Heat Wave

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Philippa had come out to Malaya five years ago, full of ideals, to marry George March. And for five years they have been `happily married? ? Philippa would never `fool around? like the other bored planters? wives in Khota. In the club, where hypocritical gossip abounded, it never touched Philippa March. Until that night when Hugh Dawltry, handsome, mysterious, flirtatious Hugh, tells her he loves her. She knows Hugh?s reputation as a libertine, knows that she should feel nothing for him. Soon, however, she begins to notice some disturbing things about George, about their marriage. Soon, Philippa realizes that she is head over heels in love with Hugh, but that duty must keep her trapped in marriage to a vicious, pompous bore. The Heat Wave has begun, tearing a woman?s heart in two?

Release date: December 12, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 192

Sample

‘Why don’t you make love to me nicely, Hugh?’ asked Lola Wilson plaintively.

‘Because, my dear,’ said Hugh, ‘I’m not very nice and I don’t know how to make love.’

‘That’s absurd,’ said Lola, ‘when you’re the most noted cave-man in Khota.’

Hugh Dawltry looked at his companion. He then looked at the whiskey-and-soda which his bearer had just placed on the table beside him. He grabbed it and drained the glass.

‘Oh, Lord!’ he said. ‘I may deserve criticism from you, Lola, but I don’t deserve that. Don’t call me a cave-man again or I must in self-defence end our friendship.’

Lola Wilson laughed rather nervously. She then sighed and became plaintive again.

‘Hugh, you’re such a difficult man to understand. I value your friendship, but I do want …’

‘To be flattered and petted. I’m not your man.’

‘Don’t be horrid. You know what I mean. I want your love. I’m quite honest about it.’

‘For which I respect you, my dear. Honesty is the one virtue I admire in others because I try to practise it myself. I’ve always been honest with you.’

‘You’re difficult to understand,’ she said again.

‘Why won’t a woman ever accept the truth from a man for what it’s worth and like him for it? Why must you hanker for the insincere protests of adoration that any glib Lothario can pour out by the hour?’

‘It can’t hurt a man to be generous in his love-making, to say pretty things, instead of being so blunt, so terribly honest as you are, Hugh.’

‘No, it can’t hurt a man, but it may hurt the woman very badly.’

‘Why? It should please her.’

‘For the moment, Lola. Later on, when her voluble lover is sick of her and confesses that he never meant a thing he said, she whines: “Why couldn’t you have been frank?” No. In my youth I was hurt like that. I believed all a delightful lady told me about my charm and intelligence. She let me down. I resolved then never to show an admiration or passion I didn’t genuinely feel.’

Lola Wilson looked at him with a mixture of perplexity and exasperation in her eyes. She finished her cocktail, rose from her chair, and perched on the arm of the long chair in which Hugh Dawltry’s long, lean figure was stretched luxuriously.

‘That may be fine and good,’ she said, ‘but how does one know when one’s passions are genuine?’

‘One can’t know,’ he said, ‘until the years have proved it. Therefore, my motto … say nothing until you are sure.’

‘Hugh, you do make pretty speeches sometimes.’

‘Of course I do, for a jest, my dear old thing. I told Mrs Wey-Smith at the Club yesterday that she had the most thrilling way of fluttering her eyelashes.’

‘Hugh, you are ridiculous. She is well over forty and the ugliest woman in Khota.’

‘Exactly. It is safe, therefore, to frivol with her – in public. Not in private, mark you!’

‘You frivol with me in private sometimes, Hugh,’ said Lola, looking down at him wistfully.

Her arm was around his shoulders, his smooth, dark head rested lightly against her. He looked up at her and gave one of his queer, quick smiles, which were bitter rather than humorous.

‘Of course I do. We understand each other, my dear. You may say I’m difficult, but you do know me, really, quite well. And I like you when you don’t start complaining about my honesty.’

The woman leaned down and put her cheek against his.

‘Hugh – if only you’d say …’

‘That I love you? My dear, but I don’t. I want you. That’s different.’

He put an arm about her waist and pulled her down across his knees. She was small, thin, and light, with hair that had been true golden and was now bleached; rather lifeless. She wore it bobbed; cut in a straight fringe across her forehead. She looked rather like a page. She had lived out East for ten years, and her skin had lost its bloom and become brown. She had not led what might be called the ‘life of a good woman.’ There were tired lines dragging down lips that were over-red and around eyes still beautiful – an amazing blue in the brown face. But she looked ten years younger than her age which was thirty-five.

