Doctor's Assistant (5 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

THE
Barracuda
slid smoothly away from the jetty into midstream and nosed towards the “Gates.” The headlands rose on either side, sheer and smothered with wild banana and cycad palms. They pressed in as the channel narrowed, came so near that it seemed one could stretch a hand to touch the green spears. There were long moments when the towering green walls made a prison, but soon they began to recede and curl back towards the beaches, while the yacht steamed out into the pleasant swell of the ocean.

The breeze was immediately noticeable. Laurette, who had begun to simmer inside her yellow sweater, now felt the benefit of wearing wool. She stood at the rail and watched the coast, saw the deserted bays and river mouths, the lovely wild growth on the series of promontories and the few lazily dipping seabirds who had no cry.

The sea was several colours; nearby it was slate-blue and white-veined and a little way out it had a translucent greenness,
changing gradually beyond that to the deep, orthodox blue of the Indian Ocean. The clear purple line of the horizon arched from one end of the coast to the other, closing them in beneath a glaring sky.

The headlands safely behind them, Charles left an African seaman at the helm and came to Laurette’s side. He leaned upon the rail and looked at the sea and she knew that heaving waters and the deck of a ship meant more to him than most things. On an impulse, she said.

“Basutoland is so isolated. How do you stand it there, if you love the sea?”

“My dear child, one does what one must. Mohpeng has many compensations.”

“Is Mohpeng your district?”

He nodded. “There’s a native town and dozens of villages scattered about the hills. We officials live on the outskirts of the town—about eighteen of us, including wives, and our nearest club is a hundred-odd miles away. We don’t use it much.” He slanted her a glance. “How do you like yachting?”

“It’s grand,” she said, and turned to him her sparkling eyes. The yellow-brown hair was whipped forward across her forehead, and she laughingly raked it back.

“Blows away bad moods, doesn’t it?” he said. “Maybe you’re even beginning to think that Charles needn’t be written off, after all.”

“You misunderstood. I said that to your uncle because I never like talking about things or people who are baffling.”

“Do I baffle you?”

“Of course,” she answered readily. “The unknown is always baffling!”

“I don’t find you in the last puzzling.”

“Don’t you?” She stared at him for a moment, then looked away. “I suppose I’m girlish and transparent. I’m easily placed.”

“That sounds as if you were colorless—and you’re not. It’s not your fault that you didn’t turn up at Port Quentin in the teeth of a gale and wearing a beard.”

Her shoulders moved with silent laughter. The stiff breeze and his banter combined to make her feel wonderfully lighthearted, and exhilaration coursed through her veins in a warm, delicious tide.

They were running along the thick green coastline, about half a mile out. A little freighter had appeared on the skyline, the smoke from its funnel a thin grey scarf in its wake.

“Look!” Charles pointed to a black, slithering shape not ten feet from the yacht’s side. “Pretty boy, isn’t he?”

“A shark?” Involuntarily, she edged closer to him. “He’s enormous.”

“If we had tackle we could finish him.”

“I’m glad we haven’t!”

“I thought you were of an age to ache for adventure.”

“Not that kind.”

“What kind?” he asked, still scanning the waters. “High romance?”

“Why not? Africa’s a vast and romantic land, but for a while I’m content with this corner of it.”

There was a silence. Charles straightened and turned, so that his back rested on the rail and he could gaze across the deck and the rolling waves at the edge of Africa.

“What makes you think I’d make a worse husband than any other man?” he enquired conversationally.

The question was so unexpected that Laurette became temporarily witless. She pressed finger and thumb round the rail and tried hard to make them meet.

“Well ... you’re a bit of a woman-hater aren’t you—and you’ve developed a way of living that gets you along quite well without them. Some men need a wife, but you don’t.” To gloss what might strike him as a too-personal analysis from one who admitted she found him baffling, she added, “Being a man who can do without women makes you more interesting. You’re the first I’ve known.”

He looked down at her shrewdly. “What about Ben Vaughan?”

In that second she remembered, almost, for the first time since the day it had happened, Ben’s declaration that he loved her. Her lids lowered.

“He’s a doctor.”

“Doctors are men, you know. I suspect you do know. Ben doesn’t want to get along without a woman, does he?”

“He ... he needs a holiday.”

