But as we walked back to the hotel, I was happy. I was hand in hand with my lover, who had proved, by rescuing Xanthe, that he really cared about me.
In my room at the Avenida Palace, I stood nervously in front of Amyas. Our times together were so infrequent that every time was like the first time and I was shy.
‘You’ve changed, Persephone,’ he said. ‘Grown up quite a lot in the last year. I almost don’t recognise you.’
‘I have responsibilities now.’ I looked at Marisol’s photograph and his eyes followed mine.
‘Is that my girl?’ he asked, staring at her cheeky little smile and those great, brown eyes. ‘She’s lovely.’
‘She is. She’s in Cornwall now, safe from the bombing. And, Amyas, she’s so precious. If in your life you’ve done nothing else, you’ve produced the most wonderful child.’
‘I know.’ He gave a sudden cough and grimaced with obvious pain.
‘What is it?’ I asked, now worried. ‘What’s hurting? You’ve got a black eye and I could see before that you were moving awkwardly.’
‘It’s nothing. A couple of cracked ribs, that’s all.’ He touched my cheek. ‘Leave it, Persephone. You know that I’m in a dangerous profession. Things happen.’
Carefully I put my arms around him and lifted up my face to his mouth, loving the feel of his firm lips on mine. We undressed slowly, me helping him with his shirt and looking, with alarm, at the heavy strapping which covered his chest. But when we were in bed, the pain from his ribs seemed not to matter, for he was as virile and as exciting as ever. I was lost again in his passion, using my hands and mouth in unembarrassed wantonness to spur him on, until we climaxed, in a fever of heaving cries.
‘My God, Persephone. What’s come over you?’ Amyas breathed, as we lay back on the heavy pillows.
‘I don’t know,’ I murmured, but the truth was, I did. I knew that this was going to be the last time we would be lovers. I would always adore him, but our lives were moving apart. I had different priorities now and being here with Amyas had brought me to a decision. I was going to give up my job and go home to be a mother. I would join Marisol and Alice in Cornwall. I didn’t want anything else now, or anyone, except, perhaps – and here I blushed in the darkness – for dear old Charlie.
Later, he got up and dressed. ‘I can’t stay, Persephone,’ he said. ‘It would put you in too much danger, but I’ll be back for you at nine in the morning. I’ve got a forged passport for Xanthe and, with any luck, we’ll get you both on the flight tomorrow evening.’
‘Are you coming with us on the plane?’ I asked, but I already knew the answer.
‘No. I’m going back to France.’
I didn’t sleep much after he left and at six o’clock I got up, showered and dressed. I put on my khaki trousers and a white cotton blouse which I thought would be useful in the mountains. Then I sat down and wrote my notes ready for the last article I would ever write for the newspaper.
When Amyas appeared in the lobby I’d already paid my bill and my case was sitting at my feet.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
‘Mm,’ I smiled at him. ‘Let’s go.’
A big white Cadillac, its chrome bumpers and white-walled tyres gleaming in the hot morning sun, was parked outside the hotel.
‘This is us,’ said Amyas and helped me into the front passenger seat.
‘What is it about you that you have to make a show?’ I asked, as we drove through the city. ‘Couldn’t you find a more discreet car?’
Amyas laughed. ‘It’s very comfortable, don’t you think?’
‘Where’d you get it?’
‘It belongs to an Austrian lady I know. A Countess Simmering.’
‘And does she simmer?’
‘Oh yes,’ Amyas grinned. ‘Quite often.’
We drove to Sintra, a pretty town with old buildings and cobbled streets. The airfield where I’d landed only yesterday was just outside the town and as we passed it, I looked at the planes lined up on the grass runway. I’d left from an airfield near Bristol on a government flight and I was going back the same way. But we headed on to the town and were soon driving slowly through its narrow streets. Looking up, above Sintra, I could see winding roads climbing the hills, and white-painted villas dotted amongst the trees.
‘Is Xanthe in one of those?’ I asked.
‘Further out,’ he said, manoeuvring the car into a tiny side street. ‘We’re going in here.’ He indicated a café.
‘I’ve only just had breakfast,’ I objected.
‘Nevertheless.’
We parked the car, then walked into the café and, with a nod to the proprietor, walked further on until we were through the kitchen and out into another street, where a black Peugeot saloon waited for us. ‘Discreet enough?’ asked Amyas.
