by Anne Hampson
‘A good idea. My advice is for him to buy at once because, for one thing, he would have one of the finest views on the island.’ Shara nodded, making a mental note to tell Gilbert what Carl advised, and Carl went on with what he was saying. Shara learned that over the years he had added to his lands, buying more citrus groves in Famagusta and Morphou, although these former were a long way from the town itself. Finally he had decided to bottle and can his own fruit and he was even now in the process of extending the factory, which was on the outskirts of Nicosia.
‘You must be very proud of your achievement.’ The soft grey eyes were wide with admiration as they met Carl’s across the table; he nodded, an automatic gesture as, picking up his glass, he drank deeply of its contents. He became far away; she wondered if he were with his lost wife, and this trend of thought led naturally to Gilbert’s assertion that the marriage had not provided Carl with the fulfilment necessary for the complete erasure of jus past unhappiness. ‘How long have you had this lovely house?’ she asked, impelled as before to draw him from his distant mood.
‘Just two years - at least, it’s two years since I moved in. It took almost a year to transform it from a near ruin to what it is now.’
‘So - so Alison never had the pleasure of it.’ Shara hadn’t meant to bring Alison into the conversation and as she spoke her voice fell to a whisper and finally quavered off into silence as she watched for a change in his expression. He merely shook his head and replied, in a rather flat tone that gave no indication of his thoughts, ‘Alison didn’t live to enjoy the pleasure of having any of the comforts money can buy. She had all the struggles and none of the rewards.’ He was staring ahead to where the sun was cut in two by the rim of the earth. Above the half-sphere the sky was spread with a panoply of colour from brilliant flame through to bronze and amber and soft translucent gold. Shara gave a small sigh; she hadn't realized it was audible until he turned his head, lifting an eyebrow in a gesture of interrogation. ‘I — I feel ... sad,’ was all she could find to say, and she avoided his gaze, picking up her glass and staring into its sparkling contents, overcome by a sense of guilt that was not hers at all. Carl stirred in his chair, then leant back. After a long interval of silence Shara glanced up. No bitterness to mar his expression; just an enigmatic countenance which hid his thoughts as effectively as any mask.
‘It’s all in the past, Shara,’ he murmured at length. And as Yanni, his manservant, appeared at that moment to announce that dinner was ready no more was said on the matter.
CHAPTER FIVE
THEY came in from the flower-bedecked arcaded verandah to the high, cane-ceilinged dining-room, from the flaring saffron sunset to the mellow glow of candles which, in silver candlesticks, adorned the centre of the table. Perfumed flowers added an exotic air of romance to the setting and from a corner of the room quiet bouzouki music drifted out from the record-player installed in a beautiful antique, hand-carved cabinet. Massive arches spanned the room at either end; Persian carpets covered the floor and exquisite tapestries adorned the walls. Here was culture and gracious living, the complete absence of such things as statues and ikons being manifestations of an enlightened Western existence.
The room was cool as they entered and, turning involuntarily to inquire if she were cold, Carl brushed so hard against her that instinctively his hands shot out to grab hold of her, as he obviously feared she would overbalance and fall.
‘I’m so sorry. ...’ His voice faded as she looked up into his face, her lovely lips parted, her eyes glowing as if to draw the attention of his own ... and reveal their owner’s secret. ‘Shara. ...’ So soft the name, like the breath of the sighing wind as it caressed the trees’ green foliage on a balmy summer night. He bent his head; she saw the flash of grey at his temples, felt his cool clean breath on her cheek and she closed her eyes, waiting for the kiss she knew he meant to press on her eager lips, ‘Shara my dear
- I’m awfully sorry, I almost knocked you over.’ The words were spoken so abruptly that they acted on her like a douche of icy cold water and she started visibly, opening her eyes to see on his face an expression suggestive of guilt, of self-condemnation. What did it mean? It would almost appear that he regarded her as a true sister, a blood relation, and that what he had contemplated was an unforgivable sin. He had drawn apart from her; she still felt the warmth his hands had left on her arms, still felt the lean hardness of his body as it came close to hers for that one brief interlude of expectancy. He was still looking at her, faintly bewildered now, as if he had committed a lapse which was beyond his own comprehension. ‘I was about to ask if you were cold? If so we can have the fire lighted at once.’
