“I can’t do a single thing either,” said George, “which is why Mr. Rutland sent me that cryptic message through the medium of you.”
“Aren’t you going to write another book?”
“Believe me, I would if I could. I did start off, but the thing was such a grinding failure I tore it up into little pieces and had a sort of ritual bonfire. It was discouraging, to say the least of it. And I promised the old boy I’d produce a second effort, even if it was only an idea, within a year, but of course I haven’t. I’ve been told I’m suffering from a writer’s block, which, if you’re interested, is like the worst sort of mental constipation.”
“What did you try to write the second book about?”
“A voyage I did to the Aegean, before I came to live here.”
“What went wrong?”
“It was tedious. It was a super trip, but the way I wrote about it, it sounded about as exciting as a bus ride through Leeds on a wet Sunday in November. Anyway, it’s all been done before.”
“But that isn’t the point. Surely you have to find an original angle, or a new approach. Isn’t that how it works?”
“Well, of course.” He smiled at her. “You’re not as green as you’re cabbage-looking.”
“You say nice things in a horrible way.”
“I know. I’m twisted and warped. Now, how about those personal pronouns?”
Selina looked back at the book. “Usted. You. El. He. Ella.…”
“You pronounce a double ‘I’ as though it had a ‘y’ behind it. Elya.”
“Elya,” said Selina, and looked up at him again. “Were you never married?”
He did not reply at once, but his face tensed up as though she had switched on a light and held it to his eyes. Then he said, calmly enough, “I never married. But I was once engaged.” Selina waited, and, perhaps encouraged by her silence, he went on. “It was while I was in Bradderford. Her parents were Bradderford people, very rich, very kind, selfmade. The salt of the earth, really. The father drove a Bentley and the mother drove a Jaguar, and Jenny had a hunter about ten feet high, and a patent automatic horse-box, and they used to go to San Moritz to ski, and to Formentor for their summer holidays, and to the Leeds Music Festival, because they thought it was expected of them.”
“I don’t know whether you’re being kind or cruel.”
“I don’t know either.”
“But why did she break it off?”
“She didn’t. I did. Two weeks before the biggest wedding Bradderford had ever known. For months I couldn’t get near Jenny for bridesmaids and trousseaux and caterers and photographers and wedding-presents. Oh, God, those wedding-presents! And it began to be like a high wall between us, so that I couldn’t get near her. And when I realised that she didn’t mind about the wall, she didn’t even know it was there … well, I’ve never had an awful lot of self-respect, but what I did have I wanted to keep.”
“Did you tell her you weren’t going to marry her?”
“Yes. I went to her house. I told Jenny and then I told her parents. And it all took place in a room filled with crates and boxes and tissue paper and silver candlesticks and salad bowls and tea-sets and hundreds of toast racks. It was gruesome. Ghastly.” He shuddered slightly at the memory. “I felt like a murderer.”
Selina thought of the new flat, of the carpets and the chintzes, the ritual of the white dress and the church wedding and having Mr. Arthurstone to give her away. The panic that suddenly visited her was the panic of a bad dream. Of being lost, and knowing that you were lost. Knowing that somewhere you had taken the wrong turning and ahead there could be nothing but disaster, precipitous cliffs and every sort of nameless fear. She wanted to leap to her feet, to escape and run away from everything she had ever committed herself to doing.
“Was … was that when you left Bradderford?”
“Don’t look so horrified. No, it wasn’t; I had another two years to run. I spent them being persona non grata with all the debs’ mums and being cut by all sorts of unexpected people. It was rather interesting in a way, finding out who my real friends were…” He moved forward to rest his elbows on the edge of the coach roof. “But all this is doing nothing to improve your faultless Castilian Spanish. See if you can say the present tense of Hablar.”
Selina started. “Hablo. I speak. Usted habla, you speak. Were you in love with her?”
