Mask Of Scars

The previous May, Bruce and Sheila had left England to open this hotel in Porto Cedro, and the last time Christina had seen Bruce had been when he flew home for her father’s funeral. During the subsequent Christmas and Easter holidays she had found accommodation and work to support herself, but it had been Bruce’s suggestion that she should come and spend the long summer vacation with them. The little money her father had left barely kept her in spending money during term time and she had been glad of the chance to see Bruce and possibly help him in whatever capacity she could. She had fondly imagined Sheila had mellowed towards her. It was only now she realised how hopeless that thought had been.

Now Sheila placed the tray on the low table before Bruce and added milk to the cups, pouring the tea with precise movements.

‘Sugar?’ she enquired of Christina, but Christina shook her head awkwardly.

‘No, thanks.’

Sheila left her husband’s tea on the tray and then went to sit in another chair. ‘And where is she to sleep?’ she asked, at last.

Christina stood down her cup. ‘Really, Sheila, I think it would be as well if I left,’ she said carefully. ‘It’s obvious you don’t want me here, and it would be impossible for me to stay under those circumstances.’

Sheila’s features relaxed slightly. ‘I’m glad you see—–’ she was beginning, when Bruce interrupted her.

‘Sheila!’ He bit out the word angrily, and got to his feet. ‘I will not allow you to speak to my sister like this! I don’t give a damn what your opinion is, this is my home, too, and I’ll invite who I like to it, do I make myself clear?’

Sheila froze. ‘How dare you speak to me like that? Just because Christina chooses to land herself upon us—–’

‘She didn’t choose to land herself upon us!’ snapped Bruce shortly, and waved away the restraining hand Christina placed on his sleeve. ‘I wrote and invited her to stay with us for the summer vacation. I also sent her enough money to cover the air fare. As she hasn’t used it, I can only assume she didn’t want to feel beholden to me to that extent!’

Sheila rose now. ‘You sent her the money!’ she exclaimed disbelievingly.

‘Yes. Why not? For God’s sake, Sheila, be reasonable—–’

‘Reasonable! Reasonable! When I’m slaving my fingers to the bone to make this place pay, and your blessed sister spends her days doing nothing more arduous than attending lectures and writing up a few notes in a book! She’s eighteen, Bruce! In the circumstances, I think it’s high time she was earning a living!’

‘Oh, please—–’ began Christina helplessly. ‘Don’t go on! I’ll—I’ll go back to England tomorrow.’

‘You will not!’ Bruce turned an angry face towards her. ‘Leave this to me!’ He looked back at Sheila. ‘Must I remind you that it was my money that leased this hotel? You haven’t done a stroke of work outside our home since we got married, and if I choose to send a little of my money to my sister, then I don’t think you should complain.’

Sheila’s face suffused with colour. ‘That’s a foul thing to say!’ she exclaimed, her voice less belligerent now.

‘Yes. Well, don’t you think what you’ve already said is foul, too? Making Christina feel as though she’s some kind of hanger-on? I repeat—this is Christina’s home for as long as she wants it to be.’

Sheila sought the refuge of her chair, putting a hand to her forehead. ‘I’ve got the most dreadful headache now,’ she said, rather faintly. ‘You don’t care about me at all, Bruce. Just so long as your sister doesn’t suffer.’

‘For God’s sake, Sheila, that’s not true.’

‘It is true.’ To Christina’s horror tears of self-pity overflowed from Sheila’s eyes and ran down her pale cheeks.

Bruce looked helplessly at his sister and with a sigh Christina got to her feet and left the room. She was glad to go. The atmosphere in there was so thick that you could have cut it with a knife, and she had no desire to see Bruce make a fool of himself over a few crocodile tears.

She walked outside. It was appreciably darker now, the sun sinking in a blaze of glory in the west. The hotel stood on the cliffs and to the right a steep road led down to the sea-front where lights were beginning to twinkle in the twilight. She could see a harbour and a small jetty with several fishing boats moored along its length. There was something warm and reassuring about these everyday sights and on impulse she walked down the road to the sea-front and leant on the harbour wall. She had no wish to return to the hotel yet. She still wasn’t sure what she was going to do. It was all very well for Bruce to force Sheila to accept her, but what kind of life would she have with her sister-in-law picking on her every minute of the day? Could she stand it? Even for Bruce’s sake?

