As the small ship moved away they saw vivarias and other boats in the harbor and behind them the whole of Barcelona. Linda thought she could even see the statue of Christopher Columbus, which was like Nelson’s Column without the lions. Someone on deck began singing in the simple manner of the ordinary Spaniard, and the song, apparently a Catalan melody, was taken up softly by a band of young ecclesiastics who were bound for a seminary on one of the islands.
Philip, standing between the two women at the rail, murmured, “One never knows. Last time I made this trip the boat was full of gipsies drinking fino and manzanilla. They were so cockeyed when we reached Majorca that half a dozen of us had to carry them ashore.”
Leaning beside him, Maxine laughed and clasped both her hands about his arm. Philip looked down at Linda, his eyes glinting tantalizingly. With a very faint wink he slipped a hand under her arm, and the sudden warmth of grateful tears was salt in her throat. She was sure he could be such a dear if he wished. If only Maxine were not here! But then, if that were so, Linda would not be here, either.
When the coastline had become no more than a scribble of hills on the horizon, they went into the lounge for drinks. With an Englishman whom Philip knew slightly they played cards and later had lunch, after which the two women were shown to a cabin in which they could rest. But Linda could not stay in the confined space of the cabin. She found a quiet corner on deck from which she could watch the extraordinary green-glass crests of the waves, and listen to dances played on an accordion and occasionally performed as solos by a bored male passenger; there were jotas, Sevillanos, boleros, plaintive and gay. She thought she would like to see more traditional dancing before she left Spain; it was said that the controlled fire and finesse of the true Andalusian gitano had to be seen to be believed.
She remembered suddenly that Sebastian was Andalusian, and inevitably her mouth again shrank from that sudden violent kiss. Someone, she couldn’t recall who, had stated that the Andalusian was not to be trusted; he was too volatile, too fond of love for love’s sake, too exaggerated in his reactions. She wondered if it wouldn’t have been wiser to tell all to Dr. Reeves yesterday. Then she drew comfort from Sebastian’s absence from Montelisa. She had a whole week of freedom from him, a whole week in which to plan.
She went on watching the waves, saw the lithe length of a big fish, mocking and iridescent. That was freedom, she thought; gliding through the ocean wherever one wished, untrammelled by relationships. Love was stultifying and painful, and hate was a blight. She had both loved and hated Philip, and known a frightful irremediable sense of hurt. It was like one vast chaotic emotion moving sometimes at breakneck speed, and at others jolting to a stop in a vacuum. She would never be able to handle it.
A sense of excitement gathering about her brought Linda to her feet, and she went to the rail to see that first silver-gilt sight of Majorca. It was an enthralling picture, that strange element of light over the island, slanting first across the hills which came out of the horizon, then covering the town of Palma with honey-colored brilliance. It was as if some giant artist were at work and had floodlit the landscape in full daylight.
Philip said behind her, “I meant us to be together when you got your first glimpse of the island.”
Her heart leapt. Did he mean the two of them? “Isn’t it breathtaking?” she whispered.
“You mean the light? The Mediterranean islands all have it. I suppose it’s something to do with refracted sunshine from the sea. You see the towers on the hilltops? They’re atalayas, observation posts which date back to the days of the corsairs.” He stopped. “Where’s Maxine?”
“I don’t know. She may still be in the cabin.”
He had managed to insert himself between Linda and a small man who gazed through a very large pair of binoculars.
“Haven’t you been with her?” he asked.
“No, I stayed on deck. It was all too grand to be missed.”
“But I intended you to rest,” he said, exasperated. “Veronica keeps late hours.”
“I shall be all right,” she told him happily. “It won’t matter if I don’t sleep at all during the next two days.” He gave a brief grim laugh. “What a child you are. A refreshing child, if I may so. It must be marvellous to see all this for the first time.”
“Oh, it is!” She turned her bright eyes to him. “How long is it since you saw it first?”
