Far Sanctuary

by Jane Arbor

  When Emma Redfern arrived at Tangier on a golden July afternoon, it should have been journey’s end which promised lovers’ meeting. Yet within as many days as she had been counting to her marriage, she was to find herself virtually alone there.

  But not quite friendless. For in the brilliant pioneer of Maritime-Air she found a man to whom she could always turn with trust, and never in vain, even when the impersonal help he gave her conflicted with the more romantic rights claimed by the lovely Spanish widow, Leonore de Coria.

  Tangier, the colourful gateway between East and West, though alien and menacing at first, at last was to be for Emma ‘the far place that was also home’, the background of a love which came upon her unawares.

  Far Sanctuary

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual fyiown or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  First published 1958

  This edition 1970

  © Jane Arbor 1958

  For copyright reasons, this book may not be issued on loan or otherwise except in its original soft cover.

  ISBN 0263 711412

  Made and Printed in Great Britain by

  C. Nicholls & Company Ltd,

  The Philips Park Press, Manchester

  CHAPTER ONE

  EMMA glanced a little incredulously at the light topcoat which lay discarded on the empty seat beside her and which, at London Airport, had seemed quite suitable travelling wear. How long since take-off? Only about two hours from the grey chill of an English July noon to the blue skies of the Mediterranean and, ahead, the dim coastline of North Africa!

  Morocco ... Tangier—her future home. But not the home of Emma Redfern. Instead, the home of Emma Trench, of Mrs. Guy Trench, which sounded more exciting still. Emma Trench ... Would she ever get used to signing it as her name or answering to it when addressed? She supposed she would but it seemed so short a time since she had first scribbled it experimentally on a fragment of paper, dreaming of how wonderful it would be if it could belong to her.

  It had not been a long time either. Four months, in fact, and a mere fortnight before that when she had met Guy for the first time.

  That had been at the twenty-first birthday party of a school friend. Mary Carlow's parents were wealthy, and their idea of a proper celebration of their daughter's coming of age was a lavish and unwieldy reception held at a West End hotel, where many of Mary's guests had been mere "friends of friends"—a fact which later had thrown Emma into something near panic. For Guy himself had not claimed more than a passing acquaintance with Mary. So that if he had not been at the party as someone else's guest, he and Emma might never have met. And the cruel chance of that possibility appalled her.

  They had even been introduced by a strange girl who had learned Emma's name only shortly before she had learned Guy's. The three of them had talked brittle nothings for a while; then the other girl drifted away and Emma and Guy had spent most of the rest of the evening together, getting down to all the things about each other which their mutual attraction wanted to know.

  Emma told Guy that, like Mary, she was also twenty- one. Her parents were dead and she lived in an outer suburb with an elderly uncle and aunt. For recreation she most loved dancing, tennis and swimming. And though her work as a filing-clerk to a firm of shippers daily tantalized her longing to travel, she had had to admit shyly that her only setting-foot out of England to date had been a week in Paris, "conducted" from school!

  At that, Guy had laughed easily and had said, "Well, we must put that right sometime," leaving her to build on a tiny hope that he didn't want this first meeting to be their last. He had gone on to tell her that he was twenty- six and was an air pilot by profession. He worked for a privately-owned airline called Maritime-Air which, based on Tangier, served the cities of the north-west coast of Africa and the Mediterranean ports of France and Spain. Tangier, he said, was the only place he could speak of as "home". Up till that evening, he claimed he couldn't have cared less when he went back. For after Tangier, London, in his opinion, didn't know a thing about gaiety or night life and had offered him nothing of the colour and excitement to be met with round almost any corner in Tangier. Now, though—But he broke off there, allowing his glance to sweep over Emma meaningly, so that her pulses had quickened to all that it had implied.

  After that, they had met as frequently as Guy had asked her to see him. On one or two Saturdays they walked in the country, but Guy, Emma found, was happier among the bright lights, and preferred to do his swift, successful courtship of her to the lilt of dance bands and in smarter restaurants than she had ever been taken to before.

