Seeds of April

by Celia Scott

  'Don't panic, I'm coming. Are you hurt?' He was steadily climbing towards her.

  'Just my ankle. I think I must have sprained it.'

  'Don't worry, Pippa.'

  'Oh. I'm not in the least bit worried,' she gasped, 'just enjoying the view.'

  'I can think of better places to do that.' There was a rattle of shale as his weight dislodged a stone, then with a heave he was sitting beside her. 'Mind if I join you?' he grinned ironically.

  'Be my guest… I've never been so glad to see anyone,' she admitted with a shaky smile.

  'That's what I like, proper appreciation,' he teased. 'And the ruin? Did it come up to your expectations?'

  'No, it didn't. Most disappointing.'

  'I suppose it wouldn't be gentlemanly to say I told you so!'

  'It would be justified,' Philippa said ruefully.

  At that moment she noticed the boat draw away from the jetty and start steaming along the coast, away from Roumeli.

  'Oh, Damon, the boat!' she cried.

  'Yes, we've missed it,' he said mildly.

  'I'm… I'm so sorry, Damon, it's all my fault.' 'Don't worry about it. Our first concern is to get you down safely. Let's look at your ankle. You're sure it's nothing worse than a sprain?' He felt her ankle gently. 'It's not broken at any rate. Now, Pippa, put your arms round my neck and I'll take your weight and slide you down to the path. O.K.?'

  'I won't be too heavy for you?'

  'Depends how much paklava you've been indulging in lately.' He smiled into her troubled hazel eyes. 'I'm quite a big boy, Pippa, I think I can manage.'

  She did as he asked, putting her arms round his neck, helping him slide her down the slope. He clung to what little ledges and footholds he could find, and slowly eased her towards the path. Her ankle caught sometimes and she gave a grimace, but she bit her lip and stifled any sound of pain.

  Finally they reached the path and the last part of the descent. Damon sat her on the edge of the pathway and crouched beside her. The sun was now a dark gold. It would soon be sunset, and then dusk would fall like a silken veil around them.

  'Let's have a small rest, shall we?' said Damon. He sounded perfectly content, not at all annoyed at missing the boat.

  'Damon, I'm terribly sorry about all this,' Philippa sighed, 'it's all my fault. I shouldn't have gone up to the ruin—you were quite right. I… I don't know what to say…'

  'Don't worry so, Pippa. I'll phone the mainland from the taverna, and they'll send another boat for us.'

  'And when we get to the mainland? What then? We'll have missed the last bus.'

  'Then I'll phone Chania and get them to drive out for us. Now will you please stop worrying!'

  'I still feel awful about it.'

  'Well, don't! Look on it as a small penance from the gods to pay for such a lovely day. I'm only sorry you've hurt your ankle.' He smiled at her, one of his heartwarming smiles that always flooded her with joy. 'Now sit still and enjoy the view like a good girl, and stop all this guilt.'

  Philippa smiled, and then relaxed, enjoying the warm scented evening. Looking at the dark sea, smelling the fragrance of crushed thyme, she mused that she would never fathom him. She had expected to receive the full brunt of his temper, and in all honesty she wouldn't have blamed him. Instead he was gentle and hadn't uttered a single reproach. She would never understand him.

  After a while he rose and stooped over her. 'Hang on to me, Pippa,' he said, 'I'm going to carry you down now.' Without waiting for her answer he picked her up in his arms and calmly walked down the mountain path as if she had been no heavier than a bundle of feathers.

  She nestled in his arms, her lips a kiss away from the brown hollow of his throat. She could see how the hair grew along the side of his neck and curled softly behind his ear. At first she resolutely kept her head tense, but she was very tired, and the temptation to lay her cheek against the base of his throat and relax in his strong safe arms was too great. With a small sigh she abandoned herself to this heaven, praying he would attribute this surrender to shock and fatigue.

  As far as she was concerned they reached the taverna all too soon. The proprietor and his wife reacted to their arrival dramatically, and there was much wringing of hands and general concern. Damon laid her in one of the battered easy chairs on the back verandah. The proprietor's wife went scuttering off for a bucket of icy water and some torn-up rags to bind Philippa's ankle. Raki was produced, and Philippa was left with her foot soaking in the water, a brimming glass of local brew in her hand, while Damon went to arrange about a boat. She sipped the Raki, then diplomatically put it to one side. It tasted like diesel oil and had a kick like a mule. After a little while Damon returned.

