by Anne Weale
“Oh ... marvellous!” Imelda replied, trying hard to inject some enthusiasm into her voice.
Her heart was sinking with disappointment at being denied the long drive alone with him. However tiring and boring the journey might have been for Charles, for her it would have been an interlude of unexpected happiness. By now she had reached the stage in love when merely to see him in the distance was better than nothing; to speak to him made a day memorable; and to spend several hours in his company was the nearest she was likely to come to bliss.
“You sound as if you might be having second thoughts,” said Charles. “If you have changed your mind since I talked to you I hope you aren’t afraid to say so.”
“No, I haven’t changed my mind. I’m about to pack my case.”
“Don’t stay up too late. See you in the morning. ’Night, Imelda.”
“Good night, Charles.”
Sam had been and gone and Mrs. Walsham was dusting the shelf of crested china when Charles came to fetch Imelda the following morning.
As he swung her suitcase inside the boot of his car she felt another pang of regret for the journey they might have shared. To Norwich airport was a drive of less than half an hour.
“Is that little woman competent to hold the fort for you?” he asked as they set off and Imelda turned to wave.
“Not altogether, but Sam will be there most of the time.”
She did not elaborate and Charles did not pursue the subject.
“Have you flown before?” he asked presently.
“No, never. I’m looking forward to it.”
The airport was a comparatively new one. For a county where disused wartime airfields were a common sight Norfolk had been slow to accept the advantages of civil aviation.
Imelda, who had once been to London Airport not to fly but merely to have lunch, found this airport reassuringly small and homely compared with that vast and impersonal concourse.
Within a few minutes of their arrival Charles’s friend appeared. He was introduced to Imelda and then the two men chatted until they were joined by the American oil men who had come by hired car from the coast. Shortly afterwards a stewardess came to shepherd the three passengers to the aircraft.
Imelda turned to Charles wondering if it was an appropriate moment to shake hands. Now at the very last moment she was beginning to feel slightly nervous. It would have been comforting to feel his firm warm grip for a few seconds.
While she was hesitating Charles took the initiative in a manner which effectively drove all thought of the hazards of take-off from her mind until long after they were airborne. He put his hands on her shoulders and bent down and kissed her on the mouth.
“Goodbye, my love. See you soon.” With a friendly nod to the others, he turned away and strode out of the building.
Later that day Imelda realised that flying in a small twelve-seater aircraft was infinitely more interesting than jetting across the English Channel at an altitude which made freighters look like water beetles. But much of the interest of the first flight was wasted on her because all she could think of was Charles’s extraordinary farewell.
Why had he done it? Not to bolster the impression that she was engaged to him because their relationship was irrelevant to the first flight and probably did not matter much in connection with the second one if he and the charter company’s director were still close friends.
Could it be that he had detected her nervousness and kissed her to give her something else to think about? There had been amusement in his eyes when he looked down at her astonished face.
There was only one other possible explanation; and that she was afraid to let herself believe.
At Gatwick she was taken under the wing of John Brancaster, Charles’s friend. She had lunch with him. He knew that she was a dealer and at first they talked about antiques. He was a collector of Staffordshire blue earthenware, specialising in plates depicting the adventures of Dr. Syntax, a comical clergyman drawn by Thomas Rowlandson, the eighteenth-century cartoonist.
Imelda won his approval by knowing that twenty-seven different illustrations had been documented of which John had so far collected twenty. Later however their conversation turned to Charles and in the course of reminiscing about their schooldays John remarked that Charles had had a hard time as a boy because of his grandfather’s unfair prejudice against him.
“Why was his grandfather prejudiced?” asked Imelda, unable to repress her curiosity.
“Charles hasn’t told you? No, well, I suppose he wouldn’t out of loyalty to old Mrs. Wingfield. He was always fond of his grandmother and she did her best to make matters easier for him. You see, Charles’s grandfather never approved of his daughter-in-law. She was a foreigner: French or Italian, I’m not certain which. My parents met her once briefly, but before Charles was even at prep school she had married again and gone back to live in her own country.”
“Leaving both her children here?” Imelda exclaimed incredulously.
“Yes; apparently the old man was right in his assessment of her character. She had married his son thinking she was on to a good thing. But when she found herself widowed and expected to live a quiet country life with two old people and two babies in a family which was not as well off as it had once been, she didn’t care for the situation at all. I know the story only by hearsay, but I gather that old Mr. Wingfield wouldn’t have minded if she had taken Charles abroad with her, but he wanted to bring up Piers himself. She wouldn’t let him keep Piers unless he kept Charles as well.”
“Ye gods! How completely callous of them both!” Imelda was wrung with pity.
“Yes, and the irony of the situation, although the old boy would never admit it, was that Charles looked like his mother but took after his father, and Piers was physically a thoroughbred Wingfield, but morally as selfish as his mother.”
He paused to light a cigar, and went on, “Piers was sent to his father’s school where he was damn nearly chucked out for doing something thoroughly disreputable. I don’t know the details. Charles came to the third- rate school which was all my parents could afford, and he ended up as Head Boy with a string of prizes and scholarships. But even then his grandfather refused to acknowledge that he was worth ten of Piers.”
