Teachers Must Learn

by Nerina Hilliard

  Anthea ignored the remark and subjected her brother to an inquiring scrutiny.

  ‘Are you offering yourself as a teacher?’

  ‘And be accused of cradle-snatching?’

  Laurel clenched her hands at her sides. In just one moment, she thought wildly, she would lose complete control of herself. What would he do if she did hit him? It was hard to predict with a man so unaccountable and enigmatic as Stephen Barrington. Retaliation would be something unpleasant, though. She could at least count on that.

  She swung on her heel, paused to look back at them. ‘I’ll leave you alone to your discussion. I’m afraid it’s beginning to bore me.’ And that, she thought, continuing her journey to the door of the drawing-room, should successfully blot her copybook with the Barringtons, which conclusion, since she had come with the deliberate intention of making herself so disagreeable that neither Barrington would have the least desire to invite her there again, pleased her immensely.

  She had just reached the door of the drawing-room, when she heard Stephen say behind her:

  ‘Run along, Anthea. I want to dance with Laurel.’

  She heard the sound of Anthea’s high heels tapping off, then quick, firm footsteps followed her and when she turned Stephen was so close behind her that she involuntarily recoiled, but almost instantly her slender figure bristled with defiance and indignation.

  ‘I have no wish to dance with you.’

  ‘That’s just too bad.’ His voice was unsympathetic and his fingers on her arm had the feel of steel clamps. Whether she liked it or not, she found herself somehow inside the lovely room that had been deprived of its rugs to permit them to dance on the polished boards, held closely in his arms. He danced well, with assurance and a certain lithe grace, but she was annoyed to find that he was making her dance exceedingly well also, when she had been quite sure that their steps could not possibly match. She was also aggrieved to find that his nearness was having an oddly disturbing effect on her.

  ‘What are you trembling for?’ Stephen asked calmly. ‘Haven’t you ever danced with a man before?’

  ‘Of course I have.’ She knew that a betraying colour had risen in her cheeks, but his words had satisfactorily banished that queer breathlessness. ‘I expect it’s just the effect of dancing with you,’ she added sarcastically. ‘You have such a devastating personality it completely overwhelms me.’

  ‘I’m honoured,’ Stephen replied with the derisive thread so clear in his voice that her fingers tightened momentarily on his shoulder. The familiar glance she hated rested on her fingers in their impotent gesture of defiance and dislike. ‘My personality again?’ he murmured sardonically. ‘I had no idea it was so upsetting.’

  Laurel pressed her lips together hard and forbore to make any reply.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he jeered. ‘Can’t you think of anything particularly flaying to spit at me?’

  It seemed impossible to her that she could so intensely dislike anyone in such a short period of time. Again and again she had to remind herself that they had met for the first time only that afternoon, but it already seemed a lifetime that she had been subjected to his taunts, a lifetime ago when she had first heard that mocking, derisive voice. What was it Beryl Cornish had said about him—‘Stephen never leaves you long in doubt as to how you feel about him.’ Whatever else, he was a man a girl could never be indifferent to.

  The music of the record-player stopped suddenly and she found herself directly in front of one of the open french windows that led into the garden. Without stopping to think, she freed herself determinedly as his hold slackened at the end of the dance, and took the couple of steps that brought her out on to the terrace, but her escape was short-lived.

  ‘Yes, it is a little warm inside,’ Stephen’s voice agreed equably from behind her and she felt his fingers, firm and hard, beneath her elbow, assisting her down the steps into the moonlit gardens with their festoons of coloured lights. ‘You’d better take a little walk to cool off,’ he added, releasing her as they reached the pathway below.

  ‘I don’t wish to take a walk.’

  Yet, nevertheless, she started to walk rather quickly away from him, not caring in which direction she went, but quite conscious that he was following her at a leisurely pace. The result was that she caught the floating chiffon of her dress on a bush and had to stand and fumble with it, finding that anger had made her fingers too clumsy, while he caught up with her. Then of course she had to suffer the final indignity of having him release her with calm, sure fingers.

