The house was two stories high, with random towers breaking the solid silhouette and columns, twisted like candy sticks, ornamenting the entrance and supporting the window lintels; it was painted white, and it shone in the sunlight like a block of ice.
It should have given the impression of solid size and ostentatious display, but the design was so cunning that it seemed light as a French pastry – a gay and happy house, built in a spirit of fun and probably of love. A rich man’s gift to a lovely woman, for the feminine touch was everywhere evident, and the great masses of flowers, the fountains and peacocks and marble statues seemed right, the only setting for such a structure.
Slowly, awed and enchanted, Mark let the Cadillac roll down the last curve of the driveway, and the light faint cries of female voices caught his attention.
The tennis courts stood at the end of the lawns, and there were women at play, their white dresses sparkling in the sun, their limbs flashing as they ran and swerved and struck at the ball. Their voices and laughter were sweet and melodious in the warm hush of the tropical mid-morning.
Mark left the car, and started across the lawn towards the courts. There were other female figures, also white-clad, that lolled in deck-chairs in the shade of the banyan trees, watching the play and conversing languidly as they sipped at long frosted glasses, waiting their turn on the courts.
None of them noticed Mark until he was on the edge of their group.
‘Oh, I say, girls.’ One of them turned quickly in her chair, and appraised Mark with eyes suddenly no longer bored, but clear blue and acquisitive. ‘A man! We are in luck.’
Instantly the other three changed, each reacting differently: one exaggerating her indifferent and indolent loll in the low chair, another tugging at her skirt with one hand and pushing at her hair with the other, smiling brightly and sucking in her tummy.
They were all young and sleek as cats, glossy with youth and health and that elusive but unmistakable aura of wealth and breeding.
‘And what is your pleasure, sir?’ asked the one with blue eyes. She was the prettiest of the four, with fine pale golden hair in a halo around the small neat head and good white teeth as she smiled.
Mark felt discomforted under their stares, especially when the speaker turned further in her chair, and slowly uncrossed and crossed her legs, managing to give Mark a flash of white silk panties under the short skirt.
‘I am looking for Miss Storm Courtney.’
‘God,’ said the smiler. ‘They all want Storm — why don’t any of them ever want me?’
‘Storm!’ The blonde called out to the court.
Storm Courtney was about to serve, but the call distracted her and she glanced across. She saw Mark and her expression did not change, her attention switched back to the game. She threw the ball high and swung overhand at it, the stroke fluid and controlled. The racket twanged sharply, and the movement threw her white cotton skirt high against the back of her thighs. Her legs were beautifully moulded, slim ankles and gently swelling calves, knees marked only by symmetrical dimples.
She spun lightly and caught the return of the ball, a long lightly tanned arm flashing in a full sweep, and the ball leapt from the racket in a white blur; again her skirt kicked up and Mark shifted slightly on his feet, for the earth had tilted again.
She ran back to the baseline, short neat steps on those long narrow feet, head thrown back to follow the high parabola of the lobbing ball against the blue of the sky. Her dark hair seemed to glow with the metallic sheen of a sunbird’s wing as she judged her stroke, and then her whole body went into it, power uncoiling along those long beautiful legs, driven up from tensed and rounded buttocks under the light cotton skirt, through the narrow waist, along young hard back muscles and exploding down through the swinging right arm.
The ball hummed like an arrow, flashed low across the net and kicked a white puff of dust from the baseline.
‘Too good!’ wailed her opponent despairingly, and Storm laughed, gay and triumphant, and came back to the high fence to pick up the spare balls from the gutter.
‘Oh Storm, there’s a gentleman here to see you.’ The blonde called again, and Storm flipped up a ball with the tip of her racket and the side of her foot, bouncing it once on the turf of the court and then catching it in her free hand.
‘Yes, Irene,’ she answered lightly. ‘I know. He’s only a sales person. Ask him to wait by the car until I’m ready to deal with him.’
