clear and starry, but the palms threshed and the waves roared ominously with an evil echo. Some time soon the calm weather would break, but this might be only a warning.
Back in her bed she listened, and breathed a generous sigh when the wind lowered to a whisper. Nothing to worry about after all.
But by daylight the sky was brassy and there was no mist. Low on the sealine a jagged wall of cloud seemed suspended, awaiting reinforcement.
Daphne was happy. “Let’s make a snorting West African curry for the men,” she said, “and work out something special in the way of a salad. We’ll make them declare a half-holiday, and this afternoon we’ll bathe and take a picnic tea. Won’t it be great to have them back?”
Phil agreed. She felt absurdly lighthearted as she set out alone to bargain for a chicken at the market. She chose a pair of squawking cockerels and walked on to buy a basket of tiny tomatoes and some olives while they were killed and dressed.
The chickens were put to broil, onions, rice and seasoning prepared and half a dozen eggs hard-boiled ready for the casserole. A huge glass bowl of chopped pawpaw, precious oranges, bananas, raisins and nuts flavoured with sherry, was covered with butter muslin and stowed away in a dark comer of the larder.
At this stage Daphne wilted and Phil was left to mix the baking-powder bread and push the loaves into the oven of the paraffin stove. She was washing the flour from her hands at the iron pedestal under the kitchen window when a sudden roar rushed in from the sea; a tornado that rocked the walls and tore branches from the trees, and brought Daphne screaming into the kitchen.
It lasted twenty minutes, grim herald of the deafening storm that followed. Half-demented, Daphne pressed her face into her pillow and sweated and sobbed. Between her incoherent wailing Phil gathered that if Gordon got back alive it was ten chances to one against his finding his wife all in one piece.
“The men won’t have left the Novada harbour,” Phil told her. “They’ll have seen the storm coming and waited.”
“We didn’t see it coming,” wept Daphne. “The sudden wind would tip over the Blue Ray. We always heeled in a normal strong wind. Oh, God, I wish we’d never come to Valeira!”
In the early afternoon the thunder receded and ceased. Lightning still played about the mountain and rain continued to stream against the house. Daphne, weary and heavy-eyed, paced restlessly from window to window, but Phil, rasped by the hours of inaction, put on oilskins and waded down to the deserted waterfront.
Marooned in his store, Matt sat in his ancient swivel chair, his feet on a bag of maize and an accounts book across his knees. When Phil came in he tenderly scratched his chest.
“Have a good swim?” he asked conversationally.
She perched on an up-ended roll of cotton. “Deuce of a storm,” she answered with gloom. “Daphne’s frantic over Gordon being away in the boat.”
“You’re a bit white about the mouth yourself. Have a drink?”
“No, thanks. Matt, d’you think they’d have sailed this morning?”
“I don’t. They’re four grown men, lovey, with plenty of common sense between them.”
“Couldn’t we send a freighter round—just in case?”
“Julian would be mad as hell.”
“I’d risk that—to be sure they’re all right.” She paused miserably. “The horrible part is not knowing.”
“Now you understand how we felt when you disappeared into the jungle—only it was worse for us; you weren’t four strong men. Stop fretting. They’ll come tomorrow.”
"Tomorrow! What am I going to do with Daphne?”
“Send her to bed early with sleeping tablets, and be thankful you’re not a newly-wed.”
When Phil reached home she was drenched in perspiration beneath the oilskin and her hair had gone as lank as Daphne’s.
They drank tea and coffee, but neither could face a meal. In the early darkness they sent Manoela to the shore with a note to the
Back in her bed she listened, and breathed a generous sigh when the wind lowered to a whisper. Nothing to worry about after all.
But by daylight the sky was brassy and there was no mist. Low on the sealine a jagged wall of cloud seemed suspended, awaiting reinforcement.
Daphne was happy. “Let’s make a snorting West African curry for the men,” she said, “and work out something special in the way of a salad. We’ll make them declare a half-holiday, and this afternoon we’ll bathe and take a picnic tea. Won’t it be great to have them back?”
Phil agreed. She felt absurdly lighthearted as she set out alone to bargain for a chicken at the market. She chose a pair of squawking cockerels and walked on to buy a basket of tiny tomatoes and some olives while they were killed and dressed.
The chickens were put to broil, onions, rice and seasoning prepared and half a dozen eggs hard-boiled ready for the casserole. A huge glass bowl of chopped pawpaw, precious oranges, bananas, raisins and nuts flavoured with sherry, was covered with butter muslin and stowed away in a dark comer of the larder.
At this stage Daphne wilted and Phil was left to mix the baking-powder bread and push the loaves into the oven of the paraffin stove. She was washing the flour from her hands at the iron pedestal under the kitchen window when a sudden roar rushed in from the sea; a tornado that rocked the walls and tore branches from the trees, and brought Daphne screaming into the kitchen.
It lasted twenty minutes, grim herald of the deafening storm that followed. Half-demented, Daphne pressed her face into her pillow and sweated and sobbed. Between her incoherent wailing Phil gathered that if Gordon got back alive it was ten chances to one against his finding his wife all in one piece.
“The men won’t have left the Novada harbour,” Phil told her. “They’ll have seen the storm coming and waited.”
“We didn’t see it coming,” wept Daphne. “The sudden wind would tip over the Blue Ray. We always heeled in a normal strong wind. Oh, God, I wish we’d never come to Valeira!”
In the early afternoon the thunder receded and ceased. Lightning still played about the mountain and rain continued to stream against the house. Daphne, weary and heavy-eyed, paced restlessly from window to window, but Phil, rasped by the hours of inaction, put on oilskins and waded down to the deserted waterfront.
Marooned in his store, Matt sat in his ancient swivel chair, his feet on a bag of maize and an accounts book across his knees. When Phil came in he tenderly scratched his chest.
“Have a good swim?” he asked conversationally.
She perched on an up-ended roll of cotton. “Deuce of a storm,” she answered with gloom. “Daphne’s frantic over Gordon being away in the boat.”
“You’re a bit white about the mouth yourself. Have a drink?”
“No, thanks. Matt, d’you think they’d have sailed this morning?”
“I don’t. They’re four grown men, lovey, with plenty of common sense between them.”
“Couldn’t we send a freighter round—just in case?”
“Julian would be mad as hell.”
“I’d risk that—to be sure they’re all right.” She paused miserably. “The horrible part is not knowing.”
“Now you understand how we felt when you disappeared into the jungle—only it was worse for us; you weren’t four strong men. Stop fretting. They’ll come tomorrow.”
"Tomorrow! What am I going to do with Daphne?”
“Send her to bed early with sleeping tablets, and be thankful you’re not a newly-wed.”
When Phil reached home she was drenched in perspiration beneath the oilskin and her hair had gone as lank as Daphne’s.
They drank tea and coffee, but neither could face a meal. In the early darkness they sent Manoela to the shore with a note to the
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