“How did Charles and Piers get on with each other?”
“Surprisingly well, considering the difference between them. But as soon as Charles had come down from Cambridge - where he took a brilliant degree - he took off abroad. I believe he wrote to his grandmother, and occasionally I had a postcard from some remote part of the world. But until Piers was killed, and he had to come back and take the reins, Charles kept well away. Can you blame him?”
“Did you know what he did all that time? How he earned his living?”
John shook his head. “No, he always evaded my questions and after a time I took the hint and stopped pumping him. Maybe he went off the rails for a while. The way he was treated by the old man was enough to drive anyone to drink. Somehow, knowing Charles, I doubt if he sowed too many wild oats. It would be more like him to give up a flourishing career overseas to come back and fend for his brother’s brood.”
“I understood he was living in Menorca at the time of the accident. Would an island like that provide a good career for a foreigner?”
“Possibly not, although Charles speaks half a dozen languages, which would make it easier for him than for most people.”
The second flight passed as quickly as the first, for now Imelda was preoccupied by her lunch-table talk with John, and the new light it had thrown on Charles. No wonder he often seemed aloof. Such a boyhood was enough to make anyone reserved. Even if his grandmother had been fond of him, he must have suffered a great deal from his grandfather’s hostility and the favouritism shown to his brother. It said a great deal for his character that, whatever bitter resentment he must have felt in the past, there was nothing but loving kindness in his attitude to the three children now in his charge. He might refuse them some th
ings - she remembered the matter of the riding lessons - but he never withheld his time and interest.
Nevertheless, although he appeared to have survived his difficult boyhood without any lasting ill effects, she could not help wondering if when it came to relationships with women, he would always reserve his innermost self. She had read that when people had been deprived of affection in childhood it became impossible for them to establish satisfactory adult relationships. Thinking about this in connection with Charles, it seemed to her equally probable that the deficiencies of his early life might make him capable of a particularly strong and lasting love. But even with the feel of his kiss still on her lips, Imelda could not convince herself that she had the qualities to make Charles abandon the guards of a lifetime.
Her first sight of Menorca was from several thousand feet above the rocky coastline, indented here and there by small, secret-looking coves. The hinterland was a reddish-brown patchwork of fields enclosed by high dry-stone walls the colour of putty. There was very little vegetation, at least in the vicinity of the airport.
The small crowd awaiting the aeroplane’s arrival were shaded from the dazzling glare of mid-afternoon by a lofty lattice of beams. Most of them were wearing sunglasses, and at first Imelda could see only Spanish- looking people there. But as she entered the dappled light of the verandah area, she heard her name called and saw Henry grinning at her.
“Where are the others?” she asked, as he took charge of her one light suitcase.
“There’s only me and Paco here. The girls have gone to a birthday party at Binibeca, and Granny has a headache, so she asked me to meet you. Did you enjoy the journey?” he asked politely.
“Yes, very much. It was cloudy over most of France, but I saw the peaks of the Pyrenees.”
In the car park, Henry introduced Paco, a Menorquin youth who spoke no English. “He’s Maria’s son. Maria looks after Na Vell when it’s empty,” he explained.
For some miles after leaving the airport they drove along a main road and the countryside changed, becoming less flat and less barren. Then they turned up a narrow byroad flanked by the dry-stone walls which Imelda had noticed from the air. Presently the way was barred by a crudely made, sun-bleached gate. Paco stopped the car, and Henry hopped out to open the gate.
“Na Vell seems rather isolated,” said Imelda, when they had passed through a second gate. “Are you on the telephone there?”
“I don’t think there are any private telephones in Menorca,” the boy answered.
“What happens in an emergency? Say, if you needed to call a doctor quickly?”
“I suppose you would have to go to the nearest hotel. Perhaps the shops have telephones. I expect you’re longing to have a swim, aren’t you?”
Half an hour later Imelda was following him down a
gully leading to one of the secluded beaches she had glimpsed from the aircraft.
She had not yet seen Mrs. Wingfield as, on their arrival at Na Vell, Maria had hurried from the house to warn them by means of a graphic mime that the Senora was sleeping and should not be disturbed. Conducted by the island woman to a small, whitewashed shuttered bedroom, Imelda had obeyed Henry’s behest to change at once into her swimsuit.
“You’ll have to take care not to burn,” he warned her, when they reached the hot sand where a couple of beach umbrellas provided shade for several loungers. “Granny was terrifically fussy about us when we first arrived. Have you brought some sun oil?”
“Yes,” said Imelda, producing a bottle from her beach bag.
“When is Uncle Charles coming? It’s much more fun when he’s here.”
“In about a fortnight, I think.” While the boy ran down to the water’s edge, she began to oil herself, wondering what Charles was doing now, and if already he had forgotten that teasing goodbye kiss.
The sea felt refreshingly cool when she waded up to her knees, but only by comparison with the furnace-heat of the afternoon air. When she had swum a few strokes she realised how warm the water was.