  'We've run into a bit of a problem, Pippa,' he told her, 'it seems they can't send us a boat after all.'

  'What will we do?'

  'Stay here overnight and catch the first boat back in the morning.'

  'Can they put us up?'

  'Oh. yes. I phoned Chania, so they won't worry. Er… there is one other problem though,' he didn't look particularly worried.

  'What's that?'

  'There's only one guest room. We'll have to share a room tonight.'

  'Oh!'

  'I know that's not in the contract, Pippa,' he said lightly, 'but I'll behave like a perfect gentleman. I'll let you have the bed and I'll sleep on the floor.' She remained silent. 'There's nothing else we can do, my dear. We're stranded.' He refrained from pointing out that it was her fault.

  'Yes… I do see,' she said.

  'Now I'll see what I can do about rustling up some dinner. I don't know about you but I'm ravenous. Oh, and Pippa,' he reached out and started unbraiding her hair, 'your pigtail's fine for scrambling around mountains, but you're down now.'

  She sat motionless, her dust-stained jeans rolled up, her sprained foot inelegantly soaking in a bucket of water, while he gently combed out her long sun-streaked hair. He stood back and looked at her.

  'Your hair is the colour of moonlight,' he said softly. 'You're very beautiful Pippa.'

  'Especially with my foot in a bucket,' she said, smiling. 'Damon, you're being awfully nice about all this. I do appreciate it.'

  'Then show your appreciation by enjoying the rest of our holiday and stop apologising all the time. I'll carry you upstairs in a bit and you can wash before dinner.' He sounded like the old Damon again, crisp and bossy. And while this was safer she treasured the glimpse he had shown her of the other, softer side of him.

  Later, washed and dusted off, her foot bound in the torn sheet their landlady provided, they sat outside and ate dinner, which was simple but good—home-baked bread, a dip of chick peas laced with garlic, a grilled fish, caught by their host that afternoon, and sugary halva, like a beautiful slice of marble on the rough pottery dish. They had drunk harsh white wine, poured from an unlabelled bottle, and now they sipped Metaxa brandy with their coffee. Listening to the rhythmic sound of the sea washing over the pebbled shore, Philippa felt utterly at peace. All her guards were down and she had no defences now. She and Damon hardly spoke, but the rapport between them was better than words.

  Their host came out and said something to Damon, who drained his glass and turning to Philippa said:

  'It's time to call it a day, Pippa. They've left a lamp in our room. If you've finished your brandy I'll carry you up.' He ignored her protests that she was perfectly capable of walking, and lifted her again in his powerful arms and carried her easily up the narrow staircase to the small bedroom that looked out over the beach. An oil lamp was standing on the rough dresser, casting a warm light over the whitewashed walls. He laid her gently on to the double bed. Still leaning over her, he said huskily:

  'How does your ankle feel now, Pippa?' His proximity was so overpowering she found it difficult to answer.

  'Fi—fine, thank you… it doesn't ache at all any more.' His face in the steady glow of the oil lamp looked as if it was carved from fine grained wood. He reached out and tenderly
pushed her hair away from her face.

  'Pippa… Pippa, you're so beautiful,' he said hoarsely, 'so lovely.'

  He gave a moan and brought his mouth down on hers in a long kiss, but this time his lips were gentle, not angry, caressing, lulling her. Philippa's mouth opened like a flower under his. A sense of delicious languor filled her and her breath quickened. She was conscious of nothing but the sound of the surf whispering outside, and the urgency of his compelling mouth.

  With the lightness of a butterfly's wing Damon undid the buttons of her shirt and she felt his fingers on her warm flesh. When he cupped her breast desire shot through her like a flame. Forgetting all caution, she abandoned herself, throwing her arms around him, pulling him down to her. He lay beside her and held her tight against him, raining her neck and shoulders with light kisses, uttering broken endearments. His fingers, clumsy now with passion, fumbled with the waistband of her jeans.