  This time he caught her arm and held on to it. ‘Come here, and don’t act so much like a scared rabbit. I’m not going to follow out Anthea’s instructions.’ The dark eyes were narrowed, watching her with a hint of gentle teasing instead of mockery, but she was beyond being beguiled by any such overture of friendship, especially when he tilted up her head to watch her expression closely, with that tiny half smile playing around his firm mouth. ‘It’s a pity that you’re not a few years older, or I might be tempted.’

  Laurel jerked herself free. ‘I’m quite conscious of the honour,’ she retorted scathingly, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t oblige you. Wouldn’t I do as I am now?’ That sounded dangerous and she added hastily, ‘in any event, the prospect doesn’t appeal to me in the least.’

  ‘It’s just as well,’ he retorted coolly. ‘I like my women experienced.’

  That was the final straw. She raised her hand in blind fury, only to find it caught in ruthless fingers that arrested its motion, while his other arm clipped her around the waist with cruel strength. In the moonlight and the glow of the little coloured lights she saw that the expression on his face was not pleasant

  ‘You’ve been like a piece of poisonous ivy all evening. What’s the matter with you?’

  Laurel attempted to jerk free, but found it quite impossible, and privately she was a little aghast, because she had never imagined a man’s strength could be quite so overpowering.

  ‘I don’t have to explain myself to you.’

  ‘No, you don’t, my child—but since I can’t fathom out what all this is about, anyway, perhaps I’d better give you reason for really disliking me,’ he retorted harshly.

  The arm around her waist tightened and the hand that grasped her wrist released its hold, fastened instead into the clustered curls at the back of her head.

  Laurel went deathly white in the moonlight, but she nevertheless met the unpleasant glint in his eyes with defiant bravery.

  ‘What is this—lesson number one?’

  ‘Call it what you like,’ he said, and kissed her.

  She had been kissed before, casual meaningless kisses that she had endured tolerantly after a dance, but never like this; never a kiss that was meant to be a punishment, that bruised her lips and shattered her fury and left her feeling small and bewildered. It gave her no chance to soften to him or to respond, even had she desired to do so. It was the kiss of an experienced man who meant to hurt and who succeeded.

  ‘Put that under the heading of experience,’ he said as he released her.

  ‘I will.’ She raised a shaky hand to her bruised lips. ‘Under the sub-heading of unpleasant!’

  ‘Don’t deceive yourself, my child. The way you’ve been acting tonight, you deserve far more.’ He turned her towards the house, drawing her along with him back to the brilliantly lighted windows, as if his one desire now was to be rid of her. ‘And now I gather you would like to shake the dust of this iniquitous household off your dainty silver shoes,’ he finished sarcastically.

  ‘If I didn’t want to wear them again, I would burn them,’ she snapped back childishly.

  She did not know or care what excuse he made to Ned, but she was wholeheartedly thankful to see her brother coming over to the chair where Stephen had deposited her on returning to the drawing-room. Her head was swimming with the shards of her fury and her bruised lips still throbbed from that ruthless kiss.

  Ned looked down at her anxiously. ‘Are
you feeling all right, pet?’

  Laurel smiled wanly at the old childish name. ‘Just a bit dizzy. I expect it’s the heat in here.’

  ‘Steve said you wanted me. Would you like to go home?’

  Laurel hesitated a moment, then nodded. ‘You could come back here after you drop me.’

  Ned shook his head. ‘I think I’ve had about enough as well.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘Must be getting old. I can’t take the fleshpots like I used to.’

  ‘Can’t stand the sight of Anthea Barrington flirting with other men,’ Laurel amended grimly to herself, and wished she had never heard the name Barrington.

  ‘I’ll get my wrap,’ she said aloud, and stood up.

