Absent in the Spring

She glanced down at her wrist watch. Half past ten. No point in walking too far—especially (she smiled) as there was nowhere to walk to.

She looked over her shoulder. Extraordinary, the rest house was nearly out of sight. It had settled down into the landscape so that you hardly saw it. She thought, I must be careful not to walk too far. I might get lost.

A ridiculous idea—no—perhaps not so ridiculous after all. Those hills in the distance, you could hardly see them now—they were indistinguishable from cloud. The station didn’t exist.

Joan looked round her with appreciation. Nothing. No one.

She dropped gracefully to the ground. Opening her bag she took out her writing pad and her fountain pen. She’d write a few letters. It would be amusing to pass on her sensations.

Who should she write to? Lionel West? Janet Annesmore? Dorothea? On the whole, perhaps, Janet.

She unscrewed the cap of her fountain pen. In her easy flowing handwriting she began to write:

Dearest Janet: You’ll never guess where I’m writing this letter! In the middle of the desert. I’m marooned here between trains—they only go three times a week.

There’s a rest house with an Indian in charge of it and a lot of hens and some peculiar looking Arabs and me. There’s no one to talk to and nothing to do. I can’t tell you how I am enjoying it.

The desert air is wonderful—so incredibly fresh. And the stillness, you’d have to feel it to understand. It’s as though for the first time for years I could hear myself think! One leads such a dreadfully busy life, always rushing from one thing to the other. It can’t be helped, I suppose, but one ought really to make time for intervals of thought and recuperation.

I’ve only been here half a day but I feel miles better already. No people. I never realized how much I wanted to get away from people. It’s soothing to the nerves to know that all round you for hundreds of miles there’s nothing but sand and sun …

Joan’s pen flowed on, evenly, over the paper.

CHAPTER 3 (#u624afea6-250e-55a7-b1b7-c0f166fb8c7b)

Joan stopped writing and glanced at her watch.

A quarter past twelve.

She had written three letters and her pen had now run out of ink. She noted, too, that she had nearly finished her writing pad. Rather annoying, that. There were several more people she could have written to.

Although, she mused, there was a certain sameness in writing after a while … The sun and the sand and how lovely it was to have time to rest and think! All quite true—but one got tired of trying to phrase the same facts slightly differently each time …

She yawned. The sun had really made her feel quite sleepy. After lunch she would lie on her bed and have a sleep.

She got up and strolled slowly back towards the rest house.

She wondered what Blanche was doing now. She must have reached Baghdad—she had joined her husband. The husband sounded rather a dreadful kind of man. Poor Blanche—dreadful to come down in the world like that. If it hadn’t been for that very good-looking young vet, Harry Marston—if Blanche had met some nice man like Rodney. Blanche herself had said how charming Rodney was.

Yes, and Blanche had said something else. What was it? Something about Rodney’s having a roving eye. Such a common expression—and quite untrue! Quite untrue! Rodney had never—never once—

The same thought as before, but not so snakelike in its rapidity, passed across the surface of Joan’s mind.

The Randolph girl …

Really, thought Joan indignantly, walking suddenly just a little faster as though to outpace some unwelcome thought, I can’t imagine why I keep thinking of the Randolph girl. It’s not as though Rodney …

I mean, there’s nothing in it …

Nothing at all …

It was simply that Myrna Randolph was that kind of a girl. A big, dark, luscious-looking girl. A girl who, if she took a fancy to a man, didn’t seem to have any reticence about advertising the fact.

To speak plainly, she’d made a dead set at Rodney. Kept saying how wonderful he was. Always wanted him for a partner at tennis. Had even got a habit of sitting at parties devouring him with her eyes.

Naturally Rodney had been a little flattered. Any man would have been. In fact, it would have been quite ridiculous if Rodney hadn’t been flattered and pleased by the attentions of a girl years younger than he was and one of the best-looking girls in the town.

Joan thought to herself, if I hadn’t been clever and tactful about the whole thing …

She reviewed her conduct with a gentle glow of self-approbation. She had handled the situation very well—very well indeed. The light touch.

‘Your girl friend’s waiting for you, Rodney. Don’t keep her waiting … Myrna Randolph of course … Oh yes, she is, darling … Really she makes herself quite ridiculous sometimes.’

Rodney had grumbled.

‘I don’t want to play tennis with the girl. Put her in that other set.’

‘Now don’t be ungracious, Rodney. You must play with her.’

That was the right way to handle things—lightly—playfully. Showing quite well that she knew that there couldn’t be anything serious in it …

It must have been rather nice for Rodney—for all that he growled and pretended to be annoyed. Myrna Randolph was the kind of girl that practically every man found attractive. She was capricious and treated her admirers with deep contempt, saying rude things to them and then beckoning them back to her with a sideways glance of the eyes.

Really, thought Joan (with a heat that was unusual in her) a most detestable girl. Doing everything she could to break up my married life.

No, she didn’t blame Rodney. She blamed the girl. Men were so easily flattered. And Rodney had been married then about—what—ten years? Eleven? Ten years was what writers called a dangerous period in married life. A time when one or the other party had a tendency to run off the rails. A time to get through warily until you settled down beyond it into comfortable, set ways.

As she and Rodney had …

No she didn’t blame Rodney—not even for that kiss she had surprised.

Under the mistletoe indeed!

That was what the girl had had the impudence to say when she came into the study.

‘We’re christening the mistletoe, Mrs Scudamore. Hope you don’t mind.’

Well, Joan thought, I kept my head and didn’t show anything.

‘Now, hands off my husband, Myrna! Go and find some young man of your own.’

And she had laughingly chivvied Myrna out of the room. Taking it all as a joke.

And then Rodney had said, ‘Sorry, Joan. But she’s an attractive wench—and it’s Christmas time.’

He had stood there smiling at her, apologizing, but not looking really sheepish or upset. It showed that the thing hadn’t really gone far.

And it shouldn’t go any farther! She had made up her mind to that. She had taken every care to keep Rodney out of Myrna Randolph’s way. And the following Easter Myrna had got engaged to the Arlington boy.