Leaving the wall, she skirted the harbour and jumped down on to the stretch of beach beyond it. The soft sand ran between her toes and she walked slowly on, her hands thrust into the pockets of her jeans.

Ahead a wall of rock divided one cove from the other, but there was an aperture wide enough for Christina to slide through and she found herself on an isolated stretch of shoreline where the water creamed with inviting coolness.

There seemed no access to the beach, other than through the aperture she had breached, and she walked towards the sea, kicking off her sandals and allowing the water to ripple over her toes. It was a sensuous feeling. She had never bathed in warm waters before, and she wished she had had the good sense to bring her bathing suit with her. The idea of submerging her hot, sticky body in those cooling depths was almost more than she could bear.

Without stopping to consider the advisability of her actions, Christina quickly stripped off all her clothes and ran to dive headlong into the waves. It was glorious, the water still warm from the rays of the sun, and the heat of the day melted from her body leaving her refreshed and alert.

She swam and played for fully fifteen minutes, her hair like seaweed about her in the water, before she became aware that she was no longer alone. Out on the shore, silhouetted against the darkening velvet of the sky and partially hidden by the shadow of the cliffs, stood a man, the tip of his cigarette, or cigar, visible as it was regularly raised to his lips to glow more brightly before becoming subdued again.

Christina trod water and considered her position. Her clothes lay on the beach, some distance from the intruder, it was true, but nevertheless far enough up the beach to cause her some discomfort. She sighed. Had he seen her, or was he simply out for an evening stroll? Could he be unaware that someone was swimming only a hundred yards away?

She wrinkled her nose impatiently. In half an hour, maybe less, it would be dark, but already she was beginning to feel cold, and in half an hour she would be much colder. Truthfully, until then she had not realised how cold she was, but anxiety produced its own lowering of the temperature.

To her horror, the man began to walk down the beach to the water’s edge and he halted by her small pile of clothes regarding them intently. Now she could see he was a tall man, lean and dark, sideburns growing down almost to his jawline. Although the features of his face were indistinct in the fading light, she sensed an air of authority, of haughty arrogance about him, and she wondered who he could be. He did not appear like one of the villagers and she was pondering the possibility of him being a tourist when he turned his dark head in her direction. Immediately her hopes of remaining unobserved vanished.

‘Tenha a bondade de sair, menina,’ he snapped shortly. ‘Vai-se fazendo tarde!’

Christine hadn’t the faintest idea what he was saying, but it seemed obvious from his attitude and the uncompromising tone of his voice that he was not at all pleased at her appearance.

Endeavouring to remember the right words from her phrase book, Christina called: ‘Nao falo portugues, senhor!’

The man threw away the butt of his cigarette and advanced to the water’s edge. Now Christina could see the patrician cast of his features and the slightly cruel line of his mouth. But what caught her attention most was the long, jagged scar which ran down his left cheek, from the corner of his eye almost to his jawline. The livid whiteness of that grim disfiguration was all the more pronounced because of the swarthiness of his skin, and it gave his aquiline face an almost satanic appearance.

‘So, menina, you are English!’ he was saying coldly now, his expression revealing his awareness of her scrutiny. ‘Then please to come out. This is a private beach, and you are trespassing!’

His faint accent was attractive, and so was his voice, but what he was saying was not. There was a contemptuous twist to his lips and he was regarding her as though she was some particularly obnoxious specimen washed up on his beach. To be charitable she supposed his disfiguration might account for a little of his bitterness, but to Christina it was nothing to be ashamed of. Indeed, if anything it gave strength and character to a face which might otherwise have been merely handsome in an aristocratic, Latin way.

‘My clothes are behind you, senhor!’ she said now, glad of the concealing depths of the water as his cold gaze raked her. ‘If you’ll go away I’ll do exactly as you ask.’

The man’s curiously light eyes narrowed. ‘You are trespassing, menina, as I have said. I prefer to stay and escort you off my property myself.’

Christina sighed, wrinkling her nose. ‘As you wish, senhor. But at least have the goodness to turn the other way.’

He frowned. ‘You mean—–’ He stared at her incredulously. ‘Dues nao permita! Tu adolescentes!’ The narrow fingers clenched. ‘Esta bem, menina, I will walk towards the cliffs. But you will not disappear in my absence!’

