Winds of Enchantment (2 page)

Celia and Steve came to tea the following Sunday, and they had it in the garden beneath the young copper beech at the end of the lawn. Celia, fresh and perfect in green linen, charmingly accepted her cup from Pat, a sandwich from Bill, and a cushion for her back from Steve.

Presently, she asked graciously.: “Mr. Brading, have you any plans for Pat?”

“Plans?” B
ill
looked startled. “What for?”

Celia smiled diffidently. “Don’t think me interfering—Stephen and I are naturally interested in Pat. Don’t you think she should have a chance of meeting people? After all, you must be a fairly wealthy man.”

Bill’s tone was as pleasant as ever. “Are you suggesting that I keep her short of money? Do I, Pat?”

“You know different.” Then Pat gave a laugh. “I believe Celia thinks I ought to learn the graces and start mixing with the elite of Caystor.”

“Cut it out, Pat,” said Steve, frowning.

“It’s true, though, isn’t it?” she returned lightly. “When I was just a beach urchin, it didn’t matter. Now you feel you ought to invite me to parties where my feelings could get hurt.”

Celia’s spoon rattled in her saucer, then she turned to Bill. “Do you realize that Pat hasn’t a single friend of her own age?”

“She doesn’t need them,” he rejoined. “She’s as adult as you are.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.” Celia had stiffened, her cool glance sweeping Pat’s casual attire and carelessly combed hair.

“Tell me, Miss Mellor, what you’d have me do for Pat?” Bill invited.

Celia missed the undertone of sarcasm. “I’d take a larger house, hire some staff, and entertain the right sort of people.”

“The right sort of people,” he echoed musingly. ‘You’d have me invite snobs into my parlour so that I could catch one of their cubs for Pat. The ultimate aim—a successful marriage. Am I right?” He gave Celia a long look. “Of all the ways to happiness, marriage is the chanciest. I’d just as soon Pat chose another road.”

Pat glanced at her father, a pulse beating quickly in her throat. Then he did want her with him! She could have hugged him, then and there.

When Celia and Steve had gone, Bill gave his daughter one of his rare, deep smiles. “Why is Steve going to marry that statue?” he asked.

Pat, curled on the grass, plucked a daisy and began to pull the petals. “The ultimate aim. Dad—a successful marriage,” she said.

Bill shot her an amused look. “She’s got the fellow trained well already. God, what fools men make of themselves.”

“And women.” Pat rubbed the denuded daisy heart against her chin, and thought of her mother.

“Might not be such a bad idea to give a tennis party,” Bill murmured. “Madam Celia might enjoy choosing the guests.”

Pat sat up, brown arms looping her up-drawn knees, her head of sea-rough curls almost saffron beneath the waning sun. Then a smile curved her lips. “Might be fun,” she agreed.

“Sure, kitten, now we’ve got a good garden and a tennis court, and the young bloods already know there’s a honey-pot inside the cottage. You lonely, huh?”

She grimaced. “I’m not chancing my heart, Bill.” Their eyes met, then he put down a hand and ruffled her hair.

CHAPTER TWO

UNDER Celia’s management the party expanded from Bill’s modest conception of it into a continuous performance from three p.m. till midnight. Dinner was provided by a Torquay firm of caterers and served in a marquee in the garden. A small orchestra was accommodated in the summer-house to provide music for dancing on the lawn in the warm, starry darkness. Celia’s own dressmaking establishment produced the charming white dress for Pat’s debut.

The party was a success, and there followed immediately a spate of invitations to tennis and boating parties, cliff picnics and other youthful jaunts. Now and again Pat went on dates with Greg Trail, a fair-haired young man who was training to be a doctor, and one evening in his car, while the scents of the sea and wild flowers wafted to them, he clumsily took her in his arms, holding her still while he sought and kissed her mouth. She accepted Greg’s kiss passively, then pushed at his shoulders and backed out of the car. “Goodnight, Greg.”

“Pat—”

But she had let the gate fall to behind her and was hurrying up the path. In the tiny hall she paused. Muffled voices came from the living-room and in a short silence she heard the clink of glasses. She hung up her coat and smoothed her cream frock. Then she went into the living-room.

Bill sat deep in a chair with his pipe, and as she came in he laughed and closed one eye at Stephen. “Why didn’t you bring the boy-friend in for a drink?” he asked.