  As she made her way to the blessedly deserted room where she had left her wrap, she felt suddenly and overwhelmingly tired. It seemed as if her body was one aching bruise from the relentless grip of Stephen’s hands. It only needed the sight of Anthea flitting past the doorway, her laughter as light and gay as a tropical breeze, to set the final seal on her longing to get away from this spreading, beautiful house with its suggestion of restrained wealth and its mocking, hateful owner.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Laurel awoke late on the morning following her arrival on the island. The headache she had pretended to have the night before had become splitting reality and when Pepita entered her room with a daintily laid tray she decided then and there that eating was the last thing she could manage.

  Even so, the fragrant smell of freshly made coffee was tempting and she wrinkled her nose appreciatively.

  ‘That smells good, Pepita.’

  The woman set the tray carefully down on her knees, her dark face creased in a smile.

  ‘That is good, miss,’ she said in her prim, stilted English and, bobbing her queer little curtsey, went out of the room, leaving Laurel to stare at small twisted rolls, fresh yellow butter and ripe delicious fruit and decide that she did feel just a little hungry after all.

  It was an unusual luxury for her to breakfast in bed and not something she intended to continue, but this morning it had a luxurious appeal she did not resist, so that the depression and weariness, the lingering lassitude that had gripped her limbs, slowly disappeared, taking with them the headache that had threatened to spoil her day. She felt a return of the happy excitement of yesterday morning, before a man with mocking grey eyes had come into her life and spoilt everything with the horrid, taunting derision underlying the soft tones of his voice.

  Drat Stephen Barrington, she told herself firmly, and slid the covers back to stand barefooted on the soft carpet. He was not going to be allowed to spoil her holiday. There was no reason why she should even think of him, although on the other hand there was no hope whatsoever of pretending he did not exist. He was simply not the type of man a woman could forget, whether she thought of him with liking or with complete distaste.

  She padded over to the window on her small bare feet, then drew back quickly to reach for her dressing-gown in case anyone should be standing below. Even though she smiled at the thought, she still wrapped herself in the conventional dark blue garment that had served her well for so many years, then she went back to the window, drawing in the soft scents of the clustered tropical flowers outside, delighting in the unfamiliar sight of feathery palm fronds against a brilliant sky and the flutter of a jewel-bright wing from the direction of the gum trees with their red blossoms adding yet another touch of colour to the already fantastically beautiful scene.

  Because it was all too rich and vivid to take in at once, she sent her thoughts back to what her days had been only a short time ago; the single room apartment that had been her home since both mother and father had died in the fatal rail accident. She had not been unhappy in that prettily furnished little room and old Mrs. Grunsted, the landlady, had been a friendly and helpful woman. Sometimes she would take care of pretty little Maureen Jordon, while the elder woman’s daughter and son-in-law would take the landlady out for the evening, and sometimes when Laurel came home cold and dripping wet on a winter evening, she would find herself led firmly into the kitchen, where a hot meal awaited her.

  And then there was the school. She had gone there herself in her childhood, passing from pupil to pupil teacher, giving up almost every evening to study while she went through training school, her only relaxation the curious fascination for classical Greek dancing that she was able to indulge at the Physical Culture Institute a short distance from where she studied. Then there had been the tensed expectancy and the apprehension of the final examinations, the moment of triumph when the heavily sealed document was placed in her hands and she had taken up her position as kindergarten teacher in the local school where she herself had once been a pupil. Only a short time afterwards had come the chance of a job at the private school where she had worked until she left to come to Ladrana and in the beginning it had been everything she had hoped for, until the little jealousies and intrigues had crept in.

  But that was all in the past, and she shrugged off the unwelcome thought of those last few months as she turned from the window and went to investigate the possibilities of a bath. After all, she had always meant to leave, intending to go back to studying for a while, so that she could pass on to a higher grade of teaching, but the exquisite motions of the dancing she had taken up had demanded more and more of her time, so she had put off the actual moment of giving it up to go back to intensive study in the evenings.