Christina did not reply, and he hesitated a moment. ‘Wait! I have seen you before, menina, have I not? You were—how do you say it—hitching—is that right? Sim, hitching a lift earlier this evening on the road from Lagos, were you not?’

Christina nodded, and then her eyes widened. ‘You were in the limousine?’

‘Where I was is not important, menina. What concerns me is where you intended to sleep tonight. On my beach, perhaps?’

‘Of course not!’ Christina was stung by his accusation.

‘Why—of course not?’ The man’s lip curled. ‘Believe me, menina, we have had trouble with young people like yourself before. What is it you call yourselves? Freedom-lovers—is that right? We have other names for what you do!’

‘How charming!’ Christina refused to show the outrage she felt at the disparaging way he was dismissing her. It was not often anyone got under her skin, but this man did. ‘I’m cold, senhor,’ she went on indolently. ‘Unless you want me to put on my clothes under your malevolent gaze, go away!’

The man’s nostrils flared, and Christina thought almost detachedly that he was a most disturbingly masculine animal. Despite the formal attire, the expensive silk grey suit, the fine shirt, and grey tie, the soft suede boots on his feet, there was an air of indomitability about him, of ruthless overbearing strength, that no amount of civilisation could entirely subdue. She wondered what mixture of blood ran in his veins that he could at once appear cool and clinical, hard and passionate. And that scar, that unholy blemish, added the final touch to a cruel, and possibly violent, nature.

Without another word he turned and walked away up the beach and Christina hastened out of the water, shivering quite forcefully now. She put her clothes on to her wet skin, allowing them to dry her, and wrung out her hair carelessly. As her body grew warmer she realised that her trembling was due as much to nerves as cold.

Darkness was dropping like a blanket about her and she looked longingly towards the cleft in the rock wall that divided this cove from the public one beyond. The man was some distance away now lighting another cigarette, and he probably thought she would need time to dry herself before dressing.

Christina hesitated only a moment before picking up her sandals and sprinting towards the rocks. Her feet made no sound on the soft sand, and the muted roar of the waves disguised her heavy breathing. But in spite of that, every minute she expected him to appear behind her, reaching for her like some avenging god.

She reached the rocks and slid into the crevice, emerging on to the beach beyond. She could see the lights of the harbour now, and she ran towards the jetty swiftly, not stopping to put on her sandals until she had scrambled on to the rough concrete of the harbour wall.

CHAPTER TWO

BY the time she reached the Hotel Inglês, Christina had herself in control again, and the nervous trembling had almost disappeared. It was ridiculous, she told herself, allowing one man to disturb her so, and yet there had been something frighteningly intense about that encounter, and she didn’t dare to consider what his reactions to her disappearance might be.

The tables on the forecourt of the hotel had been cleared now, and lights gleamed from all the windows. There was music, too, emanating from the general direction of the bar, and the sound of men’s voices. Christina entered the hall gratefully. Even Sheila’s maliciousness was preferable to what had happened down there on the beach.

She stood hesitatingly in the hall, wondering where Bruce might be, and even as she moved in the direction of the passage leading to their private rooms Bruce himself appeared from the bar, followed closely by her sister-in-law.

‘Christina!’ he exclaimed, and she saw that there was a look of strain about his eyes. ‘Where the hell have you been? We’ve been worried sick!’

Christina made a helpless gesture. ‘I’m sorry,’ she was beginning, when Sheila burst out:

‘You see! I told you she’d be all right. She didn’t even consider we’d be at all perturbed at her disappearance! Why is your hair wet, Christina? Surely you haven’t been swimming while we’ve been worrying—–’

‘That will do, Sheila!’ Bruce looked wearily at his sister. ‘Well, Christina? Where have you been? Do you realise you’ve been gone almost two hours?’

Christina ran a hand over her damp hair. ‘I am sorry, Bruce, truly, I am. I didn’t realise it was so late.’

‘But where have you been? You can’t have been swimming without a bathing suit. Why is your hair wet? It hasn’t been raining.’

Christina sighed. ‘It’s a long story, Bruce—–’

‘What she means is, she has been swimming!’ Sheila accused, triumphantly. ‘I told you, Bruce, she doesn’t fit in here. Porto Cedro isn’t Faro! We’re just beginning to make headway here—–’

‘Sheila, please!’ Bruce hunched his shoulders tiredly. ‘Leave this to me. I’m sure Christina must be hungry. She hasn’t had a thing since she arrived and knowing her I doubt whether she stopped to eat en route.’