She shook her head, feeling depressed as a sort of bitter disenchantment swept through her.
‘No, Carl, I’m not in the least cold.’ And she managed to smile as if nothing unusual had happened. Yet throughout the meal she could not get the incident out of her mind. And in the end she reached the conclusion that Carl had not been intending to kiss her at all, but that she had imagined everything, even to the strange expression on his face - the guilt and self-condemnation, and finally the bewilderment which he had at the time appeared to evince. Having effectively dismissed the matter Shara was able to adopt a freer attitude with Carl and when, after dinner, they took their coffee outside on the terrace, their conversation was light but interesting, the atmosphere warm and friendly, and if Carl had noticed any strain in her manner towards him during dinner then he chose to act as if it had not occurred at all.
‘Have you been invited to any village weddings yet?’ asked Carl, breaking a lull in the conversation.
‘There were two invitations when we arrived home. We haven’t even met the parties concerned,’ she added with a laugh.
‘They invite everyone; it’s because they’re so friendly. They wouldn’t dream of leaving you and Gilbert out.’ ‘Dick told us something of the sort. He said they often have a thousand guests.’
‘That’s absolutely correct, they do. Everyone’s re
but of course it was said in the nicest way.
‘That’s absolutely correct, they do. Everyone’s related, you see.’
‘Just imagine having all those relations,’ she murmured, a pensive note creeping into her voice. ‘You’d never feel alone.’
‘No, Shara, you’d never feel alone.’ He too appeared pensive and Shara wished she had not voiced the thought which had entered her mind when Carl spoke about all the villagers being related. He had been alone in his childhood, unwanted by his parents and too filled with resentment for his ‘sister’ to make any attempt at building up a friendship with her. For a brief interlude of four years he had a companion, and then he was alone again -except for the baby left to him by his young wife. Four years out of thirty ... it was so very little. Shara’s thoughts switched and she saw her own life - pampered daughter of parents who had remained wrapped up in one another right to the end.
She too had been lonely and alone, living in a small flat after the death of her adoptive parents, and working in an office. Only after coming to work for Gilbert had her life changed, for right from the start he had concerned himself with her welfare and, because of the nature of her job, she had never since felt alone. Within three months of going to work for Gilbert she was abroad, and she not only shared his work, but she shared his social life too. He advised her to give up the flat rather than pay rent during her long periods of absence from England. When they were home she could live in his house, he said, and so it became almost a father and daughter relationship rather than that of employer and employee. Yes, she mused, she had been more fortunate than Carl in one way, simply because she had someone there to whom she could turn if things went wrong. On the other hand, Carl did have his daughter, who was of his own flesh and blood. Nevertheless, he was still very much alone, and this in itself must give him time to dwell on the past and to remember how his lot had differed so vastly from that of his friends.
Her musings brought
a tender light to her eyes as compassion rose, and, glancing across at Carl, she surprised that same curious expression which she had noticed earlier, that expression of regret which for some quite inconceivable reason she had felt was connected with the present and not, as would have been expected, with the past. But his face changed instantly and one of his infrequent smiles broke; she was filled with an awareness of his physical attraction, knew she should raise a barrier of caution but made no attempt to do so as
she responded to his smile.
‘I think it’s time I was leaving.’ She spoke the words reluctantly an hour or so later on glancing at her wrist watch. They had remained out on the terrace, as the atmosphere was balmy and warm, the violet dusk having long since melted into the mothy darkness of an Eastern night. The ice-pale moon, suspended in an amethyst star-studded sky, diffused its radiance over the drowsy landscape, bringing the trees into sharp relief against the lustrous vault of the heavens. It was a magical night, hushed and holy, filled with scents and solitude and, for Shara, with dreams distant and elusive....
