Portrait of Susan Read online

  PORTRAIT OF SUSAN

  by

  Rosalind Brett

  Susan and her brother, Paul, were supremely happy managing Willowfield Farm in Rhodesia ... until the owner returned. David Forrest believed in ruling with a strong hand; he also believed in keeping women in their proper place, but his idea of what that place should be didn’t coincide with high-spirited Susan’s.

  When he imported a widowed friend, all fragility without and iron-hard selfishness within, and expected Susan to act as her companion, it was almost too much ... but Susan had to accept his decision for Paul’s sake. How long could the uneasy situation last without a blow-up of some kind?

  CHAPTER ONE

  SUSAN often stopped the jeep on this stretch of road. She liked to pull in close to the edge of the kloof and stare down over the rich greenery and tree-trunks, at the tiny stream moving gaily among big boulders and roots. She liked to listen to the shrill chatter of the little birds that winged from branch to branch, to look down, when she was lucky, upon a clutch of tiny eggs in a nest, or to notice the red and green lizards sliding from one crevice to another or pausing, static, in the hot sunshine. The other side of the kloof was gentler than this and patched with the blue of leggy harebells. Susan had climbed among them, had picked armfuls of heaths and dug up small roots which had now taken hold in the farmhouse garden. She knew the kloof in all its moods because it was more than a year, now, since she and Paul had come to Rhodesia.

  This morning she only slowed down on that familiar road, but she couldn’t resist a glance or two at the yellow-blossomed acacias and the thousand-fingered euphorbias, and a sigh of enchantment. Her smile was gay and untroubled, the soft ends of her wheaten hair danced here and there, and the while collar of her shirt blew back to reveal a throat as delicately tanned as her face.

  Rhodesia suited Susan, and she often admitted to Paul that the past year had been the happiest of her life. He, of course, had told her with brotherly frankness that what made her happy was being the boss. In his teasing fashion he had warned her not to become too accustomed to spacious farm life; for both of them it could so easily come to an end.

  But time and the season made her feel secure. She often wished that Paul were the owner of Willowfield, but even under present conditions, as manager, he had the feeling of belonging, and therefore so did she. In any case, Paul could never have afforded to buy a farm even a twentieth the size of Willowfield. The meeting with David Forrest in England had presented one of those opportunities that are said to come to a man only once in a lifetime; Paul hadn’t even recognized it till he had talked it over with Susan, but after that he had gone ahead blithely, making promises he wasn’t at all sure he could fulfill but relying on Susan’s endeavors to give ballast to his own.

  It seemed that much more than a year had passed since Paul had been in charge of the dairy farm in Somerset and Susan had kept the farm accounts. They had shared a cottage on the farm, a fact for which Susan had been grateful since her mother’s re-marriage, but there had been several unpleasantnesses for the spirited Susan to contend with. They had talked of moving but invariably postponed action.

  Then Paul had taken a couple of weeks’ holiday in London and by a fluke had met David Forrest, who was a Rhodesian engaged in aeronautical research in England. For some time, it seemed, Willowfield had been in the hands of an old friend of the Forrest family, Colonel Wardon, but the Colonel had written that he was finding the task too exacting and that he would like to install a manager—though the trouble was that there was no likely person in the district.

  Bemused by the vista this information revealed, Paul had used all his considerable charm upon the hard-headed Rhodesian, but Susan gathered that Mr. Forrest was not deceived. Paul was given six months in which to show what he could do under the experienced eye of the Colonel.

  The most exciting moment in Susan’s life was when her brother walked into the cottage straight from the London train one evening, and said, “Well, it’s clinched, Sue. We get at least six months in Rhodesia, and it’s not going to cost us a penny!”

  That was hardly the correct way to regard it, of course, but it was typical of Paul. He had been told that fares would be paid for himself and a wife, if he had one. Paul had explained his circumstances—that his young sister kept house for him and was used to farm life—and David Forrest had commented, somewhat cynically, Susan thought, that as Paul Darcey would inevitably hook some Rhodesian girl, it was only fair that he balance things by taking out a girl for one of the bachelor legion.

  Together, Susan and Paul had said goodbye to their mother. “I suppose you two know what you’re doing,” the older woman had said plaintively. “Paul, you must take care of Sue, and see that she doesn’t get married till after she’s twenty-one! Write to me sometimes, won’t you?”

  They’d both laughed on the way home from Mother’s flat, and Susan had realized that for the first time she hadn’t felt a little bitter about being forgotten for the greater part of every year by her only parent.

  They had travelled by ship to Cape Town, and then up country by train; four whole days of jogging across Africa, and Susan had enjoyed every moment. At Kumati they had been met by the Colonel, and he had brought them up here, along this road to Willowfield.

  Recollecting it all, Susan smiled happily. She hadn’t met Mr. Forrest in England, but she loved his home and the rolling farmlands. The differences between farming in England and farming in Africa were tremendous and exhilarating, and during the past year she had made so many discoveries that the time seemed to have passed like a breeze. Paul needed goading, but she didn’t mind that. Nor did she object in the least to running the place for a week or so while he had a high time in Salisbury. She knew as much about the farm as he did.

