Читать книгу Woodsmoke - Francis Brett Young - Страница 6

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On the platform at Mombasa next morning two of Kilgour’s boys in uniform were waiting for him. Outside the station he mounted Kilgour’s private trolley, and was propelled through the long avenues of flamboyant and false almond like a Buddha carried in procession. On the way to Kilgour’s quarters he caught, between two baobabs, one glimpse of the long arm of Kilindini Harbour. There, in mid-stream swung the Vandal, the ship on which his passage was booked, lazily loading a cargo of hides from up-country. Antrim eyed her carelessly. She looked a solid, comfortable packet. In three days’ time he would probably be better acquainted; for the wild schemes that had kept his brain buzzing through the night had been jolted into it by the Uganda Railway, and were not to be taken seriously. He could imagine how Kilgour, just back from Europe and not overpleased with himself, would laugh at them. And Kilgour would be right.

So he passed on. It was good to smell Mombasa again, to see the great rounded clumps of its mangoes, to breathe the moist sea air. He was content to do this while the trolley-boys sweated behind. It was useless trying to think about anything until he had bathed and scrubbed his body and washed the red dust of the train out of his eyes. He didn’t suppose he’d see old Kilgour before tiffin—no doubt he’d be saving his face at the office; but Kilgour’s memsahib, one of the best sportswomen in the colony, would make him comfortable.

The trolley swung round a corner, and there she was, in pyjamas, mosquito-boots, and a topee, talking fluent Swahili to a couple of gardeners.

“Jambo, Bwana!” she called, waving a sun-shade, the handle of which was made from the horn of a gazelle and looked more like a weapon than the implement of a refined civilisation. “How are you?” she asked, looking him up and down with her keen, candid eyes. “Pat’s down at his office doing a job of work. You look like a Red Indian. Better make a start with a bath. Sorry I’m too busy with these shenzis to show you in; but you can find your way.”

He thanked her, and she called after him:

“Lunch at one, Jimmy. Better make yourself pretty. There’s a lady coming: just arrived on your boat. If you don’t feel at home it’ll be your own fault.”

He did feel at home. He liked Mrs. Kilgour: her downrightness, her pluck, the hospitality that had turned their house into a hostel and run away with every penny of their income. He liked to hear her capping Kilgour’s inimitable lies, the mixture of tolerance and prejudice with which she astonished official womenkind. Admirable creature! He wondered how on earth old Kilgour had married her, unless it were that her stories were taller than his. “The most accomplished exaggerator I ever met,” said Kilgour. Meanwhile, having scrubbed himself he lay luxuriously in a bath of cool water until the gun warned him that he must dress.

When he descended he found them waiting in the cool-flagged drawing-room: Pat Kilgour, a little thinner than usual, with a twinkle in his eye that meant stories: Mrs. Kilgour, clothed almost elegantly in white, and the two strangers to whom she introduced him with a rush: “Mrs. Rawley—Mr. Rawley. Captain Antrim is going home on your boat. You’ll be able to tell him all about it.” The man bowed: the woman held out her hand; the introduction was swept aside by the Provincial Commissioner’s story. “‘Lions?’ I’ve told her times without number that I draw the line at her shooting them with a twelve-bore shot gun. When we were up at Fort Hall—I made the place by the way—she used to go out shooting them before breakfast.”

“But weren’t you proud of her?” Mrs. Rawley asked, with a look of admiration toward Mrs. Kilgour.

“Proud? My dear lady, it nearly lost me my job. In my official capacity it wouldn’t do. The natives complained to the game warden that there wasn’t a lion left for miles.”

“They used to take my chickens, you know,” said Mrs. Kilgour confidentially.

“Perhaps Mrs. Kilgour is pulling your leg,” said Rawley heavily, pinching his wife’s shoulder. Antrim thought she winced.

“But it’s perfectly true,” Kilgour protested.

“The chickens?” Mrs. Rawley’s tone was a little reproachful.