“Does no one else use this beach?” she asked Henry, when he swam alongside her while she was floating.
“It isn’t private. Local people come here sometimes, but no other foreigners. It’s a super place, isn’t it?”
“Mm ... lovely.” Imelda rolled over and dived into the turquoise depths. She did not want to think about the fact that for her, as for Henry, the only thing lacking was Charles’s presence; and that when he did join them, it would be time for her to leave.
The sun had lost some of its fierceness when they climbed the hill to the house and found Mrs. Wingfield drinking coffee in the shadow of the east wall. Seeing Imelda, she rose to greet her with all her customary vitality.
“My dear child, how very nice to have you here! I do apologise for not being at the airport to meet you. I don’t often suffer from headaches, but I had a blinding one earlier. My own fault probably. Too much wine and chorizo for supper last night. However, it’s gone away now. Has Henry been a good host?”
“Yes, excellent. He’s been teaching me to snorkel. Are you really feeling better, Mrs. Wingfield? I hope you haven’t dragged yourself out of bed on my account?”
“No, no, I’m completely recovered. You must be thirsty after swimming. Henry, ask Maria to make a jug of iced orange juice, will you, please? Charles has put in a generator and we have a fridge and electric light and all the other mod. cons.,” she explained to Imelda.
Shortly before sunset, Sophie and Fanny were brought home by the father of the child to whose party they had been. He lingered for a drink and a chat, and then jolted off down the walled lane in the direction of the lime- washed farm to which Maria had returned an hour before.
The proximity of the farm relieved a little of Imelda’s anxiety at being several kilometres from the nearest tarred road, and heaven only knew how far from a telephone. Not that Mrs. Wingfield looked at all likely to be taken ill as she busied herself putting finishing touches to the supper largely prepared by Maria earlier in the day.
Later that night, when the children were in bed, their elders sat on the terrace which Charles had added to the seaward side of Na Vell.
“It is good of you to step into the breach now that Margaret has had to cut short her time here,” said Mrs. Wingfield. “The children are so full of energy, but mine is waning, I’m sorry to say. There are times when I would rather sit quietly in the shade with my embroidery than scramble about on the cliffs as the young things naturally long to do. Does a hot climate suit you, Imelda?”
“I don’t know, never having been abroad until now. We couldn’t afford proper holidays after my father died.”
In the days that followed, Imelda found that not only the heat but everything about the island suited her.
She liked getting up at first light to play badminton with Henry. She liked the toffee-tasting marmalade called angel’s hair which they spread on crusty rolls baked in an old-fashioned wall oven and deliciously different from the steamed, sliced, tasteless factory product on which she had been brought up. She liked coming out of the clear green sea and lying on a towel on the sand under a sun which in minutes would evaporate the beads of salt water from her gently browning skin. She liked dozing in the shuttered half-light of her room during the hour’s siesta which Mrs. Wingfield insisted upon after lunch.
By the end of the first week she was sufficiently tanned to spend all but the hottest hours of noonday with no other covering than her swimsuit. One afternoon when the children had gone with Paco to Alayor, a small inland town where they could spend their pocket money on packets of dried sunflower seeds, coconut ices and other delights not to be had at home in England, Imelda was sunbathing in solitude when someone addressed her in Spanish.
Startled, she opened her eyes to find Charles standing over her.
“Charles! What are you doing here?” she exclaimed, in amazement.
“I was able to get away sooner than I anticipated. How are you?” he asked, as she sc
rambled to her feet.
“Fine ... how are you?” She knew that she was beaming from ear to ear, but she couldn’t help it. It was such a lovely shock to see him.
“Hot and dusty,” Charles said, with a grimace. “I arrived on the two o’clock flight, caught the Ciudadela bus to the turn-off, and walked the rest of the way. Where are the ninos?”
This was one word she did understand. “They’ve gone to Alayor, and Maria has taken your grandmother to a house where they have some embroideries which have been handed down from the time of the British occupation. At least we think that is what Maria was telling us. Have you had any lunch? I’ll come up to the house and fix you something.”
“The first thing I need is a shower, and some different clothes. As you can see, I spent yesterday and this morning in London” - glancing down at the well-cut dark trousers which obviously belonged to a city suit. “And now” - transferring his glance to Imelda’s scanty cotton coverings - “I feel decidedly over-dressed.”
Twenty minutes later he came into the kitchen looking clean and cool in white sailcloth shorts and an apple green cotton-knit shirt which contrived to make him look as much a Menorquin as, down on the beach, he had sounded when he first spoke to her.
“How unfair! You’re browner than I am before you’ve even started sunbathing,” Imelda complained, comparing the light golden brown of her rounded forearm with the deeper tan of his sinewy one. For Charles, divested of English clothes, was unexpectedly powerful-looking.
He bent to look in the refrigerator. “Ah – boquerones!” He took out a covered plastic bowl, and helped himself to an anchovy pickled in brine. “Do you like these?” — offering the bowl to her.