  A week before his leave was up, Guy had proposed and had wanted to marry her at once. But though her aunt and uncle liked Guy, they had advised the caution of a trial period of separation from him before she plunged into marriage. So Emma had reluctantly agreed to a three-months' engagement which she was sure she did not need. And though that meant she would have no kin of her own to see her married in Tangier, her uncle had been reasonably happy about the arrangement after he had got in touch with an old Naval friend of his in Gibraltar. Commander Marguan had personal knowledge of the quiet pension which he recommended for her stay until her marriage: he and his wife would go to her wedding, and he would give her away.

  And now she was within minutes of seeing Guy again—of running into his waiting arms!

  How would he have remembered her looks? she wondered. Would he still think she was as pretty as he had claimed? Would the quality—whatever it was—which had attracted him to her in the first place still be there for him?

  Emma's own description of herself would have been the terse one of her passport—Hair, chestnut; Colour of eyes, grey; Distinguishing marks, none. She had no inkling that since she had fallen in love with Guy there had been a glowing radiance about her which made people glad to look at her twice; that the adventure of loving shone out from her eyes and the prospect of the exciting, unknown world she would share with him had lent her a new, infectious gaiety.

  And already the longed-for future was turning into Now; the aircraft tilted and turned; the broken skyline of flat white roofs below the port wing was Tangier, and this was journey's end...

  She had half expected that, as a pilot and, therefore, privileged, Guy might have been able to by-pass enough regulations to enable them to meet as soon as she came down the gangway. But he was not there. Nor could she see him among the people waiting for the handful of passengers to pass through the Customs. She hoped then—though she thought not—that he had said in his last letter that he would wait for her somewhere else. But where? When she emerged from the Customs Hall, after deliberately lingering over the refastening of her cases, the waiting-hall beyond had already emptied of the other passengers and their friends.

  She stood irresolute, fighting a sense of anti-climax. She had daydreamed romance into the thought of her arrival and welcome by Guy. But of course dramatic landings were for film stars and newsreels. And if Guy was late, hadn't they often laughed over his chronic inability to keep appointments on time ?

  Meanwhile, her surroundings contrasted strangely with the bustling efficiency of London Airport. The place was positively somnolent in the glaring heat and, not caring much for the appraising glances of a group of idle Arab porters, she decided to go outside to watch for Guy.

  It was hotter still but more airy outside. Not knowing whether Guy would eventually come by way of the perimeter road or from the offices of Maritime-Air which she could see in the distance across the airfield, she stood still on the wide tarmac, looking for a vantage-point whi
ch would give her a view of both.

  The pause was a fatal one. Immediately she was surrounded by a clamorous horde of Arab boys, some of them touting their services, others brandishing gaudy scarves, metal trinkets and castanets in her face and all of them soliciting her attention in a mixture of English, Spanish and French.

  "Mees! Mees! Señorita! Mademoiselle! Nice? Pretty, huh? Cheap. Very cheap!" Their bright dark eyes snapped demandingly, and as she hesitated, her interest momentarily taken by a mechanical monkey leaping up a stick, they closed in again and their busy fingers began to touch her handbag.

  Deciding to make the best of a bad job, Emma pointed to the monkey and summoned one of her few Spanish phrases. "Cuanto es?" she asked shyly.

  The vendor thrust the toy upon her. "Cien pesetas, Señorita! Cheap!"

  Nearly a pound in English money! Emma shook her head. "Muy caras—" she began, and was startled by the speed with which, at the suggestion the monkey was too dear, the price fell. A minute or two later it was hers for fifty pesetas, but too late she realized, that her purchase had done nothing towards setting her free. Quite the contrary, in fact. As she made to move away her sleeves were plucked, her way was partially barred and the procession was at her heels, however-fast she walked.

