They’ve been married about six months.”
Lindsey said, “Oh,” and nothing more.
“You’ll like Ivor Roberts, and his wife is a cheery little thing —I had lunch there one day. She’s just the type to share a hut with.”
Afraid of saying “Oh” again, Lindsey made no reply. “You don’t mind, do you?” he enquired. “Roberts suggested it . ”
“If you like them ... ” She let it tail off.
Lindsey would never become accustomed to quick-fire readjustments. She left him there and went into the house, got her book from the dining room and took it into the lounge. For the first time, she couldn’t bear to be alone with Stuart.
He had an appointment next morning, but he was back to lunch, and by two o’clock, when the Roberts arrived in their own laden car, they were ready to start.
The architect was a thickset young Welshman with shaggy brows and a pleasant smile. Gwen, his wife, had thin, bright features and a head of tight curls. Both were older than Lindsey, but younger than Stuart.
“Sorry we haven’t met before,” said Gwen Roberts, in her homely Welsh tones.
“So am I,” replied Lindsey, “but we’ve hardly had time, have we?”
The women smiled at each other. Stuart disguised relief with a laugh, and the cars moved away fro m “Elliotdale” past the final six houses and out into a narrow road between cactus and thorn scrub.
As fa r as the ostrich farm the views were familiar to Lindsey. They had come out several times in the early evening just for the fun of seeing the silly big birds with their families. Ostriches take their parenthood with ludicrous gravity.
Now, the farm left behind, moun tains bestrode the horizon. Fifteen miles in any direction from Port Acland you came across mountains; nothing awe inspiring, but solid chunks of grey-green rock up to six thousand feet high that no one ever bothered to scale. There were bouldered stream beds among the scrub, but no gushing waters, for this was dry country, except after the winter rains.
Trees grew denser and higher; pines, karri and yellow-dusted wattle. An occasional native in old trousers and colorful headcloth either trudged the road or threaded the forest, bound for one of the kraals that were often visible on the lower slopes of the hills. The kraals looked just like the pictures one saw of them, mused Lindsey. Six or eight round grass houses with conical roofs, crazy fencing, a plume or two of smoke, but little other sign of life.
The Groenkops Pass was a great cleft separating two rambling ranges of mountains. For two miles the road wound downward between ever steepening green walls to a bridge over the river. Thereafter, it rose again, very gradually, till one emerged on to a plateau with the mountains left behind.
The two cars turned off at the bridge in the depths of the Pass, and stopped on the grass al ongside the river bed, a wide expanse of rounded boulders among which water trickled in darkling threads. They all got out and stretched, inevitably reached up towards the lacy green walls of their chasm.
“The spring growth has hidden the rondavels.” commented Roberts, “but if we climb this trade we’re sure to find one. Are you girls staying below?”
“Yes; but don’t be long,” said his wife. “I’m dying for my first cup of smoky tea.”
When the men had vanished, Gwen sighed contentedly. “I love coming to Groenkops because it always reminds me of home. More magnificent and lush, but something like it. I was born on a farm near Capel Curig, but I met Ivor down in Cardiff, where we were both studying.”
“Do you miss Wales?”
“Don’t we all miss home? Though I wouldn’t be anywhere but here. Ivor has been in Port Acland two years now. I came out to marry him some months ago. I used to feel sore about things—having to wait to get married and all that. I’m twenty-seven, you know. But it’s been worth the waiting. I shall never want to leave this country. Will you?”
“I don’t
Lindsey said, “Oh,” and nothing more.
“You’ll like Ivor Roberts, and his wife is a cheery little thing —I had lunch there one day. She’s just the type to share a hut with.”
Afraid of saying “Oh” again, Lindsey made no reply. “You don’t mind, do you?” he enquired. “Roberts suggested it . ”
“If you like them ... ” She let it tail off.
Lindsey would never become accustomed to quick-fire readjustments. She left him there and went into the house, got her book from the dining room and took it into the lounge. For the first time, she couldn’t bear to be alone with Stuart.
He had an appointment next morning, but he was back to lunch, and by two o’clock, when the Roberts arrived in their own laden car, they were ready to start.
The architect was a thickset young Welshman with shaggy brows and a pleasant smile. Gwen, his wife, had thin, bright features and a head of tight curls. Both were older than Lindsey, but younger than Stuart.
“Sorry we haven’t met before,” said Gwen Roberts, in her homely Welsh tones.
“So am I,” replied Lindsey, “but we’ve hardly had time, have we?”
The women smiled at each other. Stuart disguised relief with a laugh, and the cars moved away fro m “Elliotdale” past the final six houses and out into a narrow road between cactus and thorn scrub.
As fa r as the ostrich farm the views were familiar to Lindsey. They had come out several times in the early evening just for the fun of seeing the silly big birds with their families. Ostriches take their parenthood with ludicrous gravity.
Now, the farm left behind, moun tains bestrode the horizon. Fifteen miles in any direction from Port Acland you came across mountains; nothing awe inspiring, but solid chunks of grey-green rock up to six thousand feet high that no one ever bothered to scale. There were bouldered stream beds among the scrub, but no gushing waters, for this was dry country, except after the winter rains.
Trees grew denser and higher; pines, karri and yellow-dusted wattle. An occasional native in old trousers and colorful headcloth either trudged the road or threaded the forest, bound for one of the kraals that were often visible on the lower slopes of the hills. The kraals looked just like the pictures one saw of them, mused Lindsey. Six or eight round grass houses with conical roofs, crazy fencing, a plume or two of smoke, but little other sign of life.
The Groenkops Pass was a great cleft separating two rambling ranges of mountains. For two miles the road wound downward between ever steepening green walls to a bridge over the river. Thereafter, it rose again, very gradually, till one emerged on to a plateau with the mountains left behind.
The two cars turned off at the bridge in the depths of the Pass, and stopped on the grass al ongside the river bed, a wide expanse of rounded boulders among which water trickled in darkling threads. They all got out and stretched, inevitably reached up towards the lacy green walls of their chasm.
“The spring growth has hidden the rondavels.” commented Roberts, “but if we climb this trade we’re sure to find one. Are you girls staying below?”
“Yes; but don’t be long,” said his wife. “I’m dying for my first cup of smoky tea.”
When the men had vanished, Gwen sighed contentedly. “I love coming to Groenkops because it always reminds me of home. More magnificent and lush, but something like it. I was born on a farm near Capel Curig, but I met Ivor down in Cardiff, where we were both studying.”
“Do you miss Wales?”
“Don’t we all miss home? Though I wouldn’t be anywhere but here. Ivor has been in Port Acland two years now. I came out to marry him some months ago. I used to feel sore about things—having to wait to get married and all that. I’m twenty-seven, you know. But it’s been worth the waiting. I shall never want to leave this country. Will you?”
“I don’t
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