  Upon Mr. Forrest’s instructions they had planted four-fifths of the land with the money-spinners, maize and tobacco, but on the last fifth—also at his command—they had experimented with catch crops and fruit trees, and practically everything had done well. Paul’s first year was a success.

  She was running alongside Willowfield land now, an expanse that was brilliant green with young tobacco. Then, round the hill, she saw the rosy roof of the house, and the white walls with bougainvillea obliterating the verandah pillars and golden chalice covering the space between windows on the side of the house.

  Susan parked the jeep in the shade alongside the house, gathered up her purchases and the mail and went along the verandah to the open front door. She was met by the usual smell of polish and cleanliness, noticed with renewed pleasure the winking copperware displayed on the corner shelves, the gleaming carved kist with its huge brass hasp, the blackwood table bearing its flat Dutch bowl of many blossoms. It was the kind of hall that keyed up the expectations, prepared one for the big living-room with its fine furniture, half Dutch and half English, the Indian rugs, the waxed beams of the ceiling and the wide verandah doors which gave a framed picture of the garden.

  Amos, the old Rhodesian boy whom they had found at the house and been wonderfully grateful for ever since, came to the door between living-room and dining-room. His head was covered with grizzled wool, his face was the brown-black of rubbed ebony, and he wore the spotless white servant’s suit with an air of experience and pride. Paul always said that Amos was a hundred years old, but the African had told Susan that he was born the year in put him round about sixty; but even sixty was old for an African.

  “Tea for the missus?” he asked. “In the verandah?”

  Susan smiled at him. “Please, Amos. Has the master been in?”

  “He is coming. I hear the horse.”

  Amos always heard everything about five minutes before anyone else. He went away on his bare knotted feet, Susan
snipped the string which secured the letters and ran quickly through them. One from Mr. Forrest, one from Mother, bills, two invitations for the weekend and several catalogues and official documents. She washed her hands, and took her mother’s letter out to the verandah. Paul was coming down from the pasture yodelling to himself and kicking at the big brown seeds which lay in myriads at the foot of the eucalyptus trees that shaded the back of the house.

  “Hi,” he said cheerfully. “You got back early.”

  “I didn’t stop for chatting.”

  She looked at the thick bleached hair which so enhanced his sun-brown. Paul was slim and not much above average height, he was careless in his movements, careless too in the way he conducted his life. Being twenty-eight and good-looking, he had already captured a couple of hearts in the district, but he appeared privately to be of the opinion that one merely fooled with women—one didn’t marry them.

  “Your boss has written,” she told him. “The letters are on the desk.”

  “What’s the one you’re reading?”

  “It’s from Mother. She’s still attending fashion shows and the cinema. She sends you her love.”

  “Good for her.”

  Susan folded the letter. “Paul, do you suppose she’s happy with Henry Westham?”

  “I don’t see why not. Henry laughs at her weaknesses but underneath he’s firm. I’d say they have quite an affection for each other.”

  “That’s what counts, isn’t it? What with boarding school and then living with you, I don’t seem to know her at all.” She lifted the teapot. “Hurry and wash your hands. Before lunch you must go down and look over the alterations at the curing sheds. I promised the boss-boy you would.”

  He flipped her ear in passing. “I’m glad I’m not married to someone like you; in fact, I’m glad I’m not married! It must be the deuce to have a wife chase you back to work every half hour.”

  “If you were married,” she said mischievously, “you’d work for love.”

  “Eyewash,” he answered succinctly, and went through the house to the bathroom. Paul soon returned from the house waving his letter and looking as if a volcano were about to erupt on the premises.

  “We’re dished,” he said. “Forrest is coming back here, to live!”

  Susan’s green eyes went wide and fixed. “Is that what he says—only that?”

  Paul flung the letter on the table. “The work he was on has come to an end and he’s decided not to go on with anything else. He’s finished there, and is coming back here, to settle down. He just says he wants me to continue as manager, and that he’ll be arriving by air, about the middle of the month!”

  “But, Paul,” she said hollowly, “this is the middle of the month!”

  He sat down suddenly, pushed a hand over his hair. “Well, it was good while it lasted,” he commented with a short laugh. “He’s not the type to need a manager for long, so you and I will have to look around. I don’t fancy going home so soon, do you?”

  “We needn’t even contemplate it yet,” she said. She felt an oddly desperate desire to cling to Willowfield at any cost. “Doesn’t he mention your living quarters?”

  “I suppose he thought that kind of detail could wait. It’s sort of ... winded me. I don’t feel like taking any steps.”

  “Has Willowfield really come to mean a lot to you?”

  “Willowfield?” he grinned ruefully. “Not the place—merely the life. Anything grows, labor is plentiful, and we’ve got some pretty good neighbors. I like to take sundowners on our verandah, or on someone else’s, I like the club at Kumati and being one the farmers of the district, and I must admit that I enjoy the sunshine and the air of prosperity about this country.” He gave her a half-wink. “We won’t weep yet, Sue. I’ve got connections—we’ll fix up something.”