Sheila stared at him. ‘You want me to make her something?’ she asked resentfully.

‘Well, Maria’s long gone, hasn’t she?’ Bruce ran a hand round the back of his neck. ‘Sheila, please—do as I ask.’

Sheila shrugged, but with ill grace she went to do as she was bidden and Bruce indicated that Christina should follow him. They went round the reception desk into a small office behind and after the door was closed Bruce looked at her reproachfully.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘I want the truth now. Where have you been all this time?’

Christina thrust her hands awkwardly into her pockets. ‘Oh, Bruce!’ she said helplessly.

‘I want to know, Christina.’

She heaved a sigh. ‘Well, all right. I—I—er—went swimming, like Sheila said.’

‘My God!’ Bruce raised his eyes heavenward. ‘Haven’t you any more sense than that, Christina?’

Christina coloured defensively. ‘I was hot. And I couldn’t come back here, could I?’

Bruce shook his head impatiently. ‘You could have. You needn’t have left at all. Not the hotel, at least. You could have sat outside and waited until I came out to you.’

Christina bent her head. ‘I was bored,’ she said. ‘And the lights attracted me.’

Bruce lit another cigarette. ‘You do realise you could have been molested—or arrested!’ he observed sombrely.

Christina turned away. Now was the moment to tell her brother what had happened, but she found she couldn’t. He seemed to have accepted that she had been swimming from the public beach and she didn’t want to disabuse him. To do so would create a whole series of new arguments. So she said nothing and Bruce puffed grimly at his cigarette and then said:

‘Well, I suppose I’ll have to tell Sheila she was right. But you do realise this will only make matters worse so far as she’s concerned?’

‘Yes, I realise that.’ Christina sighed again. ‘Look, Bruce, I meant what I said before. I’ll go back to England. I can easily get a job—–’

‘No, you won’t.’ Bruce ground his cigarette out in an ashtray. ‘I sometimes wonder how you manage to get by without running yourself into serious trouble. You’re so—so—–’

‘Irresponsible!’ inserted Christina dryly. ‘Yes, I know. But honestly, Bruce, I don’t mean to be, I saw no harm—–’

‘No harm!’ Bruce cut her off sharply. ‘If I let you go back to England now I’ll spend the rest of the summer vacation wondering where you are and who you’re with.’

Christina flushed. ‘You make me sound like a liability.’

Bruce half smiled. ‘Perhaps you are, at that.’

Christina looked at him appealingly. ‘Why didn’t you tell me Sheila didn’t know anything about your invitation?’

Bruce looked discomfited now. ‘Oh, Sheila’s all right. I’ve just got to present her with the fait accompli, that’s all, or she makes so many complaints that I eventually end up by changing my mind. Besides, I had thought you could be of some assistance here.’

‘But I can!’ Christina’s features brightened considerably. ‘I told Sheila when I arrived. I’d do anything—wash dishes, make beds, anything! I don’t mind working. I shall enjoy it.’ Then she frowned. ‘But not if Sheila’s going to make—make—well, things difficult for you.’

Bruce shrugged. ‘I can take it, I guess. In any case, that’s what’s going to be, so she’ll have to accept it.’ Then he hesitated. ‘But maybe some of what she says is good sense. Tonight, for instance. You could have offended the local population if anyone had seen you, and you do tend to act first and think later. Portugal is still a rather masculine-dominated society, and women are expected to behave with decorum. The way you dress, too. It’s not very feminine, is it? Don’t you have any skirts—or dresses?’

Christina looked down at her worn jeans. ‘Yes, I have dresses. I make my own, mostly. But quite honestly, Bruce, I’m more at home in trousers. I never wear anything else back—back—–’

She had been about to say back home, when it suddenly occurred to her with rather shattering poignancy that there was no back home any more. There was back in England, or back at the university, but that was all.

Bruce seemed to sense her sudden remorse, for he moved towards the door, swinging it open and saying: ‘Come on! Sheila should have that supper made by now. I’ll show you round the hotel tomorrow. I guess tonight all you need is something to eat and then bed!’