‘Yes,’ I nodded, sorry that I’d doubted him, and we drove away, up into the mountains, where the road wound around hairpin bends, reminding me of the road in Spain which Paul Durban and I had negotiated. The trees grew denser and soon we were in cloud and the air was cold. I wished I’d brought my jacket. Finally, we turned into what looked like a mountain path and after a few minutes reached a clearing, where a Mediterranean villa stood, white-walled and flat-roofed. It was dilapidated, the walls needed a coat of paint and one of the shutters was hanging by a single hinge.
‘This is it,’ said Amyas and we got out.
‘Xanthe!’ I called, standing on the weed-covered patch in front of the house. ‘Xanthe! It’s me, Seffy.’
She came out slowly. A barefooted, waif-like figure, in a cornflower-blue dress. ‘Seffy?’ she squealed and, bursting into tears, ran to me.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I TOOK HER in my arms and hugged her. She clung to me like a little girl and sobbed into my shoulder. ‘You’ve come,’ she wailed. ‘I prayed that you would.’
‘Hush, now,’ I said, after she’d sobbed for a while. ‘Let’s go inside.’ I did feel sorry for her, mostly because she was such an idiot, but at the same time I was angry. It seemed that in the last few years my life had been interrupted on too many occasions by my silly little sister. She had got herself into trouble and I resented the fact that I was supposed to sort it out. But even as I thought that, I could feel her shoulder blades poking through her dress and could see how paper white her skin was. There was no doubt about it: she needed help.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Amyas and I could do with a coffee. You’ve got coffee, haven’t you?’
‘I think so.’ She nodded uncertainly, and, taking my hand, led me through the front door into the square hall of the villa. It had a whitewashed interior, with a brick fireplace containing a cold stove and a pile of logs. The furniture – a chaise longue and two chairs – looked rickety and useless for sitting on, and the rug on the red-tiled floor was a cheap piece of cotton weave. I hoped, for Xanthe’s sake, that the rest of the house was more comfortable.
‘Are you still with him?’ she whispered, looking over her shoulder to Amyas, who was following us.
‘He brought me here to help you,’ I said. ‘Aren’t you glad?’
She pouted, her lips thinner than they were before, so that her pout now less prominent. ‘I don’t like him. He’s beastly to me and,’ she shot Amyas another look, ‘foreign.’
‘You’re ridiculous,’ I snapped. ‘Just be grateful that we’re here.’
She took me into the small, rather grubby kitchen where a shapeless, middle-aged woman was leaning against the sink, smoking a thin cigar. ‘She’ll know about coffee,’ said Xanthe, looking helplessly at the woman.
‘Christ!’ Amyas groaned and then spoke sharply in Portuguese to the housekeeper, who, with a scowl, moved the kettle to the hot part of the stove. In minutes she had prepared a tray with coffee and little cakes and had taken it into a sort of drawing room, with fabric-covered armchairs and small leather tables.
Before we’d even sat down, Xanthe snatched a cake from the plate and stuffed it into her mouth, chewin
g rapidly and swallowing so quickly that I was concerned she might choke. She was behaving as though this was the first food she’d had today and while I watched, she took another of cake. So much for Amyas saying she would only eat a lettuce leaf. I poured coffee and handed her a cup, which she cradled between her thin hands, and when she took a sip she closed her eyes. ‘Oh, bliss,’ she groaned. ‘So delicious. I can’t remember when I last had a cup of coffee.’
I shot a look at Amyas and he raised his eyebrows and shook his head. Now I was feeling really worried. Xanthe was plainly ill, physically and possibly mentally. I reached forward and took her hand. ‘Listen, Xanthe, I’ve come to take you home, so when you’ve finished that coffee, I’ll help you pack. We’re going today . . . as soon as possible.’
‘Home?’ Xanthe looked up excitedly. ‘To Berlin?’
‘No,’ I sighed. ‘Don’t be silly. We’re going to England. To your real home.’
‘But I can’t,’ she wailed. ‘Wolfie is in Berlin. I have to go to him. He’s waiting for me.’
‘He isn’t.’ Already I was exasperated. ‘There’s a war on. He’s probably away fighting. And you must come home, otherwise you’ll be thought a traitor.’