“Not at all. Don’t you believe a thing she tells you. But every word I’ve said about the lions. It’s her one weakness. Twice at least I could have let her be killed if I hadn’t fired over her shoulder. Think of the temptation. No one the wiser, and myself a free man! Mr. Rawley, this is the easiest country in the world to get rid of a wife in. That’s why we’re suspicious of every married couple that comes here. It’s far cheaper than divorce, and there’s no publicity.”

“Yes, I could tell you some stories,” said Mrs. Kilgour dreamily.

“Though nobody that knows her would believe them,” gibed her husband.

“Chakula tayari,” said a tall white figure at the door, and they passed in to lunch, Kilgour following, with a friendly grip on Antrim’s arm.

At lunch, if he had wished it, Antrim had plenty of opportunity to examine the other guests, for Kilgour and his wife, treating him as a familiar of the house who could look after himself, spent most of their cares on them; Kilgour speaking in a low voice to Mrs. Rawley, who sat on Antrim’s left, and was only perceptible to him through the medium of a faint and unobtrusive perfume, while Mrs. Kilgour tried to keep things moving with Rawley—partly no doubt from sheer politeness, and partly to give her husband a chance with a pretty woman. Perhaps, also, she felt a little sorry for Rawley—though this seemed a waste of charity, since Rawley was not sorry for himself.

A curious pair. At the first glance Antrim had not found either prepossessing. Physically Rawley was a man, standing at least six feet in height; but his figure was ill-balanced, its lines tapering downward from shoulders that were massive, over too-slender hips, to feet of a ridiculous smallness; and this gave him the silhouette of a tall peg-top. His arms were too long; his hands huge, clumsy, slow-moving; his head set low on his shoulders; his eyes habitually lowered in a way that seemed shy rather than furtive. He spoke little, rising, with the sluggishness of an overfed trout, to the quick casts Mrs. Kilgour made in his direction; and when he did speak it was only to confirm a point that he had grasped five seconds too late with a hurried “Yes, yes. Quite so,” that led nowhere.

Once, at the end of a conversational blind-alley, Mrs. Kilgour’s eyes met Antrim’s in an appeal for help; but he only smiled to himself. It amused him to see her carrying on; for he had just realised why Rawley didn’t or wouldn’t listen. The man was looking at his wife, straining his ears to catch the least word that she spoke to Kilgour at the other end of the table. “Poor beggar, he’s jealous,” Antrim thought. And then Rawley, in a paroxysm of awkwardness, upset the salt.

“Throw it over your shoulder quickly!” Mrs. Kilgour commanded.

Rawley took her seriously. “You’ve no idea how I detest superstitions,” he said.

“Well, your blood’s on your own head. Don’t blame me if you come to grief.”

“Yes, yes; quite so,” said Rawley, flushed, and a little late. “That sort of thing is a weakness of my wife’s, I don’t encourage it. She’s what the spiritualist humbugs call a sensitive. I’m quite of a different make. I’m sceptical and scientific.”

“Scientific!” Mrs. Kilgour jumped at the word. She was going to get something out of the man at last. “Do tell me!”

“I’ve played with chemistry; and I’m very keen on geology.”

Geology! Antrim found himself suppressing a smile. Rawley wasn’t his idea of a scientist.

“How interesting!” said Mrs. Kilgour encouragingly. But she played into Rawley’s hands. “Yes, yes. Quite so,” he said. She looked from him to Jimmy Antrim in despair, and the sight of Jimmy seemed to reassure her, for in no person better than in him could she have found a contrast to Rawley’s lumbering heaviness. He realised the unspoken compliment, and this set him finding excuses for Rawley. A clumsy overgrown schoolboy, he told himself, and probably quite a decent sort. Women, even exceptional women like Mrs. Kilgour, would always judge by appearances and in a hurry. If the fellow had been in the army and learned to carry himself better, he’d be all right. And then, suddenly, he realised that Rawley was wearing an Eton tie. “Bought it by mistake,” he thought, “because he liked the colours. Probably knows no better. But his wife might have told him all the same. And yet there must be something in him somewhere. Otherwise she wouldn’t have married him.”

