NO WOMAN'S LAND

Wairarapa Times-Age, 27 June 1938, Page 10

NO WOMAN'S LAND

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT COPYRIGHT

BY

JANE ENGLAND

(Author of “Sjambok,” “Trader’s License,” &c.)

CHAPTER I. David Hastings lay on the verandah of the 1 Settlers’ Club in the township of Klinter's Dorp. His lazy, though acute grey eyes travelled from his shoes to his expensive golf stockings, rested admirably on his knees, which were a handsame mahogany colour. He wore shorts, a silk shirt, and a grey doubleterai tipped rakishly over his eyes. “If some enterprising pioneer had planted blue gums up and down this very depressing street,” he observed to his wife, “I’d set up a monument to him. As it is ”

Dolly Hastings stared dreamily across the rutted red clay of the street at the post office, where five natives squatted by the verandah posts, and nodded lazily. “How right you are, darling,” she murmured, drowsily. “But the pioneers were concerned with money, not with beauty.”

“Cynic!” said David. “Don’t you know that all pioneers are men of vision and ideals, that they never think about money?” “Unlike us,” said Dolly, who hated argument, “who think of nothing else.” “Cynic!—cynic!—and again cynic!” said her husband. “Kindly speak for yourself.” “Why else did we come out to Rhodesia?” asked Dolly. “Why did we come, except to make money, and because Grandfather Bloot’s beastly mine was left to us?” “He was your grandfather,’ said David. ‘Well, anyway,” said Dolly, “his beastly mine may be full of gold, but it’s flooded, and his house isn't fit to live in. So we might as well go back to England again and starve in a civilized manner.” She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and a beam of golden sunshine fel across her thin face. Her mouth relaxed into a childlike weariness, and her dark lashes rested gently against the sepia half moons round her eyes. She was very slender, wore jodhpurs, and a grey silk skirt; a double-terai was set at an angle on her short dark hair. She lay there, relaxed, and though “How hard David and I work to keep our real thoughts from each other. I wonder if we’ll every admit how frightened we are? I don't suppose so. If once we did, we’d break up. » “We’ve got to drive back to the homestead tonight,” she thought, “and. we shan’t start from here until the last possible moment. We’re frightened there. There’s nothing there to keep our minds off things. Whistle to keep your courage up.” She opened one eye as the sound of a horse cantering up the street broke the silence. There was a scraggy, mustard-col-oured pony cantering up the street, ridden by a thin, shabby child; a girl. She carried a satchel over one arm, and her legs were bare. “How old is that girl?” she said to David. He tipped his terai back of his forehead. “What, the Howard girl? Oh, eighteen.” “She looks fifteen,” said Dolly crossly. “Malnutrition,” said David tersely. The pony pulled up in front of the store opposite with a splattering of clumsy hoofs, and the Howard girl dismounted. Her hair was short and thick, the colour of honey; her nose was aquiline, and her mouth wide and sensitive. She wore a cotton frock, and a pair of shabby, strapped slippers on her feet. Dolly closed her eyes again. She knew perfectly well what the Howard girl was doing in the store. She had gone in to trade something in thal satchel for food. Everybody knew about the Howards. It was very curious, thought Dolly, how cruel people could be. And quite unconsciously cruel. They knew that the Howards had no more credit left; they knew that the girl had to bargain for food; and so their reaction was a kind of angry scorn, a strange resentment, and. athough perhaps they did not realize it, a subconscious feeling of guilt. She thought, “I can’t bear it, if that girl comes out without having succeeded, and I shall know if she does. I’ll keep my eyes shut, I won’t see it." “Speak without moving your mouth," said David suddenly, and she laughed. That was an old joke. “Bennet's just come into the Club," he continued. “He’s got ears in his finger-tips, born eavesdropper. Dolly, I’ve got six bob cash. If that girl gets snubbed by that lardy tradesman Smith, can I possibly go and offer her six bob?" “Don’t be silly,” said Dolly, “how could you? That six bob is all we have in ready cash until the end of the month. If she knew that, it couldn't be an insult to offer to lend it to her; but she doesn't know, and you can’t tell her. How long will it take for our clothes to wear out, David?”