‘Yes,’ agreed Carl, preparing to rise, ‘it’s getting late. I’ll walk home with you. ’
‘It’s all right, Carl; there’s really no need. A girl feels quite safe walking at night. That’s one of the lovely things about the island - you have so little crime.’ ‘Practically none at all. We must be about the most law-abiding people in the world.’ A twist of amusement in his voice, and this was reflected in his eyes as he looked at her. He rose at the same time as she, and stretched, his muscles rippling beneath his shirt. ‘You should have brought a wrap,’ he said, glancing at her bare-arms. ‘Are you going to be warm enough?’
‘Of course; I haven’t felt the cold up till now.’ ‘Nevertheless, it is becoming rather cool. I’ll get you a jacket of mine,’ he added with sudden decision. ‘You can drape it around your shoulders.’ A flick of his hand checked the protest before it left Shara’s lips and she gave a tiny shrug and allowed her eyes to follow him as he entered the house through the open French window. So majestically he walked, his long lean body erect, his head proudly set on broad arrogant shoulders. Soon he
returned, the jacket in his hand. ‘Turn around,’ he commanded, and wrapped it about her shoulders as she did so. Her back was to him; she felt his chin touch her hair, quivered at the contact of his hands, which she felt through the fine mohair of the jacket. Gently he brought her round to face him, and he looked deeply into her eyes for a long moment before he said in soft and gentle tones, ‘I’m so glad we found each other, Shara. We mustn’t ever lose touch again.’
‘We shan’t, Carl, not ever.’ His words should have filled her with happiness and gratitude, and yet she knew once more that sense of dejection because in his voice and his touch and his eyes there was nothing more than a warm brotherly affection.
He took her arm when once the lights of the house were left behind, for the approach was lined with ancient carob trees, their branches meeting overhead, and in this intimate closeness they strolled leisurely down the narrow winding lane, crossed the low stone bridge, and reached the square, where the cafes were situated, lights flaring from their windows on to the tables outside where men sprawled, playing tavli for drinks.
All stopped what they were doing and stared curiously, first at Shara and then at Carl, nodding to him and murmuring kali nikta in response to his own greeting.
‘They haven’t yet got over the nine days’ wonder of my having a sister,’ Carl said with some amusement, and he added, ‘I’m beginning to wonder whether they believe you really are my sister.’ And all at once his voice lost its edge of amusement and seemed almost harsh. Shara frowned at the change and said quickly,
hoping to dissolve this mood,
‘You’ve never mentioned me to anyone?’
He shook his head.
‘No, Shara. You see, I never dreamed we’d ever meet again—’ He broke off, turning to slant her a look of apology. ‘I was so bitter about what appeared to be your callousness that I felt that if we ever did happen to run across each other I wouldn’t want even to acknowledge you.’ Again that glance of apology, but this time accompanied by a gentle pressure on her arm. ‘I’m sorry, dear, for misjudging you. And as I’ve just said, I’m so glad we’ve found each other.’
She was silent, for there seemed nothing to say, and they continued to stroll along, leaving the square behind and beginning to climb the dusty boulder-covered lane which led to the villa. They were walking through the lemon-growing country for which the township of Lapithos was famous. Everyone grew lemons - from the poorest peasant to the wealthiest of Cypriots whose business might be in Nicosia or one of the five other towns of the island. Even the foreigners who came here to retire had lemon trees in their gardens. Strips of light escaped from the shutters of the little cubic houses straggling the hillsides and the scent of flowers from their gardens filled the soft clear air. Away on a rise a donkey was silhouetted, and his cry pierced the silence, a lonely mournful cry which invariably filled Shara with pity. In Eastern countries these gentle beasts of burden never led a very happy life. His cry stopped at length, and was followed by the tinkle of goat bells drifting down from the green-clothed mountain slopes. Here and there some family would be up, chatting on the verandah. All would look up and smile,
‘Kali nikta, Mr. Carl.’
