Mayenga Farm (9 page)

A green slope, a grove of dome palms with slender, hairy trunks, the distant conical outlines of a native village, and behind them a gradual rise of massive, pristine boulders to a skyline so clear and limpid that one knew instinctively one was facing the east.

Kent was standing with his hands in his pockets, quizzing down at her.

"Like it?"

"It's so innocent," she said. "It looks as if no one ever comes here."

"Innocent!" The adjective amused him. "Innocence is not an absolute quality; it's comparative. Youth and innocence don't necessarily go together. Take yourself and Jacqueline Caton." Casually he dug into his jacket pocket for his cigarette-case. "You and she are much of an age; you went to school together, had the same friends, and shared the same sort of experiences. Cigarette?"

"No, thanks." She wanted him to go on.

He scraped a match and puffed, meditatively. "You were born innocent, but she came into the world primed with quite a large proportion of the answers. Her sophistication is natural, inherent."

"And I . . . haven't any."

He smiled. "Not much, but don't let it get you. Some man is going to have a whale of a time putting you wise." A moment's reflection. "Does the fair young Englishman aim to become a permanent resident in this district?"

"Michael Rogers? I don't know, but I shouldn’t think so. He's just here for a while."

"Bring him over to dinner on Monday and ask your father along. You haven't seen my house yet." He slipped back his cuff. "Nearly four, I'm afraid. I shall have to collect my kit and change at the field. Shall we move?"

Without haste he led the way back to where her cuttings lay hidden from the sun. He caught the bundle into the crook of one arm and took a firm hold just above her elbow while they sprang the terraces of rocks, up from the lake and down to the veld where Paddy and a hefty black horse were grazing. With ease he hoisted Rennie into the saddle.

Kent rode with her through the woods, sweeping the overhanging branches from her path as they went. Ignoring her protests at the waste of his time, he crossed the river and accompanied her inside the Mayenga boundary. When they stopped, his keen eyes examined the meagre bolls of soiled white cotton. Wordlessly he swung over his leg and strode among the plants. His demeanor was suddenly frightening.

Rennie slid to the ground. The afternoon's sweetness was swamped in fear. She remained close to Paddy till Kent came back, his features angular and grim.

"The cotton’s finished," he said. "Nearly every plant is infected."

Cold to the lips, she responded, "So it’s failed. Well, you told me it would so I was prepared. I’ll have it destroyed and the soil turned. You’ll be late for the polo. Goodbye."

She was up on Paddy and away. She didn’t hear his oath, nor witness the violence with which he regained the saddle and twisted the black horse towards home.

"We weren’t counting on the cotton, were we?" said Adrian reasonably, half an hour later. "Maize is still our main crop and there’s no sign of stalk-borer this year. Anything over eight bags to the acre will offset other losses, and I think we are certain to reap quite a bit more than that."

"The tops are yellowing."

"That's not significant, my dear," he smiled. "You’ll see a difference as soon as the rain comes. Don't let the cotton failure disturb you. It’s only about a sixth of our acreage."

Rennie was still trembling from the mad ride home. For the first time she was exasperated by her father's composure in the face of calamity.

"Since paying the January bills," she said, "we have less than thirty pounds in the bank, and there are still the bags to pay for."

"Thirty pounds certainly won’t take us far. Let’s get down to it," he said, extracting a sheet of paper from the writing-table drawer. "For the next three months we’ll cut right to the bone."

She pulled a chair forward beside his, and prompted him as he wrote down the items of expenditure. The length of the list amazed him.

"Apparently," he commented, when it was complete, "we’re down to the minimum in the farm expense. The butcher takes a large percentage of the household money."

"And petrol," submitted Rennie. "At half-a-crown or more a gallon, it means a pound note every time we fill up. The poor old car does so few miles to the gallon."

"We won’t use it," declared Adrian. "Why shouldn’t the stores deliver our supplies? We’re regular customers. We’ve bought weekly, but what’s to stop our sending a standing order to be delivered on the first of each month? That shouldn’t be asking too much of them."

"There’s the butter to go out each week."