She frowned. ‘The war? Haven’t we won yet? Wolfie said that he’d be marching through London by Christmas. I was going home then. I told Mummy ages ago. She thought it was a very good idea.’
‘Mummy’s in America with Binkie Durham’s uncle. Don’t you remember? I told you when I saw you in Berlin that last time.’
She held the cup close to her thin chest, savouring the warmth. ‘I’d forgotten,’ she murmured. ‘Oh dear. She won’t be able to meet Wolfie.’
Amyas got up and started pacing around. ‘We must get a move on,’ he said. ‘There may be someone looking for us.’
I stood up too. ‘Come on, Xanthe. Show me your bedroom and let’s get you packed.’
‘So we’re going to Berlin, after all?’ She smiled, giving a fleeting reminder of the pretty girl she’d been.
‘Yes,’ I lied. It was the easiest option. In her present state, she’d have no idea what aeroplane she was on. ‘Hurry up.’
Suddenly, I heard a thin, little cry from somewhere quite close. It was a pathetic sound, not the lusty yell that Marisol used to give, but a reedy wail, as if its owner had no strength. ‘Is that your baby?’ I asked, and Xanthe nodded.
‘Where is he?’
‘Umm . . . I’m not sure. He might be on the balcony. That woman puts him there sometimes.’
I followed the sound and walked through the double glass doors on to a narrow balcony which overlooked the hillside. There, lying on a rug, exposed to the mist, was a baby. A very small, painfully thin baby, who had a pinched, exhausted face and white lips.
‘Oh my God,’ I said, and picked him up. He was clammy to the touch and there was almost a blue tinge to his skin.
‘He’s freezing!’ I shouted at Xanthe. ‘Why the hell did you put him out there?’
‘I didn’t, that fat bitch did. But he cries,’ she said, with the petulant note in her voice that I knew of old. ‘I hate it when he cries, so I can’t have him in here, with me. It wears me out.’
I was furious. How could she be so heartless, so cruel. I was ready to have a row, but Amyas took my arm. ‘Get her moving,’ he growled. ‘I’m going to pay the woman and get her out of here. I need you and them,’ he nodded to Xanthe and to the baby, who was now quiet and cuddled into my arms, ‘to be in the car in fifteen minutes.’
I told Xanthe to pack her clothes while I, still carrying the baby, looked for its room. I found it down the corridor, the room furthest away from Xanthe’s, a bleak space with splintered floorboards and furnished only with a dusty wicker cot. There was a small pile of clothes on the floor beside it and I searched through them for something clean to dress the child in. I took a couple of romper suits, a shawl and some cotton nappies. Gathering them up, I looked for a bathroom and there I stripped off his soaking nappy and filthy vest and washed and powdered his sore little bottom. I dressed him in a fairly clean suit and wrapped him warmly in the shawl. With the remaining nappies I went back to Xanthe.
‘How are you getting on?’ I asked.
‘All right,’ she said, gazing at me, but it was clear that she’d done nothing. Putting the baby down on the bed I dragged a small suitcase from the top of a wardrobe and shoved underwear and a dress into it. ‘Have you got a coat?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘I’ve got a cardigan.’
‘That will do,’ I said. ‘You can buy clothes at home.’
Her face brightened. ‘Oh, lovely. It’s ages since I’ve been to the shops.’ Then the brightness disappeared. ‘I haven’t got any money.’ She scowled. ‘You took it away. Wolfie was furious.’
‘You’ll get it back, when we get you home. I promise.’
‘Oh, thank you, Seffy.’
‘Now, go downstairs . . . I’ll take the case.’ As she went out of the room I had a thought. ‘When did the baby last have a feed?’
‘Haven’t a clue,’ she called, halfway down the stairs. ‘The woman does that.’
Amyas was standing by the car and looking agitated. ‘I think I heard a car coming up the road,’ he said. ‘It went past . . . this place is quite well hidden, but if it’s who I think it is, they’ll be back.’
‘One minute,’ I begged, and went back inside to the kitchen. Throwing open all the cupboards I searched until I found a baby’s feeding bottle and then, in the grimy larder, found a bottle of sterilised milk on a stone slab. ‘It’ll have to do,’ I muttered to myself, as I filled the feeder. Putting it into my shoulder bag, I hurried outside.
