by Jane Arbor
‘But you call him a dictator! And you once said you hated yourself for being like him.’
‘What’s that got to do with being fond of him? Oh, I gird and chafe, and if he lives we shall clash again. But hate him—no. I even admire him—grudgingly—for having the mastery of me and usually contriving to win.’ Gil slanted a glance in Fran’s direction. ‘I suppose you’re thinking it’s easy to be generous—now? But you’d be wrong. I wanted him to know and to go on knowing that he had won this battle too. Because if he dies now, what—of anything I tried to do for him—is he going to die with? Nothing at all—’
Distressed, Fran protested, ‘Oh, Gil, all the rest! All you’ve done and are doing, carrying on the estate, for instance!’
‘But I wanted him to have this,’ Gil maintained woodenly, then sighed and straightened. ‘I must go, or we’ll have Aunt waking and asking why we’ve got our heads together at this hour.’
‘We couldn’t tell her! We’d have to make something up!’
‘Well, naturally,’ he agreed wearily. ‘Tell one lie and you have to tell several. Not that we’ll be called on to take last night’s any further now. Then it was only between you and me and Grandfather. And when he dies you and I can forget it too.’
‘When he dies ...’
But Don Diego did not die. On the far side of that critical night there was to be another day for him ... and another. Then one when he was able to turn not only his eyes but his head in order to look about him; a later one when his inert hand began to stir and grasp and point, and when his tongue began to obey his brain. He sat out of bed, was dressed and he walked a little, at first with help and then with his stick.
Only one door remained closed in his memory. Between his leaving the dinner-table on the night of his seizure and his recovery of movement several weeks later, he remembered nothing. And though after that his mind was normal and clear, his specialists ruled he must not be pressed to fill that blank until—if ever—his healed brain filled it unaided.
The void spelt reprieve for Fran and Gil. Gil had been so sure that they had made their false promises to a dying man that Fran doubted whether he had so much as glanced at the consequences of their lie if Don Diego lived; lived and remembered enough to hold them to it.
But she did not ask Gil; never ventured a ‘Supposing?’ to him, tacitly sparing him the recollection of a night’s doings which, if their fates were kind, should have no repercussions now.
But now again Fran walked in the shadow of Elena Merced’s threats. Any day now, she felt, Elena might decide she could strike to some purpose, and though there was at present no question of Raquel’s return to England, Fran saw no choice but to forestall Elena by going back herself. It was a victory she had never meant to concede to the enemy, but there seemed no other way.
When she discussed it with Raquel she gave as her reason the need to get back to her job. And at Raquel’s open dismay, ‘I never meant to be away from it for as long as this, you know,’ she pointed out.
‘Darling, they aren’t being awkward about it—pressing you to go back?’
‘No, but I don’t want it to come to that. They’ve been very understanding so far, but I can’t trade for ever on Grandfather’s illness.’
‘Oh dear,’ Raquel sighed. She made some minor difficulties—about dates and Fran’s travel arrangements and her living alone in their house—then said,
‘I suppose you do want to go back for good some time, Fran? Even if I could persuade you to stay a little longer now, you wouldn’t be happy enough to make the island your home, as I’d like to make it mine again?’
How to answer that, except with a half-truth? Fran said, ‘Yes, I could be happy here. (If Gil loved me. If I could belong here, her withheld thought.) I crave the sun and I like the people. It would grow on me. But abandon England for keeps? Oh, I don’t know—England pulls too.’
‘You could get a job here. You’d marry, of course. And England is only four hours away by air. Besides, we can’t be apart for ever, Fran. I couldn’t bear that!’
Fran agreed, ‘Neither could I. But I’m burning no boats. (None?) I must go back, and you must stay here. But don’t worry, I shan’t live alone in the house. We’ll let it furnished again and I’ll share a flat, as I meant to originally. Then when Grandfather is quite better and Aunt Lucia doesn’t need you so much, or the three of you are taking a smaller house, we’ll think again. Check?’
Raquel echoed, ‘Check—if that means I agree.’ Not meeting Fran’s eyes, she added, ‘It is just because you’re anxious about your job, isn’t it? You’re not—running away from anything, are you?’
