Mask Of Scars. Anne Mather

walked out of the forecourt of the hotel and across to the cliff edge, looking down on the harbour below. Away to the right the rocky promontory which guarded the private beach beyond from the public sector looked grim and forbidding. From here it was impossible to discern any breach in its defences, and she sighed again.

      Last night, exhaustion had played its part and she had slept dreamlessly, but this morning she was wide awake and everything that had happened down there came back to her with piercing clarity. She could not help but wonder who the man was who lived beyond the headland, who owned that wild and beautiful stretch of shoreline, who had been so badly disfigured by that jagged scar. And yet she did not dare to ask, for to do so would arouse the kind of speculation she did not want to arouse. No one was aware that she knew of that private beach, let alone its owner.

      She frowned. The whole interlude had a dreamlike quality somehow. Maybe it had all been a figment of her imagination.

      But she knew it had not, and a disturbing finger of apprehension ran down her spine when she considered that she might well meet the man again.

      Bruce came out to her just then looking slightly harassed. ‘Two of the guests who are leaving this morning want me to drive them to Lagos,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, but we’ll have to leave our tour of the village until later.’

      Christina looked disappointed. ‘Couldn’t I come to Lagos with you?’ she asked.

      Bruce shook his head. ‘Sheila wants to come to collect some groceries, and the Land-Rover only takes four. Oh, I guess you could sit in the back with the luggage, but—–’

      ‘It’s all right, Bruce, I understand,’ Christina smiled. ‘I’ll stay here and look after the hotel.’

      ‘That’s not necessary, Chris! Maria’s quite capable of dealing with anything that comes up. Look, why don’t you walk down to the harbour? We should be back in an hour or so.’

      Christina frowned. ‘All right.’

      ‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’ Bruce looked anxious.

      Christina shook her head. ‘Of course not. Drive carefully!’

      She sat at a table on the hotel forecourt as Bruce got out the Land-Rover from the garage at the back of the building. The guests came out, suitcases, water-skiing equipment, bags and guide books stowed into the vehicle. They smiled at Christina. They were a young married couple, and Christina wondered what the other guests were like. Until now she had felt no desire to find out.

      Sheila emerged, sleek and attractive, in a white pleated skirt and a silk overblouse. She glanced casually in Christina’s direction and Christina smiled, determined not to show malice. Sheila’s eyes flickered, but that was all. And then they were gone, Bruce calling goodbye, and the Land-Rover kicking up a cloud of dust until they turned the corner and disappeared from view.

      Christina wrinkled her nose and looked down at her fingernails. Obviously there was nothing Sheila wanted her to do or she would have said so. But now that she was at liberty to do what she liked, to go indoors and get her swimsuit and spend the morning on the beach, the inclination had left her.

      She sighed, wishing there was someone she could talk to. Then she thought of Maria. Maria would talk to her. And maybe from her she would be able to glean a little knowledge about the other inhabitants of Porto Cedro.

      But when she opened the kitchen door, Maria was not alone. Julio was there, perched on the edge of the table, in the process of eating a newly peeled peach. He slid off the table at her entrance and Christina stood there, rather disconcerted by the admiring look in his eyes.

      ‘I’m sorry, Maria,’ she said. ‘I thought you might be alone.’

      Maria waved her hands. ‘Do not mind Julio, menina,’ she exclaimed cheerfully. ‘He is on his way, are you not, Julio?’

      ‘If you say so, mae minha!’ remarked Julio good-naturedly.

      Christina frowned. ‘Julio is your son, Maria?’

      ‘Sim, menina. Did not the senhora tell you so?’

      ‘No, she didn’t.’ Christina shook her head. ‘Where are you going, Julio?’ There was a wistful note in her voice now.

      Julio threw the peach stone away and wiped his hands on a cloth at the sink. ‘I am going down to the harbour. My uncle has a boat. I am going to help him paint it.’

      Maria frowned at him. ‘You are not polite, menino!’ she said sharply, speaking in English for Christina’s benefit. ‘The menina has a name!’

      ‘Oh, please!’ Christina was embarrassed. ‘I—I’d like you both to call me Christina, that’s all. I—well, I’m not used to being called miss, or anything like that. Christina is fine, really!’

      Maria heaved a sigh. ‘And the senhora? Your sister-in-law? She would approve of this, menina?’

      Christina looked mutinous. ‘Does it matter?’

      Maria spread her hands. ‘I should say so, sim.’

      Christina lifted her shoulders and then let them fall dejectedly. ‘What does it matter? A name is just a name. If you ask me, things are far too formal here!’

      Julio laughed, ignoring his mother’s scandalised face. ‘I agree—Christina. And I will use your name. At least, when we are alone.’

      ‘Julio!’ His mother’s voice was a warning.

      Julio raised his dark eyebrows, his eyes glinting with mockery. ‘Perhaps—Christina—would like to come down to paint Tio Ramon’s boat with me.’

      Christina’s eyes danced. ‘Could I?’

      Maria’s lips were pursed. ‘Julio, she cannot, and you know it.’

      ‘Why not? Why can’t I?’ Christina stared at the cook appealingly.

      ‘Your brother—and the senhora—they would not approve.’

      ‘But they’re not here!’

      ‘They will not be long.’ Maria was adamant.

      Julio shrugged regretfully. ‘You see,’ he said. ‘It is the way.’

      ‘Well, it’s not my way,’ exclaimed Christina impatiently. ‘Good heavens, I’m English! Not Portuguese!’

      Maria shrugged her ample shoulders. ‘These are not my rules, menina,’ she said.

      Julio hesitated by the door. ‘I will see you later in the day, Christina.’

      Christina hunched her shoulders. ‘Oh, I suppose so.’

      He went out, and after he had gone, Christina moved about restlessly, fingering a plate here, a sauce-pan there, impatient and defiant, and yet unable to take the step that would put her yet again in Sheila’s disfavour, and cause more trouble for Bruce.

      Maria put some dirty dishes into the sink and began to run hot water upon them. She glanced round at Christina sympathetically. ‘Why don’t you go for a walk, menina? The village is small. You won’t get lost.’

      Christina sighed. ‘I suppose I could.’

      ‘Of course. And soon your brother will be back from Lagos.’

      Christina nodded, and with a smile of resignation she left the kitchen, walking along the hall to the front door. Two men were sitting outside at one of the tables, looking at some maps. They looked up as she passed them, saying something in their own language which she thought was German. But they were older men, well into their forties, and they held no interest for her.

      She looked down the road to the harbour. Julio had gone and she presumed he was already down there, and she envied him. On impulse, she walked down the steep road to the harbour and crossing to the wall she looked down on the shingle