“Providing you can hit the ball occasionally I shan’t expect you to trounce me off the court.” He lighted a cigarette and kicked the logs with the toe of his shoe so that a shower of golden sparks flew up the chimney.
After dinner, for which Alex had no appetite but that she ate rather than offend the cook, Jonathan said, “I brought along a bottle of the reception champagne.”
In the circumstances it seemed to her a hideous mockery that they should drink champagne, but she said nothing. The waiter cleared the table, asked if there was anything they wanted, and disappeared into the back premises.
“Last time I was up here I was woken up at an unearthly hour by a pack of gibbons playing around in the trees,” Jonathan said. “By the way, the post office down the hill has quite an interesting collection of pickled snakes. We might stroll down tomorrow.”
“Pickled snakes?” She felt an inane impulse to laugh, presumably caused by the champagne that she had drunk much too quickly.
He refilled her glass. “They’re coiled around in jars of preservative alcohol. Apparently the warden makes a hobby of catching them.”
“I hope we don’t meet any unpickled ones. My legs are an open target.”
“They don’t strike unless you startle them.” He lit another cigarette. There was a pile of ground-out butts in the ashtray at his elbow.
“Why did you marry me, Alex?”
The question, coming without warning, shocked her. She fumbled for words.
“Jonathan ... please try to understand ... it’s hard to put into words.”
“Is it?” His voice was granite hard, his face harsh and contemptuous.
If only she had the courage to tell him the truth. To tell him that, whatever his own motives, she loved him with a wild unreasoning passion so that his glance, his least gesture, the very timbre of his voice made her bones melt. But how could she tell him? In the face of his disdain, how could she ever tell him?
“It doesn’t matter.” He shrugged. “You look tired. It’s been a long day. You’d better go to bed. Good night.”
Dismissed like a child who has been allowed to visit the grown-ups and is dispatched to the nursery with an admonition to say its prayers, Alex shut the bedroom door and bit her lip to stem the scalding tears that pricked her eyes.
If only she were older, more experienced. Already he was regretting the impulse that had brought their marriage about.
Wearily she took off her clothes, washed, and pulled a white chiffon nightdress over her head. The filmy material slipped over her body like a caressing hand, its cool delicate substance clinging to her slender hips.
She had seen it flung over a black brocade cushion in the window of an expensive French shop in Georgetown. Then, fingering the fine handmade lace, appalled at the price, she had imagined standing before Jonathan in it and seeing his eyes light with admiration and desire.
Romantic fool that she had been. He wanted a companion, someone to talk to in the evenings after a hard day. He had never pretended a grand passion for her. And now, disgusted by the episode at the reception, even his liking for her had been destroyed.
She brushed her teeth and climbed between the fresh linen sheets, numb with fatigue. For a long time she lay awake, mental turmoil warring with physical weariness. At last she heard Jonathan cross the lounge and go into his room.
With a moan of utter desolation she turned her face into the pillow to stifle her weeping.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Alex was woken up the next morning by the attendant bringing in a tray of tea and fresh fruit.
“Tuan went for a walk, mem. He’ll come back in one hour.”
She drank the tea slowly, reluctant to begin a day that promised nothing more than a strained exchange of courtesies. The sky was gray and she dressed in a green shirt, darker green trousers and a snug yellow vest. At least she could enjoy wearing her trousseau.
Breakfast was served on the veranda and as Jonathan had not returned by nine o’clock she decided to start without him. He arrived as she was pouring her second cup of coffee.
“Good morning. Did you enjoy your walk?” She forced a smile.
“I went up to the radio station.” He threw his sweater over the back of a chair.
“Coffee?”
“Thanks.” He helped himself to cornflakes.
“It looks like rain.” She indicated the low clouds and
the tendrils of mist obscuring the plain.
“It’s generally overcast in the morning. By midday it will probably be quite hot. If you feel like exercise we might take a packed lunch up to the resident’s bungalow. There’s a good view.”
“Whatever you like.” She passed him the toast. At least they were still on speaking terms, but how long could a marriage last that depended on polite commonplaces? If he raged or swore or even hit her it would be better than this dreadful cold courtesy.