In Khota, one of those lonely outposts of the British Empire ‘somewhere East of Suez,’ where lived a narrow-minded, curiously bigoted and conservative community of planters and their wives, Lola Wilson was ‘taboo.’ She was not seen in the Gymkhana Club. She was not asked to the nice little dinner-parties held by the virtuous wives in their virtuous bungalows. But she was frequently to be seen in the bazaar, or at a polo-match, where anyone might steal unasked to the fringe of Khota society. And at many a lone bachelor’s party she was an asset, because she was pretty and gay and amusing and a fellow need not be afraid of the marriage-trap. Lola didn’t expect to be married.

Ten years ago she had come out here, quite a decent girl, as governess to the children of a worthy planter with a nagging wife. He had seduced Lola, and they had been cast out together. Later, after the divorce, he had married Lola, and then died of drink and malaria.

Lola had never really loved him and did not particularly regret him. She had very little money and nobody had helped her to get home, so she stayed out in Khota, and, being clever with her needle, did a little dressmaking to keep body and soul together. The virtuous wives of the district came to little Mrs Wilson’s bungalow when they wanted a cheap frock. But for no other reason, because she wasn’t ‘quite nice.’

The years slipped by and she was still out here – getting passé but still ‘good fun,’ and never lacking an admirer, because her eyes were so very blue and her outlook so very broad. She tried not to give herself time to remember how much she wanted a domesticated life and a couple of babies and a man who cared about her mind instead of her body – just for a change.

She had known Hugh Dawltry ever since he had bought this plantation in Khota, five years ago. She had fallen in love with him – badly in love for Lola; perhaps truly in love for the first time in her life. But, then, Hugh was different from any other man she had ever met. She complained about his honesty and his bluntness and adored him for it. He talked to her. Most men didn’t bother to talk to Lola. They wanted to kiss her or dance with her or buy her a new pair of silk pyjamas, because, with her bleached, page-boy’s head, she looked rather a fascinating kid.

It was nice to find a man who was quite content with a discussion and a drink. Hugh never treated her contemptuously, either. In her fashion she was honest; at least she was without hypocrisy; and he liked her for that. It didn’t matter to him that the good women of Khota avoided her. The good men avoided him. They were quits there. He held the reputation of having no morals and drinking like a fish.

Tales of the orgies held in Hugh Dawltry’s bungalow circulated through Khota. He didn’t care. Lola Wilson, who had her entrée here of late, knew better than most people that the ‘orgies’ were few and far between – that Hugh Dawltry led the loneliest life of any planter out here. He seemed to enjoy solitude. If he drank, it was because he thought too deeply when he was sober. His thoughts were painful ones. He tried to avoid the pain of them.

He never discussed the one particular thought that hurt, with Lola. She, being wise, asked no questions. But she fancied she knew. He was in love with Philippa March – the wife of a planter who came out here at the same time as Hugh. Mrs March didn’t know about it. But Hugh Dawltry had loved her for those five years with an almost grim determination in the face of apparent futility.

Lola, who had loved Hugh with equal futility, pitied him more than she pitied herself. She had had more of Hugh than he could ever have of Philippa March, whose virtue was hidebound, and who believed in the sacredness of the marriage-tie.

A year ago Lola Wilson had given up pretending that no man mattered to her. She had come frankly to this bungalow one night and told Hugh Dawltry that she loved him.

He – more than usually lonely; depressed after a bout of fever; sick of whiskey and in need of forgetfulness – was kinder than Lola had thought he would be. But when he took her in his arms and she clung to him, offering herself with an unselfish fervour, curiously touching from one who had every right to be cynical, he had been frank.

‘I don’t love you, Lola. You know that. But I need you at the moment. I may often need you. On the other hand, I may tell you to go to the devil. I’m a moody swine. And I can’t pretend …’

She had understood, and asked him to take her. She was willing to risk his bad moods.

During these last twelve months of their intimacy she had never found him cruel. Only caustic; always frank; more often than not, friendly. Lola adored that, because friendliness was rare. But, being true woman, she could never quite resign herself to the fact that he did not love her, or would never love her.

For the last fortnight he had been in one of his most difficult moods. Remote. Inaccessible. He had not wanted her and she had not come, knowing that she would only keep him if she stayed away until he sent for her.

This afternoon one of his boys had brought her the message that he would be in at five if she wanted a cocktail.

She found him looking ill and harassed. She had heard rumours in Khota that he was receiving medical attention from Dr Muir, Khota’s Scottish M.O. But her anxious questioning had only met with flippancy.

