Winds of Enchantment Read Free Page B

you about it some time. By the way,” he inclined his head towards the cottage, “you must watch Bill. He’s getting restless.”
    Her eyes widened, her heart went thump. “No ! ”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “But he’s only been home three months!”
    “Stagnating here doesn’t suit him. He’s too young in lots of ways for inaction.”
    “What can I do?” she appealed.
    “You might—stay with him more. But don’t let him know I’ve said anything. Goodnight, Pat.”
    She wandered back indoors, feeling depressed by what Steve had said, but determined not to show it. In the living-room Bill was sucking at his pipe and staring into the fire, and after a while he began to talk— Monrovia, Calabar, the Ivory Coast. Peanuts, palm oil, morocco leather. The treacherous sandbars, the white houses, the boys, the pests, the storms—and palms, the most graceful tree ever created.
    Pat sat on a cushion, arms clasped round her knees, her chin resting on the top of them. She closed her eyes and almost breathed the sunny, spicy smell of Africa.
    An early frost nipped the last flowers in the garden, and soon the trees were naked and the grass slopes of the cliff assumed a hostile greyness. The sea grew noisy and the continuous whining of the wind around the cottage had a wintry note.
    Picnics and summer parties had ceased long ago, and Pat and her father were a great deal alone. Mostly they were happy together, and on better days they took out the boat. Few people troubled them; Steve was their sole visitor since Pat had stopped going out with Greg Trail, but he had lost the habit of careless banter, and was always careful not to be alone with Pat .
    Then for a few days Bill had a visitor, a trading friend from the Calabar coast who was home on leave. The two men yarned by the hour, and Pat listened, watched her father’s face, and knew that the spell of Africa was upon him again.
    The thaw came, and though it was only the end of January, the lilac buds looked fat and green, and a few hardy lambs appeared with their mothers on the hillside. Pat did not forget the visit of her father’s trading friend, and she felt fingers of apprehension clutch her heart when one morning Bill received a foolscap envelope postmarked in Liverpool. He read slowly, deliberately, then with a long, luxurious exhalation, he said : “Pat, I’m going back to West Africa.”
    She sat very still, staring. “You promised to stay,” she said.
    “I know, kitten, but it’s killing me.”
    “The spring will be here in two months. The weather will improve, Bill—”
    “It’s no good, Pat. I can’t settle here. I never shall. There’s no work here for a man like me and when a man doesn’t work he atrophies. God!” he was smiling, rubbing his hands across his thick chest and round his brown leathery neck. “It’ll be good to smell it all again; the nuts and cotton and copra. The timber rollicking over the torrents, the unmusical chants of the boys.”
    “Did you write to those people in Liverpool?” she asked.
    He nodded. “A few days ago. I knew their West African manager and Carson told me they have a young agent who’s due for leave, so I wrote offering to take over for him. After that ... we’ll see.”
    “I don’t suppose you thought about me.” Pat spoke angrily.
    “Why else have I stayed here so long?” His rough red brows drew together in a frown. “I’ve been trying to decide what’s best for you. Your mother’s people live at Hereford. They’re upper crust like Celia—if I settled a few thousand on you they’d launch you properly .”
    “I’d hate living among strangers,” she said stiffly.
    “But you’re too young to be alone, aren’t you?” he asked reasonably. “You know, there was some sense in what Celia said. She wasn’t far from the truth the other day, when she called me a toping blackguard ... ”
    “That’s a new line to suit your own ends!” Pat accused him, a catch in her voice.
    “You