‘Running away?’ Fran’s voice came roughly. But she was spared another lie when Raquel went on, ‘Well, when we thought before that we might both have to leave, that was running away. But Father hasn’t mentioned the family tree to you again, has he?’
‘No. When I sit with him I read aloud to him—he says it’s good for my Spanish—or we talk and he tells me about the changes he has seen on the island since he was a boy. But he has never mentioned the tree again. His “blank” came on earlier that night, you know.’ Fran stopped short of warning that, with the alert progress Don Diego’s mind was making, he might revert to the subject of her parentage at any time. At that risk, added to the rest, she would have liked to persuade Raquel to return to England with her. But as that was impossible while Lucia still needed her sister’s companionship and help, it seemed wrong to suggest to Raquel a cruel chance which might never happen.
Fran told no one else of her plans until she had booked her flight. Then she was in two minds about telling Elena directly or leaving her to hear from Gil that she was going. But before she had decided, Elena rang the Quinta and asked for her.
As soon as Fran confirmed that she was on the line, ‘Well?’ demanded Elena, her tone giving the monosyllable a world of meaning.
Fran said flatly, ‘I’m going away very soon.’
‘You are? That’s wise of you. When?’
Fran told her.
‘Is your mother going with you?’
‘No.’
‘But you’re not coming back?’
‘At the moment I haven’t any plans for coming back.’
‘I shouldn’t, if I were you. Does Gil know you are leaving?’
‘Yes.’
‘And—?’
In fact Fran had been hurt and bewildered by Gil’s reaction to her news. She had expected surprise and almost certainly a storm of protest—Gil at his most tempestuous, denying her the right to desert Raquel, Don Diego, Lucia, even himself, with their time of crisis barely behind them. And questions. And caustic gibes in the vein of ‘I suppose you’re determined to catch the English summer on the one day it arrives—and leaves again?’ In short, Gil as voluble and forthright as ever. She had not been prepared for his benumbed air of disappointment in her which he did not voice, and as if he scorned to dissuade her, he had hardly spoken to her since.
But her pride refused to tell Elena this. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t want me to go,’ she said.
‘Too bad. He doesn’t know how lucky he is.’ Elena switched to a formal enquiry for Don Diego’s progress.
‘He is much better and doing very well now.’ Unable to resist the taunt, Fran added, ‘Why do you need to ask? Doesn’t Gil keep you posted about him?’
‘I haven’t seen Gil lately. I’ve been in Funchal, doing a recital. In fact, I’m between trips—I’m leaving again tomorrow for a fortnight in Lisbon.’
‘Then I shall be gone when you come back.’
‘Yes. So sorry it was necessary to hurry you, but hasta la vista,’ said Elena coolly.
Hasta la vista indeed! Feeling it would choke her to return the empty pleasantry, Fran made no reply and hung up.
During the weeks of Gil’s preoccupation with the estate and since his withdrawal from her, Fran discovered a tolerable foil in the company of Rendle Jervis. When she felt ensnared by the web in which she w
as involved at the Quinta, his very prejudice was refreshing. With him she could relax and, listening to him talk ‘England’ to the disparagement of anywhere else, she could almost persuade herself she would be glad to go back. In Rendle’s view the civilized world only began at the cliffs of Dover or London Airport, and since it was to be her world again from now on, there had to be comfort in supposing he was right.
Mostly he was an undemanding companion. She was glad he didn’t force her to break her mental promise to Gil by inviting her again to his apartment, and he was scrupulous about taking her home when she said she ought to go. He suffered no moods, no illogical rages as Gil did, and the occasional light kiss they exchanged seemed to ask little of her. Which spared her the guilt she had once felt that she might be using him as a cushion between her and Gil, regardless of his feelings. And which made the more unreasonable an explosive attack which, as usual, splintered into a quarrel with Gil.
It was occasioned by as innocent a date with Rendle as could be imagined. Overnight Fran had met him on the plaza for a drink and an hors d’oeuvre supper, after which he suggested driving her out to the shore building project to show her the progress it had made.