"So there is." Adrian pondered. "That provision merchant pays a fair price and takes our few surplus eggs into the bargain. We mustn’t lose him."

It was finally decided to make one weekly journey into Gravenburg and to resist all temptations to use the car for jaunts. Adrian would buy no books, nor would he refill the wine cupboard. There was still some whisky and sherry should a visitor come their way, and what they couldn’t afford must be deemed unnecessary.

Rennie didn’t mind economizing still further, but she was afraid that the small reductions mentioned by her father would not for long stave off complete insolvency. No good wishing they had planted early potatoes for the market; or a quick-growing variety of soya beans. Too late for regrets. They simply had to wait, and hope for the rain which would send new life coursing into the crops.

Repeatedly, her thoughts went back over the afternoon: Kent s friendliness and the care with which he had carried her cuttings and attached them to Paddy's harness. Almost as if it pleased him that she should have wanted them for her garden and taken so much trouble to collect them.

How swiftly he had changed from the arrogant horseman scoffing at her girlish habit of whispering endearments to the gelding, into a thin-lipped planter, infuriated at her poor farming. Just when she was beginning to wonder whether Kent wasn’t human and exciting . . . and very dangerous, he had exhibited that other, masterful, overbearing facet of his complex personality.

For the long moment of fear when, close to Paddy's warm flanks, she had braced herself for the verdict, she had known a queer little yearning for Kent's praise. But he hadn’t noticed the widened channels, the weed-free earth between the rows. All he’d seen were the beastly insects despoiling the bolls, and he’d blamed her for them: the kapok trees that she would not order to be felled.

Rennie would have liked to shed a few of the tears that blocked her throat, but to weep was an acknowledgment of defeat, and she was by no means vanquished. But for Kent, she would have accepted the minor tragedy with her usual philosophy, and learned a lesson from it. His anger called forth a taut defiance in Rennie. How glad she was that she and Adrian had never taken advantage of his magnanimity. Perhaps, after her abrupt departure this afternoon, he would decide to leave Mayenga to its fate. She hoped so; farming apart, he was beginning to complicate

her hitherto calm existence. It didn't do to speculate about him.

Having come to which conclusion, Rennie spent all evening full of unhappy conjecture, which persisted through her dreams and was still with her when she awoke next morning. As she had rather thought he might, it being Sunday, Michael Rogers rode over during the morning on a ribby-looking mare from the riding stables. In slacks and a sweater, his fair hair risen with the wind, he had a more cheerful and carefree appearance. He actually laughed his greeting at Rennie, in rueful recognition or all that she knew about him.

For a few minutes they walked together in the garden.

"I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since we met on Friday," he plunged. "I'm going to work without being any more morbid over Jackie than I can help. I've got an idea for my novel — a good one, but it will mean a heap of research and terrific concentration." Quite simply he added, "It's got to be a best-seller, or I'm sunk."

"It sounds all right, but are first novels ever best-sellers?" she asked anxiously.

"This one has to be. As it happens, I'm not a complete beginner. I wrote a book about modern Egypt while I was in the army, and was offered a journalistic career on the strength of it, so others believe there's something in me that ought to come out. This novel will be much more vast and compelling. A family saga with South African history of the past fifty years as a background."

"One of those chunky novels that sell in millions." "Am I

being too ambitious?"

"You're new to the country, but that’s no drawback. In fact, it might tend to add freshness to the descriptive passages. My father will lend you books on the subject. Come in and speak to him."

When Michael was presented, Adrian beamed, put on his glasses and led the young man to the bookshelves. For two hours the men talked, and when Rennie came in to say that lunch was ready, Michael looked ashamed and contrite.

"I say, I shouldn't have stolen your morning like this.

Your father's interest made me forget the time completely. I assure you it wasn't my intention to invite myself to lunch. I don't want to be a nuisance."

"You're not, my dear boy," said Adrian cordially. "This projected novel of yours intrigues me enormously, and I really believe I can help you."