Christina’s room overlooked the sub-tropical brilliance of the walled garden at the back of the hotel. It was not a large room, but it was attractively furnished with light walnut and apricot coverings and curtains. Obviously all the rooms at the front of the hotel overlooking the sweep of beach and ocean were reserved for paying guests, but Christina didn’t mind. The scents from the garden floated in through her open windows and she could hear the sea even if she couldn’t see it.

The morning after her arrival, she awoke with a feeling of something ominous hanging over her head, but the feeling dispersed as she washed and dressed and did her hair. It was early in the morning, only a little after six-thirty, but the air was warm and the entrancingly blue sky was an open invitation to be outdoors which Christina could not resist.

Heeding Bruce’s kindly remonstrances, she dressed in a plain shift of periwinkle poplin and she secured the long weight of her hair with an elastic band. As she seldom wore make-up her skin was smooth and she knew that in a few days the sun would begin to tan her a golden brown. She had not the usual fair skin that went with her hair, and in consequence the sun did not burn her. The skirt of her dress was absurdly short, but that was something she could not help, and she only hoped Sheila would appreciate the change of attire too much to notice details.

Downstairs she found a young man sweeping in the dining room, and he looked up with interest at her appearance. ‘Bom dia, menina!’ he said cheerfully.

Christina smiled. He was a very handsome young man, and it was a relief to meet someone who did not immediately disapprove of her. ‘Bom dia,’ she answered his greeting. ‘You—you must be Julio.’

‘Esta bem, menina.’ The young man nodded. ‘And you are Senhor Ashley’s sister, sim?’

‘Yes.’ Christina was relieved that he spoke English even if his accent was rather pronounced. ‘It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?’

‘A lovely morning,’ he repeated slowly. ‘Sim, menina, muito formoso!’ A smile spread over his face. ‘You are here to stay long?’

Christina shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ She glanced round. ‘You start work very early.’

Julio leant lazily on his brush. ‘Sim, I start early. But then I am free later in the morning.’

‘Ah!’ Christina nodded understandingly. ‘And then what do you do?’

Julio narrowed his eyes. ‘Many things, menina. Sometimes I swim—sometimes I go out in the boat. Senhor Ashley—your brother—and I sometimes go—how do you say it—skin-diving, sim?’

‘Do you? How super!’ Christina was enthusiastic. ‘Does Bruce have a boat?’

Julio nodded. ‘A small one, menina. Do you skin-dive, also?’

Christina shook her head laughingly. ‘Not yet. But I’d like to learn.’

‘Perhaps you would permit me to teach you?’ Julio’s eyes were eloquent with meaning, and Christina felt excitement bubbling up inside her. She could not remain subdued for long, and already the morning which had seemed so foreboding when she awoke had brightened considerably.

Last night when she had gone to bed she had found herself wishing she had never agreed to come here in the first place. Sheila’s antagonism had been like a tangible wall of opposition, and she had felt certain that nothing could alter the situation.

But now, this morning, with the sun spreading its warmth over the magnificent sweep of sea and shoreline visible through the open door of the hotel, and Julio’s undeniable attraction, Christina began to feel entirely different.

‘Perhaps you could,’ she responded now, in answer to Julio’s question, and they shared a mutual smile of anticipation.

‘I suggest you get on with your work, Julio!’ snapped a brittle voice behind them, and Christina swung round to face her sister-in-law.

‘Oh—good morning, Sheila,’ she murmured uncomfortably. ‘Isn’t it a marvellous morning?’

Sheila raised her eyebrows indifferently. ‘I haven’t had time to notice,’ she commented brusquely. ‘Now—if you’ll come with me, Christina, I’ll find you something to do, and introduce you to Maria, our cook.’

Christina cast one lingering glance at the vista outside before shrugging her shoulders resignedly. Julio, turning back to his own chores, closed one eye deliberately, and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth before she followed Sheila down the hall to a door at the far end.

They entered an enormous kitchen. It was partially tiled and spotlessly clean, with many modern amenities. A rotund Portuguese woman of indeterminate age was in the process of taking a tray of newly baked rolls out of the oven as they entered, and she beamed cheerfully as she placed the tray on the scrubbed wooden table in the centre of the room. The rolls smelt delicious, and Christina’s mouth watered in anticipation.