She had not looked at Mark again, and now she turned away. ‘Forty — love,’ she called gaily, and ran back to the baseline. Her voice had a music and lilt that did nothing to sweeten the sudden flare of anger which made Mark’s jaw set grimly.
‘If you are a sales person,’ Irene murmured, ‘then you can sell me something some time. But right now, darling, I suggest you do what Storm says – otherwise we will all know about it.’
When Storm came to where he waited, she was flanked by the other girls, like maids in waiting attending a princess, he thought, and he felt his resentment fade as he watched her. You could forgive somebody like that, somebody so royal and lovely and heart-achingly beautiful – you could forgive them anything.
He stood attentive, waiting for her, and he realized then how tall she was. The top of that glossy head reached to his chin, almost.
‘Good morning, Miss Courtney. I have brought your new Cadillac, and all of us at Natal Motors wish you much joy and enjoyment.’ It was a little speech he always used when making a delivery, and he spoke it with all the warmth and charm and sincerity which had made him in so few months the star salesman of Natal Motors.
‘Where are the keys?’ Storm Courtney asked, and for the first time looked at him directly. Mark realized that her eyes were that dark, almost black, blue like the General’s. There was no question who her father was.
She opened them a little wider, and in the sunlight they were the colour of polished sapphires or the blue of the Mozambique current, out in the deep water at noon.
‘They are in the car,’ he answered, and his voice sounded strange in his own ears, as though it came from a distance.
‘Get them,’ she said, and he felt himself start to move, to hurry to her bidding. Then something like that sense of danger he had known and developed in France warned him. Her expression was neutral, completely unconcerned, as though she found the effort of talking directly to him was wasted, just one of these tiresome moments in an otherwise important march of events. Yet the warning was clear as the chime of a bell in his head, and only then he saw something else move in her eyes, something dangerous and exciting like the shape of a leopard hunting in the shadows. A challenge, perhaps, a dare – and suddenly he knew clearly that no daughter of Sean Courtney would be reared to such natural arrogance and rudeness. There was a reason, some design in her attitude.
He felt a lightness of mind, that kind of special madness which had driven away fear of consequence so often in moments of peril or desperate enterprise, and he grinned at her. He did not have to force the grin, it was natural and devilish and challenging.
‘Certainly, Miss Courtney. Of course I’ll get them, just as soon as you say please.’
There was an audible communal gasp from the girls around her, and they stilled with awed delight, their eyes darting to Storm’s face and then back to Mark’s.
‘Say please to the nice man, Stormy.’ Irene used the patronizing voice for instructing young children, and there was a delighted burst of giggles from the others.
For one unholy instant something burned in the girl’s dark blue eyes, something fierce that was not anger. Mark recognized the importance of that flash; although he did not truly know the exact emotion it betrayed, yet he knew it might affect him. Then it was gone and in its place was true unfeigned anger.
‘How dare you!’ Storm’s voice was low and quivering, but her lips were suddenly frosty white as the blood drained away. The anger was too swift, too strong for the occasion, out of all proportion to the mild
exchange, and Mark felt a reckless excitement that he had been able to reach her so deeply. He kept the grin mocking and taunting.
‘Hit him, darling,’ Irene teased, and for a moment Mark thought she really might.
‘You keep your silly mouth shut, Irene Leuchars.’
‘Oh la la!’ Irene gloated. ‘Temper!’
Mark turned casually away, and opened the driver’s door of the Cadillac.
‘Where are you going!’
‘Back to town.’ He started the engine, and looked out of the window at her. There was no doubt now that she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Anger had rouged her cheeks, and the fine dark hair at her temples was still damp from her play on the courts. It was plastered against the smooth skin in tiny curls.
‘That is my car!’
‘They’ll send somebody else up with it, Miss Courtney, I’m used to dealing with ladies.’
Again the wondering gasp and burst of giggles.
‘Oh, he’s a darling!’ Irene clapped her hands in applause, but Storm ignored her.
‘My father will have you fired.’