  She searched the heat-shimmering horizon frantically for a sign of Guy. But he was nowhere to be seen, and on the far side of the main approach-road for cars she turned at bay, meaning to seek refuge once more in the waiting-hall.

  But a long open car had just turned in at speed through the gateway and she halted to allow it to pass. As it did so, her momentary impression of its driver was of a hat- less man in tropical linen, with deeply bronzed hands in easy control of the wheel and with a thatch of very dark hair springing strongly from a broad tanned brow.

  She saw his glance flick her absently. But the car's length or so further on, as if he only just read the mute appeal for rescue in her eyes, he drew up and twisted in his seat to look back at her. A moment later he was at her side, and before the crisp threat of his very few words in Spanish, her unwanted escort broke away in swift retreat.

  Then he was looking down at her, a line of query drawn between his level brows. She smiled up at him and, taking what she thought was the right cue, murmured: "Muchas gracias, Señor,"—only to be cut short by his uncompromising: "That's all right. You are English, aren't you? I suppose you've just come in from England?" in an accent as unmistakably English as her own.

  Emma felt relieved. His voice had a vibrant quality which she liked. But he had not smiled as he spoke and she knew her Spanish would not have been equal to defending herself if he put into words the air of mild censure with which he was regarding her.

  She said: "Yes, I am English and I have just come in from London."

  "You are staying in Tangier? Or going on?"

  "Oh—staying."

  "But haven't you already missed the bus which would have taken you in to the city terminal? Are you alone?"

  "Yes. And I didn't need the bus because I'm being met. By my fiancé," Emma added, with conscious pride.

  "I see." The stranger thrust his hands deep into his jacket pockets and rocked slightly on his heels. "Well, it's no business of mine, I suppose. But if your fiancé wasn't able to meet you on time, he should at least have warned you of wantonly laying yourself open to that sort of thing—" His backward nod towards the group of touts pointed his meaning.

  "I didn't exactly invite them to pester me," Emma reminded him stiffly.

  "You did that sufficiently by wandering about out here unescorted. And I see you bought something from them, too."

  His tone made her purchase of the monkey appear more than foolish. On the defensive, she said: "I thought that that would satisfy them and they would go away."

  He shook his head. "My dear girl, you're very new to the ways of the East, aren't you? You'll certainly learn that our Moorish friends despise the too-easy victory. It simply whets their appetite, that's all. What did you pay for that absurdity, anyway?"

  "Fifty pesetas. The boy asked a hundred and fifty at first and then came down, without my having to bargain at all."

  "And you found that novel? Not in the Bond Street tradition, in fact?"

  Fleetingly, she had the impression that he had veered from disapproval to amusement at her expense, which she resented as much. But her glance up at him was met with complete gravity. She said as gravely: "It was unexpected, though of course I wouldn't have paid a hundred and fifty. But I could hardly have known that I was being rather silly by showing myself willing to buy. Besides," she added in defiance of an attitude which forced her into the enemy's camp, "if they hadn't been so many and so noisy, I'd have been sorry for them and I'd probably have bought more!"

  "Don't worry about them. They do pretty well on thewhole," he assured her dryly. "Meanwhile - until you've grown the sort of armour they'll take even more pleasure in trying to pierce, I still think you'd be better advised to await your fiancé in the airport building. Why not go back and order yourself some tea? "

  "Yes, I will," she agreed, in a small voice.

  "Good." He sketched a bow and returned to his car, dismissing her before she could thank him again. She stood watching him drive away, momentarily absorbed enough to start in alarm when, with a screech of brakes behind her, there was Guy at the wheel of the very small sports car he had often described to her.

  "Oh, Guy -!" She ran to him, both hands outstretched for him to take as he cocked a leg over the low door. Anticlimax or not, how glad she was to see him at last!

  "Sweetheart -!" He kissed her, then tilted her chin to look long and significantly into her eyes. After their months of separation, the deep gaze embarrassed her a little and she heard herself saying: "You're very late," without accusation but just as something to break the circuit of her sudden shyness with him.