It was ten o’clock by the time they started out, and the sun was beginning to glint through the clouds. Jonathan led the way, carrying the lunch basket and camera. He strode up the steep path at a brisk pace and Alex was hard pressed to keep up with him. By the time they reached the summit she was panting for breath and her leg muscles ached.
They ate their lunch on a grassy plateau. By this time the sky was clear and the last wisps of mist had dissolved.
Alex sat on a slab of granite, her arms clasped around her updrawn knees, gazing out over the broad green vista of plain. The countryside shimmered in the heat. A faint breeze stirred the grass and only the murmur of insects disturbed the silence. Tawny butterflies fluttered from leaf to leaf and a lizard basked on a log, only its bead-bright eyes alert.
Jonathan lay on the turf, half-asleep, his head on a folded sweater.
Now, Alex thought, now is the time to tell him, to explain. She said his name but he made no response, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. Was he asleep or was he deliberately ignoring her?
She slid down from the rock and, seeking something to distract her thoughts, decided to explore a track leading to higher ground. She must have gone about a quarter of a mile and was about to turn back when there was a hissing sound in the grass and a narrow black head reared angrily toward her. Instinctively she flung herself backward, missed her footing on the uneven surface, and fell in an ungainly heap. An agonizing pain shot through her left ankle.
The snake had already disappeared and Alex attempted to pick herself up, but a second stab of pain told her that the damage was worse than a slight sprain. Gingerly she rolled down her sock and saw that the flesh was already puffy. She bound her handkerchief over the place but it was too small to make a satisfactory bandage and an experimental pressure told her that she would never be able to walk back to the clearing unaided.
With visions of the snake still lurking revengefully in the undergrowth, she cupped her hands and called for help. If Jonathan was soundly asleep her cries from this distance would be unlikely to wake him, but there might be some laborers in the area. She called steadily for five minutes and then paused for breath. Her ankle was throbbing now and every time a grass moved or the bushes rustled she started nervously, expecting to see a cobra or a centipede advancing toward her.
She began to call again, her cries echoing mournfully. It was twenty minutes later and she was almost desperate when she heard footsteps thudding along the track and Jonathan, rounding the bend, almost fell over her.
“What happened? Are you badly hurt?”
“I’ve hurt my ankle. I almost stepped on a snake and fell over.”
He knelt down and examined her ankle.
“Hmm, a pretty nasty sprain. The sooner we get a bandage on it the better. Grit your teeth, I’m going to pick you up.”
With one arm around her waist and the other beneath her knees he swung her up against his chest.
“Put your arm around my neck and hang on,” he said. Alex was so relieved to see him and get away from the scene of the accident that the pain in her ankle seemed a trifling discomfort. He walked carefully to jolt her as little as possible, carrying her as easily as if she had been a child.
“I thought you would never come,” she said. “I had horrible visions of spending the night there and being eaten by ants.”
“I was asleep. Had you been calling long?”
“Only about twenty minutes, but it seemed hours. I’d forgotten there might be snakes about.”
“You should have stood still. You were lucky not to be bitten.”
“I’ve never sprained anything before. Will it take long to get better?”
“It depends. Three or four days I would say, perhaps longer.”
“Oh, dear. I’m very sorry, Jonathan.”
“It was an accident,” he said. “How does it feel?”
“Not too bad.”
It took them an hour to get back to Speedy’s and by the end of the journey the pain was worse and Alex had to bite her lower lip to stop herself from wincing at every step. Jonathan put her gently down in a chair and called for the porter.
Fortunately the proprietor had a well-equipped first-aid box and Jonathan was able to put a compress on the swelling and strap it firmly. He insisted on her having a glass of brandy and then carried her into her room.
“Try to sleep for an hour,” he said, tucking the eiderdown over her. “I’ll call you at teatime.”
She must have fallen asleep at once, for when she woke it was dusk and she could hear the rattle of tea things on the veranda. Presently Jonathan opened the door and peered at her.
“I’m awake,” she said. “Is tea ready?”