‘Yes, he probably will,’ he agreed. Mark thought about that solemnly for a moment, then he nodded and he let out the clutch. He looked back in the mirror as he took the first bend in the driveway and they were still standing in a group staring after him in their white dresses, like a group of marble statues. ‘Nymphs Startled by Satyr’ was a fitting title, he thought, and laughed with the reckless mood still on him.
‘Jesus,’ Dicky Lancome whispered, clutching his brow with horror. ‘What made you do it?’ He shook his head slowly, wonderingly.
‘She was damned rude.’
Dicky dropped his hands and stared at him aghast. ‘She was rude to you. Oh my God, I don’t think I can stand much more. Don’t you realize that if she was rude to you, you should be grateful? Don’t you know that there are thousands of peasants like us who go through their entire lives without being insulted by Miss Storm Courtney?’
‘I was not going to take that,’ Mark explained reasonably, but Dicky cut in.
‘Look, old bean, I’ve taught you all I know, and you still know nothing. Not only do you take it, but if Miss Courtney expresses a desire to kick your fat stupid arse, the correct reply is “Certainly, ma’am, but first let me don fresh bags lest I soil your pretty foot!”’
Mark laughed, the reckless mood still there but fading, and Dicky’s expression became more lugubrious.
‘That’s right, have yourself a good laugh. Do you know what happened?’ and before Mark could answer he went on, ‘A summons from on high, the ultimate, the Chairman of the Board himself. So the boss and I dash across town — fear, trepidation, cautious optimism – are we to be fired, promoted, congratulated on the month’s sale figures? And there is the Board, the full Board mind you, looking like a convention of undertakers who have just been informed of the discovery of Pasteur’s vaccine—’
Dicky stopped, the memory was too painful, and he sighed heavily. ‘You didn’t really tell her to say “please”, did you?’
Mark nodded.
‘You didn’t really tell her she was not a lady?’
‘Not directly,’ Mark protested. ‘But I did imply it.’
Dicky Lancome tried to wipe his face off with one hand, starting at the hairline and drawing the palm of his hand down slowly to his chin.
‘I’ve got to fire you, you know that, don’t you?’
Mark nodded again.
‘Look,’ said Dicky. ‘I tried, Mark, I really did. I showed them your sales figures, I told them you were young, impulsive – I made a speech.’
‘Thank you, Dicky.’
‘At the end of the speech, they almost fired me also.’
‘You shouldn’t have stuck your neck out for me.’
‘Anyone else – you could have picked on anyone else, old chap, you could have punched the mayor, sent abusive letters to the king, but why in the name of all holy things did you have to pick on a Courtney?’
‘You know something, Dicky?’ and it was Dicky’s turn silently to shake his head.
‘I loved it—I loved every moment of it.’
Dicky groaned aloud, as he took out his silver cigarette case and offered it to Mark. They lit their cigarettes, and smoked in silence for a few moments.
‘So I am fired, then?’ Mark asked at last.
‘That’s what I have been trying to tell you for the last ten minutes,’ Dicky agreed.
Mark began to clear out the drawers in his desk, then stopped and asked impulsively. ‘Did the General – did General Courtney make the demand for my head?’
‘I have no idea, old chap – but sure as hell it was made.’
Mark wanted to believe that it had not been the General. It was too mean a gesture from such a big man. He could imagine the General bursting into the showroom, brandishing a horse-whip.
The man who could take such revenge for a small flash of spirit, might be capable of other things – like killing an old man for his land.
The thought sickened Mark, and he tried to thrust it aside.
‘Well, then, I suppose I’d better be getting along.’
‘I’m sorry, old bean.’ Dicky stood up and offered his hand, then looked embarrassed. ‘You all right for the filthy lucre? I could let you have a tenner to tide you over.’
‘Thanks, Dicky, but I’ll be all right.’
‘Look,’ Dicky blurted out impulsively. ‘Give it a month or so, time for the dust to settle, and then if you haven’t got yourself fixed, come and see me. I’ll try and sneak you in again through the back door – even if we have to write you up on the paysheet under an assumed name.’