“About twelve years. Oddly enough I was around your age, but in most things I was very much older. I can’t even remember what it felt like, and in any case I was on a study tour and had already seen a few miracles in the way of sunlit icy peaks and buried ruins.” His smile, as he flicked a glance at the color in her cheeks, was sardonic. “Try to keep the freshness. It becomes you.”
In that moment, with Spanish people about them and Palma lying around the rim of the bay they had entered with the cathedral a tawny sentinel to the right. Linda knew an uprush of pure joy. Without volition her hand sought his and clasped it tightly.
“Dear, dear,” he murmured derisively just above her ear, “you’ve been infected by the Spaniards. No, don’t take it away, I like it.”
She couldn’t have withdrawn her hand, anyway, because his grip, though impersonal, was firm. On the outskirts of her consciousness was a dragging sensation that was Maxine, but here and now she was alone with Philip; he had her fist curled round inside his own big strong hand and his shoulder was above and behind her own, protectively. With his other hand he indicated landmarks, and as they came alongside the quay he pointed out Chris and Veronica Raebrook.
The magic was ended.
“Stay here,” he ordered. “I’ll find Maxine. She’s probably on the other deck.”
During the next half-hour or so Linda scarcely thought at all. Chris Raebrook was one of those gangling men who wear their corduroys and sophistication as if born to them. He looked over Maxine and Linda and, when he thought himself unobserved by them, raised a quizzical eyebrow at Philip. “Ha, ha, my friend,” he seemed to say, “what you really need is one woman combining these two.”
His wife, however, was singularly unromantic. She certainly stared at Maxine’s white smooth hair and close-fitting tan silk with some intensity, but one felt her scrutiny of other women was always objective. She wrote poetry which was strictly modern and incomprehensible; she wore tight velvet skirts and her black hair was cut geometrically to the lobes of her ear and fringed above the eyebrows. Her eyes were long and dark, her mouth a thin gash in a particularly small and expressionless face.
Chris drove erratically through the narrow, picturesque streets of Palma and out on to a road which was bordered by almond and carob trees. Veronica sat in the back of the car between Maxine and Linda, and offered comments on everything of interest which they passed.
To Maxine she said suddenly, “I know a man who’d give his ears to paint you. But I’m afraid you’d emerge dark and Mongol-featured; he does that to everyone. He doesn’t mean it—it just happens.”
“How infuriating,” observed Maxine. “Still, he might be interesting.”
“He’s a boor,” stated Veronica dispassionately. “You aren’t likely to meet him.”
She was a vague person, and the Raebrook house, when they reached it, turned out to be a typical product of her brain. It was a rambling wooden dwelling, and all of it except the long central lounge seemed to be a series of afterthoughts. The bedroom to which a dark-skinned island maid led Maxine and Linda was L-shaped, so that it was virtually two rooms, which suited both women very well.
The house, of course, overlooked the sea, and it was part of a hamlet whose patchwork of red-tiled roofs was visible from the veranda. When Linda had washed and changed into the white silk with blue and white butterflies all over it, she went out to the veranda and saw, in the fast-fading twilight, an old lighthouse which stood lonely and forsaken on a rock washed by gentle waves. A new and splendid beacon shone out intermittently from the headland, and Linda felt a little sad for
the disused column of stone and its dead window.
A light was switched on on the veranda, and she turned to find Chris Raebrook presiding over a cocktail tray.
“Hallo,” he said. “Admiring the view? Is it better than yours at Montelisa?”
“No, only different.” She was curious about this man who worked for six months of the year with Philip. “It’s thrilling to be on an island, though. Are Majorcans different from the Spanish?”
“Oh, yes. More serious and superstitious, and they haven’t become modernized, thank heaven. They dance, but not madly; they make love, but with moderate gusto; and fortunately they’ve preserved many of the old courtesies. Here at San Jorge we’ve only one fiesta a year, and I’m never on hand to see it. From what Veronica has told me, it isn’t particularly hectic.” He greeted his wife and Philip. “Ah, now I can give the cocktails a last shake. Room all right, Philip?”