"It's very kind of you, Mr. Gaynor." Michael held open the door for the other two to pass through to the dining room. "If I could encroach on your time for a couple of hours one day a week____"

"I understood you were in a hurry," broke in Adrian with exuberance. "Come often, Michael. Pity you haven't a car. If you had you could ride over every day and work there in the lounge. I find it a helpful atmosphere, particularly as the view from the window is so good. Green is an excellent aid to concentration."

How like him, worried Rennie despairingly, to forget their straits so soon. He didn’t realize that every time Michael came there would not only be an extra meal to provide, but the table must not appear frugal.

Michael was saying, "It is quiet here. I've been wondering how the dickens I shall write at the hotel. If I were a genius I could work by candlelight in an attic, but being an ordinary young man with a flair and not much else, I'm susceptible to noises and other disturbances." His hazel eyes sought Rennie's. "You don't know anyone who'd find me a flat, do you? I can't run to a big rental."

She shook her head but said jestingly, "If we had a spare room you could move in with us."

"I wish you meant it!"

For a startled second Rennie stared. A paying guest? A small, regular monthly sum to help meet the household bills? There seemed to be a great deal in favor of it "But we haven't a spare room," she said.

His mouth humorous, Adrian remarked, "I’ve slept on the stoep . . . why shouldn't Michael ? He can use my room as a dressing-room. As a matter of fact, you've come at the right time, old chap. We've just learned that our cotton has bugs and won't bring in a penny, and for the next two or three months we shall be hard pressed. You wouldn't object to plain farm fare?"

"Gosh, no! I'd love it. Take me on, Rennie. I'll sleep anywhere and pay whatever you ask."

"Our way of living might not suit you," she answered slowly. "If you did come, you'd have to have a room to yourself, I could put the writing-table into the bay window of my bedroom. . . "

"No, I won't allow that," exclaimed Michael. "I’m turning no one out. The nights are warm enough here to sleep outside."

"And if it rains," suggested Adrian mildly, "there’s the divan in the hall. You're young and healthy. Slight hardship toughens one in mind and body, and in any case, you'll think better for the cool hours in the open air. Have you set yourself a time limit?"

Michael chose to lower his lids and help himself to salad before replying: "It's a big job, but once the plan is clear I hope to complete about fifteen thousand words a week." On an urgent note he ended, "Four months; certainly no longer."

"A best-seller in four months," commented Adrian thoughtfully. "And why not? A best-seller doesn’t have to, be a masterpiece of prose. Produce two hundred thousand words of romance and adventure in a colorful environment and you’ll stand a fair chance with the popular critics. Others have done it

— why shouldn't you make an attempt? You shall work all day, Michael, and I’ll be available in the evenings."

"Sounds dull for Rennie," the young man stated, his tone nevertheless entreating her acquiescence.

"Shall we try it out?" she said, and was rewarded by a flush of gratitude.

When Michael left Mayenga that afternoon, he drove away in Adrian’s car, leaving his hack to be returned to its stall by one of the farm boys. Next morning he came back in the car, bringing his belongings and a box of candy for Rennie.

"It's kind of you, Michael, but after this gifts are off," she severely informed him. "Let us admit that we’re three working people with no cash to spare at the moment. If everything goes well, we’ll celebrate — but that's months away."

"I’ll go flabby without exercise. You'll let me help on the farm sometimes?"

"Why, yes." She gave him a sudden, sweet smile. "As soon as you begin to go stale, come and find one of us, and pitch in."

His glance stayed on her for a second or two before he replied. "You’re heaven-sent, Rennie, kinder than any girl I ever met — just the sort I ought to have fallen in love with."

"It takes two," she reminded him.

"Don't I know it," he groaned. "Do you mean that I’m well below your taste ... . or aren't you heart-free?"

Of course she was heart-free . . . wasn’t she?

"I suspect, Michael," she told him sternly, "that you are chasing up material for the romantic scenes in your novel. Count me out."

C H A P T E R S E V E N SHE left Michael in possession of the lounge and went to the kitchen to explain to George that from now on there would be an extra man in the house and a few more duties for the houseboy. After that she set her teeth and rode up-river to where the boys were uprooting and burning the cotton in pungent-smelling hillocks. Too late to utilize the soil again this season. It had better be ploughed and lie fallow for a while.