‘Goodbye, Dick, and thanks for everything. I really mean that.’
‘I’m going to miss you, old chap. Keep your head down below the parapet in future, won’t you?’
The pawn shop was in Soldiers Way, almost directly opposite the railway station. The front room was small and overcrowded with a vast array of valuables, semi-valuables and rubbish left here by the needy over the years.
There was a melancholy about the racks of yellowing wedding dresses, in the dusty glass cases of old wedding rings, engraved watches, cigarette cases and silver drinking flasks—all given in love or respect, each with its own sad story.
‘Two pounds,’ said the pawnbroker, after a single glance at the suit.
‘It’s only three months old,’ Mark said softly. ‘And I paid fifteen.’
The man shrugged and the steel-framed spectacles slid down his nose.
‘Two pounds,’ he repeated, and pushed the spectacles up with a thumb that looked grey and dusty as his stock.
‘All right – and what about this?’
He opened the small blue case, and showed the bronze disc nestled in a nest of silk, pinned by its gay little ribbon of white and red and blue. The Military Medal for gallantry displayed by non-commissioned officers and other ranks.
‘We get a lot of those — not much call for them.’ The man pursed thin lips. ‘Twelve pounds ten,’ he said.
‘How long do you keep them before you sell them?’ Mark asked, suddenly reluctant to part with the scrap of metal and silk.
‘We keep ’em a year.’
The last ten days of constant search for employment had depleted Mark’s resources of cash and courage.
‘All right,’ he agreed.
The pawnbroker wrote the ticket, while Mark wandered into the back reaches of the shop. He found a bundle of old military haversacks and selected one; then there was a rack of rifles, most of them ancient Martinis and Mausers, veterans of the Boer war – but there was one among them that stood out. The woodwork was hardly marked, and the metal shone smooth and oily, no scratches or pitting of rust, and Mark picked the weapon off the rack and the shape and feel of it brought memories crowding back. He thrust them aside. He would need a rifle where he was going, and it was sensible to have one he knew so well. Fate had put a P.14 there
for him, and damn the memories, he decided.
He slipped the bolt from the breech and held the barrel to the light from the doorway, peering into the mouth of the breech. The bore of the barrel was unmarked, the rifling described its clean glistening spirals, again without fouling or pitting. Somebody had cared well for the weapon.
‘How much?’ he asked the pawnbroker, and the man’s eyes turned to lifeless pebbles behind his steel-rimmed spectacles.
‘That’s a very good rifle,’ he said, ‘and I paid a lot of money for it. There’s a hundred rounds of ammunition goes with it also.’
Mark found he had gone soft in the city; his feet ached within the first five miles and the straps of rifle and haversack cut painfully into his shoulders.
The first night he lay down beside the fire and slept as though he had been clubbed. In the morning he groaned at the effort of sitting upright, the stiffness was in his legs and back and shoulders.
The first mile he hobbled like an old man, until his muscles began to ease, and he was going well by the time he reached the rim of the escarpment and started down into the coastal lowlands.
He kept well away from Andersland, crossing the river five miles upstream. His clothing and rifle and pack were balanced on his head as he waded through a shallow place between white sandbanks, and he dried naked in the sun, sprawled out like a lizard on a rock, before he dressed again and headed north.
The third day, he settled into the long swinging hunter’s stride, and the pack rode lightly on his back. The going was hard, the undulating folds of the ground forced him to climb and then descend, taxing every muscle, while the thick thorn scrub made him weave constantly to find a way through, wasting time and almost doubling the distance between point and point. Added to this, the grass was dried and seeding. The seeds were sharp as spears and worked easily through his woollen socks into his flesh. He had to stop every half hour or so to dig them out – but still he made thirty miles that day. In the gathering dusk he crossed another of the countless ridges of higher ground. The distant blue loom of Chaka’s Gate almost blended with darkening clouds of evening.