Mask Of Scars

Hunching her shoulders, Christina looked resentfully after the retreating chauffeur-driven vehicle and then with a characteristic shrug, she again pressed on.

At last the outlying cottages of the village came into view and Christina could not suppress the wave of excitement that enveloped her. It was almost a year since she had last seen her brother and previously they had been very close, not even Sheila’s jealous hostility causing more than a brief ripple on the surface of their friendship.

In his letter Bruce had told her that the Hotel Inglês stood above a small cove. He had said that the whole area was riddled with small coves and rocky promontories giving way to caves and rock-pools when the tide was out. He had said the swimming was excellent and that he himself had taken up snorkelling and skin-diving. He had said the sea was amazingly clear, and looking down on its lucid depths Christina could quite believe it.

Porto Cedro nestled on the side of the cliffs, a market square providing a small bus station and its focal point a stone fountain. The houses around the square were painted in pastel shades with white shutters and deliciously hanging eaves that provided slanting patches of shade on the paths. Some had grilles in wrought iron, and arches, relics of Moorish occupation and influence. There was something faintly eastern about it and Christina found it all very picturesque. Her vivid imagination conjured up scenes of Moorish pirates swarming along these narrow streets swinging cutlasses and carrying off the most beautiful women for their harems.

She smiled to herself suddenly and in so doing attracted the attention of a group of young men passing by so that they spoke to her invitingly in their own language, raising their dark eyebrows and allowing their breath to be expelled in low whistles.

Christina shook her head almost imperceptibly and turned determinedly through a walk between tall dark houses that led to the sea-front, to her relief she saw the sign for the Hotel Inglês almost immediately. Porto Cedro did not sport many hotels, and in fact the Hotel Inglês was little more than a glorified pensao. In the glittering rays of the setting sun, it looked less glamorous somehow than she had imagined it, some of the paintwork peeling in the heat, the tables standing carelessly before it still covered in dirty crockery where someone, tourists possibly, had taken afternoon tea. But for all that she felt a surge of pride that Bruce should have such an establishment, and she walked quickly up the shallow steps and through the screen of hanging plastic beads that protected the hall from the glare of the sun.

The hall was tiled in plastic tiles and there was a small reception desk on which was a bell which indicated its use for attention. But Christina hesitated a moment before pressing it. She wanted to look around and absorb her surroundings before she warned anyone of her arrival.

From the hall, arched doorways led into the dining room and another room which could have been a lounge. To the left was the small bar, deserted at the moment, without even a barman to attend to any customer who might suddenly appear. Everywhere was clean, spotlessly so, and Christina’s spirits rose. It was foolish to allow this ominous feeling of anti-climax to cloud her happiness at being here—with Bruce.

The sound of footsteps coming along the corridor to her right caused her to swing round sharply just as Sheila, her sister-in-law, was beginning: ‘Sinto muito, menina—–’ But she broke off in obvious astonishment as she recognised Christina and her face changed remarkably from smiling welcome to veiled hostility: ‘Christina! In heaven’s name, Christina, what are you doing here?’

Christina felt the first twinges of real anxiety. ‘I—I walked here—from the station at Lagos!’

Sheila shook her head incredulously. ‘But what are you doing here in Portugal? I thought you were at university!’

Christina’s fingers fumbled with the ropes of her duffel bag. ‘I was. It’s the summer vac, Sheila.’

Sheila Ashley spread a hand helplessly. ‘Christina, maybe I’m phrasing my questions badly, or maybe you’re deliberately misunderstanding me, I don’t know, but I want to know why, even if it is the summer vacation, you’re here!’

Christina’s anxieties crystallised into real doubts. ‘Do—do you mean to say—I’m not expected?’ she ventured carefully, her grey eyes never leaving her sister-in-law’s face.

Sheila Ashley was an attractive woman. In her early thirties she had all the poise and elegance of a fashion model. Tall and slim, with sleek dark hair knotted at the back of her head, she had none of the slightly harassed air sometimes visible in the faces of married women, and Christina privately thought that that was because nothing ever moved Sheila. Nothing ever troubled her more than slightly, and as she had no children no disfiguring bulk of pregnancy had ever marred that slender frame. But right now Sheila was disturbed. It was visible in the tightening of her lips, in the narrowing of her dark eyes, in the way she plucked almost nervously at the fine material of her thin dress.

‘How could you be?’ she began now, in answer to Christina’s question. ‘We didn’t even know the term was over.’

Christina felt an overwhelming sense of impatience. It was obvious now. Bruce had not told his wife she was coming. And because she had not written to let him know when she was arriving he had not had a chance to tell her. She should have known that Sheila would be the last person to welcome her young sister-in-law into their home.

But now Christina had to say something, and realising it would serve no useful purpose to explain that Bruce had written to her inviting her to stay and help them with the hotel, she said:

‘I naturally assumed that once the university closed I would be welcome here for a couple of weeks. Now that Father’s dead—–’

‘But you should have let us know you were coming, Christina,’ Sheila burst out. ‘I mean, your father’s been dead ten months now, and you must have realised before the term ended that you would have to find a job of sorts to support yourself now that university’s closed!’

