by Sheila Burns
‘Oh no, no, I could hardly do that,’ she said and felt disturbed. Luis’s manner when he spoke of Max Jefferies was offhand, and instinctively she knew that he detested the man. Then he changed the subject.
‘I was wondering if you would care to come out with me this morning? There is a very attractive convent near here, a place you ought to see and most visitors miss it. But I know the abbot well, and you’d like it.’
‘I ‒ I’m not particularly interested in nuns,’ she admitted, for Malta was full of young priests and nuns; they seemed to be everywhere.
‘These are not nuns, they are monks in a very close order. Let us drive over there and see them? They manufacture a quite delicious wine of their own; the abbot is a charmer. I have known him most of my life, and I know you’d like him. Let’s go before it gets too hot?’
‘Yes, I’d like it,’ she agreed.
Somehow the thought of a quiet convent and of the good monks would be simple and restful after the dreadful night which she had had. She kept telling herself that she had imagined a man was there; it could so easily have been part of a dream, and not reality at all. They had come to a stage in Cam’s illness when he could be left quite easily, which was a comfort. The chance of another attack was receding into the distance all the time, and provided that he did not get worked-up about something, or fly into a violent temper, things should go smoothly.
She told him where she was going, and he laughed about the convent. He said that Luis Vella had always been religious, and he and that silly old abbot were famous friends. They made quite a good wine there though, a very drinkable wine.
‘I’m not bringing you any back,’ she told him. ‘Dr Mallea would hate that idea.’
‘The trouble with all doctors is that they are teetotallers,’ he complained.
She heard Luis’s car and went out to it, well aware that her face showed that she had had a bad night and she was ashamed of it. He noticed at once, even before she got in beside him.
‘You look worn out.’
‘Yes, I told you I had the most awful night.’
‘What happened?’
‘I thought that a man got into the flat. I expect I got scared, had a bad dream, and imagined the whole thing, but it frightened me so much that I could not get to sleep again.’
‘Did a man get into the flat?’
‘I dreamt it. I thought it was Giuseppe.’
‘It very probably was Giuseppe. He is into most bits of nasty work in the island, I imagine, and where he isn’t, Max Jefferies is; he is the worse proposition, because Giuseppe is ignorant, and Max is not!’
‘Yes, perhaps.’
He started off the car. ‘The convent can do nothing but make you feel better, I promise you that, and we will get home early, so that you can have a good rest at siesta time.’
She said, ‘Thank you.’
They turned into the main road, and out through the Porte de Reale. These days there were houses everywhere, for the city once confined inside the gates seemed to go on for ever. The day was only mildly warm, for the sun had not got high as yet, and the men had been watering the streets, which left a pleasant smell behind it.
They travelled through the houses into the less inhabited country beyond. They came to the small stone walls with lizards flashing to and fro in vivid green on them, and the dusty figs motionless beside them. Everywhere was dusty in Malta for it was that sort of an island, but already Mandy knew that it had a personality, it was inspiring her, and making her part of it. It seemed an eternity of time since she had left home to come here. She had changed so much, she felt so different, and she was another person at heart.
‘How nice it is!’ she said.
‘Wild, but nice. I love its wildness. The cart ruts where thousands of years ago men we do not know about, moved, the caves, and the superstitions, this is an island of superstitions, you know.’
‘If I didn’t know, I’d guess it,’ she said.
He asked about her mother. ‘When is she arriving?’ She almost wished that he had not asked her, for the last two days there had been the most dangerous silence with Mother, and that was always a very bad thing. Mother was at her worst when she was silent; at the time when she had married Cam, not a word was heard of her for a whole fortnight, then this bomb had dropped. She began talking. She admitted one or two things simply because she felt that undoubtedly Mother would come out here, and it was almost better if Luis knew the sort of person she was before he came face to face with her. She did such impetuously silly things.
‘She is not the only woman in the world who does that,’ he said, then, ‘Your father? What was your father like?’
‘I have never known. Mother seldom speaks of him. Somehow I don’t think she realizes how much I should like to know! I have a picture of him, and two letters he wrote to me when I was a very, very little girl. No more.’
‘He must have been a very nice man to have such a charming daughter. Undoubtedly you are like him, since you are not like your mother.’
It was a sweet thing to say.
She had the feeling that this was going to be a very precious day, a day she would remember for always. She and Luis had got right away from everything, it was as if the island were their own, and need think of nothing beyond it.
‘Let’s forget all that worries us, and be happy for an hour or two?’ she suggested, and his hand clasped hers as it lay on the red morocco of the car seat.
‘You say the nicest things! Let’s make today like that, our very own day.’
They turned a corner of the road soon after that and ahead she saw the long low white building which she recognized as being a convent. It was far larger than she had anticipated, standing starkly in the middle of a plain, but with gardens behind it, Luis told her.
