They Met in Zanzibar (21 page)

So that part of it was smooth sailing, thought Peg. A husband and wife occupying a hotel suite in the tropics - it was done. Steve didn’t have to wonder about it any longer. He could do the conventional thing, turn up with his wife and have her vetted by the company directors. It
was probably what he wanted, at
heart.

As she drove home with
him, though, Peg wondered hollowly what she herself wanted. The impossible, it seemed; the past few weeks undone, to be Peg Maldon again. More than anything, just now, she wished her emotions had not let her down when Paul Lexfield had come to Motu. If she could have felt for Paul what she had felt in England...

How distant it seemed, that day before she had left Kent. Paul coming into the garden and picking up her hairbrush from the table, the look of strain in him, the tremendous relief for them both when he took her into his arms. How could an embrace mean so much at the time and lose every scrap of meaning within a few months? How could she have felt so withdrawn from him on Motu?

Had he told Vanessa yet? Perhaps he would say nothing, but gradually come to see her as he had seen her two or three years ago. Only now Vanessa would have changed from that statuesque icicle; physical suffering might have made her warmer, more dependent, more understanding. Peg knew, now, that Vanessa was far better suited to Paul than she herself could ever have been. She would be the perfect mistress for Berners End. Peg would have chafed against the restrictions, against having to do what was expected of her by the tenants and villagers. In any case she wouldn’t have gone on loving Paul; she realised it now. He was someone her emotions had used at a time when there was no one else. It was Steve who’d said something like that, wasn’t it?

She stole a glance at him as he drove. So far away, full of his own thoughts. Careful with her in front of others, though. Quick to use the concussion as a blind when it seemed necessary.

They were nearly home when he said, “I’ll get Netta Fellowes to come over and sleep in the house while I’m away. You could go to their place, but I think you’d prefer to stay at home, wouldn’t you?”

“Are you talking about Singapore
?
”

“Yes. I’ve just remembered that the D.O. said he’s sending someone there on Friday; I can probably go in that plane.”

Without a tremor she asked, “And I’m not going with you?”

“No,” without any particular emphasis. “I thought
you realised that.”

“Why should I? The Templetons thought I was going.”

“Maybe next time,” he said. “This time I’ll go alone.”

“Was my behaviour with the Templetons unnatural?
”

“No, you did very well.”

“But you don’t think I could sustain it for a fortnight?”

“You wanted to go away,” he said, looking straight ahead as he turned up towards the house. “This is better.
I’ll
go away, and you can relax and do some thinking.” But as she walked into the house Peg knew suddenly, blindingly, that he wasn’t leaving her for her sake; he was doing it for his own. Lynette Foster had predicted this. “When Steve goes away he won’t take you with
him...”

Lynette might still be in Singapore; her letter would have told him. And he’d known he had to go there some time soon. He hadn’t mentioned it to Peg, but it had come out in conversation with the Templetons. Would he risk being seen with Lynette Foster? Peg didn’t think he would, but there was always the chance that her parents had returned from Europe by now, and naturally he would call on the older Fosters.

It wasn’t that he loved Lynette; at least, he didn’t love her as a man loves just one woman in his life. But Lynette attracted him and was free with her favours, and Steve might feel he could do with the companionship of a woman who offered everything. No doubt he felt it would make a pleasant change.

A whole day passed before Peg had made up her mind that when Steve returned from Singapore he would find her gone. The day after that she visited the shipping agent in town and made tentative enquiries. He was the man who had fixed her father up with a copra agent in Singapore, and she felt he could be trusted; however, she
mentioned only that she might like a sea voyage.

“Perhaps as far as Penang,” she said, as if it were of no real importance.

“Return, of course,” he said breezily. “I may be able to fix you up. Most of the freighters have some cabin space but I warn you - the passengers are travelling agents, rough and ready.”

“Like my father.” She nodded. “I shan’t mind that. I’ll call back in a couple of days, for the information. Will you get some dope ready
?
”

“I’ll try. Pity you can’t persuade some other woman to go along with you.”

“This is only an enquiry,” she said quickly. “I may decide against going.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The house had settled into an
ominous calm. Steve was out a good deal, touring the sections of the estate, poring over figures with McTeale and watching the building of the new copra-drying sheds. Wednesday passed and Thursday dawned, misty and oppressive. The whole island was shrouded, and though the white fog did not hold up work on the plantations, the small harbour was dead and except for the occasional blast of a siren the air was peculiarly lifeless; even the birds were silent.

Like everyone who had no business to do outdoors, Peg stayed in the house, waiting for the hot sun to disperse the mist. It didn’t happen; the mist thinned but did not disappear. The trees dripped eerily. The grass was bowed with moisture and everything inside the house was clammy to the touch. Peg’s dress clung to her skin, sweat ran from the bend in her elbow, from her palms and temples.

Just before lunch she went down for a swim, but daren’t go more than waist-deep because in the sea visibility was nil. The water was like warm oil, almost without movement. Cooler, but no more energetic, she plodded back to the house, took a shower and got into a clean house- frock.

Slackly, she questioned Nosoap about the lunch, and without interest she righted the wrongs he had committed when laying the table. One o’clock came, and no Steve. One-fifteen, one-thirty. This had never happened before, but then there had never been a day like this since she had come to Motu. He would have had to drive slowly. Two o’clock.

“Memtuan, we leave the lunch?” asked Melai.

“No, take it away,” she said dispiritedly.

“The mem has not eaten?”

“I’m not hungry. Keep the food in the fridge, for the tuan.”

