The Night Of The Bulls. Anne Mather
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an appalling risk anyway? Would he be content to supply her with the money and not investigate its uses?
A sickly feeling rose in her throat. But who else could she turn to? Apart from Aunt Clarry she had no one. Friends were good, of course, but none of them could afford to lend her, let alone give her, that amount of money. And how else was Jonathan to recover from that horrible racking cough that kept him awake nights and Dionne awake, too, listening to him, praying for a way to take him out of that damp climate into a warmer, dryer place where he could regain his strength?
Tears pricked her eyes. Two hundred pounds meant so little to the St. Salvadors; two thousand pounds was a mere drop in the ocean, as she had learned to her cost. They had been keen enough to give her money three years ago, why couldn’t they give her so much less now? She made a helpless little gesture. She should never have tom up that cheque, but how was she to know she would ever need anything from them?
Heaving a shaking sigh, she emerged on to the steps of the hotel. It was another beautiful morning, the sun glinting on the spire of a church in the distance. A group of riders went by, their horses’ hooves clattering on the cobbles of the square. There were some children amongst the riders, controlling their mounts with the skill that came naturally to them. These horses were not white but grey, but they had the thick switch of tail that was common to the horses of the Camargue.
Dionne watched them until they were out of sight, and then kicked a foot disconsolately. What was she to do? Wait all day and see if Manoel returned this evening? Or go out and look for him? If she waited until this evening and he did not come, that would be another wasted day.
She sighed. But how could she know where to look for him? She knew the way to the Mas St. Salvador, of course. She had been there many times. But it was private land, and she would be a trespasser now. She had no doubt that Manoel’s mother would take the greatest delight in having her forcibly ejected if necessary.
But she could not hang about the hotel all day just waiting. Already her nerves were stretched to screaming pitch and the only balm for her senses was action, action of any kind.
With decision, she went back into the hotel. In her room she changed from the dress she was wearing into slim-fitting navy slacks and a long-sleeved shirt blouse in a rather attractive shade of magenta. Her hair was secured in the rather severe chignon she had adopted and she hoped she looked businesslike. There was no point in dressing decoratively. No one was likely to be impressed by her appearance at the Mas St. Salvador.
After filling up the Citröen’s petrol tank, she drove out of the town, following the dusty track that wound its way between the river and the marshes, never out of the sight and sound of water that sucked greedily along its length. Overhead, a flight of terns and mallards, startled by her passage, shrieked noisily, while in the distance the pink plumage of a group of flamingoes shimmered like a mirage above the water. They were wading in the shallow waters of an étang, those lakes that teemed with water life of every kind, food for the thousands of birds that made the estuary their home. Patches of colour among the tall reeds revealed themselves as clumps of marsh samphire, and sea lavender whose fragile little flowers seemed incapable of surviving in such an area.
Further on she saw the sight that had once filled her with excitement, which had caused the adrenalin to course along her veins with palpitating haste: the black bulls of the Camargue. There were about a dozen of them, grazing together on the grassy mounds that grew out of the marshy soil. They raised their heads as she drove by, but showed little interest in her progress. Their horns were curved menacingly, and she realized these were Spanish bulls. Her fingers tightened on the wheel; they bore the Double S brand on their flanks of the St. Salvador herd. It could not be far now, she thought unsteadily. She was obviously already on St. Salvador land.
Further on a group of horses shied away from the road into a copse of plane trees, and almost hidden amongst the trees she saw the unmistakable colouring of a gypsy caravan.
Dionne pressed her foot on the brake and drew the car to a halt, staring curiously at the caravan. Despite its neglected air, there was something vaguely familiar about it, and then she realized what it was. This was Gemma’s caravan. The one she and Manoel …
She halted her wayward thoughts and pulling on the handbrake slid out of the car. What was Gemma’s caravan doing here? Why had it such an abandoned look? Surely she had not got another caravan. Unless she no longer needed it.
The idea came unbidden but convincingly to her mind, and Dionne thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her trousers. Surely it was not possible. Gemma had been old, of course, but such an active woman, such a vital person. She could not be dead! Could she?
Dionne halted at the edge of the road. The land around the caravan was swampy and she was only wearing shoes that were entirely unsuitable for walking in mud. Besides, it was obviously deserted. The curtains at the grimy windows were drawn and dirty and there was no sign of life whatsoever.
Shaking her head, Dionne went back to her car and slid behind the wheel thoughtfully. Gemma’s caravan, her home that she had taken such pride in, that she had kept sparklingly clean, left to rust and rot.
She looked back at the caravan again, and a lump came in her throat. Was Gemma dead? Was that indomitable spirit quenched for ever? Was that part of the reason for Manoel’s bitterness?
She rested her arms on the steering wheel, staring unseeingly into space. Gemma had seemed the kind of person who would live forever, the only one of the St. Salvador clan who had shown her nothing but kindness. She had had an agelessness about her that defied the passage of time, and the realization that she was no longer there to support her made Dionne wish she had never embarked upon this journey.
She looked about her desperately. What was she going to do? Turn back now, or go on and risk confronting Manoel’s wife, the girl who had never made any attempt to hide her dislike of the English girl, and who Manoel’s mother had considered so suitable because her father’s property marched with that of the St. Salvadors?
Starting the engine abruptly, she forced herself to think about Jonathan. It was for his sake she was here, and if it meant suffering humiliation then she would have to suffer it alone.
The land to either side of the road was less marshy now, and in the distance a grove of trees shielded a cluster of houses. Small reed-fringed lakes sparkled iridescently in the sunlight, but in spite of her proximity to civilization there was no sign of human life. She might have been alone out in the vastness of unlimited space.
She drew the car to a halt again, and climbed out on to the bonnet, shading her eyes and staring into the distance. Vaguely something stirred out there on the horizon, and she strained to see what it was.
The movement materialized into men and horses, the famous gardiens of the Camargue who patrolled their herds of cattle and horses as they had done for many, many years.
As they drew nearer, Dionne could see that they were driving a herd of cattle before them, strong black fearsome beasts that caused Dionne to scramble down from her perch and seek the comparative anonymity of her car.
The St. Salvador mas, which is the Provençal name for a farm, bred Spanish bulls for the corrida, and not the smaller, less muscular beasts of the Camargue, used mainly in the course libre. On her previous visit here, Dionne had learned that the corrida displayed the kind of savagery that made one wonder how far civilization had progressed since the days of gladiatorial battles in the arena in Rome, whereas the course libre was a gentler, if no less dangerous, sport where the bull survived to fight another day.
But in spite of that, it was the Spanish bulls which were the most highly prized, and Manoel’s father, as the head of his household, could rightly be called a manadier, a rather grand title in this area. Certainly these finely bred cattle looked the fiercest Dionne had ever seen, and everyone was warned, from the moment they set foot in the area, to treat them with the utmost respect and never to underestimate their unpredictability.
The herd surged by, scarcely giving her a second glance, but the gardiens regarded her curiously, obviously wondering who she was