George glanced up swiftly, but there was no anger in his dark eyes, only pain. Then he put his brown hand flat over the open page of the Spanish grammar and said gently, “Without looking. You mustn’t cheat.”
* * *
The Citröen nosed into Cala Fuerte at the very hottest time of the day. The sun shimmered in a sky of cloudless blue, shadows were black, and dust and houses very white. There was no living soul about; shutters were closed, and as Frances drew up in front of the Cala Fuerte Hotel, and turned off the engine of the powerful car, there was a great silence, broken only by the rustle of the pines which moved in some mysterious, unfelt breeze.
She got out of the car, and slammed the door shut, and went up the steps of the hotel and in through the chain curtain to Rudolfo’s bar. After the sunshine it took a moment for her eyes to become accustomed to the darkness, but Rudolfo was there, stealing a siesta in one of the long cane chairs, and he woke as she came in, and stood up, sleepy and surprised.
She said, “Well, hello, amigo.”
He rubbed his eyes. “Francesca! What are you doing here?”
“Just drove over from San Antonio. Could you give me a drink?”
He moved behind his bar. “What do you want?”
“Any cold beer?” She pulled herself up on to a stool, and took out a cigarette, and lit it from the box of matches that Rudolfo pushed across to her. He opened the beer and poured it, carefully, without a head. He said, “It’s not a good time of the day to be driving an open car.”
“Doesn’t bother me.”
“It is very hot for so early in the year.”
“This is the hottest day we’ve had yet. San Antonio is like a tin of sardines; it’s a relief to get out into the country.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“Not entirely. I came to see George.”
Rudolfo replied to this in a characteristic way which was to shrug and turn down the corners of his mouth. It seemed to suggest some innuendo, and Frances frowned. “Isn’t he here?”
“But of course he is here.” A gleam of malice showed in Rudolfo’s eyes. “Did you know that he had a visitor staying at the Casa Barco?”
“A visitor?”
“His daughter.”
“Daughter!” After a second’s astounded silence, Frances laughed. “Are you crazy?”
“I am not crazy. His daughter is here.”
“But … but George has never been married.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Rudolfo.
“How old is she, for heaven’s sake?”
He shrugged again. “Seventeen?”
“But it’s impossible…”
Rudolfo began to be annoyed. “Francesca, I tell you she is there.”
“I saw George in San Antonio yesterday. Why didn’t he say anything?”
“Did he give you no idea?”
“No. No, he didn’t.”
But this was not strictly true, because all his actions yesterday had been unusual and therefore, in Frances’s eyes, faintly suspect. The sudden urge to send a cable when he had been in the town only the previous day, the purchase made in Teresa’s, that most feminine of shops, and his final remarks about having more to feed than the cat when he returned to Cala Fuerte. All evening and most of the night, she had been chewing over these three clues, convinced that they all added up to something about which she ought to know, and this morning, unable to remain in ignorance any longer, she had decided to come to Cala Fuerte and find out what was going on. Even if there was nothing to discover, she would see George. And it was true that the congested streets and pave
ments of San Antonio had begun to get on her nerves, and the thought of the empty blue inlets and the fresh piny smell of Cala Fuerte was very inviting.
And now this. It was his daughter. George had a daughter. She stubbed out her cigarette, and saw that her hand was shaking. She said, as calmly and as casually as she could, “What is she called?”
“The señorita? Selina.”
“Selina.” She said the name as though it left a bad taste in her mouth.
“She is very charming.”
Frances finished her beer. She set down the empty glass, and said, “I think I’d better go and find out for myself.”
“You should do that.”
She slid off the high stool and picked up her bag and made for the door. But at the chain curtain, she stopped and turned, and Rudolfo was watching her with a gleam of amusement in his frog-eyes.
“Rudolfo, if I wanted to stay for the night … would you have a room for me?”
“Of course, Francesca. I will have one made ready.”