“Fine, thanks. Who painted the pink and green snakes on the cupboard?”
Chris gave a laugh with his tongue in his cheek. “The little woman,” he answered. “I suggest you make friends with them before you go to sleep.”
“They are not snakes,” put in Veronica, who had no sense of humor. “It’s a design of vines in flower. I thought that this time I should be spared your twitting, Philip. After all, you’ve brought two of your own women.” She took a cocktail glass from her husband and added wonderingly, “Why two girls, Philip?”
“One for me, of course,” said her husband.
Philip said lazily, “There just happened to be two of them, and I thought it might do you good to see the type of thing England is turning out these days. Not bad, is it?” Veronica gave Linda one of her objective stares. “She may be beautiful later on; it will depend on the sort of experience she meets with. The other, Maxine, is beautiful already, but not through experience; she may be ugly later on.”
“Darling,” said Chris reprovingly, “when we’re discussing our own guests that’s going rather beyond poetic licence. Have another cocktail.”
Maxine drifted in like a lovely night-bird. Her frock of dull flame brocade was half hidden by a stole of summer ermine, and a sprig of diamonds glittered at each ear. In any other woman brocade, ermine and jewels would have been out of place in such a house; but not in Maxine, evidently. Veronica was faintly intrigued; the men appraised her in the swift way that discreet men do appraise a woman, and there was no doubt that her appearance found favor.
Maxine drank her quota of cocktails and they all went in to an excellent dinner which, Veronica confessed, owed nothing whatever to herself. It was when they had moved into the lounge for coffee and brandy that plans for tomorrow were mentioned.
“Sorry,” Chris said, smiling impartially, “but if you’re not staying longer than a couple of days we men will have to get down to it. Can’t you girls take a picnic somewhere?”
“We’ll go to Soller,” said Veronica, “and come back the roundabout way during the afternoon. Will that be long enough for you?”
Philip opened a box of cigarettes which lay on the table and then decided he would rather smoke his own. “We could stay up tonight, Chris,” he commented, “and do the rest tomorrow night. Then we could all go round the island.” Chris groaned. “Look here, this is my home. You call the tune at the camp, but honestly...”
“You need shaking up,” said Philip callously. “Too much sleep drugs the brain. We’ll work from midnight till four, then go to bed till eight; you can sleep longer if you like. The girls can bathe, and we’ll all be ready to move off at about eleven.”
He offered cigarettes all round, and when Chris took one he again gave Philip that slightly quizzical look. “I thought you hated sight-seeing tours,” he commented, “particularly when you’ve already seen all the sights.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Philip answered him urbanely. “As we approached Palma I realized I hadn’t seen the sights at all. I’ve always been far too absorbed in. what has been going on underground. Tomorrow, old chap, I intend to see Majorca through the clear, unjaded eyes of our two young women from England.”
As she got ready for bed that night Linda knew a tenuous happiness. Her veins were filled with a fiery liquid that had nothing whatever to do with the nightcap Philip had insisted she should drink.
“I still think a night’s sleep is good for young things,” he’d said teasingly. “Down it, child.”
His fingers had touched hers as he took the empty glass and she was reminded of that afternoon on the boat, when he had caught the hand she had given him in an imprisoning grasp. He’d said good night softly, mockingly, as though he had caught the hand she had given him in an imprison. And now they were to spend the night under the same roof, and because she knew he would be working with Chris Raebrook in the lounge she decided that in spite of the nightcap she would not sleep. It would be such a waste!
CHAPTER TEN
ALTHOUGH the Raebrooks were English, breakfast as a meal did not exist in their house. The maid took a tray holding tea, toast and fruit to each bedroom, and it seemed to be the custom to wander about eating and drinking while one dressed. Overnight it had been arranged that the women should put on swimsuits and wraps and go down to the beach as soon as they felt the pull. But Maxine, who never had the urgent desire to please her hostess which is common to most guests, propped herself up in bed and leafed through one of the magazines on her bedside table.