Still keeping her eyes shut, she felt carefully with one foot for the ground, touched the cement flooring with one toe. opened her eyes, and stood up. “If we’re going to do this,” she said firmly, “there’s only one way.” She went off the verandah, and out into the glowing furnace of the street. The mustard-coloured pony stood with drooping head by the hitching rail, and the baked earth flung upwards a hot. dry smell. Mrs Carfrae. the Magistrate's wife, turned on her gramophone, and jigging and gay through the futile emptiness, came the sound of a very old tune.

Dolly put a tentative finger on the protruding hip bone of the mustardcoloured pony. The skin felt hot and dry, like leather that had been exposed to sunlight for a long time, and the animal stamped and kicked at a fat green fly. The store door was half-open, and

she could heai' Smith talking. “Now, Nella. my dear, don't be silly! What could I give you on this old stuff? It may be a portrait, of your greatgrandmother, but who cares about that? No, my dear. Sorry, but something’s got to be paid off the account before I let you have any more.” The pony kicked and swished its tail and Dolly went on to the step of the store, pushed at the wire door, and walked in. Smith, a lock of dry, bleached hail hanging over his forehead, was leaning over the deal counter. He had hold of the Howard girl’s wrist, and his mouth was curved into a treacly smile. “Yes, lardy,” thought Dolly. “His face looks like bladder- of lard.” He let go of the girl’s wrist as Dolly came in. and drew himself up, drumming lightly on the counter with eight stumpy fingers. “Good afternoon, Mrs Hastings,” he said greasily. “Good afternoon!” “Good afternoon!” she said lightly. “I’m frightfully sorry, but I’m afraid I overheard things—just by chance. I'm so sorry.” The girl, Nella Howard, picked up her satchel, and. turned quickly towards the door. Dolly stretched out a hand politely. “Hullo!” she exclaimed. “So it was you arguing about a bill? Well, have it on me.” Smith was staring at them with a cloudy suspicion. He’d heard about the Hastings. Classy people. But class didn’t necessarily mean money. Still, you never knew. Those sort often bobbed up in the end with plenty. Never worth offending them. And what had she guessed about his behaviour? What? He smiled blandly. “It was nothing, Mrs Hastings," he said.

Dolly ignored him. She had hold of the Howard girl’s hand, and she held on to it.

“Miss Howard,” she said, “I know that sometimes it is difficult to pay immediately, especially out here, when you have to wait for crops and things. Look here, if you want anything now, please let me carry you until the end of the month—please!" “Please!” repeated Dolly, and as Smith turned to put away a bag or something or other, she said in an urgent and angry voice, “Don’t be a little fool! Order what you want —we can settle up later.” Nella Howard stared at her suspiciously with bright blue eyes, and pushed back a lock of damp hair. Her eyes were bright and shy—shy, like a wild creature's or a bird. She was unsure and frightened. The store door was pushed open. A large, ungainly Dutchman walked in, his thick hair hair falling over his forehead in a cloud, his eyes like dark almonds in a square brown face. “Good afternoon, Groenwald!” said Smith. “Goot!” said Groenwald. His eyes had strayed to Dolly and Nella, and his mouth widened into, a doubtful smile. Teeth like peeled nuts, thought Dolly. “Don’t be a fool,” she said swiftly to Nella Howard. “Get what you want, and then come over with me and meet my husband.” “I want . . only a box of cartridges,” said Nella, “and (her brown, oval face went darkly red) a bottle of brandy.” “Cartridges,” said Dolly quickly, “we have by the dozen . . and brandy. Let this Smith stew. Come on.” The Dutchman was still staring at them with that white glimmer of a smile. Nella jerked her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said sharply “Good afternoon, Mr Smith,” said Dolly pleasantly. She walked out of the store with Nella, feeling that somehow or other she had done something irrevocable, tied herself up with this Howard girl's undoubtedly tiresome and difficult existence. “As if we hadn't already enough on our hands, David and I,” she thought sardonically, “If you meant that, about the cartridges and the brandy,” said Nella Howard in a strained and aggressive voice. “I’m grateful. I've got to have them. I've got to!" “Oh. we've got plenty of both,” said Dolly lightly. “Oh,” said Nella shortly. “Then perhaps you could let me have three bottles of brandy?" Dolly felt as if someone had given her three hard jabs in the ribs. This was somewhat overpowering. They were at the steps of the Club verandah. “I don't want to go in there," said Nella sulkily. “If you want three bottles of brandy,” said Dolly firmly, "you have to come in. It’s my husband who keeps the cellar . . not me." “I want three bottles of brandy.” said Nella in a queer, dull voice, as if she were repeating a formula. “Then , come along.” said Dolly. “I’m coming," said Nella, and she walked up the steps and on to the verandah. \ Bennet was standing by David's chair, leaning towards him with a willowly, confidential air. When he saw Nella. his pale, oblong face set itself into a ghastly, polite grin, and he stood bolt upright. “Ah . . . Mrs Hastings,” he said. “How’s things?” Out of the corner of her eye, Dolly saw that the Magistrate and his wife had arrived at the club. They were sitting at a table, and were staring over with astonished and pained disapproval. “Do you know Miss Howard?" she asked smoothly. "Miss Howard? Ah . . . .yes. delighted . . . we haven’t met." Bennett spluttered. “I’ve seen you often” said Nella Howard, in a queer tone of voice, as if she were unaware of any tension. “But never," interrupted David lazi-

