All The Fire

by Anne Mather

  Joanne agreed with her. She had never seen a more beautiful place. Andrea finished her cigarette and stubbed it out in an ashtray. Studying her surreptitiously, Joanne realized she was not as old as she had previously imagined. Andrea could only be about thirty-eight or thirty-nine, and she was certainly still attractive. The comparison between her youthful exuberance and Joanne’s mother’s conservative attitudes did not bear thinking about. Joanne felt a sense of disloyalty to her mother’s memory for even considering that aspect of things, but it was impossible for her not to find certain inconsistencies in the stories her mother had always told her.

  Later, when Andrea went to see about preparing their midday meal, Joanne ventured outside. She had changed again, this time into a slim tunic of white linen whose short length drew attention to the slim length of her legs. Without stockings her legs looked very pale and she determined to spend as much time in the sun as she could, soaking up the atmosphere.

  She went down the tussocky slope to the beach where the sand was almost white and oozed hotly between her toes. Leaving her sandals, she paddled at the water’s edge marvelling in the warmth of the water. It was so quiet and peaceful, so much the kind of place she had always wanted to visit that she wanted to see and do everything all at once. She wondered if her father was allowed to go out in his wheelchair. She could imagine herself pushing him on long walks when they could talk and talk about all the subjects in the world. They had so much to make up in so little time.

  Marisa was not in to lunch, so Andrea permitted Joanne to take hers with her father. He looked much better after his rest and they talked again. But afterwards, Andrea explained that this was one of his poorer days and that normally he did not confine himself to his bed for the whole day. However, when Joanne suggested that she might take him out, Andrea was regretfully adamant.

  ‘It would be terrible if he should have an attack while you were out,’ she explained gently. ‘But believe me when I say that I want you to spend as much time with your father as you possibly can.’

  Joanne nodded. ‘I only have two weeks,’ she reminded her.

  Andrea frowned. ‘Is that all?’ She shook her head. ‘It is a pity, a great pity. I know Matt secretly hopes and prays you will decide to stay longer.’

  Joanne’s cheeks paled a little. ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Of course. Do you think it could be any other way? Joanne, your father has been denied sight and sound of you for twenty years. Two weeks is hardly an adequate substitute.’

  Joanne heaved a sigh. ‘I know,’ she said heavily. ‘But it’s not easy for me either.’

  Andrea gave a brisk shrug. ‘Of course it’s not,’ she said quickly. ‘And I’m being ridiculously premature about everything. Naturally, you haven’t settled down here yet. This is your first day, and I’m already trying to persuade you to stay. I’m sorry. Come along, we’ll assure ourselves that Matt is all right for a while and then we’ll drive down to Diona.’

  ‘Diona?’ Joanne frowned.

  ‘The village where you landed,’ explained Andrea, with a smile. ‘We mustn’t allow you to get bored, must we?’

  Joanne enjoyed going out with Andrea. Until then she had not known what to call her, but on the journey Andrea insisted that Christian names were quite satisfactory.

  ‘I don’t feel like your mother,’ she commented dryly, ‘and while I admit that Marisa is mine, I was only nineteen when I became pregnant.’

  Joanne smiled at this, half amused at Andrea’s attitude, and the older woman patted her hand confidentially.

  ‘I hope I’m not over the hill yet,’ she remarked dryly, and Joanne was quick to assure her that she was not. Even so, it was a curious remark for Andrea to make and Joanne wondered why she should be so touchy about her age and appearance. It was obvious that Matthieu adored his wife and somehow, at a time like this, when everything must be overshadowed by the knowledge of impending death, it was a little unseemly. But Joanne was not one to judge a person too hastily, and she decided that Andrea’s concern stemmed from the knowledge that soon she would be a widow and alone in the world.

  At dinner that evening they had a guest. Marisa brought Constantine back with her and then spent hours in her room preparing herself for the meal. Joanne, who showered and changed into a short-styled jungle-printed caftan with the minimum amount of fuss, came into the lounge long before her half-sister and found Constantine lounging on the divan flicking through a magazine. He got hastily to his feet at her entrance and grinned enthusiastically.