‘Ready,’ I said and got into the front passenger seat. I tried to hand the baby to Xanthe in the back seat, but she shook her head. ‘Oh, no, Seffy. I’ll drop it, or something. You know how hopeless I am.’ She was quite animated. A little colour had come back into her cheeks. ‘What an adventure,’ she squealed.
I looked at Amyas. His face was set in a grimace as he swung the car out of the clearing and along the track to the road. There, he stopped for a moment, listening for sounds of another car, but I heard nothing, except for birds twittering in the trees and the occasional rustle of small woodland animals.
‘It’s all right,’ I said. And he put his foot down on the pedal and we drove down the mountain road back to Sintra.
The car exchange went as smoothly as before and now that we were down from the mountain the mist had gone and the sun gave everything a golden glow. ‘Shops,’ breathed Xanthe, looking out of the window. ‘Can we stop?’
‘No.’ Amyas and I spoke in unison.
Had I been nervous before? I realised that I had and that Amyas was still twitching.
‘I’m going to take you straight to the aerodrome,’ he said. ‘It’s several hours before your flight, but you can wait there more safely than in Lisbon. There is a café and you can sit it out in some comfort.’ He turned his head to me. ‘I’ll have to leave you.’
I thought I heard a choke in his voice and was going to put a hand on his arm but Xanthe suddenly cried, ‘Stop the car. Let me out. I’m going to be sick.’
She was sick at the side of the road. I put the baby on Amyas’s knee and went to help her, but it was over in a minute. ‘It was the cake,’ she said. ‘It just looked so delicious, but I knew I shouldn’t have eaten it.’
‘Are you often sick?’ I asked, when we got back in the car.
‘Oh yes. It’s a good way to lose weight. Wolfie doesn’t like me to be fat. He says I have the perfect figure. I do, don’t I, Seff? I’m petite, but well formed, that’s what it said in Tatler, when they did that piece on London society. Not like you, Seff. You’re lanky, like a boy. And as for your hair, well, Mummy always said that it was quite uncontrollable.’ She gave a high-pitched giggle and I yearned to turn round and smack her in the face.
‘I think Persephone is beautiful.’ Amyas broke his silence. ‘Both inside and out.�
�
‘Thank you,’ I whispered and loved him more than ever.
‘Well, you should know,’ Xanthe said spitefully. ‘About the inside and out.’
The aerodrome was a field with a wire fence around the perimeter. Long, low buildings surrounded the wooden control tower and I saw several cars parked in front of them and a few people wandering about. Aeroplanes were drawn up by the buildings. Two looked like passenger liners and I recognised one as the Avro on which I’d arrived. It must be the one we were going on. ‘That’s our plane,’ I said to Xanthe, nodding towards the runway where it was standing.
‘Wonderful,’ she smiled. ‘I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to be going home to our dear Fatherland. Did I tell you, Seffy, that I saw Herr Hitler once? Oh, he was magnificent. Dynamic, that was what Wolfie called him.’
I winced, imagining what might happen if she spoke like that in London, and realised, yet again, that my troubles were really only just beginning. How could I leave her in the house in Eaton Square, with only the housekeeper to look after her? Would I have to keep her in my flat? Then I remembered that I’d decided to go down to Cornwall and to be a mother, and knew I’d have to take her with me. My heart sank.
We left the car outside the administration building. A Portuguese policeman at the door asked if we were travelling. Amyas spoke to him and produced Xanthe’s passport. I saw a set of folded notes peeking out of it and then he nodded to me to show mine. To my relief, the policeman grinned and we were able to go inside.
‘Persephone,’ Amyas put his hand on my shoulder. ‘We must say goodbye now.’
I looked up at him and saw the pain in his eyes. I stood for a moment, just gazing at him, and then I turned and thrust the baby into Xanthe’s unwilling arms. Turning back I put my arms around Amyas’s neck.
‘Come with us,’ I begged. ‘You’ll be safe in England.’
‘I can’t,’ he said quietly. ‘You know that.’
‘I’m frightened for you.’ Tears had come to my eyes and I struggled to stay in control. Even though I knew that, as Charlie had predicted, the day had come when I would move on from Amyas, he was here with me now and I wanted to keep him.
What Tomorrow Brings Page 36