  He laughed: "Aren't I always?" and kissed her again.

  "Yes, always!" She laughed, too. But somehow she expected him to apologize. Even - oddly enough! - to echo her knight-errant's annoyance at finding her strolling about alone.

  Guy, however, dismissed his tardiness with a muttered: " 'Fraid I hadn't an idea just how late I was. When I did, I skimmed, of course -” He broke off to nod in the direction the other car had taken. "Seems, though, your shining hour of waiting for me was being improved. How come, I ask myself, did friend Triton manage to effect an introduction of himself to you so soon ?"

  "Triton?" A hitherto unimportant memory stirred in Emma's mind. "You mean - the man who was talking to me was Mark Triton? The head of Maritime-Air?"

  "Who else? Or did you let him pick you up without finding out his name?"

  Emma frowned. "What a horrid thing to say! He certainly didn't pick me up -”

  Guy's smile melted her. "Sorry, pet. To my jealous eyes, though, it didn't look as if any time had been lost."

  Emma could not resist: "If you'd been punctual you'd have no cause to be jealous. I shouldn't even have met the man."

  "I know, and I'm contrite." His arm slid round her shoulders. "It's just that Triton knows how to use his looks and his money and the kind of cars he can afford to drive, to take him a long way with women."

  "Well, he didn't try to make any opportunities out of meeting me. I was being pestered to buy things from that crowd of urchins over there, and when he had driven past he stopped and came back to rid me of them, and when you came along he had just ordered me, rather peremptorily, to go and get myself a cup of tea. Besides," Emma added, thoughtfully, "if, as you've said, he owns and has created Maritime-Air from nothing, he can hardly be just a playboy, can he ?"

  "I didn't say he was," countered Guy. "Mere playboys are two a penny in Tangier, anyway. No, Triton is a specimen that's a good deal more dangerous. He is still only somewhere in his thirties, but his success with Maritime-Air has given him too much power around here. He can afford to use it as he likes against the poor mutts he employs, and it's naturally all along the line in h
is favour in his dealings with women. His current conquest, by the way, is a Spanish widow named Leonore de Coria. But he can still learn to keep his hands off Emma Redfern, thank you."

  "Somehow he didn't strike me as that sort of man at all," murmured Emma, adding, a little worriedly: "But 'poor mutts', Guy? Do you mean you're not happy, flying for Maritime-Air ?"

  "I'm happy, flying," he corrected. "I just don't happen to have any more use for my employer than he evinces for me."

  "But when you were in England you didn't hint at any friction in your work! Perhaps I'm glad I didn't know, though. I should have worried for you if I had."

  "Well, in England, we had more important things to talk about, hadn't we? Did you tell Triton, incidentally, that you were waiting for me ?"

  "No - for my fiancé, I said. I like saying 'fiancé', you see. It's a word," she added, blushing, "that an absentee engagement rather cheats a girl of using before she has to say 'my husband' instead!"

  Guy dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose. "You're a demure darling. But still quite a pet," he said. "However, let's be on our way. It's thirteen kilometres - around eight miles to you - into the city from here. And you'll want a rest before I take you out to dinner tonight."

  While he strapped her cases on to his car, Emma's feelings of anticlimax, even of vague disappointment, returned. She could not have put a sure finger on what she had hoped from their meeting. But somehow the eager, piling questions she had had in readiness had neither been asked nor answered yet. For instance, Guy's last letter hadn't been able to confirm the exact date of their wedding at the English Church, and there was so much she wanted to hear about the flat he had rented for them.

  But instead of their tongues tumbling over their own precious intimacies and affairs, they had been lured to the edge of a quarrel by Guy's touchiness about Mark Triton. And until she remembered that, in England and to her aunt and uncle, Guy had painted a glowing picture of his future with Maritime-Air, she felt a little ashamed of not having realized he wasn't entirely happy in his work.