  ‘Hello,’ he said admiringly. ‘How has your first day been?’

  As they were alone Joanne relaxed. ‘Fine,’ she averred. ‘I paddled in the sea this morning and this afternoon Andrea took me to Diona.’ She bent her head, the swathe of heavy silken hair falling about her face as she examined her nails. ‘But naturally the most exciting event was meeting my father.’ Her voice was husky. ‘How about you? What have you been doing?’

  ‘Me?’ said Constantine ungrammatically. ‘Well, Marisa and I have been sunbathing most of the day. We swam for a while first. By the way, do you skin-dive?’

  Joanne smiled and looked up. ‘Heavens, no! I’ve never been out of England before. But tell me ...’ She hesitated. ‘You and your brother; you speak such good English ...’ She spread her hands expressively.

  Constantine shrugged. This evening he was wearing a cream lounge suit and a rather gaudy shirt of violet patterned silk, and he looked rather handsome. ‘That is easy to answer,’ he replied now. ‘Dimitri and I were both educated in England. I attended a preparatory school before entering Eton, but Dimitri did not go to England until he went to Cambridge as an undergraduate.’

  ‘I see.’ Joanne was interested. ‘And did you go to Cambridge, too?’

  Constantine grimaced. ‘Oh, no, I am not the academic type. I am much happier boating or fishing or swimming. Dimitri - he is different. He always wanted to work with chemicals. My mother tells me that as a boy he used to dissect dead animals he found. A most unpleasant occupation.’

  Joanne chuckled. This family view of Dimitri Kastro was rather refreshing. ‘There’s a lot of years between you, isn’t there?’ she suggested carefully, and Constantine nodded.

  ‘Oh, yes. Dimitri is thirty-nine, almost forty in fact. Me - I am only twenty.’

  Joanne listened intently. ‘Do you have any other brothers or sisters?’ she asked, aware that she was being inordinately inquisitive, but Dimitri had been so adept at avoiding direct questioning while Constantine had a youthful disregard for privacy.

  ‘I have four sisters,’ he informed her smilingly. ‘Dimitri and I are the only sons. The first and last children.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Joanne was intrigued.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ asked Constantine suddenly. ‘I am quite at home here.’

  Joanne frowned. ‘I know. You’re betrothed to Marisa.’

  ‘That’s right. Did Andrea tell you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Joanne accompanied him across to a cabinet which slid open to reveal a varied array of wines and spirits. She agreed to have only a small vodka with a lot of lemonade and refused the popular ouzo when he pressed her. Taking her drink back to a low couch, she sat down, and thought how different this kind of life was from her hectic round at home. Before her mother’s death she had had to rush home after work to begin the evening meal so that when Mrs. Nicolas came home she could relax. And after the meal, there was the washing up and television and Jimmy ringing the doorbell. She sighed, and hearing her, Constantine came to join her, sitting down beside her and regarding her with obvious pleasure.

  ‘Why aren’t you married, Joanne?’ he asked, quite naturally, and she coloured.

  ‘I, too, am engaged,’ she returned swiftly. ‘We hope to get married in June.’ Now why had she said ‘hoped’? she thought impatiently. It was all arranged.

  Constantine put up a compulsive hand and touched a strand of her hair lying on her shoulder beside him. ‘This is beautiful!’ he
murmured softly. ‘I’ve never seen hair of quite that colour.’

  Joanne quivered, her gaze drawn compellingly to his, and she was reminded of Dimitri and the way he had disconcerted her too.

  But suddenly a harsh, angry voice, speaking in the island patios, startled them, and Joanne glanced round in astonishment as Marisa stormed into the room. Constantine got negligently to his feet, apparently unperturbed by her fury, and said calmly: ‘English, Marisa, remember?’

  Marisa took a deep breath. ‘What is going on?’ she exclaimed furiously. ‘You expect me to watch while you make eyes with this English interloper?’ Her accent was very thick, but Joanne understood her only too well.