Charles gave a brief laugh. “You mean a honeymoon.” On a harder note he ended, “If you’re not fond of him it’s unfair to go on working with him.”

“Of course it isn’t unfair. He must have help.”

“But not from you! It takes a strong man to endure the torment of having the girl he wants near at hand but untouchable, and Ben isn’t particularly strong that way. You wouldn’t want him to crack up?”

“Ben—crack up?” She shook her head in disbelief. “He’s not at all that much in love with me.”

“He has told you, then?”

“Yes, but he was almost casual, so it can’t be very serious.”

“What a child you are,” he said viciously. “Talking with you makes me tired.”

She was quiet with hurt. She was not even quite sure what Charles was getting at. Did he think she ought either to marry Ben or get out of his life? But how absurd. Ben didn’t want that, and her home was as much here in Port Quentin as his was.

It came to her suddenly that Charles and Ben did not really like each other. They were opposing personalities. Both were hard workers, but Ben found life arduous and not particularly rewarding, whereas Charles was commanding and completely self-sufficient.

She became aware that Charles had gone from her side, but she had no wish now to watch him at the helm. The ship veered and changed Laurette’s view. They were cruising back down the coast.

Charles returned. “Come along to the cabin for a drink. Can’t offer you coffee because there’s no fresh water on board, but I can find you a large lime and soda with a suggestion of gin.”

He was suave, his earlier spurt of annoyance apparently forgotten. He seated her in the small square cabin, unlocked a cupboard and got out drinks. When he had poured he sat down beside her and offered cigarettes. As he held the lighter she saw the scar inside his arm, a long, crooked, red indentation. In the house he was careful to keep it covered, and this was her first sight of it since she had dressed the wound.

“Does it still hurt?” she queried.

‘Only if it gets an unlucky bang. The redness will wear off.” He tried his drink. “Now that you’ve shown yourself a good sailor we might make a longer trip one day. The Wild Coast is a succession of lovely inlets and river mouths, and the villagers who live near them are comparatively unspoiled because modern transport can’t get at them. I’ll introduce you to an old chief who remembers my grandfather having a pow-wow with his father, when he was a small boy. Port Quentin had hardly begun then.”

“I’ve probed about the history of Port Quentin,” she said. “People say it was meant to be a first-class port but the river-mouth silted and made it dangerous for all except small shipping.”

“That’s true. You should have asked my Uncle Gilbert all about it. My grandfather was his father. That’s how the property comes to be entailed to me.”

“Will you really take me higher up the coast?” she asked eagerly.

“I’ve said I will.”

“If talking to me makes you tired...”

“It’ll be weariness in a good cause,” he said mockingly. “Besides, we’ve no one like you at Mohpeng, so I ought to make the most of you.”

She said, “It’s only just about three weeks to when you leave, isn’t it?”

“Yes—so you’d better be nice to me. We haven’t time to quarrel.”

“I’ll be sweeter than pie if you’ll promise to give up treating me as an infant.”

He grinned and drew in his lip. “Don’t behave as one. I won’t promise, but I’ll try. How’s the drink?”

“Not too bad.” She lowered most of it and set the glass on the table. The cabin had become strangely stifling and Charles was a little too near. She jumped up. “I’ve never seen the yacht properly. Show me the rest of it.”

It was an obvious move and one that he appeared to find slightly funny, but he drained his glass and followed her out on deck.

Half an hour later they steamed back into the haven of Port Quentin. Charles threw, a few instructions to the deck hand, helped Laurette on to the jetty and steadied her as they walked along it to the wide rough road which led up, between overgrown gardens, to the Kelsey mansion.

When she entered the veranda her face was flushed, her hair tumbled. Her father greeted them from his long chair.

“What was it like out there? You must take her again, Charles. The sea has made her beautiful.”

Charles’ glance at her was pleasantly interested. “I shouldn’t give the sea all the credit.”

“I should say not!” she put in quickly. “I had some gin. Will you excuse me now, while I change?”

As she washed and got into a green flowered frock, Laurette found herself humming a catchy tune which was popular on the radio. She made up carefully, happy in the certainty that today she actually was more attractive. It must have been the wind which made her skin glow, and the salt air in her lungs that made it imperative for her to sing.