  'Pippa, I want you so… I want you so badly…' He undid the zipper on her jeans and started to stroke her flat stomach, kissing her neck and earlobe. 'I want you, Pippa… I want you…'

  The repetition of this phrase brought Philippa from the brink of surrender. That he wanted her ardently she had no doubt, and she certainly had made it plain that she felt the same; with one subtle difference. She loved him as passionately as she desired him, but he had made no mention of the word love. He wanted her, she inflamed him. But so had countless others. But he did not love her, and without his love she could not give herself to him.

  Using every last ounce of will-power left she put both hands against his chest and pushed him away.

  'No! Damon… no. Please… I… I can't! Please stop!' She pulled herself away from him, wincing when a stab of pain shot through her damaged ankle, and sat trembling on the far side of the bed.

  Slowly he swung himself up to a sitting position, his breath rasping. 'What do you mean? You can't?'

  'I… can't.' She buttoned her shirt over her naked breasts. 'I… I'm terribly sorry, Damon, but…'

  'Are you going to tell me you don't want me to make love to you?'

  'N—no, but…'

  'I'm glad you have at least that much honesty,' his voice shook with anger, 'you didn't exactly give me the impression you were a disinterested bystander.'

  'I… I'm sorry, Damon, I got carried away…'

  'Carried away?' His contempt seared her.

  'Ye—yes. I suppose I had a little too much wine, and…'

  'There's a very vulgar name, for girls like you, Philippa,' he snapped, his face a mask of fury.

  'Please, Damon! Please understand… without love I…'

  'Love!' he hissed, his lips drawn back in a snarl of hate, 'love isn't in our contract, Philippa. That precious contract you're so keen on. You're getting plenty, don't expect love as well.' He leaned forward as if to strike her. Instinctively she shrank away from him.

  'You disgust me,' he went on cruelly. 'I have more respect for the commonest slut than I have for girls like you!' He took a stride to the door and flung it open. 'I congratulate you on one thing,' he rasped, 'you've successfully killed any desire I felt for you. I wouldn't touch you now. I could stay all night and your precious virtue would be quite safe. But don't worry, I'm going—I won't inflict my presence on you any longer!'

  He slammed the door and left her. Philippa heard him go downstairs, the back door opened and closed. She heard the crunch of shingle as he walked rapidly down the beach. Then there was silence and she was alone with only the sound of the surf, which seemed to mock her through the night.

  CHAPTER TEN

  After Damon had left her Philippa flung herself face down on the bed and wept as she had never wept before. If only she hadn't climbed up to see that stupid ruin! They would have been home now, with an unsullied memory of a perfect day for her to treasure. Or if she had given in to him, answered the call of her blood and surrendered, as she had longed to do so often. But no! In spite of her grief she knew she had been right to refuse him. Her unhappiness was bitter now, but she knew it would have been a hundred times worse to have woken up in the morning, lying beside him, and to have sensed, however faintly, his disdain, his sense of triumph.

  When her storm of weeping subsided she limped to the window and looked down the moonlit beach. At the far end Damon was standing looking morosely out to sea. Her heart ached for him, but it was impossible for her to explain to him. He scared her now. His anger still felt like a whiplash, and she doubted if she could ever forget it.

  Towards dawn she slept fitfully, lying fully clothed on the bed. When she woke to the early sun and the household sounds of the taverna she was filled with such a feeling of despair, it was like a palpable weight in her breast. She wondered how she would cope with her inevitable meeting with Damon, how he would treat her.

  She found out soon enough. She had just finished splashing her face with cold water when he came to the bedroom. His face was grim, his beard showed black on his thin cheeks, and he looked years older than he had last night. He looked at her coldly, as if she were a stranger.

  'The boat's due in fifteen minutes. I'll carry you if you're ready.'

  'I can manage on my own, Damon.' Philippa had to control her voice to stop it trembling.

  'As you wish.'

  He left her and she hobbled painfully downstairs. She was unable to swallow the bitter coffee provided, and Damon also left his untasted.

  When the boat arrived he gave her his arm, but he never looked at her, nor did he offer to carry her again. She was installed in the cabin of the tub that was to take them to the mainland, while he went on deck and ignored her for the trip.