  Rising too, she said: ‘It wasn’t like that at all, Marisa. Your - your fiancé and I were talking, that’s all!’

  Constantine put a restraining hand on Joanne’s arm, his fingers lingering against the soft flesh as though he would have liked to have continued to hold her. Then he spoke in biting tones: ‘Am I your possession that you treat me so? How dare you speak to a guest in your father’s house in this manner? Do not forget that Joanne is your father’s daughter just as you are!’

  Marisa’s olive skin darkened with colour. ‘Yes, you are my possession!’ she cried, tossing her head. ‘And I’ll say what I like in my own home!’

  ‘Marisa! Marisa! What is the matter?’ That was Andrea coming swiftly through the archway to join them. ‘What is going on here? Marisa, your father is sleeping. Have you no concern for his welfare?’

  Marisa’s face was sullen. ‘I wish my father had not sent for this English girl!’ she snapped rudely. ‘She and Constantine have been - flirting!’

  ‘Adinaton!’ exclaimed Andrea impatiently. ‘I will not listen to such things! Marisa, Joanne is engaged herself to a boy in England, you know that!’

  Marisa twisted her hands together. ‘It is well known that English men are cold and without sex appeal!’ she retorted, sniffing.

  Joanne gave Andrea a contrite smile, and Andrea nodded. ‘Come, Marisa,’ she said, more calmly, ‘can we not be civilized to our guest? She will imagine Greece is a country of vendettas!’

  Marisa’s expression did not alter, but she went over to Constantine and slid her hand through his arm. Nuzzling her head against his shoulder like a reproachful animal, she murmured: ‘Very well. I am sorry if I was rude.’ But she didn’t sound it, and somehow her attitude had spoiled the evening for Joanne.

  When she eventually went to her room after saying goodnight to her father she lay for a long while staring out at the brilliance of the stars in the night sky. Never had she known such a marvellous night, the atmosphere redolent with the perfumes of the flowers that grew in such profusion around the villa. There were clusters of bougainvillea growing around her shutters while a scarlet hibiscus spread its petals within a hand’s reach. It was all unreal and exotic and it was difficult to imagine the bleakness of England as she had left it the day before. Then it had been raining, and there had been none of the promise of summer that should have been burgeoning the trees and hedgerows.

  She rolled on to her stomach and punched her pillow. Thoughts of her father invaded her mind and she pondered the hazards of his condition. He looked so frail somehow, and older than the forty-odd years he really was. What a waste of a life, she thought unhappily. And yet had it not been for his illness she would never have come here. No amount of persuasion would have brought her here to see a healthy man and her attitudes were bound to have been different. She sighed, thinking about Marisa’s attitude. She wondered what hers would have been in the same situation. Maybe she would have felt resentful, too, as Marisa did, and maybe she would have guarded her belongings with unnecessary jealousy. It had certainly been a long and exhausting day and she ought to feel really sleepy. But there were too many things to think about, and her last coherent thought before she fell asleep was involved with Dimitri Kastro. It was disturbing to realize how often he did come into her thoughts, and she fell asleep with a troubled expression on her face.

  During the next few days, Joanne settled down at the villa. Her days were full of talking with her father, accompanying Andrea on visits about the island, and soaking up the glorious sunshine. She swam every day, usually alone, although once Andrea joined her. Marisa was seldom about, and Andrea explained that Constantine was staying at his brother’s villa so that they could have this time together. Joanne supposed Marisa spent her days there, and certainly she maintained her good humour while she had Constantine’s undiluted attention.

  Matthieu Nicolas improved after that first day and most mornings he dressed and came out on to the patio in his wheel chair. He had a manservant, Joanne had discovered, who had been on holiday when she first arrived, and when he returned a couple of days later he took over the duties that Andrea had previously performed. Not that Joanne’s father was completely helpless, he was not, but he got tired easily and must not exert himself. Lukas, the manservant, was a kind and understanding fellow, and Joanne didn’t mind him being present sometimes when she was with her father. He could always tell if his employer was tiring, and Joanne dismissed herself at these times with alacrity.

