Mask Of Scars. Anne Mather
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any desire to involve herself with her husband’s family. Christina’s mother had died when she was twelve, and she remembered her only as a rather fragile individual, always suffering from headaches and ill health, spending her days on the couch in the lounge of the house they had had in Wimbledon.
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