Linda stuffed her bathing cap into the pocket of the thin towelling gown she had brought, took a look at the long powderblue figure she made in the mirror, and went out to the veranda in espadrilles. She seemed to be the first one up, but it didn’t matter, because the sparkle of the sun on the sea and the glorious scent of a late-flowering almond were all the greeting she needed. The trill of a bird was piercingly lovely; it entered her heart and stirred it deliciously.
There was hardly any garden; merely a strip of grass with a path down the centre and a stone wall at the end over which crimson portulacas and creeping mauve lantanas rioted together in primitive harmony. The almond trees bordered the garden to right and left, but down there, beyond the stone wall, the path to the beach ran between mastic-trees, rosemary and myrtle which, Linda now realized, were responsible for more than three parts of that perfume she had attributed to the almond.
She looked across at the terra-cotta rocks standing out of the sea, at the old lighthouse which had once been painted white with a red cap, but was now so much the color of the rocks that but for its shape it would have been indistinguishable. A little boat with rust-brown sails completed the scene. Why on earth, she wondered, did that friend of Veronica’s paint Mongol-faced women when he had the choice of such pictures as these?
A shuffle of rope-soled sandals announced Mrs. Raebrook. This morning, Veronica was startling in a black bath gown which had a yellow and red collar and girdle. Emerald toenails matched the cap she dangled but, oddly, her fingernails were unpolished.
“Philip is already down there,” she said. “Shall we go, or wait for your friend?”
“We may as well go. Maxine will be some time.”
Veronica was not an easy person for another woman to talk to. Living alone for half the year, and possibly the fact that she wrote some form of poetry, had driven her in upon herself, so that she had not much of the small talk upon which women who are only slightly acquainted with each other depend. But her outlook on the whole was kind, and occasionally she made some discerning remark, like that one last night about Maxine, which revealed a deeper interest in her fellow beings than one might suspect. Chris, apparently, found her as satisfactory a wife as he needed.
As they walked down to the beach Linda thought how unlike were Chris and Philip. Somehow, she knew Chris Raebrook’s way of life would not be possible to Philip. Philip’s nature was strong and positive. He held on to that which belonged to him, and even became a little possessive about things which didn’t! As for living apart from his wife for several months of t
he year—to Philip it would be unthinkable, in spite of his cynicism. If he were to marry Maxine...
Her thoughts veered sharply. No, she definitely would not contemplate it. Maxine’s serenity, the easy way in which they conversed together, her sweet but somewhat spurious interest in his work—it was no use tormenting herself with a procession of perfectly good reasons why Philip should marry Maxine. Nor would it do any good to remind, herself that she knew a few reasons why he shouldn’t! She disliked Maxine with an intensity that became frightening in moments of anger, but she had promised to keep silent about John, and she could never have brought herself to divulge to anyone the petty planning and deceit which had resulted in Maxine’s becoming established for a while at the cottage in Montelisa.
Philip, when they came upon him, had had his swim and slipped on shorts and a shirt. The copper hair was sleek and almost black and his skin shone dully, teak with a bloom of sea salt. He looked vigorous and exasperating, and heartbreakingly big and dear.
He laughed at her. “Did you bring your water wings?”
“I can swim half a mile,” she retorted.
“Well, don’t try it here—it’s too rocky. Don’t risk anything with that plastic casing on your toe. Would you like me to go in with you?”
It might have been fun, but she had to shake her head, regretfully. “You’re dry. I won’t be long.”
Veronica had already peeled off the black gown and loped down to the water in a black suit. Linda drew on a white cap, let the blue robe slip to the sand and, suddenly shy, ran quickly into the waves. Swimming, she saw Philip drop down beside her robe, and put on a cigarette. The water was grand, cool as silk and buoyant as a bed. It was no effort to swim. After about ten minutes Veronica made a sign that she was going out, and Linda took one more turn before following her. When she walked up the beach, shedding water and dragging off her cap, Veronica was already wrapped and on her way to the house.
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