Christina hesitated. ‘Actually, I thought I might help you here, Sheila.’

Sheila’s eyes widened in amazement. ‘You mean—you mean work here—in the hotel!’

‘Yes.’ Christina glanced through the open doorway towards the uncleared tables on the forecourt. ‘Don’t you need some help?’

Sheila was clearly battling within herself now, unable to find any logical reason to reject such a suggestion. ‘We manage,’ she began. ‘There’s not just Bruce and me, you know. Julio serves in the bar in the evenings, and Maria does all the cooking.’

Christina wondered where Bruce could be. Standing here in the hall like this, arguing with Sheila, was hardly the welcome she had envisaged, and she had the distinct feeling that Sheila would send her away without even seeing her brother if she could.

‘Where is Bruce?’ she questioned now. ‘Isn’t he here?’

‘No—yes—that is, he’s out right now.’ Sheila bit her lip. ‘Look, Christina, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but quite honestly you’re not the type to work in the hotel.’ She surveyed Christina’s appearance critically. ‘What on earth could you do?’

‘I can make beds, wash dishes—anything you like.’ Christina sighed. ‘Do you think I could have a cup of tea? I’m terribly thirsty.’

Sheila gave in with ill grace. Short of physically ejecting Christina from the building there was little else she could do. ‘Very well,’ she agreed shortly. ‘Come through here. Our rooms are at the back of the hotel.’

Christina followed her sister-in-law along a white-emulsioned passage to a room at the back of the building which overlooked a walled garden. It was not a big garden, but it was a veritable wilderness of flowers and flowering shrubs. Christina stared out at the confusion in delight, wondering how anyone could allow such beauty to go to waste.

Sheila, noticing her interest, commented off-handedly: ‘We don’t have time to attend to the garden. When Bruce has the time, he’s going to find a gardener.’

Christina thought she might have added, when Bruce can afford it, but she refrained from making any response and dropping her duffel bag and suitcase thankfully, she flung herself into a low basket weave chair. Sheila walked through into a small kitchen, and Christina could hear her filling the kettle and setting cups on saucers. There was a kind of suppressed violence about the way each cup clattered into its place, and Christina sighed, cupping her chin on one hand dejectedly. She had expected antipathy from Sheila, but not to this extent.

Sheila came back into the room. ‘How long did you expect to stay?’ she asked abruptly.

Christina was taken aback. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Of course it matters. Christina, this is Porto Cedro, not the Kings Road! Things are different here. Oh, I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to you, but—well, your ways are so very different from ours. People here are not so—easy-going, as they are back in England. I can’t speak for Portugal as a whole, of course, but here in the Algarve, in Porto Cedro particularly, we observe the codes of conduct that have been upheld here for centuries!’

Christina frowned. ‘Don’t you mean the rules for the Portuguese?’

‘Yes, of course. And as we live here—we make our living in this village—we are expected to conform, too.’

‘You can’t be serious!’ Christina stared at her.

‘Of course I’m serious. That’s why I find your presence here so hard to condone. Christina, you’re a nice girl, and I’ve no doubt in England your attitudes would go unnoticed—–’

‘What do you mean? My attitudes?’ Christina was stung by the scathing note in Sheila’s voice.

‘Well, honestly, dear, one doesn’t wear slacks, let alone jeans, unless one is going sailing, of course. And young women are protected here. They’re not even allowed to mix with their fiancés unless a chaperon is on hand—–’

‘But I’m not Portuguese, Sheila—–’

‘But can’t you see, Christina, I’m trying to explain. When one lives in a country—when one makes one’s living from that country—one is expected to observe the rules,’

‘Rules!’ Christina raised her eyes heavenward. ‘Honestly, Sheila, you can’t expect me to believe that no tourists appear here dressed as I’m dressed. That everyone who visits Porto Cedro observes these so-called rules!’

‘Of course I’m not saying that. As a tourist I suppose you’d go unnoticed. But you’re not a tourist, are you, Christina? You’re Bruce’s sister. And once that gets about, you’ll be expected to behave as we do.’

Christina hunched her shoulders. ‘Why don’t you just say you don’t want me here whatever the circumstances and be done with it?’ she demanded hotly. ‘You don’t really expect me to stomach all that rubbish about my clothes and mixing with the opposite sex—and being protected, do you?’

Sheila stiffened. ‘All right, Christina. As you insist on putting everything in such crude terms, I’ll be honest. I admit I don’t want you here. But regardless of anything I feel personally, the situation remains the same. You simply wouldn’t fit in.’

‘What’s going on here? Christina!’

The male voice that broke into their conversation brought both women up short. Bruce Ashley stood in the doorway, tall and broad and to Christina, dearly familiar. She flung herself out of her chair and across the room into his arms, uncaring what Sheila might think.

Bruce held her closely for a few minutes and then he held her at arm’s length and stared at her as though he could not believe his eyes. ‘Christina! What the hell do you mean by appearing like this? Why didn’t you let me know so that I could meet you? Have you come by air?’