For, even though Kilgour had not yet given him the opportunity of speaking ten words to her, Antrim was already attracted by his neighbour on the left. So, obviously, was Kilgour; but Antrim did not in the least grudge him his attentions. It amused him to catch the charming superficialities with which the old dog entertained her, and, what was more, gave him a chance of examining her at leisure. He felt like being amused; the soft coastal air was in his head; he was too sleepy to talk, but wakeful enough to listen. At the same time, he found her something of a puzzle.

If there was one thing in the world that he disliked it was the scent with which women were pleased to drench themselves. Whatever its refinements might be he smelt in it the musk of the harem. But the faint perfume which had stood to him for this woman’s presence had not annoyed him: it seemed as natural and particular to her as the scent of a flower. Now he began to examine her more closely. She was tall for a woman, slim and dark. Of her head he could see little, for a white topee shadowed it. Certainly, in profile, she was not typical of the refined stock from which, presumably, she had sprung; her nose, though finely modelled, was too small; her chin short, determined; her cheek-bones too high for beauty. But when she smiled, with a quick sensitiveness to Kilgour’s humour, he saw that she had beautiful teeth and that her lips returned to a line of firm seriousness. A good mouth, he decided, a plucky mouth. Even in a young girl you could judge a good deal by that.

Her eyes he could not see; but he liked her voice, for it was low, with a certain reedy quality. He found himself listening for it. As a rule he hated the high-pitched voices of women. This was the voice of a boy, speaking English that was delicate and clear-cut. When he came to think of it, her voice was like the rest of her; it had given him the clue to her quality. She was all like a boy, straight, flexible, narrow in the hips, without a hint of looseness in her firm figure, without a hint of restraint. And that no doubt was why he had liked her: there was nothing consciously feminine about her, nothing that insisted on her sex—not even, strangely enough, her perfume. She wore no jewellery but a necklace of small, well-matched pearls, luminous on the pallor of her skin. Pallor he must call it, and yet she was not pale. Her cheeks showed no flush of colour, and yet her skin was alive; ivory, and yet warmer than ivory; the colour of an egg, faintly brown. And nothing could have been more alive than her hands, tanned with sea-air, and delicately formed. On the left she wore a small signet and a wedding ring that seemed unduly massive. “Newly married,” Antrim told himself. The weight of that gold circlet symbolised the heaviness and the jealousy of Rawley. He, no doubt, had chosen it, determined that there should be no mistake. “Perhaps she’s proud of it,” he thought; “they usually are, to begin with.” Was she proud of it? Who the devil was she, and why had she married Rawley?

Towards the end of the meal, for the first time, he spoke to her. Rawley glanced quickly in his direction, but she had not heard. Evidently, up to this point, she hadn’t realised his existence; and this, on the whole, pleased him. Most women were acutely conscious of the men on either side of them. Perhaps she hadn’t taken to him. Well, there was no wonder in that, seeing that she had taken to Rawley. And in any case it didn’t matter. Probably he would never see her again.

But when they rose from the table and he pulled back her chair she turned to him, and for part of a second their eyes met. Hers were golden-brown, and very frank. In that glance she seemed to be summing him up, deciding exactly what manner of man he was. After that the wonder that she should have married Rawley increased. But though she looked at him she didn’t speak. She didn’t even say thank you. And he was filled not with annoyance but with compassion. “Poor kid!” he thought.