“The waiter is bringing you a tray.”
“Oh, but I’d rather have it outside. I’m not an invalid.”
“As you wish.”
He picked her up and carried her onto the veranda. For the first time since they had arrived Alex found she was hungry. Over tea she made one or two attempts at conversation, but now that the emergency was over Jonathan seemed to have retreated into an even colder formality than before. He answered her remarks curtly and without encouragement to pursue any topic.
As soon as the meal was over she asked to be carried back to her room and began the laborious business of changing for dinner.
In her misery the night before she had thrown her black poplin dress on the bottom of the wardrobe and it was too crumpled to wear again without being pressed. She decided to wear a dress of amber organza, and it was not until she had it on that she remembered that she could not do up the buttons down the back of the bodice by herself.
Jonathan was moving around in his room and rather nervously she tapped on the adjoining wall.
A few moments later he came into her room.
“I wonder,” she stammered slightly, “I wonder if you would mind helping me do up my dress. I can’t reach the buttons in the small of my back.”
He hesitated, a faint frown between his brows, and then crossed over and began to fasten the tiny smoked pearl buttons.
“There’s an extra one,” he said gruffly.
She craned her neck in an effort to see. “Oh, you must have missed a buttonhole farther down.”
He muttered something under his breath and began again. The touch of his fingers against her back sent a faint tremor of excitement through her. She reached for her perfume bottle and touched the glass stopper to her throat and wrists, trying to still the quickened beating of her heart.
“There you are.” He straightened up.
“Thank you.”
Their eyes met in the mirror. His hand touched her bare shoulder.
“Alex—”
The roar of an engine coming up the hill broke the silence. Jonathan turned on his heel and left the room.
The newcomers were an army officer and his wife who introduced themselves as Captain and Mrs. Darron. Captain Darron was a heavily built, florid young man with a red mustache who looked well-meaning if a trifle stupid. His wife was a thin blond woman, very much made up, with a blasé, disdainful manner. It was plain that Darron doted on her and she was beginning to be bored by his simple affection. She looked Alex over in a disparaging fashion but her narrow gray eyes brightened as she shook hands with Jonathan. She reminded Alex of Joanna Oliver.
“You army, old chap?” Captain Darron asked over dinner.
“I’m in rubber,” Jonathan said.
“I take off my hat to you fellows,” Darron sa
id. “How you can stand this damned climate for years on end beats me. Nothing to do out here. Give me London every time. Poor old Betty was a model at home—fashion stuff, you know—she finds it deadly, don’t you, dear?”
Poor old Betty agreed that it was rather madly boring.
“Actually it was sporting of her to come out at all,” Captain Darron said, patting her hand fondly.
Poor old Betty obviously agreed with him.
“What say you, Mrs. Fraser? Going to persuade your husband to find a more civilized way of earning his living?”
Alex smiled noncommittally. She was relieved when the men launched into a discussion on pig hunting. The incident just before dinner had filled her with excitement and hope and she was too absorbed in these thoughts to make any serious effort at conversation with the bored Betty Darron.
After dinner Jonathan helped Alex to a chair and Betty, prompted by her worshipful husband, embarked on a long account of her experiences as a model.
It was half-past eleven before Hugh Darron gulped down a last s’tengah and said he supposed they ought to hit the hay if they wanted to be up bright and early tomorrow. When they had said good-night and shut their bedroom door Alex glanced cautiously at Jonathan. He was staring broodingly into the dying fire.
As if he felt her looking at him, he turned his head and met her eyes. She smiled but his face did not lighten.
“Time you went to bed,” he said, rising.
She raised her arms as he came over to lift her. Her lips were close to his cheek and the hard strength of his arms sent an electric frisson tingling down her spine. It was an effort of will not to cling to him as he set her down on the bed.
“Can you manage? I should have asked Mrs. Darron to give you a hand,” he said.
“I can manage quite well,” she said stiffly. If, that moment ago, there had been the slightest sign of softening in his face, she would not have been able to stop herself telling him the truth. But there was no softness, his eyes studied her bleakly.