A faint breeze stirred the solid-feeling air of the room and Peg crossed to look out of the long window at the terrace. A wind would clear the mist, help things all round. It was odd how a bad day could make one feel as though the weather had been insufferable for weeks; it came of living in so perfect a climate, of course. One took the sun for granted.

Peg looked at her watch and moved uneasily across the room and back again. Steve had never been late without letting her know. If only one could telephone one or two of the planters to find out when he had left them! Hadn’t he said something to Michael yesterday about going along the river? Would he do that, in this hot wetness?

When the servant again came into the room she wanted to shout at
him
to keep out. He did look a bit nervous, as he brought a large square envelope and laid it on the table.

“For the mem. A boy brought it.”

She grabbed it up quickly, slit one end and shook out the contents. Leaflets, folders ... about sea-trips in the South Seas! She dropped the lot.

“Melai, do you know where the tuan might be now?”

“No, mem.”

“Could you ride to Tuan McTeale’s on your bicycle, and ask if they know anything
?
”

“I will go, but they will not know.”

“How can you be sure?”

The servant spread his brown hands, in a simple gesture. “We would know first, not the Tuan McTeale. We are the tuan’s home.”

He was right, but Peg was beginning to feel raw and helpless. “We must do something. Haven’t you any ideas?”

He shrugged. “It is the mist. One should not be anxious.” Yet Melai was anxious. She could see it in the quick, fearful movements of his eyes, as though he were searching for some sign. These islanders were all superstitious and easily disturbed about elemental phenomena. Nosoap always had tummy-ache in electric storms.

“I
think
you must go to the McTeales’,” she said jerkily. “Someone ... a man, must help us. Go now.” Melai went. Peg smoked a cigarette. Smoke and emptiness put a horrible taste into her mouth, and inactivity made her smallest movements erratic, as if she were chained. That was how she felt; chained to the house, when she should have been out, driving
towards ...
towards what? There was no car: ironically, only yesterday they had heard that her new small car was now on its way to Motu. Here, you couldn’t hurry anything; you had to sit back and wait.

She smoked a second cigarette, but disposed of it halfway through. At twenty minutes past three Melai came back. His shirt was soaked and rivulets ran down his face and neck, his arms and legs. His mouth hung open, showing the bright pink interior.

“Sorry, mem. No news of the tuan. He went early up river.”

“Is that good - or bad?”

“Not know. Much mist on river.”

“Where would he leave the car?”

“Near bridge - the short track.”

“All right, Melai.”

Swif
tl
y she went outside After a hesitant moment, she crossed the wet path to the shed and stared at the boy’s bicycles. She took Nosoap’s, because it was smaller, and pushed off down the drive. She heard a dress-button rip away as she threw a leg over the saddle, then another. She cycled straight into the mist, up the long lane to the main road and then left, towards the bridge.

The, mist was patchy,
thin
in spots but elsewhere so thick that she could hardly see the bike’s length ahead. She knew the road intimately, though; never came down the slope towards the bridge without recalling, poignantly, that last ride with her father. Except today; because her body was tingling and mind uncertain with anxiety about Steve.

Here was the bridge, and over there to the right the track which meandered along beside the river. Her legs ached with the unfamiliar motion; she hadn’t ridden a bike since the days when she had journeyed backward and forward to the convalescent home. Odd how she’d forgotten all about the convalescent home. Why think of it now? Pouring with sweat, her vision hazed, her heart beating like a sledgehammer with exertion and worry.

She saw the estate car and almost fell from the bike. Long and sleek, runnelled with moisture, branches dripping onto its top ... it was empty. Peg pushed a shaking hand over her head. Her hair was lank, plastered to her scalp with sweat and mist, and her nose and chin dripped, unnoticed. She leant the bike against a bush and walked on down the path. It was a footpath now, and she knew it ended at a small landing, where a canoe might be moored. Not that it was any use her going out in a canoe. She didn’t even know which way of the river he might have gone.

She was hurrying forward on sodden sandals towards the end of the track. And then she saw him, and halted suddenly. He was seated on the lowest step to the landing stage with his naked back to her. His jacket lay beside
him,
but she didn’t see it then. She saw blood, great crimson smears of it down the side of his neck, and a wad of his shirt in his hand, mopping at the cuts. He looked so calm and workmanlike that the wave of nausea passed. She moved hastily and his head swung round. He gazed at her, blankly at first, and then, with consternation, pushed up from the ground.

“For Pete’s sake! What are you doing here? You’re drenched!”

“What ... w
hat’s happened to you?” Her voice cracked. “Steve, what’s happened to you?”

“Calm down. I was trying to look a little less gory before I came home. It’s nothing. I always bleed a lot.”

“But ... but ...
Steve, I’ve been half out of my mind! It’s four o’clock.”

“Didn’t you get my note? No, you can’t have. Damn those boys. Come on, now, we’ll go home. Tidying up down here has lost all point now that you’ve seen the mess. I hoped to spare you.”

“You’ve left your jacket,” she said weakly.

“It’s slit about, anyway. Get in the car.” He let out an oath and pressed the ball of shirting against his neck. “Never bled so much in my life.”

“Let me drive.”

“Not in this mist.” He flung down the blood-soaked rag. “Got a hanky in your pocket?”

She shook her head, bent and used all her strength to rip an eight-inch strip from the hem of her dress. “Let me do it,” she whispered.

But he took the material from her. “Get in out of this wet.”

She obeyed, and sank against the upholstery of the car. Her lips were trembling, her eyes were wide and hot with tears. As he got behind the wheel she took the piece of stuff from him, rewadded it and dabbed at the long cuts which reached from just below his ear almost to the shoulder.