‘The bottle, my child. Too much alcohol. A go of fever. The doc wants me to go home. And a good many other fellows in Khota want the same thing. They’re after my plantation. But I’m not going until I want to, and that’s not now.’

Lying across his knees, Lola Wilson looked up into his face and wished that he didn’t mean so much to her. Ill he looked, certainly. But it was an attractive face. Lean, brown, a little saturnine, with a thin mouth that had a queer, crooked twist to one side; and remarkable eyes, darkish hazel with drooping lids that gave him a look of indolence and secretiveness. But Hugh Dawltry, fundamentally, was not a lazy man. He was quick, intelligent, and full of resources, both mental and physical. At twenty-six he had been in the Indian Army, one of the finest polo-players in the regiment. To-day, at thirty-six, he still retained a good deal of grace and vitality, but he was drinking and smoking too much. The handsome eyes were not so clear, and his hand never very steady.

He had chucked the Army and left India soon after the war because the death of his father, up to his ears in debt, had left him without the money necessary to an officer in the Indian cavalry. Five years ago he had bought a rubber plantation in Khota; worked on it with unflagging activity because he was like that when a thing interested him. But, once the plantation became an established, paying proposition, interest subsided. Hugh subsided. He admitted there was no lazier fellow in Khota to-day.

Now he was bored. He looked so bored this afternoon that Lola became peevish, which was unlike her.

‘Nobody would think you want me, Hugh,’ she said.

He passed a hand over her hair and ruffled it.

‘You’re full of complaints this afternoon, aren’t you?’

She caught the wandering hand and held it tightly between her own. His fingers were like iron, she thought, and as thin as they were hard. Men either got fat or lean in this climate, and Hugh belonged to the lean kind.

‘Be nice to me, Hugh,’ she said. ‘I feel rottenly depressed.’

‘What, you? Where’s my cheerful Lola?’

‘I’m not your Lola at all. That what upsets me.’

‘Come, come you mustn’t start that all over again, my dear. You know the position as well as I do.’

‘Sometimes I can’t stand it, Hugh.’

The slight body on his lap was trembling. She was dangerously near tears. Hugh gave her a critical look, then pushed her gently on to her feet and stood up.

‘Stick a record on the gramophone, Lola, and be good, there’s a dear. It’s too hot for emotional arguments.’

She clutched his hand feverishly.

‘Be nice to me, Hugh.’

‘I am nice.’

‘Nicer than that. You said just now that you wanted me.’

‘So I do.’

‘You’re being irritating this afternoon …’ She tried to laugh. The tears were squeezed back because there was a look in his eyes, now, that warned her not to be foolish.

‘You make me irritable when you start futile arguments about our relationship. You are not really my Lola, because I never pretend to be possessive; and, as I expect to be free as the air myself, I like others to feel equally free. I never bind a soul. I won’t be bound. We have some very jolly times together and you’re much too nice to me. But there can’t be anything further. I’m a selfish brute. Kiss me.’

His arms went round her. He was tall and she had to stand on the tips of her toes before her head reached his chin. She locked her hands about his neck. He kissed her with passion. But it was a fleeting passion which flickered out and gave place to a flippancy bound to destroy any woman! It destroyed this woman who was so unhappily in love with him; possessed by him and yet knew herself nothing to him.

‘It’s much too hot for love,’ he said, drawing away from her. ‘Let’s wait for the sun to go down, for God’s sake. Punkah coolie! Where the hell’s that boy?’

He walked to the veranda and clapped his hands. Lola Wilson pulled herself together; turned to the table, picked up her bag, and drew out a powder-puff She powdered a tear-stained face and endeavoured to acquire the control necessary to a woman if she would have even a moment of passion with Hugh Dawltry. But there was something akin to agony in her eyes when she lifted them from her mirror to the figure of the man which stood out like a white statue, against a cobalt sky. The torture of loving Hugh Dawltry! Sometimes it nearly killed her. She wondered if he felt this way about Philippa March. She was full of envy for the woman whom Hugh, the remote and inaccessible, had adored for five long years without reward. Envy and amaze. For it amazed Lola that Philippa seemed to like that husband of hers. George March, a pompous, priggish mule of a man!

She longed to ask Hugh about Philippa and dared not. She had not dared mention that name to him since the day, a long time ago now, when she had inadvisedly suggested that Mrs March was a prude.

He had become terribly remote, then; given her a smile that made her curl up, and said:

‘We won’t discuss Mrs March, Lola. Neither of us knows enough about prudes.’

That had hurt her. But he had meant it. And she had realized how hotly her criticism of Philippa March had been resented by him. That could only mean one thing. That he loved Philippa. And now Lola knew it was so.