“Too late. Hullo, Steve.”

“Hullo,” he answered, unsmilingly. “Been to a show?”

“A cinema. Greg let me take the wheel on the way home. It was grand driving along the cliff road.” Steve’s eyes dwelt on her rather flushed cheeks. He pressed out his cigarette. “How do you like being a bright young thing?”

She shrugged and studied the peak of flame in the table lamp.

Steve drained his glass, stood up, and said he’d be off. Pat offered to go to the gate with him. The path was narrow and she felt him close behind. At the gate he had to squash between her and a bush to get outside, but when the gate was closed between them, he lingered, staring down at the black lip of the sea. Silent, she stayed with him, a rather hopeless discontent spoiling the night. Presen
tl
y he stirred. “You’re better with the young ones,” he murmured.

“You’re always talking like that, lately.” She spoke huskily. “Have you suddenly gone senile?”

“I’ve made a discovery. Tell you about it some time. By the way,” he inclined his head towards the cottage, “you must watch Bill. He’s getting restless.”

Her eyes widened, her heart went thump. “No
!
”

“I’m afraid so.”

“But he’s only been home three months!”

“Stagnating here doesn’t suit him. He’s too young in lots of ways for inaction.”

“What can I do?” she appealed.

“You might—stay with him more. But don’t let him know I’ve said anything. Goodnight, Pat.”

She wandered back indoors, feeling depressed by what Steve had said, but determined not to show it. In the living-room Bill was sucking at his pipe and staring into the fire, and after a while he began to talk— Monrovia, Calabar, the Ivory Coast. Peanuts, palm oil, morocco leather. The treacherous sandbars, the white houses, the boys, the pests, the storms—and palms, the most graceful tree ever created.

Pat sat on a cushion, arms clasped round her knees, her chin resting on the top of them. She closed her eyes and almost breathed the sunny, spicy smell of Africa.

An early frost nipped the last flowers in the garden, and soon the trees were naked and the grass slopes of the cliff assumed a hostile greyness. The sea grew noisy and the continuous whining of the wind around the cottage had a wintry note.

Picnics and summer parties had ceased long ago, and Pat and her father were a great deal alone. Mostly they were happy together, and on better days they took out the boat. Few people troubled them; Steve was their sole visitor since Pat had stopped going out with Greg Trail, but he had lost the habit of careless banter, and was always careful not to be alone with Pat
.

Then for a few days Bill had a visitor, a trading friend from the Calabar coast who
was home on leave. The two men yarned by the hour, and Pat listened, watched her father’s face, and knew that the spell of Africa was upon him again.

The thaw came, and though it was only the end of January, the lilac buds looked fat and green, and a few hardy lambs appeared with their mothers on the hillside. Pat did not forget the visit of her father’s trading friend, and she felt fingers of apprehension clutch her heart when one morning Bill received a foolscap envelope postmarked in Liverpool. He read slowly, deliberately, then with a long, luxurious exhalation, he said
:
“Pat, I’m going back to West Africa.”

She sat very still, staring. “You promised to stay,” she said.

“I know, kitten, but it’s killing me.”

“The spring will be here in two months. The weather will improve, Bill—”

“It’s no good, Pat. I can’t settle here. I never shall. There’s no work here for a man like me and when a man doesn’t work he atrophies. God!” he was smiling, rubbing his hands across his thick chest and round his brown leathery neck. “It’ll be good to smell it all again; the nuts and cotton and copra. The timber rollicking over the torrents, the unmusical chants of the boys.”

“Did you write to those people in Liverpool?” she asked.

He nodded. “A few days ago. I knew their West African manager and Carson told me they have a young agent who’s due for leave, so I wrote offering to take over for him. After that
...
we’ll see.”

“I don’t suppose you thought about me.” Pat spoke angrily.

“Why else have I stayed here so long?” His rough red brows drew together in a frown. “I’ve been trying to decide what’s best for you. Your mother’s people live at Hereford. They’re upper crust like Celia—if I settled a few thousand on you they’d launch you properly
.”

“I’d hate living among strangers,” she said stiffly.

“But you’re too young to be alone, aren’t you?” he asked reasonably. “You know, there was some sense in what Celia said. She wasn’t far from the truth the other day, when she called me a toping blackguard
...
”

“That’s a new line to suit your own ends!” Pat accused him, a catch in her voice.