  Then had come this momentous upheaval, the unexpected change that had resulted in her being here in beautiful, tropical Ladrana. She could not yet accustom herself to having plenty of time on her hands, nor to the thought that there was now no need to rise almost with the crack of dawn; and above all it was wonderful not to have to combat the petty little intrigues that had made life at the school so uncomfortable the last few months. Of course there were a few little unwelcome items in her life even now—such as Stephen Barrington.

  No, she told herself firmly. He should not intrude into her thoughts again, even though it was rather comical and absurd and brought a smile to her lips to label him as an ‘item’.

  Pepita came into sight climbing the narrow stairway as Laurel, wandering along the passage, was starting to wonder if the place really did have a bathroom.

  ‘The water it has been poured for the bath,’ Pepita said, somewhat to Laurel’s relief, even though she had known at the back of her mind that Ned must have made arrangements of some kind.

  The bathroom turned out to be a small outhouse where water was boiled in a large tank and tipped into a sunken bath that had been carved out of rock and lined with tiles. A large mirror was fitted up over a neatly made cupboard that looked as if it was Ned’s handiwork, and on a small shelf to one side of the mirror a large jar of highly scented bath crystals and perfumed talc made her smile affectionately at Ned’s forethought. The tiles around the bath also looked new. He had probably fitted them specially for her, being content himself with a plain rock bath.

  Pepita inquired if she needed assistance, but at Laurel’s refusal slipped discreetly out of the room. Smiling to herself, Laurel tipped a handful of Ned’s gift down into the warm water of the bath and lowered herself into it.

  Once a brightly coloured bird came and perched himself upon the windowsill, high up in the room where no human eyes could peer in, but, her thoughts wandering again, it was not until Ned’s voice sounded outside that she realized how long she had been in the bathhouse.

  ‘Hey, are you still in there?’ he called out unceremoniously, and Laurel guiltily climbed out of the bath.

  ‘Won’t be a moment,’ she called, and hastily towelled herself dry and pulled on the white linen slacks and blouse she had brought with her.

  Ned grinned when she appeared. ‘I thought you’d fallen down the plughole,’ he commented.

  That reminded her that the water was still in the bath and she turned back quickly to pull out the plug and watch the water gurgle away through the tunnel that had been cut in th
e living rock.

  ‘How do you like our ultra-mod cons?’ Ned inquired, watching her intrigued expression. ‘Rather ingenious, eh, what?’ he added with an atrociously affected accent.

  ‘Idiot!’ Laurel retorted with a quick smile up at him.

  ‘Thank you, my dear sister,’ Ned said with a bow. ‘Thank you very much.’ He dropped his bantering tone and added, ‘I’m going into town. Coming?’

  She nodded eagerly, then gestured towards her informal clothes. ‘Had I better change?’

  Ned shook his head carelessly. ‘You’re all right as you are. Nobody bothers to dress up much in Milton.’

  He waited while she took the remainder of her belongings from the bathroom back into the house and a few minutes later she joined him at the car, the faintest suggestion of make-up accentuating her piquant features. The burnished hair, although still damp, was already beginning to cluster into its short, natural curls. She looked more like an excited pixie than a schoolteacher, especially with her blue-green eyes glowing with anticipation.

  Ned whistled softly and shook his head. ‘Heaven help Ladrana!’

  Laurel flushed. ‘Stop it, Ned. I know I’m not in the least pretty.’

  ‘Go tell it to the Marines,’ Ned retorted inelegantly, and started up the car.

  The usual infiltration of dust crept in through the window almost immediately, but Laurel, although she noticed it, was more concerned with watching the unfamiliar and colourful scenery than in wasting time dwelling on any slight discomfort.

  The little native settlement was just as it had been the day before, almost as if time itself had stood still in the interval. Naked piccanins still played in the dust and some still ignored the car while others turned to stand wide-eyed until it was out of sight.

  ‘How did you enjoy the party last night—at least until you acquired your headache?’ Ned asked, without taking his eyes off the winding, bumpy road.

  ‘Very nice,’ Laurel replied, but something in her tone must have given her away.