Follow Thy Desire. Anne Mather

sweater had holes at the elbows, and that her jeans after several washings clung to her like a second skin. ‘I expect you’d miss the heat, though, wouldn’t you?’ she ventured, licking her lips. ‘I mean—you must regard Africa as your home.’

      His lips twisted then, and his eyes when he looked at her were cold and calculating. ‘Oh, yes,’ he agreed flatly. ‘There’s no chance of me coming back to live in England, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’

      ‘I—I’m not afraid!’ Helen was indignant. ‘I only meant—–’

      ‘I know what you meant. I’ve had it from Barry since I got here. I forfeited my right to live at Banklands when I married Pam and went to live in Osweba!’

      ‘Did he say that?’ Helen was aghast.

      ‘In so many words.’ Morgan sighed, and then made a dismissing gesture. ‘Oh, forget it. I have. As it happens, I have no desire to come back to England. My—work is in Nrubi. But there’s still Andrea…’

      ‘Your daughter.’

      ‘Yes.’ He glanced towards the house. ‘We’d better be going in or your parents are going to suspect we’re conducting some illicit liaison.’

      ‘I don’t think so,’ said Helen quietly, and then on impulse she added: ‘Why did you mention your daughter? Does she want to come to England? I thought—when she didn’t come with you…’

      ‘I know. And you’re right. She didn’t want to come, but not because she’s indifferent. She—well, she’s very shy.’

      ‘But we—the Foxes, that is—they’re her family!’

      ‘I know that.’ Morgan’s eyes had lost their calculating gleam, but they were still cool as he changed the subject, saying: ‘I’ve asked Barry what you would like for a wedding present, and he says I should ask you. What about it? Have you any ideas?’

      Helen scuffed her booted toe in the soil at the edge of the path. ‘Oh, I—anything you like.’

      She couldn’t look at him for a few moments, but when she lifted her head his eyes were upon her. Immediately, she felt that unfamiliar weakness inside her, that sense of wanting and need that had nothing to do with the emotion she felt towards her fiancé. She knew an almost overwhelming desire to touch him, to make him as aware of her as she was of him, and as if the thought was father to the deed, she felt her muddy boot slide across the concrete, forcing her to grasp his arm to save herself. She felt the taut muscles beneath her fingers, palpable through the rough skin of his jacket, the heat of his body, as just for an instant she was close against him. And then he had stepped back from her, a muscle jerking betrayingly in his cheek.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her face flaming brilliantly. ‘I—I lost my balance.’

      His eyes revealed none of his feelings, but he made a polite gesture towards the house and she was forced to go ahead of him. They walked through the glass-roofed conservatory where her father nurtured his collection of semi-tropical plants, and then in through the kitchen, scented with the smell of roasting meat.

      Mrs Raynor was in the kitchen, and Helen introduced Morgan awkwardly, glad to go on into the living room where Jennifer was showing Susan her collection of pop pictures. Mr Raynor was there, too, lighting his pipe, and he smiled when his daughter came into the room, asking her whether her mother had got the kettle on.

      Morgan came to join them and Helen thankfully took Susan upstairs to show her the sandals she wanted to borrow. But Susan had not been unaware of how long Helen had spent in the garden with her brother, and she was more interested in that than anything else.

      ‘What were you talking about?’ she asked, flopping down carelessly on to Helen’s bed and flicking over the pages of a magazine she found on the bedside table. ‘You looked awfully embarrassed when you came in. What was he saying to you?’

      Helen’s embarrassment was rekindled. ‘We were talking about autumn, if you must know,’ she declared impatiently. ‘Look, do you want to try these sandals on or don’t you?’

      Susan’s expression was resigned, but she obediently pulled off her boot and slipped one of the gold-strapped sandals on to her foot.

      ‘Hmm, nice,’ she agreed critically, turning her foot from side to side. ‘How lucky we both take the same size.’ Then she tossed it off again, and reaching for her boot returned to the attack. ‘I should be careful if I were you anyway,’ she said seriously. ‘Barry was really mad last night, wasn’t he? Jealous as hell!’

      ‘I’m sure your mother wouldn’t approve of you using that kind of language!’ retorted Helen severely, hiding her unwilling anxiety in irritation, but Susan was not subdued.

      ‘You talk like an old maid sometimes, do you know that?’ she demanded. ‘Just because I’m trying to give you a piece of advice, you act like I was a schoolgirl trying to advise the teacher. Well, let me tell you, Helen, I know more about men than you do. You might be older than I am, but emotionally speaking, you’re not even in the running!’

      Helen thrust the sandals into their box and held them out to the younger girl. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Take them. And stop trying to tell me how to run my life.’

      Susan took the box and stood up. ‘All right,’ she said, moving her shoulders indifferently. ‘But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

      ‘Warn me?’ Helen couldn’t let that go, although she knew she would regret it later. ‘Warn me about what?’

      ‘Why, about getting involved with Morgan, of course.’

      ‘Getting involved with Morgan?’ echoed Helen in disbelieving tones. ‘I’m not getting involved with anyone—except Barry.’

      ‘But don’t pretend you wouldn’t like to,’ put in Susan infuriatingly. ‘You’re attracted to Morgan, aren’t you? But you’re wasting your time. He’s married already.’

      ‘I think you’d better go,’ said Helen, controlling her temper with difficulty. ‘And please don’t repeat what you’ve said to me to anyone. To anyone, do you hear?’

      ‘Don’t worry,’ Susan sniffed. ‘I won’t tell Barry, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’

      ‘I’m not afraid of anything,’ retorted Helen coldly, and led the way downstairs again herself.

      Morgan and her parents were drinking coffee in the living room. Jennifer had returned to the study where she was doing her homework, and thankfully Susan went to find her, leaving Helen to face the others on her own. But at least she did not have the ignominy of feeling Susan’s eyes upon her at every turn, and she poured herself some coffee and seated herself almost unnoticed in the corner.

      Morgan was talking about Africa, telling Mr Raynor about the tropical diseases he had to contend with in the course of his work and the advances which had been made in vaccination and inoculation. It was fascinating listening to him describing conditions in an African village, the contrasts between the youths who went to the city to get educated and their parents and grandparents who still lived by the tribal customs which had existed for hundreds of years. He talked of the hostility which still existed in some areas between the so-called white man’s medicine and the medicine men of the tribe, who used ritual magic and herbal remedies to effect their cures.

      ‘But do they get results?’ asked Mr Raynor smiling, as he tapped his pipe against his palm, and Morgan gave a rueful grin.

      ‘Sometimes,’ he conceded honestly. ‘I suppose faith has a lot to do with it, but occasionally some miraculous recovery comes to light. No one knows why. There are times when I’d say that by forcing a sick patient to drink some obnoxious mixture or applying a poultice made out of chicken feathers and God knows what else to an open wound would be fatal; but then I visit the village again and I find this chap going hunting with his brothers and I realise modern medicine has taken another backward step.’

      ‘It