Mask Of Scars. Anne Mather

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.