  “But you’d much rather stay at Willowfield?” she besought him. “You’ll stay as long as he’ll keep you, won’t you?”

  “Probably. But you can bet he has plans that don’t include me.”

  “He has to consider you,” she said firmly. “You’ve done well for him this past year.”

  “Yes, I have.” It didn’t occur to either of them that the work wouldn’t have been accomplished without Susan. He added, “I won’t be able to look at the curing sheds this morning, Sue. I’ll have to go over and see the Colonel. He may have more news, and anyway, he’ll be able to tell me what’s likely to be expected of me. You might go up to the shed yourself. And find time, if you can, to ride along the sluits and mark any spots that need clearing. This afternoon we’d better inspect the outhouses and gear. These boys let everything rot if you’re not watching.”

  “Well, drink your tea,” she said urgently, “and get moving.” She paused. “This is the first disagreeable morning I ever remember in this house.”

  Paul laughed. “Forest might be flattered if he heard that.”

  “I hope he’s not quite as bad as you’ve always made out.”

  “He’s all right. Just imagine a cross between an aeronautical precision expert and a highly successful planter. That’s David Forrest.”

  “He doesn’t sound too good,” she nodded soberly. “We know from his letters that he has a grasp of our problems here. We’ll simply have to do our best to make you indispensable to him. Paul, what about the foreman’s house that’s been empty ever since we came? Couldn’t we make something of it for ourselves?”

  “I daresay, though it’ll be a come-down after luxurious living.” He waved a negligent hand. “I saw us lording it here almost forever.”

  “But the cottage would be a thousand times better than the arrangement we had in England,” she reminded him.

  “Bright-side Sue,” he mocked her. “Postpone it, sweetie. We’ll talk it over after I’ve seen the Colonel. I’d better skip. So long.”

  When he had gone Susan poured a second cup of tea and chided herself for being vexed. Willowfield was, after all, the property of David Forrest, and she and Paul had been extremely lucky to come here at all. But she had to admit that the return of the owner would be unwelcome, if only because it would curtail the spacious living to which they had become accustomed. It was not that they had grown extravagant; indeed, except when they entertained they lived simply. But the mere fact of Mr. Forrest’s being in charge would lower Paul to the position of foreman, and it was possible that the relegation would lose him several friends. One might say that such friends weren’t worth much in the first place, but Paul was a gregarious creature and almost instinctively he sought his acquaintances among people better off than himself.

  Oh, well, that aspect would have to sort itself out, thought Susan. Their present concern was to have everything as spick and span as the most eagle-eyed owner could desire, and to accomplish that she had to move quickly, in several directions.

  The very thought of his coming to this house made her feel queer inside. Drat the man; why couldn’t he stay with his jets! She went along to the kitchen, took Amos aside and told him his real master would be here soon. The old African’s fading dark eyes with their yellow whites grew large and joyful.

  “That is good,” he said, nodding his head a dozen times. “That is very good. The missus and young master will stay?”

  “We’re not sure,” said Susan, her fingers crossed in the pockets of her slacks. “Everything must be just right for when Mr. Forrest arrives, Amos. Tell Sam he must give up wearing that superannuated fez, and remind him that he has never yet worked for Mr. Forrest and may find himself without a job if he’s not smart.”

  Amos understood. Because Sam was a connection of his wife’s he had been lenient with him, but the fez, which had become reduced to a cylinder of grubby red felt through the top of which could be seen the dusty fuzz of Sam’s hair, had annoyed him also. He had often begged Susan to order its destruction but she, loath to alter a habit which seemed to afford the boy so much joy, had only laughed. Now, though, the days of the red fez were over.

  She went out a
nd saddled the gelding, rode down to the sheds and along to the new one which was being fitted with rods and a brick fireplace for curing the tobacco. The work seemed to be finished, but wood shavings and broken bricks lay about, and she called the boss-boy and told him to clean up, because the Big Master was expected home.

  After that, the news went ahead of her, so that when she came to the edge of the acres of young maize she was met by the query: “Is true, missus: Big Master come?” Their eagerness to be once more under the domination of a Forrest was discouraging. Neither she nor Paul had expected too much of the boys, and in some cases they had been allowed to slacken off between one spell of hard work and the next. None of them was refused a favor, and Susan had organized a collection of European cast-off clothing so that their wives and children should have adequate protection against last winter’s chilly nights and mornings. David Forrest, she knew, had not lived at Willowfield for five years; but she also knew that Africans have good memories and far more respect for the strong hand than for the easy one.

  She rode along the boundary of the estate, noticed irrigation ditches clogged with stones and growth and fallen trees which should have been cleared long ago. Neither was terribly important because the heavy rains weren’t due for several weeks, but there was no denying that it looked careless. This was definitely Paul’s job. It wouldn’t have taken him more than a day to go round with a boy and point out what had to be done. Colonel Wardon had impressed him with the importance of keeping the sluits free so that the maximum benefit could be derived from unseasonal rain. But it was no use growing angry with Paul. She would see that a gang was put on it tomorrow.