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Authors: Rosalind Brett
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could do with a few rose trees around this compound to try and quell the odour of rubber. Doesn’t it sicken you, Nick?”
“I’m used to it—and it butters my bread.”
“Delicious combination!” She gave a husky little laugh. “I’ve never known anyone quite like you, Nick. You remind me of a machine that works without fault, and has no feelings to break down the mechanism. You’re a bit inhuman, aren’t you?”
“Thanks for the compliment, little one.” He laughed in his throat. “Are you comparing me with anyone in particular?”
She thought of Steve, but somehow she didn’t wish to bring him into the conversation. Nick was in the mood to jeer, and she might defend herself with a reckless remark ... and she wasn’t quite ready yet to admit to feelings for Steve that went deeper than friendship.
“I’m comparing you to everyone I’ve known,” she replied. “Even Bill is not quite the jungle fanatic that you are. Doesn’t this place ever bore you?”
“I can’t let it bore me.” He sounded as though he spoke through clenched teeth. “To you I’m all work and latex, eh? Now you’ve seen me at Makai? Sorry you came?”
“No—I’ve learned a lot. It’s been quite an experience.”
She went down the steps, and he walked with her through the moonlight to the other house. She and Bill were heading back for Kanos in the morning, and after Nick had said goodnight and left her, she was aware of an odd feeling—a sense of foreboding or melancholy—shifting restlessly through her bones.
Bill decided that he needed an assistant, and he asked Cliff Grey to take on the job. Cliff’s trading contract had expired and he was reluctant to return to England.
The villa was now complete to the final rug and in a week’s time, when the staff was assembled, the Bradings would be moving in. Pat tried to feel excited at the prospect, but somehow that melancholy she had felt up at Makai had followed her to Kanos, and she buried herself in office work and tried to swamp depression in checking columns of figures, and answering the various letters that had accumulated during their absence.
Bill was like a happy boy these days, and so pleased with the villa and the way trade was going that Pat made a real effort to look starry-eyed when they moved into their brand new home. It was spacious and cool, furnished in polished mahogany and the reliable wicker. Owing to the perpetual damp nothing was upholstered, but loungers and chairs were heaped with gay cushions which could be aired easily and readily replaced. The ants and mosquitoes, mango-flies and tsetse were just as troublesome as down on the shore, and up here among the trees was the added menace of snakes.
When they had been three weeks at the villa, Bill gave a house-warming party. The large lounge was converted into a reception room for the occasion, and a quintet from the club orchestra installed in a flower - screened corner . With the aid of Cliff—that young man of mysterious background who seemed to know such a lot about good food and wine—Pat arranged a worthy menu. She managed to procure caviare and fruit, and even knocked together a tasty fresh salad. Chicken and duck, with tinned new potatoes, melba a la Kanos, soft cheese and a rich Liberian coffee.
Pat dressed in white. Just before the guests were due, Bill clipped a tiny bow of diamonds in her hair. “There, my pretty,” he smiled. “Like it?”
“Mmm,” she reached up and kissed his leathery cheek. “Where did you buy it?”
He winked. “You can get anything you want here if you know the way to go about it.”
He certainly proved it that night. Turkish cigarettes and Cuban cigars, fine wines and liqueurs; charming mementoes for the ladies.
It was after dinner, between dances, that Mrs. Ewan Reynolds sought out Pat. She was slim with a tired young face framed by cloudy fawn hair.
“You have a lovely house, Miss Brading,” she said. “Tell me, is it true you lived in that
“I’m used to it—and it butters my bread.”
“Delicious combination!” She gave a husky little laugh. “I’ve never known anyone quite like you, Nick. You remind me of a machine that works without fault, and has no feelings to break down the mechanism. You’re a bit inhuman, aren’t you?”
“Thanks for the compliment, little one.” He laughed in his throat. “Are you comparing me with anyone in particular?”
She thought of Steve, but somehow she didn’t wish to bring him into the conversation. Nick was in the mood to jeer, and she might defend herself with a reckless remark ... and she wasn’t quite ready yet to admit to feelings for Steve that went deeper than friendship.
“I’m comparing you to everyone I’ve known,” she replied. “Even Bill is not quite the jungle fanatic that you are. Doesn’t this place ever bore you?”
“I can’t let it bore me.” He sounded as though he spoke through clenched teeth. “To you I’m all work and latex, eh? Now you’ve seen me at Makai? Sorry you came?”
“No—I’ve learned a lot. It’s been quite an experience.”
She went down the steps, and he walked with her through the moonlight to the other house. She and Bill were heading back for Kanos in the morning, and after Nick had said goodnight and left her, she was aware of an odd feeling—a sense of foreboding or melancholy—shifting restlessly through her bones.
Bill decided that he needed an assistant, and he asked Cliff Grey to take on the job. Cliff’s trading contract had expired and he was reluctant to return to England.
The villa was now complete to the final rug and in a week’s time, when the staff was assembled, the Bradings would be moving in. Pat tried to feel excited at the prospect, but somehow that melancholy she had felt up at Makai had followed her to Kanos, and she buried herself in office work and tried to swamp depression in checking columns of figures, and answering the various letters that had accumulated during their absence.
Bill was like a happy boy these days, and so pleased with the villa and the way trade was going that Pat made a real effort to look starry-eyed when they moved into their brand new home. It was spacious and cool, furnished in polished mahogany and the reliable wicker. Owing to the perpetual damp nothing was upholstered, but loungers and chairs were heaped with gay cushions which could be aired easily and readily replaced. The ants and mosquitoes, mango-flies and tsetse were just as troublesome as down on the shore, and up here among the trees was the added menace of snakes.
When they had been three weeks at the villa, Bill gave a house-warming party. The large lounge was converted into a reception room for the occasion, and a quintet from the club orchestra installed in a flower - screened corner . With the aid of Cliff—that young man of mysterious background who seemed to know such a lot about good food and wine—Pat arranged a worthy menu. She managed to procure caviare and fruit, and even knocked together a tasty fresh salad. Chicken and duck, with tinned new potatoes, melba a la Kanos, soft cheese and a rich Liberian coffee.
Pat dressed in white. Just before the guests were due, Bill clipped a tiny bow of diamonds in her hair. “There, my pretty,” he smiled. “Like it?”
“Mmm,” she reached up and kissed his leathery cheek. “Where did you buy it?”
He winked. “You can get anything you want here if you know the way to go about it.”
He certainly proved it that night. Turkish cigarettes and Cuban cigars, fine wines and liqueurs; charming mementoes for the ladies.
It was after dinner, between dances, that Mrs. Ewan Reynolds sought out Pat. She was slim with a tired young face framed by cloudy fawn hair.
“You have a lovely house, Miss Brading,” she said. “Tell me, is it true you lived in that
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