ly, “to talk to. Bennett, aS a club secretary, you’re a wash-out. Do you mean to tell me that in this barren world, where men are men, you have allowed Miss Howard to escape membership of this club?” Bennett gazed wildly round, and saw the Magistrate’s wife, tall, handsome, and disapproving. “Excuse me,” he said hastily, “excuse me.” And he rushed over to her to explain that he could not be responsible for the vagaries of the Hastings. “Of course, you know Mrs Carfrae, they are very Bohemian, very Bohemian. But they are of good family, you understand.”

“Miss Howard,” said Dolly amiably, “this is my husband, David, Miss Howard wants some cartridges, and three bottles of brandy.” “Dear me!” said David, and sat quite upright. Cartridges (well, that was reasonable enough) out here, anyone might want cartridges, everyone did of course, but three bottles of brandy! “You had better,” said Dolly amiably, though she had seized an opportunity to cast'a brilliant and a mocking glance at him, “get the mule cart, and we'll drive back and give Miss Howard the things. It’s not far out of her way.” “All right,” said David. He had wished, innocently, and with some generosity, to give his six shillings to the Howard girl. He had definitely yrot expected to have to give her cartridges, three bottles of brandy, and spend, on her behalf, a depressing evening in the gloomy, smutty solitude at Bloot’s mine. “We’d better have a drink before we start,” said Dolly. “Miss Howard, what will you have?” “I hate drinks,” said Nella baldly. “I want the brandy for my father.” “I didn’t suppose,” said David flatly, “that the brandy was for you.” Nella didn’t say anything. She felt ashamed and sick. But cartridges she must have, and brandy seemed an essential to her father. Nobody knew, she thought unhappily, just how her father could behave when he hadn’t any brandy. Nobody could imagine that! Pict Groenwald came out of the store, mounted his Basuto pony, and rode away in a cloud of dust. “Well,” said David Hastings, “let's get going. The carouse I had planned for tonight will not now take place." The sun had almost gone when Hastings brought the mule cart round to the front of the club. Light went on in the club-house, and he saw the Howard girl swing herself on to the pony. Dolly was by his side, and he clicked hfs tongue at the mules. As he drove away he could feel, as if they were beams of light directed between his shoulder blades, the amazement and disapproval of the Carfraes.

“You know,’ he said to his wife, “that you have imperilled our social status.” She laughed shortly. “Mrs Carfrae will drive out tomorrow,” she said, “to explain to me gently by firmly, just how impossible the girl is. There was a sticky scandal, wasn't there? I mean quite apart from the brandy-swigging and the lack of money? "Something." said David. But his voice was abstracted, and she said no more. It was never safe to talk to him when he was driving mules. He hated driving; he insisted that all he ever wanted was a London omnibus. So she relapsed into silence. They were coming to the drift now. and she hated crossing the drift; David negotiating a drift was a burden to the nerves. “You may well sigh," said David; “I owe you a dirty deed for this.” She took no notice of him. “I shall have to escort that young woman back to her home." grumbled David. Dolly laughed again. "You don’t have to." she pointed out, "but you will, because you think it is right. You're born out of vour time. It was frequently a cause of deep irritation to me in London, when you insisted, to their manifest surprise, in escorting young women home. "We’ll both see her home," she continued gaily, “it’s only a matter of eight miles —four there and four back." (To be Continued.)