  At their destination he again gave her his arm, sat her in a cafe, and went to phone the villa for the chauffeur to bring the car, then he disappeared until the Daimler arrived. This time it was the chauffeur who helped Philippa to the car. Damon stood aloof. He drove them, with the chauffeur sitting in the front beside him, Philippa miserable in the back. He drove round vicious corkscrew curves at breakneck speed, and she wondered if they would make it in one piece, but she was so unhappy that she didn't really care.

  They arrived at the villa with a squealing of brakes and Damon, cold as ice, helped her from the car into the house.

  'Tusker! At last you're back. I thought you'd never get here!'

  In the hall stood Martha, wearing brief hot-pink shorts and top, petite and immaculate, her pebbly brown eyes round with surprise.

  After Philippa had recovered from her initial shock she glanced hastily at Damon, dreading his reaction to this unexpected visitor. But his face was impassive, she had no idea what he was thinking.

  'Martha! What… what are you doing here?' she asked.

  'That's not much of a welcome, Tusker. Aren't you glad to see me?' pouted her sister.

  Philippa tottered to one of the hall chairs and collapsed into it. 'Of course I'm pleased to see you, Martha,' she said dishonestly, 'but it's… it's such a surprise. Why didn't you let me know you were coming?'

  'It was all very sudden. I only managed to wangle a last-minute flight through the office. Things are slack right now. I thought a holiday was just what I needed… and here I am!'

  Martha looked up at Damon who remained silent. 'To be honest with you, Damon,' she said, 'I wanted to apologise. I wasn't very nice to you in the past. I wanted to say… sorry.'

  Philippa was dumbfounded; this was the first time she had ever heard her sister apologise to anyone. 'Why didn't you write a letter?' she blurted undiplomatically.

  Never taking her eyes off Damon, Martha replied, 'Letter's are such impersonal things. And you know what a lousy letter-writer I am.' She looked humbly at her brother-in-law. 'Am I forgiven, Damon? I'm truly sorry.'

  'Don't grovel, Martha, there's no need,' he said, 'as a matter of fact it's fortunate that you're here. I have to leave for Herakleion immediately, and Philippa's hurt herself. You can look after her.'

  'Of course,' Martha agreed unenthusiastically.


  'Then I'll change and go,' said Damon. 'Will you be here this weekend, Martha?'

  'If I'm welcome,' Martha said meekly.

  'I'll see you then.' With a brief nod at Philippa he left the two sisters.

  'He's such a bear, your husband,' Martha said silkily, 'but I'm sure his bark is worse than his bite.' She seemed to notice her older sister for the first time. 'What have you been up to Tusker? You look a mess!'

  Philippa looked down at herself. Her jeans were torn and stained, her shirt was grubby, and her foot was bandaged with a dirty piece of rag; moreover, her eyes were still puffy from her crying jag, and ringed with shadows of fatigue.

  'I fell down a mountain,' she said.

  'What a silly thing to do!' Martha was not noted for sympathy.

  Philippa's maid came at this moment, and with genuine concern helped her mistress to her bedroom, ran a bath for her, and removed the soiled bandage from Philippa's swollen ankle. Later a doctor arrived, summoned by Damon, she discovered. He declared the sprain a slight one and ordered her to rest for a few days. She got some comfort from the fact that Damon had cared enough to call a doctor. But he hadn't stayed around to find out the verdict. Her maid informed her that the kyrios had driven away as soon as he had showered and shaved.

  Philippa dozed in her bed for the rest of the day, utterly exhausted. At teatime Athena burst into her bedroom with a tray of tea things. She had been out with her friends when Damon and Philippa returned, and had only just found out about the accident. She was all loving sympathy, and Philippa had to blink away tears of weakness at this demonstration of affection. After Damon's coldness and Martha's lack of interest this attention was overwhelming.

  Philippa sipped the tea gratefully. 'You've met my sister?' she asked Athena. A guarded look came over the girl's face.

  'Oh yes. I went with the car to meet her at the airport last night.' She stirred her tea thoughtfully. 'She is not at all like you, Pippa.'

  'No. I'm a lot taller,' Philippa agreed.

  'I did not mean your appearance,' Athena said solemnly, 'although it is true she is not as beautiful.'