“You mustn’t take it like this, Pat.” He leaned forward, meeting her eyes across the table. “If it weren’t for knowing what the tropics did to your mother, I’d take you with me.”

She caught her breath. “Bill!” Her eyes started to shine. “Dad, take me with you! I promise not to be ill. I’m not delicate as Christine was. She always said
I was a tough Brading. Oh, Bill, this is just what I’ve been wanting—how soon can we go?”

“Not you, kitten,” he argued.

“Please—oh, please!” She jumped to her feet, ran round the table, and wrapped beguiling arms about his neck. “Don’t walk out on me, Bill. I—I couldn’t bear it—not any more.”

“Is that a fact?” he growled.

She dropped a kiss on his red hair and hugged him. “What is there here for me, if you go?” she whispered. “Steve is marrying Celia in the summer. I’ll lose his friendship, then.”

“D’you care a little for him, kitten?” Bill wanted to know.

“I—don’t really know, Bill,” she said. “We might have meant a lot to each other, if he hadn’t chosen Celia.”

“The fool,” muttered her father. Then, heaving a deep breath: “All right, my girl, I can’t say no to you. Come to Africa with your ruffian of a father, if that’s what you want before anything else.”

They went to London to visit the shipping office, to buy tropical kit, and take in a few shows. Then, while Bill was in Liverpool fixing final details, Pat spent four days alone at Caystor.

When she told Steve the news, his eyes darkened. “This is a bit of a shock,” he said.

“What else could I do?” She plunged her hands into the pockets of her slacks.

“I don’t know.” He kicked at a tussock of grass. “Perhaps this is best.”

She said: “I’ll send you oddments for your den—things I know you haven’t got.”

His mouth twisted wryly. “Will you miss me?”

She nodded, not looking at him, her eyes on the sea.

“Why couldn’t you have stayed a rum kid?” he murmured.
“
Your growing up has spoiled everything.”

“Is that what you thought, Steve—that I’d never grow up?” Her tone was husky. “It’s because I’ve grown up that I’m going away.”

Her father came back and Pat began to pack. They were leaving in the middle of March. Before February was out the sun burst through the unusual warmth. In the cottage garden the grass sprang green and tender, the crocuses belled purple and yellow amid jade spears. Pat stood beneath the bare branches of the copper beech and something wept soundlessly within her for the years she had spent here.

But the spring tide matched the surging in her veins. The dappled English sky and cliffs, the golden sand and the cool sea were part of a phase in her life that was almost over. The boat was sold, and Steve had bought the cottage—she knew deep in her heart just why.

That last day Pat cried a
little
. By eight in the evening everything was packed and the rooms already bare. “Have your bath and get to bed,” said Bill. “We must be up at three in the morning. I’m going to the Mermaid to say farewell to the lads. Think, Pat! This time next month we’ll be in Kanos
!
”

When he had gone, she dragged the bath from under the kitchen table, tipped in the boiling pans from the stove, cooling the water from the rain butt outside. Slowly she soaped her body, staring into the heart of the fire with brooding eyes. She had a feeling that this was the last night she would ever spend in the cottage, and it was saddening to remember the careless joy of the days when her emotions had been transient and childish.

Pat reached for the towel, still deep in thought. Tropic shore and stupendous jungle, astonishing growth, mangroved rivers, native drums.

She slipped into clean paisley silk pyjamas, and raked back her hair. Then she scooped the bath water into the sink, and the old pipe gurgled so boisterously that she didn’t hear a rap at the back door; nor was she aware that Steve was in the kitchen till he spoke.

“Do you always leave the back door unlocked when you take a bath?” he asked.

She swung round, startled. “N-no one ever comes,” she faltered.

“I did.” His eyes flicked her youthful, pyjama-clad figure.

“Well, now you’re here you can empty the bath for me.
”

He lifted it and, resting one edge on the sink, slowly raised it till the scented stream had run away. Then he mopped it round with a cloth and shoved it back under the table. “Soon you’ll have houseboys to do that for you,” he said. “How do you feel?”

“Rather chu
rn
y,” she admitted. “Shall we go into the next room?”

He reduced the glow of the lamp and followed her. “Where’s your dressing-gown?” he asked.