Certainly, as he had told her, this was phenomenal. Where, only weeks earlier, there had still been a mess of unlaid drainpipes and mounds of concrete slabs and churning mixers, there were now smooth paved roads and crescents of flower beds, and where there had already been progress on the roads, were the makings of villas and shop parades and blocks of apartments. What was more, the activity was continuous by the fierce light of the arcs which defied the blue evening dusk, with men and machines scurrying about the workings like an army of ants on the march.
They left the car and walked. ‘It’s fabulous,’ Fran marvelled, ‘what you’ve achieved in the time!’
‘Round-the-clock shifts, siesta cut to half an hour and the sky the limit for the wage-bill, and we could hardly achieve less.’ Rendle added with his customary jaundice, ‘Not that the building comes anywhere near English standards. Jerry, a lot of it, but what can you expect?’
Mildly Fran took sides. ‘I suppose they know that none of it will have to stand up to English weather conditions, for one thing. For another, people here don’t need to live indoors for nearly as many hours as we do every day.’
Rendle contended, ‘They still needn’t lace their concrete with quite so much sand. Nor plan miniature garden cities without looking at the water potential first.’
‘My grandfather didn’t do that, surely?’
‘Oh no, he put down artesians. This place will be all right. But this patio and street living you talk about—it’s fine as a novelty. But as a permanency, not for me. Is it for you?’
‘Given this kind of climate, yes, I think so,’ said Fran.
‘Well, I’d trade it in any day for drawing curtains and settling down by a fire on a cold night.’ Rendle put a hand under her elbow and they returned to the car, only to find Gil’s car drawn up alongside. Gil looked through Fran to glare at Rendle.
‘Did you know that there’s a man with a broken ankle still in plaster being worked on the cabana site—sent climbing up and down ladders, at that?’ he demanded.
Rendle bristled. ‘I didn’t. But really, de Matteor—I’m your site-agent! Welfare doesn’t happen to be my chore. When I lease a site to contractors, it’s no responsibility of mine to see they only employ fit men on the job.’
‘Oh, it isn’t? Well, I’d be glad if you would regard it so from now on. Organize a spot-check, or better still, make an occasional round of the sites yourself and use your eyes.’
‘Go round them myself? In what spare time, may I ask?’
‘Put in as much overtime as you like and charge it,’ snapped Gil.
‘Thank you. I happen to be salaried—remember?’ retorted Rendle. ‘Look, man, we’re scraping the barrel for labour as it is. Aren’t the foremen going to love me when I ask them to turn loose any man who turns up for work with a bandage round his wrist or with a cold in the head?’
Gil said, ‘I’m crediting you with being able to distinguish between a cold in the head and the makings of a possible fall from a ladder which could break more than an ankle!’
‘Well, don’t flatter yourself you’re popular with this chap. He wouldn’t have shown up for work with a broken ankle if he hadn’t needed the money.’
‘He’ll get the money. I sent him home, but I told the foreman the estate would make up his pay.’ Gil switched on his engine. ‘Anyway, over to you now. But if you feel you’ve more profitable ways of spending your spare time’—his glance flicked briefly to Fran—‘take on a full-time welfare officer. Or do that in any case. It seems we need one.’ His car shot away.
Anyone less equable than Rendle would be seething, thought Fran. But as they got under way themselves he only laughed wryly.
‘And the odd thing is, you know, that I shall do just that. Tomorrow I shall be drafting an advertisement for a welfare chap and in the meantime keeping my eyeballs scraped for any contractor who is exploiting his men. I told you, didn’t I, there’s nothing to choose between Gil and your grandfather when it comes to getting things done their way.’
‘All the same, he needn’t have been quite so roughshod about this,’ said Fran.
Rendle shrugged. ‘It takes all sorts. And I’ve grown a duck’s back. Must I take you straight home?’
Fran hesitated. Tonight she had made no promise to Gil and it wasn’t late. ‘No, I needn’t go just yet,’ she told Rendle.
‘Right.’ He took the coast road round the island and they talked ‘England’ most of the way. When he finished with El Naranjal he had an English site-agency lined up. ‘That should mean the next eighteen months at home, thanks be. And you’ll be there too, won’t you? That’ll make it cosy,’ he said.