She looked round the room. Hugh’s living-room. Typical of a bachelor: plenty of drinks, cigarettes, books; only one photograph – a polo-pony. Hugh’s favourite animal, which he had left behind in India when he resigned his commission. About the only living thing he regretted. There were certain luxuries here, however, proving him not altogether spartan – low, comfortable chairs, cushions, flowers on the table.

There were always flowers. Lola had noticed that. Hugh had a fetish about arranging them himself and became irritable if they were touched. She never touched them or asked to be allowed to change them. And she never quite understood the flowers or his feeling for them. He was such a queer mixture.

The doorway leading on to the veranda was always open. One could see the hard blue of the sky; the pale grey-green of rubber-trees on the plantation; the darker, glossier green of palms in the garden which was a tangled riot of flowers. Hugh never bothered about cultivating a formal garden. He preferred the wild tangle. Nobody ever walked in the garden until after dark. It was much too hot; blazing hot. Hours and hours of blistering heat that made one feel languid, dripping, half-dead. A rotten, enervating climate.

A grave Mussulman, with a bearded benevolent face, appeared in answer to Hugh’s summons, and salaamed. He was Hugh’s bearer who had come with him from India and served him with a loyalty and devotion to which Hugh was not impervious.

‘Where’s that damned punkah coolie, Bahadur Khan?’ he said.

‘He will come at once, sahib,’ said the man.

‘And bring me another bottle of whiskey.’

‘Yes, sahib.’

The man retired. Immediately the punkah began to flap monotonously overhead. Hugh drew a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. He turned back to Lola.

‘Run home, there’s a good girl. I’ve a damned awful head again. I’m going to have a bath and then look in at the Club.’

Lola made no answer. But she looked at the empty bottle on the table. Hugh followed her gaze. He smiled.

‘You think that’s my trouble, eh? Perhaps. But it’s kindly stuff, Lola. It puts an end to these soul-searchings which only fill one with gloom.’

Lola put on a hat. She walked up to him and lifted a wistful face.

‘Well, I’ll get along. I’m afraid we haven’t had a very successful tête-à-tête. I didn’t think it would be a success, somehow. You’ve changed. You haven’t wanted me so much lately.’

‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ he said. He bent and touched her forehead with his lips. ‘I know I’m impossible.’

‘If there’s anyone else …’

‘I’m not by nature promiscuous, in spite of my reputation.’

His voice was a trifle sharp. She read dismissal. In her heart, by every instinct, she felt they were nearing the finale of their frank affair which had never had any gilt on it. She was profoundly unhappy, but she knew better than to show it. She turned away and said lightly:

‘Well, so long, Hugh. Don’t break too many hearts at the Club.’

‘The hearts at the Club, my dear Lola, are too sophisticated and hard-boiled to break.’

Lola looked at him over her shoulder as she went out on to the veranda. He was toying with his empty glass as though impatient for the bearer to bring in the fresh bottle of whiskey.

‘He’s awfully miserable, too,’ she thought. ‘If only he loved me …’

She managed to give him a bright smile.

‘What about that new little girl who’s just come to Khota? Nineteen, very pretty and susceptible.’

‘If you mean Irene March,’ said Hugh, without looking up from his glass, ‘no thanks, my dear. I’m not a seducer of children, and I don’t suppose she wants attention from me. She’s got young Fayne rushing round her.’

‘Fayne’s a nice boy, but he isn’t you, Hugh.’

‘Rot! I’m the bad hat of the district. More often sozzled than not. Don’t be silly, Lola. Even if the little Irene looked at me, there’s her brother. George March keeps his women under observation. A stout fellar! No. I shall not break Rene March’s heart. Bye-bye, Lola.’

Lola read sarcasm in what he had said. She supposed that he included Philippa when he talked about George March’s ‘women.’ George March kept her under observation. Or was she so virtuous that she needed no vigilant, husbandly eye?

Lola went away.

Hugh Dawltry sat down in his long chair again; crossed his legs; put a handkerchief across his eyes; sighed heavily. He was glad Lola had gone. Poor Lola! Kind little soul. A generous lover. But he didn’t want her any more. He didn’t want any woman – except Philippa March. And he had never so much as touched her finger-tips.

‘“I cried for madder music, stronger wine,”’ Hugh quoted softly to himself. ‘“Hoping to put thy pale, lost lilies out of sight … then falls thy shadow, Cynara” … no, Philippa … “and the night is thine!”’

He broke off and laughed. He pushed the handkerchief away from his eyes.. . .