When Mr. Kelsey arrived, they lunched on the veranda, and afterwards Laurette sat there with her father, desultorily chatting and reading. Later, after she had brought him a cup of tea, she wandered about the garden, snipping off full-blown magnolia blossoms for the floating bowl, and cutting other flowers of varying lengths for the flower-baskets in the lounge. The arrangement of them took a long time and was an enjoyable task.

At five-thirty, when the sun had gone, Charles came back from polo, and at once he called a houseboy to help carry John Delaney in his long chair to his bedroom.

Laurette’s father refused to have done for him those things which he could do for himself. He washed and shaved, gave his reddish hair the military brushing to which it was accustomed and tied his own tie. But whenever he needed to be moved or helped in dressing, Charles was there, jesting a little as he lent a strong arm or a dextrous hand.

It was dark when Laurette had a bath and put on a coral pink frock and a necklace of tiny cornelians. She had no idea who had been invited tonight, but she knew most of
the people in Port Quentin and was unafraid. Her father was well liked, and everyone would be pleased to see him so bright in spite of the maddening frustration of having to sit most of the time.

She came into the lounge to find it brilliantly lit but deserted. A large silver tray on top of the cabinet was set with many glasses, and soon a boy entered carrying a bucket of ice and a crystal bowl of lemon slices.

Laurette stood at the french window, revelling in the cool air about her neck and shoulders; in Pondoland one could wear off-the-shoulder creations in comfort. The veranda lights threw into relief the immense colonial pillars, and the flying beetles beat crazy zigzag patterns in their frenzy to get at the lamps. Frangipani perfumed the air and the palms whispered.

She heard a sound and turned to find Mr. Kelsey, correctly attired in a white dinner jacket, surveying the severely luxurious scene from just inside the doorway.

“Hullo, my dear,” he said. “You look very sweet. I’ve just had a note from Ben to say that he can’t get along tonight.”

“But it’s Saturday! Did he say why?”

“A doctor doesn’t have to. Don’t look so disappointed. He’ll be here in a day or two to see your father.”

“And, anyway, I shall be starting work on Monday,” she said.

But she was sorry he would not be coming tonight because, since talking with Charles this morning, she felt she owed Ben more than the allegiance of an employee for her boss. It tied her up inside to think of Ben loving her, but it had to be faced and sensibly dealt with. Some time she would have to find out whether he really did feel uncomfortable with, her around in his rooms.

A moment or two later Laurette entirely forgot Ben, for Charles sauntered in, handsome and nonchalant. His flickering glance appraised her, he smiled as if what he saw had his approval, and without volition she warmed.

For Laurette, that night was one she could look back upon with a kind of nostalgia; it gleamed with freshness and a dawning beauty which she later came to realize had been the first shy awakening. She had known no pain, no premonitory bitterness; only a sense of expanding happiness and delight.

The guests arrived amid chatter and goodwill. The clinking of glasses mingled with laughter, some of it hearty gusts from her father. The dinner was excellent, and coffee on the veranda was cooling, particularly as the boys served it in glasses with ice.

The lounge floor was cleared and the gramophone set going. Laurette danced several times, was complimented and questioned about what she usually did with her leisure. The whole atmosphere had the headiness of good wine.

It was about ten-thirty, when she was tiring a little, that Charles took her outside.

“You’ve danced enough,” he said. “The way to get the best from life is to be moderate in all things. You should intersperse the dancing with serious discussion.”

She sighed with pleasure and made a grimace. “Who wants serious discussion on a night like this? I feel so happy, Charles.”

“Do you?” They were walking slowly along the dark garden path and he looked down curiously at the pure outline of her face and creamy shoulders. “Happiness usually depends on other people. Who’s at the root of yours?”

She raised her glance to him, the free, unguarded glance of the truly young and happy. “My father, Mr. Kelsey ... and you. I think it’s knowing that people care about you that makes you happy.”

“I haven’t said I care about you!”

She laughed a little. “I meant that in its most distant application. Heaven forbid that I should saddle you with a little sister. I ask no more than a cessation of hostilities.”

“If you had less intelligence,” he said deliberately, “I’d get very annoyed with you.”

Tonight her tongue seemed to run on little silver wheels. ‘Why?” she smilingly cast up at him. “Have I pricked your pride? I’d hate to do anything unforgivable.”

“Be quiet,” he said.