Mask Of Scars

‘But they’re not here!’

‘They will not be long.’ Maria was adamant.

Julio shrugged regretfully. ‘You see,’ he said. ‘It is the way.’

‘Well, it’s not my way,’ exclaimed Christina impatiently. ‘Good heavens, I’m English! Not Portuguese!’

Maria shrugged her ample shoulders. ‘These are not my rules, menina,’ she said.

Julio hesitated by the door. ‘I will see you later in the day, Christina.’

Christina hunched her shoulders. ‘Oh, I suppose so.’

He went out, and after he had gone, Christina moved about restlessly, fingering a plate here, a sauce-pan there, impatient and defiant, and yet unable to take the step that would put her yet again in Sheila’s disfavour, and cause more trouble for Bruce.

Maria put some dirty dishes into the sink and began to run hot water upon them. She glanced round at Christina sympathetically. ‘Why don’t you go for a walk, menina? The village is small. You won’t get lost.’

Christina sighed. ‘I suppose I could.’

‘Of course. And soon your brother will be back from Lagos.’

Christina nodded, and with a smile of resignation she left the kitchen, walking along the hall to the front door. Two men were sitting outside at one of the tables, looking at some maps. They looked up as she passed them, saying something in their own language which she thought was German. But they were older men, well into their forties, and they held no interest for her.

She looked down the road to the harbour. Julio had gone and she presumed he was already down there, and she envied him. On impulse, she walked down the steep road to the harbour and crossing to the wall she looked down on the shingle that edged the jetty now that the tide was out.

She saw Julio and his uncle at once. They were sitting on an upturned boat, having a cigarette before starting work, and Julio, looking up, saw her immediately. He said something to his uncle, who nodded, and then he bounded across the sand to her side. In denim jeans and an openwork sweater of a faded shade of blue, he was very attractive, and she could not help smiling at him.

He looked up at her, leaning on the wall above him and said: ‘What are you doing? Playing truant?’

Christina’s lips parted. ‘I’m tempted. Is that your uncle?’

‘Yes. Come and meet him?’

‘Should I?’

‘Why not?’ Julio’s dark eyes were amused.

‘All right.’ Christina swung her legs over the wall, and Julio lifted her down on to the sand, his fingers lingering a moment longer than was necessary at her waist. She was very conscious of him, too. It was the normal healthy consciousness of any young woman for any young man and she felt no sense of embarrassment now at the warmth in his eyes.

Julio’s uncle was a garrulous old man, but as he spoke mostly in his own language Christina could understand very little. The job of painting his boat seemed of little importance compared with the chance to gossip and time passed swiftly as other fishermen came to be introduced and smiled appreciatively at the attractive young English girl with her mane of corn-gold hair, and long slender legs.

At last Christina was forced to look at her watch and she saw it was already after eleven. ‘I must go,’ she said to Julio quickly, and he nodded.

‘I’ll walk back with you,’ he said. ‘Surely my mother will see no harm in that.’

As the road flattened out at the head of the slope from the harbour, Christina saw a huge car outside her brother’s hotel, and parked a little ahead of it, the Land-Rover.

‘Your brother has visitors,’ remarked Julio dryly, and Christina felt her nerves stretch a little. The black limousine was familiar. It was the car which had passed her the day before on the road from Lagos. The car with the insignia on the side; the car which belonged to … She swallowed hard. He had not actually said it was his car, but …

Julio noticed her anxious expression, and smiled. ‘Do not look so anxious, Christina. It is merely the car of your brother’s—how do you say it—dono, senhorio?’

Christina frowned. ‘You mean—Bruce’s landlord?’

‘Ah, sim, that is the word I have heard Senhor Ashley use. Landlord!’

Christina’s nerves tightened. ‘But what is he doing here?’

Julio shrugged. ‘Who knows? Is it importante?’

‘I suppose not.’ Christina stiffened her shoulders and bidding Julio goodbye she crossed the road and walked past the magnificent Mercedes with its insignia and crest, the words of which she could read now: Fiel ate Morte—Faithful until Death.

The hall of the hotel was shadowy after the brilliance of the sunlight outside, but she could hear voices in the lounge. She would have liked to have walked straight past, but Bruce had seen her shadow and he came to the door of the lounge and said: ‘Come in, Christina. We were beginning to think you’d disappeared again.’

Christina hesitated in the doorway of the lounge, but the man who was standing in the middle of the floor talking to Sheila was not the scarred man she had met on the beach the night before. He was an older man, fifty at least, with greying dark hair, and rather nice brown eyes. He wore a dark uniform however, and carried a flat hat, and Christina realised that he was the chauffeur. Would he recognise her?

Bruce smiled at his sister now, and said: ‘This is Alfredo Seguin, Christina. Alfredo, I’d like to introduce you to my sister. She’s come to stay with us for a while.’

Alfredo Seguin looked at Christina and for a moment something flickered in the depths of his eyes, and then he smiled and said: ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Ashley. I hope you will enjoy your stay in the Algarve.’

‘Thank you.’ Christina’s reply was stilted.

‘And now I must be going.’ Alfredo was reluctant. ‘Thank you for that most excellent coffee, Mrs. Ashley. Ate logo, Miss Ashley—senhor!’

Bruce escorted the man to the door and Christina stood for a moment looking after them, biting her lips. Sheila, unaware of her sister-in-law’s discomposure, said: ‘Where have you been this morning?’

Christina gathered her scattered thoughts. ‘Oh—er—just down to the harbour,’ she replied honestly. ‘Who—who was that man?’

‘Alfredo Seguin? He’s chauffeur to Dom Carlos.’

‘Dom Carlos?’ Christina repeated the words slowly.

‘Dom Carlos Martinho Duarte de Ramirez, to be exact,’ said Bruce ceremoniously, from behind them. ‘Lord of all he surveys, and that includes the Hotel Inglês!’

Christina managed a smile. ‘I see.’

‘Not that you’re likely to meet Dom Carlos,’ remarked Sheila carelessly. ‘Alfredo, and another man—his estate manager, Jorge Vicente—they usually attend to his business affairs.’

Bruce glanced at his watch. ‘Time for coffee?’ he suggested.

‘You’ve just had coffee!’ stated Sheila coolly.

‘But Christina hasn’t. And I could surely drink some more of that most excellent beverage,’ her husband mocked her gently, using Alfredo’s words.

Sheila smiled faintly. It was the nearest she had come to good humour in Christina’s presence, and Christina felt an overwhelming sense of relief that some things at least were improving. After Sheila had left them, Bruce said: ‘Where did you go this morning, Christina?’

‘I walked down to the harbour. Tell me something, Bruce, this man—this Dom Carlos—where does he live?’

Bruce frowned. ‘Why?’