* * *
She drove, in a cloud of dust, to the Casa Barco, left the Citröen in the only patch of shade she could find, and crossed the lane to the house. She opened the green shutter door, and called, “Anyone around?” but there was no reply, so she went in.
The place was empty. It smelt sweetly, of wood ash and fruit, and was cool with the air that moved in from the sea through the open windows. She dropped her bag on a handy chair, and wandered round, searching for signs of feminine occupation, but there appeared to be none. From the gallery there was a small sound, but when she looked up, a little startled, it was only George’s ridiculous white cat jumping off the bed, and coming down the steps to welcome the visitor. Frances did not like cats, especially this one, and gave Pearl a push with her foot, but Pearl’s dignity was not impaired. Her back view speaking volumes, she left Frances and walked, tail erect, out on to the terrace. After a moment Frances followed her, lifting George’s binoculars off his table as she went by. Eclipse lay quietly at anchor. Frances raised the binoculars and focused them and the yacht and her occupants sprang towards her. George was in the cockpit, at full length on one of the seats, his old cap tipped over his eyes, and a book on his chest. The girl was draped over the coach roof, an arrangement of boneless-looking limbs and a quantity of pale fawn hair. She wore a shirt which looked as though it might belong to George, and Frances could not see her face. The little scene was one of content and companionship, and Frances was frowning when she lowered the binoculars. She returned them to the table, and then went to draw herself a glass of George’s sweet, cool well water. She brought the glass back on to the terrace, pulled the least lethal of his terrace chairs back into the shade of the split-cane awning, stretched herself gingerly out, and settled down to wait.
* * *
George said, “Are you awake?”
“Yes.”
“I think we should get straightened up and go back. You’ve been out in the sun for long enough.”
Selina sat up and stretched. “I went to sleep.”
“I know.”
“It was all that gorgeous wine.”
“Yes, I expect it was.”
They rowed back to the Casa Barco, the dinghy suspended like a cloud over the peacock-coloured water, her shadow drifting through the weeds below them. The world was still and hot and quiet, and seemed to contain only the two of them. Selina’s skin prickled and felt tight, as though, like an over-ripe fruit, she might burst out of it, but this sensation was not unpleasant—merely a part of the splendid day. She pulled the empty basket between her knees and said, “That was a good picnic. The best I ever had,” and waited for George to come back with some crack about Frinton, but to her surprised delight he said nothing, only smiled at her as though he had enjoyed it too.
He brought the dinghy up to the jetty and stepped ashore and made her fast with two loops of the painter. Selina handed out all their gear, and then stepped after him, the jetty burning hot on the soles of her bare feet, and they crossed the slipways, and started up the steps to the terrace, George going ahead, so that Selina, behind him, heard Frances Dongen’s voice before she ever saw her.
“Well, now. Look who’s here!”
For a split second George appeared to be petrified into stillness. And then, as though nothing had ever been said, he went on, up to the terrace.
“Hello, Frances,” he said.
Selina, more slowly, followed him. Frances lay in the old cane chair, with her feet up on the table. She wore a blue-and-white-checked shirt, knotted to expose her dark-tanned midriff, and white duck pants, skimpy and tight. She had kicked off her shoes, and her feet, crossed on the edge of the table, were dark and dusty, the toe-nails lacquered bright red. She made no effort to sit up or get up, but merely lay there, supine, her hands resting on the floor, and surveyed George from under her thatch of short blonde hair.
“Isn’t this a nice surprise?” She looked over his shoulder and saw Selina. “Hi, there!”
Selina smiled weakly. “Hello.”
George put down the basket. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, San Antonio’s pretty hot and full and noisy, and I thought I might give myself a couple of days off.”
“Are you staying here?”
“Rudolfo said he’d give me a room.”
“You’ve seen Rudolfo?”
“Yeah, I had a drink with him on my way here.” She eyed him, her eyes malicious, teasing him because he didn’t know how much Rudolfo had told her.
