Mask Of Scars. Anne Mather

you should have let us know you were coming, Christina,’ Sheila burst out. ‘I mean, your father’s been dead ten months now, and you must have realised before the term ended that you would have to find a job of sorts to support yourself now that university’s closed!’

      Christina hesitated. ‘Actually, I thought I might help you here, Sheila.’

      Sheila’s eyes widened in amazement. ‘You mean—you mean work here—in the hotel!’

      ‘Yes.’ Christina glanced through the open doorway towards the uncleared tables on the forecourt. ‘Don’t you need some help?’

      Sheila was clearly battling within herself now, unable to find any logical reason to reject such a suggestion. ‘We manage,’ she began. ‘There’s not just Bruce and me, you know. Julio serves in the bar in the evenings, and Maria does all the cooking.’

      Christina wondered where Bruce could be. Standing here in the hall like this, arguing with Sheila, was hardly the welcome she had envisaged, and she had the distinct feeling that Sheila would send her away without even seeing her brother if she could.

      ‘Where is Bruce?’ she questioned now. ‘Isn’t he here?’

      ‘No—yes—that is, he’s out right now.’ Sheila bit her lip. ‘Look, Christina, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but quite honestly you’re not the type to work in the hotel.’ She surveyed Christina’s appearance critically. ‘What on earth could you do?’

      ‘I can make beds, wash dishes—anything you like.’ Christina sighed. ‘Do you think I could have a cup of tea? I’m terribly thirsty.’

      Sheila gave in with ill grace. Short of physically ejecting Christina from the building there was little else she could do. ‘Very well,’ she agreed shortly. ‘Come through here. Our rooms are at the back of the hotel.’

      Christina followed her sister-in-law along a white-emulsioned passage to a room at the back of the building which overlooked a walled garden. It was not a big garden, but it was a veritable wilderness of flowers and flowering shrubs. Christina stared out at the confusion in delight, wondering how anyone could allow such beauty to go to waste.

      Sheila, noticing her interest, commented off-handedly: ‘We don’t have time to attend to the garden. When Bruce has the time, he’s going to find a gardener.’

      Christina thought she might have added, when Bruce can afford it, but she refrained from making any response and dropping her duffel bag and suitcase thankfully, she flung herself into a low basket weave chair. Sheila walked through into a small kitchen, and Christina could hear her filling the kettle and setting cups on saucers. There was a kind of suppressed violence about the way each cup clattered into its place, and Christina sighed, cupping her chin on one hand dejectedly. She had expected antipathy from Sheila, but not to this extent.

      Sheila came back into the room. ‘How long did you expect to stay?’ she asked abruptly.

      Christina was taken aback. ‘Does it matter?’

      ‘Of course it matters. Christina, this is Porto Cedro, not the Kings Road! Things are different here. Oh, I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to you, but—well, your ways are so very different from ours. People here are not so—easy-going, as they are back in England. I can’t speak for Portugal as a whole, of course, but here in the Algarve, in Porto Cedro particularly, we observe the codes of conduct that have been upheld here for centuries!’

      Christina frowned. ‘Don’t you mean the rules for the Portuguese?’

      ‘Yes, of course. And as we live here—we make our living in this village—we are expected to conform, too.’

      ‘You can’t be serious!’ Christina stared at her.

      ‘Of course I’m serious. That’s why I find your presence here so hard to condone. Christina, you’re a nice girl, and I’ve no doubt in England your attitudes would go unnoticed—–’

      ‘What do you mean? My attitudes?’ Christina was stung by the scathing note in Sheila’s voice.

      ‘Well, honestly, dear, one doesn’t wear slacks, let alone jeans, unless one is going sailing, of course. And young women are protected here. They’re not even allowed to mix with their fiancés unless a chaperon is on hand—–’

      ‘But I’m not Portuguese, Sheila—–’

      ‘But can’t you see, Christina, I’m trying to explain. When one lives in a country—when one makes one’s living from that country—one is expected to observe the rules,’

      ‘Rules!’ Christina raised her eyes heavenward. ‘Honestly, Sheila, you can’t expect me to believe that no tourists appear here dressed as I’m dressed. That everyone who visits Porto Cedro observes these so-called rules!’

      ‘Of course I’m not saying that. As a tourist I suppose you’d go unnoticed. But you’re not a tourist, are you, Christina? You’re Bruce’s sister. And once that gets about, you’ll be expected to behave as we do.’

      Christina hunched her shoulders. ‘Why don’t you just say you don’t want me here whatever the circumstances and be done with it?’ she demanded hotly. ‘You don’t really expect me to stomach all that rubbish about my clothes and mixing with the opposite sex—and being protected, do you?’

      Sheila stiffened. ‘All right, Christina. As you insist on putting everything in such crude terms, I’ll be honest. I admit I don’t want you here. But regardless of anything I feel personally, the situation remains the same. You simply wouldn’t fit in.’

      ‘What’s going on here? Christina!’

      The male voice that broke into their conversation brought both women up short. Bruce Ashley stood in the doorway, tall and broad and to Christina, dearly familiar. She flung herself out of her chair and across the room into his arms, uncaring what Sheila might think.

      Bruce held her closely for a few minutes and then he held her at arm’s length and stared at her as though he could not believe his eyes. ‘Christina! What the hell do you mean by appearing like this? Why didn’t you let me know so that I could meet you? Have you come by air?’

      Christina shook her head quickly. ‘Where would I get the money to buy an air ticket?’ she asked meaningfully, holding his eyes with hers, trying to convey wordlessly what had passed between herself and Sheila.

      Bruce frowned, but he seemed to gather what she meant, for he inclined his head slowly, and said: ‘Well, anyway, you should have written and told us when to expect you.’

      Sheila looked at him suspiciously. ‘Did you know Christina was coming, Bruce?’ she asked sharply.

      Bruce hesitated. ‘I thought she might. Why not? We’re her only kin. Why shouldn’t she come here? This is her home?’

      ‘Christina is eighteen, Bruce. Not a child.’

      ‘Eighteen? What’s eighteen?’ Bruce chewed his lip. ‘If we’d still been living in Kensington, she’d have come to us then, wouldn’t she?’

      ‘Maybe. But we’re not still living in Kensington, Bruce. The situation here is different—I’ve been trying to explain. Christina just wouldn’t fit in here. She’s not used to restrictions.’

      ‘What nonsense!’ Bruce released Christina and felt about in his pockets for his cigarettes. ‘Why shouldn’t she fit in here? She—er—she could help about in the hotel. That way she’d earn her keep.’

      Sheila pushed past him and walked into the kitchen to make the tea. When she came back with the tray a few moments later Christina could see she was having difficulty controlling her temper.

      Meanwhile Bruce had flung himself into a comfortable chair and was asking Christina about her work at the university. It had been unfortunate that Mr. Ashley had died within a week of her taking up her studies, but