Plantation Doctor (4 page)

Melia clutched round her gaunt body the faded linen coat which she wore as a dressing-gown, and bent to gather up the dead thing in a newspaper.

“Always we have many rats,” she informed Lyn soothingly. “Some are big as cats.”

This one was quite big enough for Lyn. But Melia’s calm acceptance of the rodent and Adrian’s dismissive shrug made her feel that she had behaved like a child scared of the dark.

Melia vanished into the kitchen. Adrian stepped out to the porch.

“Every ten days or so poisoned bait is inserted through the ventilators into the roofs,” he said. “The houses are on poles, so you won’t get many live rats inside the rooms. Akasi, by the way,” he offered gratuitously, “is overrun with water-rats.”

“
Th
ank you
for
coming back
,
”
she said distantly.

“Not at all,” with equal remoteness. “Don’t be ashamed of letting out a scream when you’re frightened. It’s a healthy reaction.”

No doubt, thought Lyn scathingly, as she undressed, Dr. Adrian Sinclair now considered himself confirmed in his opinion that Lyn Russell was not to be trusted alone in West Africa. The way things were turning out, she was beginning to be somewhat uncertain herself.

CHAPTER FOUR

The next day
was mildly exciting. During the morning, at an hour when the men were at work, she bathed in the wonderfully clear pool which was enclosed by
thick leaved
shrubs, and was reached by passing close to the doctor’s house. The water tasted vilely of strong antiseptic, but it reflected the deep blueness of the sky, and was deliciously cool. Having lingered there for a while she went back to her living-room and searched the bookshelves.

The volumes were evidence that Dr. Sinclair’s assistant, at present overseas, was not a man of catholic taste. After gingerly extracting the dozen mildewed mystery novels, she saw that there was nothing but pocket
-
sized digests, most of them buckled by the damp and crawling in patches with tiny maggots, and a few very old magazines. It occurred to her that his medical tomes must be stowed away somewhere for safety.

She rubbed the green fungus from one of the books and began to read. The odor of stale moisture and decay rose from the pages in waves, and a silver-fish or two ran over her hand from nowhere, but she stuck at it doggedly. From now on she would refuse to be squeamish. The roof might rustle in the darkness; strange slithering sounds might penetrate her mosquito net, and the haunting ghostly chant of the houseboy echo through the glassless, shuttered window; ants might crawl over her in regiments and giant moths smother the lights; whatever happened, her courage would be equal to it. She had to live down the episode of the dead rat.

That afternoon Mrs. Baird condescended to visit Ly
n
, wearing flowered silk and a white sun helmet with a scarf of the dress material dashingly bound round the crown and left dangling at one side. Lyn was to become accustomed to the sight of that helmet adorned by a variety of scarves; it was so typically Rosita.

They had tea, and Lyn learned the intricacies of gin rummy. Rosita, when she was not too obviously drawing upon her nervous energy, was an entertaining companion
—
though she could never be an endearing one. After all, analysed Lyn, no woman could spend three-quarters of every year for five years in this place and come out entirely normal. Rosita Baird, with her dark, restless eyes and air of self-importance, had really done extraordinarily well.

Mrs. Baird departed, and Lyn got ready, with lively anticipation, for her evening in Palmas with Roger Bailey and Peter Walsh.

She went to bed that night happily exhausted. Palmas had turned out to be a small port of about seventy white people and many thousands of Africans. The dock and main part of the town were dingy and crumbling with damp rot, but the residential avenues winding over the wooded hill above the town had appeared wide and luxurious, even at night. The club was up there, in palm-fringed grounds. Lyn had danced, each time with a different partner. She had heard strange, exotic snatches of conversation and met several women, all married to local officials and all airing the same grouse: the tropics played the devil with one’s complexion.

A man she and Roger had met as they were climbing back into the car had invited them to dinner tomorrow. Lyn couldn’t remember his name but his voice had been the kind she liked, low and lazy with a possible hint of smokiness. A dangerous type, she rather thought, and was glad they would soon meet again.

Yes, it had been an exhilarating day, and educational in more ways than one. Englishmen on the Coast were less phlegmatic than those at home, and one’s pulses were quicker to leap.

The following evening, driving into Palmas with Roger, she felt like an old-timer. It was earlier and the darkness had not quite shed the brilliance of sunset; even the sta
r
s were tinged with saffron and the moon cast a silver-gilt pathway across the sea.