A young monk in a brown habit opened the door to them, his shaven head gleaming in the sunshine. He admitted them instantly. They went down three stone steps into a long corridor, their footfalls ringing on the flagged floor in some strange music of its own. In every alcove on the wall, and it was all alcoves, a religious statue of some kind stood; before some a taper flickered, and there was the scent of incense. But she found that the convent was built round a centre garden where the grass was intensely green which was surprising in this torrid island where the sun burnt everything. Camellias were blossoming against the wall, and there were the big heavy lilies, their velvet petals spotted with scarlet, and their strong perfume everywhere. In the centre a fountain played, giving an amiable idea of coolness, and beneath it mauve irises grew in great groups of colour. There were orange and lemon trees standing around, and she saw one heavy bush of breadfruit, something that she had never seen before.
‘How beautiful it all is!’ she said.
‘It’s very beautiful, and I am so glad that you like it. The abbot and I are great friends, and I want you to like him, for I owe him so much.’
The young monk suggested that they walked in the garden, for a service was in progress and they must wait. They walked out under the pepper trees, admiring the flowers, and the exquisite perfume which was everywhere. It was one of those lovely spots where it seemed that time stood still, and no unwanted element ever came. Mandy could feel that impression all about her.
After some time the abbot came out to them. He was a tall man, thinly made, and English, she realized. He was completely bald, or his head was kept shaved, and he wore a deep cream habit, with a jewelled cross blazing on his breast. The cross was set with aquamarine stones, lighter than sapphires, and flashing surprisingly. He came just as Luis had wandered off to speak to an old gardener whom he knew.
‘You are Luis’s friend, I am sure,’ and the abbot held out a kindly hand. His smile had charm.
‘I am indeed.’
‘It is always pleasant to welcome his friends here. Have you had some refreshments?’
She admitted that she was not hungry. In the heat of the island it was difficult to be hungry, she had found, an
d the only thing one wanted was fruit, of which she had enough. He nodded. He took her to the shaded verandah with fans whirling, where it was cooler than she would have anticipated, and they looked out on to the gardens. The green of the lawn was exquisite.
‘You are a visitor here?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps it is a venture that you always planned and now have fulfilled?’
‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘it wasn’t like that at all. I have just finished qualifying as a nurse; I came home for a month’s rest. My stepfather who is out here on a visit, had had a bad heart attack, and my mother who had arranged to fly out to him could not come because she sprained her ankle. I came in her place. It was just a chapter of accidents.’
He nodded. ‘I hope he is better?’
‘Yes, he is very much better, but not sufficiently recovered to go home as yet. Possibly we go, if we have any luck, this coming weekend.’ Even as she said this she realized that when she flew away she would say goodbye to a dream. It was one of those lovely dreams that cannot last for ever, for the trouble was that morning always came. Malta was a hundred years behind probably; it was the island of romantic adventure; here anything could happen, and she glanced at the silent pepper tree at the corner of the lawn. It did not stir. The island was still.
The quiet abbot looked at her again. ‘And you met Luis travelling here in the plane?’
‘Yes, I did. He was so very kind to me, and I was dreadfully nervous.’
‘Luis is a kind man! He always cares for people and often injures himself by his abundant selflessness. He is too good! It is sad that he should have had such a very hard life.’ Mandy could hardly believe what she heard and quickly turned to look at the abbot again.
‘I would have thought that he has been awfully lucky. He has everything. This lovely island, enormous wealth, that beautiful home. It must be lovely so be so rich that you can buy everything you want,’ and she thought of the time in St Jeremy’s when her wretched little pay ran out, and she could not even afford a meal at the café round the corner when the nurses’ dining-room meal was so deadly dull.
The abbot smiled with toleration. ‘I am afraid that riches often bring their own troubles,’ he said gently. ‘Luis had a martinet of a mother who commanded him. In this island they tolerate the matriarch, and abide by what she says. He married very young, of course. Many of them do.’
Mandy did not know why those four words cut right down into her heart. He married very young. They brought her to with a jar. Of course she had been falling in love with him from the first, and this was something that she should have admitted, but somehow had glossed over. She had even deceived herself. This simple remark suddenly pulled her up. In an instant she knew that Luis was the only man she could ever love in this way. Once, working at St Jeremy’s, she had half-thought that one day she would care for Richard Tate, but his kindness to her, and their propinquity had been the reason for that. They had met during the difficult years of her life, when she was learning to live in a new world (often a very difficult world) and when training was a constant worry to her.
What she had felt for Luis had been something born of the moment, perhaps when she had become aware of very dark eyes watching her at the air terminal, perhaps when she heard his voice as he took the seat beside her in the plane itself. Perhaps when she had been so nervous (she had to admit this now) and had found the comfort of having him sitting beside her.
It was something from which she could not escape. It was the great emotion of her life.
‘I did not know that he was married,’ she said.
‘I should have thought that he would have told you.’ She lied for his sake, for she felt the quietly searching eyes of the old abbot watching her closely.
‘Possibly he did, but it did not sink in!’
‘You might like to know about her?’ he asked, and she felt that he was being kind. She nodded and he went on. ‘There is a tradition in his family that every fourth generation marries back into the family. It is one of those absurd legends which should have died out, for it has lived too long. But you know how people cling to old legends, abide by them, and hate to let them go. This is what happened to them. His mother was insistent about it, and Luis was only nineteen when they married.’