'Kali nikta, Andreas ... kali nikta, Kyria Andreas...’
‘Good night, Madam Shara. You come with Mr. Gilbert to my daughter’s wedding, yes?’
‘Of course, and thank you very much for the invitation.
Kali nikta.'
Andreas laughed, white teeth flashing in his tawny face. ‘You speak Greek?’
She shook her head. She and Carl had come to a standstill at the wrought-iron gate and Andreas rose from his chair and came towards them.
‘Only a very few words; but everyone knows how to say good night.’
‘And it is a good night.’ He glanced upwards to the star-scattered dome above. ‘Cyprus is beautiful. You like?’ ‘Very much. Your island is wonderful.’
‘In England you have always rain. My son, he go to university there, and he say it rain so much he think he drown in the end!’
She had to smile. This was not the first time she had been forced to say,
‘It isn’t quite so bad as that. In fact, we have some lovely weather at times.’
The man shrugged his shoulders. Glancing beyond him Shara noticed the female members of the family, Andreas’s wife, and two daughters who looked to be in their early twenties. None spoke; it was not often that the females would interrupt if the master of the house were speaking.
‘You have only one, two sunny days, though. Here we have sunshine nearly all the time, and no rain from May to October.’
‘We don’t have that sort of weather,’ she agreed good-humouredly, but felt bound to add that the heat in Cyprus could be unbearable at times.
‘You go then to Troodos Mountains. All English people like the Troodos Mountains in summer.’
‘Gilbert is saving the Troodos region for July and August,’ Shara told Carl when they had begun walking on again. ‘He’s been told he can have a house for a most reasonable rent.’
‘That’s correct. And some of the people have the strangest way of doing business. A friend of mine was offered a villa at a certain figure “for as long as you like”, the man said.’
She stared up at him.
‘But he might have stayed forever!’
‘In that case I expect there would have been demands for more rent,’ laughed Carl.
Shara looked up again. How different he was when he laughed. She wished she could make him laugh more often.
Their way now took them up a narrow rocky path, unfit for vehicles but a short cut on foot. Trees were thick
- plane trees and carobs, olives and the occasional tall palm, waving against the sky. The moonlight could not penetrate, and in the dimness all was still and hushed. Shara’s
nerves fluttered; this was too romantic a setting by far - with the perfumes and the silence, and that instinctive awareness of being in the exotic East. Carl’s fingers tightened on her arm; she sensed a restraint about him nevertheless, her impression being that he was being torn - one part of him pulling one way and one part the other. What a strange idea, she thought with a sudden frown, a very strange idea indeed, but one which persisted long after she had slid between the clean cool sheets, so that she lay awake far into the night, her mind grappling with this unfathomable circumstance. Why should she have the impression that Carl was being torn? And if he were having this struggle, from what source did the opposing forces spring?
With the coming of dawn and the wakefulness of unsettled sleep Shara found to her dismay that the question remained, and although the answer appeared to be that she was imagining things, this answer could not be accepted. However, after a breakfast of fresh Cyprus grapefruit and toast and marmalade, taken on the sunlit patio with Gilbert, she felt much less afflicted by the problem and for the rest of the morning was able to throw herself wholeheartedly into the work she loved so much.
‘I wonder,’ said Gilbert as they sat together at dinner, ‘if you would mind continuing after we’ve eaten? It’s one of those occasions when I feel I must go on. I’d like to get to the end of the present chapter if I could.’
‘Of course I’ll continue,’ returned Shara enthusiastically. ‘As a matter of fact, I also would like to reach the end of the chapter.’
Gilbert smiled at her.
‘Thanks, Shara,’ was all he said, but when at half-past eleven they finally stopped working he told her she must have the following day off. Naturally she voiced an immediate protest, which was waived, Gilbert laughingly warning her that if she didn’t do as she was told she would be given her first real order.