The bungalow at which they stopped had a square garden cluttered with grotesque growths of cactus and euphorbia which made uncanny shapes in the moonlight. The windows streamed illumination across a veranda, where several people were drinking and, by the noise, having much fun. A man detached himself and came along the path to meet them. He was tallish, his stride loose-jointed and attractive. His eyes, dark blue and shining with laughter from a recent jest, took in Lyn’s wide brow and short, tawny curls, her eyes, which were grey-blue in this light and bright with anticipation.

“Hullo, Lyn Russell,” he said. “You smell of the woods and windswept moors of England, the cool lakes, the rose gardens. You make me hungry for everything I haven’t got
—
and that’s plenty. Come and curtsey to the jaded Coasters and then I’ll ply you with a smooth and gentle gin. I mix a marvellous cocktail.”

Seeing him again, Lyn recollected his name: Claud Merrick. She liked his easy poise and quizzical expression, the way in which he managed introductions without leaving her stranded with strangers. He was a stranger too, of course, but one who was in the habit of becoming a friend within a brief space of time.

He took her into the lounge and tipped fresh ingredients into the cocktail-shaker, not measuring, as most men do, but knowing the quantities infallibly, from practice.

It was a modern lounge, and not so long ago the chairs had been covered in new oatmeal material piped with red. They were stained now from the ever-persistent humidity, and faintly musty-smelling; probably the odor came through from the stuffing.

“Was it true, what you said last night,” he asked, “—that you’re here for only a week or two?”

“Absolutely true. My destination is farther back, in the bush.”

His glance at her as he made vigorous play with the shaker was interested. “Young Bailey told me your story, but he must have left out the most important part. Girls don’t come out to work in West Africa.”

“
This one did,
”
she said, smiling, “but
i
t looks as if I shall have to wait to get down to it. The men here are so obstructive.”

He grinned. “You mean the men at Denton? They have a code of behavior that’s so alarmingly honest it’s unbelievable. They catch ’em young and train them in the best traditions of empire-building. The odd thing is, they never admit to being bored; goodness and boredom always seem to me to go together.” He poured drinks. “Try one of these
—
a Palmas special.”

His features were excellent she noticed, but below his eyes the skin was dark and creased. He couldn’t be over thirty, yet the two lines from the
corner
s of his mouth to his nostrils were deeply engraved, and he had the manner of a man who has nothing new to experience. But his glance at Lyn was alert and curious. And in Claud Merrick’s there was nothing naive or callow. It complimented, made a woman feel individual and wanted; it posed exciting queries which could never be answered verbally.

Vaguely disturbed, Lyn put a question. “Are you a government official, Mr. Merrick?”

“Call me Claud; everyone does. No, I’m not a government man
—
even if they’d have me I couldn’t stay inside the red tape. My job is more tricky. I’m one of those chaps who plant rubber.”

“Rubber! Are there more estates than the Denton?”

“Only mine, in this region
—
and it’s hardly in the estate category.” He took her glass, and laughed. “They’d like to make me clear out too
—
add my couple of thousand acres to their vast concern and run them on scientific lines. They don’t like my methods
—
or lack of method. But I’m not selling.”

“Is that how the Denton estate grew
—
by buying up smaller plantations?”

“My dear pigeon, why should you worry your sweet head about that?”

“No reason, but I’d like to know.”

“Well, the Denton estate was large to start with. Joseph Denton bought land here thirty years ago, when Africa was really Africa. He cleared the bush and timber and planted rubber. Just as his trees matured there was
a
minor boom; he made money and increased his acreage by buying all the available virgin land adjoining his property and any small plantations that were going.”

“Joseph Denton? Is he dead?”

“He stayed here too long and trapped yellow fever
—
that was in the days before compulsory inoculation. After his death the company was formed.”

“Do you like producing rubber
—
is that why you won’t sell?”

He looked amused by her persistence. “I detest it with all my heart. Sometimes I’m tempted to let the plantation run back to jungle just for the pleasure of knowing that the Denton crowd are gnashing their teeth at the criminal waste. If I weren’t so much in need of the cash those bales of rubber represent, I’d do it.” He took her arm as if to lead her back to the veranda. “Let’s talk about something more refreshing than rubber. It’s dull stuff in the raw. I haven’t seen a girl like you since my sister came out on a visit two years ago.”