‘Cosy.’ It was a word he used a lot. Fran remembered that on their first drive together he had planned a cosy wife; he often wished aloud that he had chosen a cosier job; she suspected that even on El Naranjal he would shop for a pair of ‘cosy’ slippers, and for some perverse reason the pleasant, complacent word sent a cold chill down her spine.
‘Always supposing one wants mere cosiness,’ she said a shade too tartly.
Rendle was unmoved. ‘It has its merits, believe me. Flamenco and castanets and cobalt seas and palms are all very well in their way. But when you’re English born, as I am and you are, not as a steady diet—no, sir!’
Fran was already contrite that she had sounded so waspish. ‘As a diet I couldn’t agree more. Do you know, the other day I tried a castanet sandwich, washed down with sea-water, and it wasn’t at all nice!’ she said, her laugh inviting Rendle to laugh too, which he did.
‘Oh well, you know what I mean,’ he said comfortably. ‘Anyway, the English tempo is the one for me. That, and not being expected to make continual allowances for the Latin temperament, as if it were wholly admirable in itself.’
‘Which, in a Latin, I suppose it is,’ Fran argued mildly, and Rendle laughed again.
‘Seems I can’t win,’ he said. ‘You’ve got all the answers, haven’t you? All the same, I’m looking forward a lot to England and seeing something of you there, I hope. Meanwhile, let’s pull up and have a cigarette, shall we? Or go all lyrical about the “wine-dark sea” of the poets, if you’d rather!’ He made no move towards her while they smoked and talked. But when she stubbed her cigarette and said it was time to go, his arm went across her shoulders, half turning her towards him.
Looking at her lips, ‘Yes?’ he hazarded.
But though they had kissed in similar circumstances before, tonight she felt the danger of being too much in sympathy with him after Gil’s attack, and if his kiss asked anything of her she might not kiss lightly in return. ‘No. No—please,’ she said, and though the firmer grip of his hand seemed to question her refusal, after a moment he released her and turned back to the wheel.
He drove in silence except for the odd dropped re
mark. But when he cut his engine outside the Quinta he said, ‘I realize you’re going to be starry-eyed about the romance of this place until you leave it, and probably for quite a time after that. But you know, Fran, it isn’t really for the likes of us. When you’ve been back in England for a while you’ll come down to earth—though not with too big a bump, I hope—and when you’ve begun to think of it as “home” again, the home you want, perhaps you’ll let me get together with you and we’ll talk again—no?’
Touched and grateful, she smiled at him. ‘I’d hate to think I shouldn’t see you again after we’re both back there,’ she said.
‘Fair enough.’ He got out of the car with her and they stood in the V of the headlamps as the Quinta’s ornate door opened and Gil’s figure was silhouetted against a rectangle of light.
Rendle took Fran’s hand. ‘Your duenna is on guard, I see.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there any prospect of my seeing you again before you leave?’
‘I don’t know. I should think not. But if so, might I ring you?’
‘You know you may. But it’s good-night for now—or do you need moral support against your duenna!’
‘No, I can handle it.’ On an impulse, whether of warmth towards him or of pique against Gil for policing her, she did not know, she lifted her face and after a flash of surprise he accepted the frank invitation of her lips.
He let go her hand. ‘Good-night. Hasta la vista. Au revoir. In good plain English—See you!’ he said with a grin.
‘See you!’
Fran watched him into the car, waved, then turned towards the lighted doorway—and Gil.
CHAPTER VIII
Feigning nonchalance, she walked in ahead of him and he followed her into the empty salon.
‘Did you have to ask the fellow to kiss you goodnight? Is his courtship as bloodless as all that?’ he demanded.
‘I didn’t ask him to kiss me! And believe it or not, he isn’t courting me.’
‘Tch! That for a story.’ Gil snapped finger and thumb. ‘If a girl looked at me as you did at him, I’d be in no two minds as to what she wanted. And don’t play blind. He’s had designs on you for months, even if his idea of the passionate approach is a conducted tour of the latest thing in draining systems and open-plan layouts. What a way to spend an evening until this hour, and then to need the kind of hint you handed him, at that!’