‘Here?’ she asked, for she had a sudden intuition that it could have been here in this very monastery.
‘Yes, I married them.’ He said it almost regretfully, so that she knew more was coming. Then he went on more quickly, ‘We do not usually hold marriages here, but he is a patron, he has always been very good to the convent, most kind and helpful, and we did not wish to refuse him. The marriage was not happy, I am afraid,’ and he said it very slowly. Mandy got the idea that it still had the power to hurt him.
She said nothing. There was so little that she could say, for now in her own heart she was aware of a misery that enveloped her. She had not even known that she had harboured the idea of marrying Luis, it seemed fantastic, something far away, something too fairy-tale to be true, but one does not always know oneself. She must have harboured the idea, she knew it. The abbot was speaking on. ‘She died when their son was born.’
He said it quietly, almost as if he knew this also would be a shattering surprise. She said nothing, for again the thought that he had a son was ridiculous. Luis had every right to have a son, of course, and it would be what he wanted for the heritage of his home, yet he had never mentioned the boy. She felt a strange resentment that he had kept much from her.
The abbot went on again very firmly. ‘She died the same day, and although those of us who loved Luis felt that it must have been a relief, for she was very difficult and he must have had a hard time with her, there is always a certain agony which comes with death. Deep sorrow clings to us all.’ He paused. ‘You have been to his casa?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Did he not tell you that she is buried in his garden there?’
In the garden? He had said nothing, and mutely she shook her head. She had walked round that lovely garden with Luis holding her hand. There had been no sign of a grave anywhere, and somehow she was sure that a grave would have spoilt it for ever. Had he deliberately kept this from her, knowing it would hurt her? Had he felt too deeply of his loss that he could not mention it? Perhaps the kindly abbot knew what she was thinking, for he spoke on.
‘There is no grave that you would recognize as such; very wisely he did not wish that. He had a most intricate little temple brought here from Sicily, beautifully made of pink marble, exquisitely carved.’
She thought of it with a pang. She thought of the rosiness of pink marble amongst the dark ilex bushes, a colour which contrasted vividly with the sharp whiteness of other buildings in this island. Octagon-shaped, and she had noted the exquisite arches. ‘What is that lovely work?’ she had asked him, and could hear herself saying it. He had said, ‘A temple.’ No more. She had thought that his voice was brusque for the moment, yet she had glowed with inspiration. ‘Has it always been there?’ she had asked, and he had said, ‘No, no, it has not,’ and had turned away from her. She had sensed that he did not want to talk of the little temple amongst the ilex and the olive. Now she knew why.
‘And his son?’ she asked.
‘The boy was born with a difficult heart. He will never be able to walk. They knew from the first that this strange agony was here, and that he would never develop as an ordinary boy would do. He is today ten years old. The doctors have always said that he could not live to grow up, for this bars a child from reaching maturity. One only hopes that the end may come before his father gets too fond of him, for this is a dreadful thing for Luis to accept.’
Mandy thought of that shrill scream that she had heard, and his cold dismissal of it, saying that it often happened, and was probably a car in the roadway. Surely he could have told her the truth then; after all, she was a nurse, and had handled many sick babies, and knew of these maladies. She jerked herself together, for reproaches would not help her.
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sp; Gently, she said, ‘I am so glad that you told me, and thank you very much.’
He touched her hand. ‘I felt that this was something Luis would not tell himself, and you should know. Do not blame him too much, for the pain of that sort of endurance is not easily forgotten, you know, and words can be hurtful things. I was taught as a child, “Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words can never hurt you”, which is not true, for words have hurt me considerably in my life.’
‘I know.’
He was a noble man, someone she could only admire, and so right in what he said. He was a holy man with a great kindness and love for others, so that he would do anything in the world that he could for them.
She knew now that Luis must have suffered far more than she had ever imagined. She wondered if he had really loved this poor young wife of his, and maybe the old abbot had the gift of reading thoughts, for almost instantly he took up what she had been thinking.
‘Luis’s wife was dazzlingly beautiful, a little older than he was, and very dark! He loves fair women. Remember that he married her under compulsion, for his mother wished it so much, and he would have been the last man to rebel against her. She was a hard woman too, but he never complained. He has been a very good man and he deserves some reward in this hard life. Do not be angry with him, for he is gentle and would hate your anger. Be good to him.’
‘I will,’ she said, then very gently, ‘Thank you for telling me.’
He spoke more quickly. In the far distance a bell had started to ring, and she gathered the bell warned him that time was giving out. ‘Luis cares for you. I don’t know if you realize this, or ignore it. It would be terrible if his second love affair betrayed him, when he has already suffered so much. You are leaving this island during the approaching weekend, I understand, and maybe you will never return to it? That would be hard for him.’
‘He has not said so.’
‘Luis does not say much. He is the sort of man who does not reveal the bruises in his heart. Remember this. Be good to him, remembering all the time that there is nothing that he would not do to help you.’