He told her about his other guests, about their jobs and their constant seeking after diversion from the heat and deadly sameness of their lives. Casually, as though they were commonplace, he aired two or three startling scandals. Then he wanted to learn more about Lyn and her business in West Africa; he couldn’t take in the fact of her being here to work. For the dozenth time she explained.

“Akasi,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ve never been to that district, but it shouldn’t be difficult to get through. There’s a road which runs that way from Freetown
—
goes very near, I believe, and there are sure to be footpaths; Africa’s veined with them. How did you land in Denton?”

Again she elucidated. Claud firmed his rather full lower lip and raised his brows so that the pleats seemed to run right up into his teak-brown hair.

“Sinclair!” he exclaimed. “Did he meet you?”

She nodded. “He met me, all right
—
at Cape Bandu. That’s how I come to be here.”

His eyes narrowed and he said, “I expect you hate his hide for hauling you along to Denton.”

“His interference did seem unnecessary. If
he’d
let me go I’d have arrived in Akasi today.”

Claud was thoughtful for a moment. Then he flicked away his cigarette butt and looked down at her with a smile which was wholly charming.

“I refuse to say I’m sorry he brought you this way, but I can imagine how you feel about him. Supposing I could get you to Akasi within the next few days?”

Lyn was surprised into breathlessness. For a second some foolish part of her shrank from the proposal, and then she thought of Mrs. Latimer, who might not be too well, having to make the long trip by land and sea to Denton. If she, Lyn, could get away soon
...

“Let me try for you,” he put in softly. “I’ll make some enquiries at the shipping office and on the waterfront in the morning. Come down to town tomorrow and have lunch with me, and I’ll let you know if there’s anything doing.”

In acquiescing she would not commit herself in any way,
and if it happened that she could set out for Akasi she would probably travel faster than the post. Mr. Baird had mentioned that outlying districts were served by postal messengers who journeyed most of the way through the forests on foot. It really was absurd that she should be
h
eld like a prisoner at the Denton settlement.

“Will you come?” he repeated, but without emphasis.

“Thank you
...
yes.”

She was saved from saying more by the announcement that dinner was served. With a slight bow he offered his arm and escorted her to the dining-room.

It was after dinner, while a gramophone emitted a popular tune and Lyn was dancing with Claud, that she felt impelled to make an enquiry.

“Harking back to our earlier conversation,” she said hesitantly, “have you anything against Dr. Sinclair?”

He glided round with her for a few steps before replying. “Nothing more than the natural antipathy of the impecunious for the rich.”

“But doctors aren’t rich.”

“Not many of them. Adrian isn’t an ordinary doctor, though. Haven’t you found that out?”

Lyn wasn
’
t sure. “
H
ow do you mean?
”

“Besides being a medico he’s a plutocrat. He owns half the Denton estate and one day he’ll come into the rest of it. His mother was a sister of Joseph Denton, and Adrian grew up almost as Joseph’s son. His own father went down at sea while he was still young and his mother didn’t last much longer. Before he was twenty he had been out here with the old man several times and he was with him in Freetown when he died. It was watching Joseph’s illness and death that decided him to take up tropical medicine and make himself responsible for the health of the Denton employees. Great-hearted of him, wasn’t it?”

“It was
...
rather fine.”

“I suppose that’s another reason why he and I don’t mix.”

Mechanically, she went on dancing. Her nerves tingled unpleasantly. Her conception of Adrian had received a jar and she could not make up her mind whether she felt more or less tolerant towards him.

“So Dr. Sinclair is a director of the Denton estate?” she asked thinly.

“He
is
Denton. The aunt, Joseph’s widow, is a sleeping partner, living in London. Adrian runs the show on model lines, as you’ve no doubt noticed.” Sarcastically, he continued. “He once made me an offer
—
a sum that was twice the worth of my plantation and a job as an overseer. But I couldn’t see myself stuck out there at the Denton settlement. I’d sooner go to hell gaily and not take too long about it.” He glanced down at the burnished head near his chin, and his tone lowered. “You’re a darling, Lyn
—
the sort of girl who makes a man conscious of the waste of the passing years. I wish I’d known you sooner.”

Lyn made an appropriately agreeable and noncommittal response. From thinking about the great rambling villa in its bed of nut-trees and tall, bushy palms, she went on to hoping, with a strangely urgent intensity, that Claud would be able to arrange a swift passage for her to Akasi.