George sat on the edge of the table. “Did Rudolfo tell you I had Selina staying with me?”
“Oh, sure, he told me.” She smiled at Selina. “You know, you’re the biggest surprise that ever happened to me. George, you haven’t introduced us yet.”
“Sorry. Selina, this is Mrs. Dongen…”
“Frances,” said Frances quickly.
“And this is Selina Bruce.”
Selina moved forward with her hand outstretched to say “How do you do,” but Frances ignored the tentative gesture.
“Are you here on a visit?”
“Yes, I am.…”
“George, you never told me you had a daughter.”
George said, “She isn’t my daughter.”
Frances, blank-faced, seemed to accept this. Then she lifted her foot from the table’s edge and pulled herself into a sitting position. “Are you trying to tell me…”
“Hang on a moment. Selina…”
She turned to look at him, and he saw that she was confused and embarrassed, and even, possibly, a little hurt. He said, “Would you mind if I spoke to Frances alone, just for a moment?”
“No. No, of course not.” She tried to smile, to show how little she minded, and swiftly laid down the things she had been carrying, the towel and the Spanish grammar, as though to lighten herself before making a swift escape.
“Just for five minutes…”
“I’ll go back down to the dinghy. It’s cool there.”
“Yes, do that.”
She went, swiftly, away and out of sight down the steps. In a moment Pearl, who had been sitting on the terrace wall, stood up and stretched, leapt lightly down, and went off after her. George turned back to Frances. He said again, “She isn’t my daughter.”
“Well, who the hell is she?”
“She arrived here from London, out of the blue, looking for me, because she thought I was her father.”
“What made her think that?”
“The photograph on the back of my book.”
“Do you look like her father?”
“Yes, I do. In fact, he was a distant cousin of mine, but that’s beside the point. He’s dead. He’s been dead for years. He was killed in the war.”
“She surely didn’t imagine he’d come alive again?”
“I suppose if you want something badly enough you can believe in any miracle.”
“Rudolfo told me that she was your daughter.”
“Yes, I
know. The buzz got round the village, and for her sake it seemed kinder not to deny it. She’d already been here for two days.”
“Living here—with you? You must be out of your mind.”
“She had to stay. The airline had lost her luggage, and her return ticket was stolen at the airport.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about her yesterday?”
“Because it didn’t seem to be any of your business.” This sounded ruder than he had intended. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, but it’s just the way things are.”
“What are your friends in Cala Fuerte going to say when they know she isn’t your daughter? When they know you’ve been lying to them.…”
“I’ll explain when she’s gone.”
“And when might that be?”
“When we get some cash from London. We already owe Rudolfo six hundred pesetas, and we have to buy another air ticket, and my own money’s been held up in Barcelona…”
“You mean it’s only money!” George stared at her. “That’s the only thing that’s kept her here? That’s the only reason you didn’t send her straight back home?”
“It’s as good a reason as any.”
“But, for Pete’s sake, why didn’t you come to me?”
George opened his mouth to tell her why and then shut it again. Frances was incredulous. “Does she want to stay here? Do you want her here?”
“No, of course not. She can’t wait to get back, and I can’t wait to be rid of her. But meantime, the situation’s quite harmless.”
“Harmless? That’s the most naïve thing I’ve ever heard you say. Why, this situation is about as harmless as a barrel of dynamite.”
He did not reply, but sat, shoulders hunched, his hands closed so tightly over the edge of the table that the knuckles shone white. Frances, with a show of gentle understanding, laid her hand over his, and he did not try to move away. She said, “You’ve confided in me now, so let me help. There’s a seven o’clock plane this evening from San Antonio to Barcelona. There’s a connection to London, and she should be back by midnight. I’ll give her enough for the journey, and to get her back to where she lives.” He still said nothing, and she went on, gently, “Darling, this isn’t any time to dither. I’m right, and you know it. She can’t stay here any longer.”
Sleeping Tiger Page 13