Kilgour was showing Rawley his collection of heads, Mrs. Kilgour was capping her husband’s stories of their achievement, and once more they found themselves together and alone. The resources of Antrim’s politeness forsook him; he had nothing to say. They stood in silence, facing each other, in the middle of the room. He couldn’t think what had happened to him that he should be tongue-tied like this; the excuse of sleepiness no longer held, for he was wide awake. And yet he was not ashamed or troubled by it. He did not feel that in this case small-talk was demanded. It would make no difference to her: she would understand. The experience was new to him. And then, suddenly, she raised her eyes to him, and faintly smiled, just as though she had read his thoughts and recognised the amazement with which he perceived them. She spoke:

“Mrs. Kilgour told me that you were returning to England on our boat. I am sorry I didn’t catch your name.”

“My name is Antrim.”

“You’re Irish, like the Kilgours?”

“I am.”

“When are you sailing?”

He hesitated. Not because he didn’t know the date, but because he habitually spoke the truth. Then he answered, as it seemed, in spite of himself: “I don’t know.”

“I suppose it depends on the cargo?”

“The boat sails on Thursday.”

“I thought your passage was booked?”

“So it is. I booked it a month ago.”

“And you’ve changed your mind?”

It was as though her questions were forcing him into a decision that his mind had not cared to face. It was certainly an easy way of arriving at conclusions. He smiled at himself as he answered her.

“Yes, I’ve changed my mind.”

And she smiled back at him, curious, incredulous:

“What an extraordinary thing! I like people to do things like that. I wish you’d tell me why ... if it isn’t a secret.”

He did not answer her. In any case he couldn’t have done so, but the arrival of Rawley and the Kilgours saved him from the difficulty. Rawley made straight for his wife.

“Are you ready?” he said.

“Yes,” she replied.

“But you are not going yet?” Mrs. Kilgour protested.

“Sorry, I’m afraid we must. I hope we shall see you again.”

“Of course,” said Kilgour warmly, “of course.”

They made their farewells. This time Rawley shook hands with Antrim: it was a good firm hand-grip. His wife only bowed. Kilgour showed them to the verandah steps. He, at least, found conversation with Mrs. Rawley easy. Antrim and Mrs. Kilgour stood looking at each other in amazement as the voices of the others died away.

“Who are they?” he asked at last.

“Rawley’s Chemical Dip. Didn’t you know? I thought I told you.”

“No. That accounts for the science ... and the rest of him. But who was she?”

“She’s an ‘honourable.’ Her name was Carlyon. A Cornish family. She’s a daughter of Lord St. Pinnock, if that leaves you any the wiser. I’d never heard of him.”

“No. It’s strange what a number of obscure peerages there are knocking about. But I think I must have met one of her brothers in Simla. Nothing to boast of, by the way, and a good bit older than this girl.”

“Yes; she’s the youngest. I dare say they’re a big family. Living down in Cornwall, poor creatures, I suppose they’ve nothing else to do. Rawley must be a millionaire, to judge by the advertisements.”

“I wish she’d tell him not to wear that Eton tie.”

“He can’t help it, Jimmy. That’s the funny part of it. He’s an Etonian. He ‘let it slip,’ as they say.”

“Good Lord! You don’t say so?”

“In these days, Jimmy, you never know.”

Kilgour reappeared, flushed, and evidently a little flattered. “Charming woman!” he said.

“If you hadn’t overdone it, my boy,” his wife informed him, “she’d be here still. The poor man took fright.”

“But what are they doing in Africa at all?” Antrim asked.

“Going on a safari up country,” Kilgour replied. “It’s getting fashionable, worse luck! He’s been asking my advice about porters and equipment. If I don’t look after him he’ll get done brown. Those stiffs of yours up in Nairobi can scent a millionaire down at the coast. Once get him into the Norfolk and he’ll be landed with a farm that some one wants to get rid of within a week. But when you get him to talk, let me tell you, Rawley isn’t a fool by any means. He’s a clumsy fellow and all that, and he hasn’t a lot of conversation, but he seems to know what he wants. And he’s very fond of his wife. I don’t blame him. Charming woman, as I said before.”

“What did you make of her, Jimmy?” Mrs. Kilgour asked suddenly.

“I? Nothing at all,” Antrim replied.