  She had written to Jimmy on her arrival telling him that all was well with her and describing the villa in detail. She mentioned little about her father. Somehow that was classified information even to him.

  The days passed peacefully, and Joanne began to realize how easy it would be to live the life of a lotus-eater here. Time held no meaning. Days mingled together into a tapestry of dawn and noon and night. And while the thought must have been present in Matthieu’s mind that eventually Joanne must start organizing her return home he never spoke about it and nor did she. Somehow, she could not bring the topic up, feeling as tortured by her emotions here as she had been at home.

  Towards the end of that first week, Marisa developed a throat infection which confined her to her room. Andrea was most apologetic when Constantine called for her as usual, and he went to see his fiancée to offer his sympathy. When he returned, Andrea was in the kitchen while Joanne was clearing the breakfast table in the dining recess.

  He approached Joanne slowly, considering the attractive picture she made in a short flared skirt of scarlet cotton and a sleeveless white cotton sweater. Her slim legs were already tanning smoothly, and if anything the sun had bleached her hair a shade lighter.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, attracting her attention. ‘Busy?’

  Joanne looked up, her smile lifting the corners of her eyes. ‘Not really,’ she admitted. ‘I was just helping Sophia.’

  Constantine kicked a plimsoled shoe against the polished floor. ‘Come out with me!’ he invited softly.

  Joanne gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘You must be joking!’ she exclaimed.

  Constantine shook his head. ‘No, I’m not. Marisa’s ill. Besides, you haven’t been anywhere since you arrived here!’

  ‘I came to be with my father,’ Joanne reminded him quietly.

  ‘What’s all this!’ The swish of wheels against the polished floor was distinctive. ‘Hello, Constantine. It’s good to see you!’

  Constantine greeted Matthieu with customary deference, and then said: ‘I was just inviting Joanne to spend the day with me. She seems afraid to accept!’ His tone mocked her.

  Matt looked questioningly at Joanne. ‘You are afraid to go out with Constantine?’ he queried disbelievingly.

  Joanne gave an exclamation. ‘Of course I’m not afraid!’ she replied impatiently. ‘But Marisa is ill. What would she think if I accepted her fiancé’s invitation?’

  Matt glanced round at his man, Lukas, who had come silently into the room. ‘What would Marisa think, Lukas?’ he asked chucklingly.

  Lukas shrugged. ‘She would not be pleased, I think,’ he said gravely.

  Matt smiled. ‘No, she would not be. But Marisa is spoilt and perhaps it will do her good to discover she cannot always direct a person’s doings.’

  Joanne looked uncomfortable and was
wondering what to say when Andrea appeared in-the doorway. ‘Is this a conference?’ she inquired lightly. ‘Matt, what is going on?’

  Matt explained, and his wife frowned. ‘I agree with Joanne,’ she said at last. ‘It is not fair to Marisa—’

  ‘Enough of Marisa!’ snapped Matthieu suddenly, demonstrating that he was still by no means incapable of asserting his commands. ‘Joanne has been confined to the villa since her arrival, without the company of any young people.’

  ‘But I came to be with you—’ began Joanne.

  ‘I will not die today,’ said Matthieu with dry humour. ‘Go with Constantine, have a good time, but mind you take care of her, young man.’

  Constantine tossed the keys of the Land Rover in his hand, and nodded amiably. Joanne was torn between two opposing factors. On the one hand her father and Constantine seemed bent on gaining her acquiescence, while on the other stood Andrea, and no doubt Marisa, both of whom considered she should refuse. She stood hesitantly, and Matthieu, sensing her indecision, said:

  ‘I am not asking, Joanne. I am telling you to go.’

  Joanne’s face suffused with colour. ‘Very well,’ she said unhappily, and allowed Constantine to urge her gently towards the door.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Matthieu, smiling. ‘Come and tell me all about it when you get back.’

  Outside, the Land Rover stood in the sunlight, its leather seats unbearably hot. Constantine good-naturedly spread a rug along the seat so that Joanne would not burn her thighs, and after she had climbed in he walked round to climb in beside her. She glanced at him malevolently, and he grinned.