Hideaway Heart

by Roumelia Lane

  "But of course it's up to you."

  "Passing the buck?" The smile was a crooked line, "or are you thinking as far as godfathers go I'm not so hot?"

  'No, of course not. I just want to do what you want to do."

  "Well, I think we should go ahead. I'm told we'll need to contribute soap, some white cloth and olive oil. Nothing difficult to come by there. The rest we'll find out at the ceremony. By the way, we'll have to think of a name."

  "Wouldn't they prefer to do that themselves?"

  "No, I'm told it must come from us."

  Chris jerked a shaky smile.

  "It's rather odd, thinking of a name for someone else's child," she mused.

  "It is, isn't it?" His gaze rested on her for a while, then he took her arm and led her to a wooden seat beneath a tree. "Let's see what we can do."

  "Well, I'm not very well up on Greek names. What are there? Manole, Theodosios, Alexander . . . Of course if he'd been English it would have been much easier," Chris mused. "I like Mark, and Timothy..."

  "I've a soft spot for Philip." Boyd draped one leg over the other. "Maybe they'll settle for one of those?"

  "It's hardly likely," Chris smiled, "but I'm running out of Greek names. Er... Theophanos..."

  "Dzimmi, Gabriel..." Boyd suggested.

  "Gabriel? Is that Greek?"

  "I wouldn't like to bet on it."

  "But I like it." Chris thought. "Little Gabriel. Yes, I like that."

  "Then Gabriel it is." Boyd seemed in no hurry to turn his gaze away from hers.

  The family Spilotokynos made quite a crowd round the baptismal font. The ceremony was long but interesting, and Chris was able to cast an occasional glance around. She had never seen such colour in a church before. There were blue and gold and white pillars, and huge archways done in turquoise and black chequered squares. The pulpit was a series of vividly painted pictures and was reached by a staircase of crimson and gold. Whatever the villagers' homes lacked in colour their church certainly made up for it.

  The priest with a frizzy beard down to his chest and hair equally long, chanted a lot of strange-sounding words, and baby Gabriel was undressed and rubbed generously with olive oil. He was handed to Boyd, who rubbed more oil on his body and spoke the name that had been chosen. Later the baby was dried off in the new white cloth, and dressed in a beautifully embroidered christening gown.

  A procession through the village followed with Boyd at the head carrying baby Gabriel. At the house Spilotokynos a toast was drunk to the baby's success in life and then came a toast to the godparents. Chris held on to Gabriel and her glass and cast a shy glance upwards to where a broad shoulder brushed close to hers.

  Music commenced and a table spread with food was brought from a darkened corner. Girls in island costume danced native steps, and soon everyone was joining in ... the whole village, judging by the packed room. Amidst the pandemonium, Boyd, towering over the diminutive Greeks, pushed his way through to where Chris had somehow got jammed up against a wall. With one arm encircling her he commented drily,

  "Perhaps now is the time to make a polite exit.''

  At the door he pushed some notes into the mother's hand and murmured something from which Chris caught the name "Gabriel".

  The parents thanked him profusely and waved vigorously as Boyd drove off.

  They rode for several minutes in silence. Whatever he was thinking Chris didn't know, but she herself felt that any words spoken now would only be anti-climax to the morning's proceedings.

  Their destination turned out to be almost a carbon copy of Gabriel's village, except that it bordered the sea. Barefooted children laughed and shrieked a welcome, the girls with their clouds of frizzed black hair, the boys shorn almost to the scalp.

  Some were daring enough to bounce up and touch Chris's dress as she stepped from the car, others hopped about at a safe distance, gazing upwards with wide black button eyes.

  The villagers, stirred by the commotion, trickled out of their houses and clustered around, but when Boyd spoke a shutter seemed to close over the friendly curiosity that Chris had come to expect of the Greeks. They turned their mouths down, shrugged well-built shoulders and went about their business, some going as far as to turn a hostile glance backwards.

  Boyd looked thoughtful and then waylaid an elderly man who was shuffling back to his doorway. In the rapid flow of Greek Chris caught the name again ... Paula Fry. The old man looked reluctant, jabbed a finger towards the bay and entered his home, closing the door.

  "I take it it's the house at the foot of the hill," Boyd said without humour.

  They walked down to where diced dwellings clung to a circular blue bay. Across the water were more cubes, and then a tawny plain scarred with the pattern of white roads. As they drew near the house in question Chris felt her heartbeats quicken. She was about to come face to face with Paula Fry. The thought was more than just a little unnerving, especially as she hadn't the least idea what she was going to say to the other girl. It would have been all very well if she had believed that she was here to talk Paula into going back to Clive, but now that she knew the truth...

  Of course Boyd didn't know that she knew.

  She stole a glance at him, walking silent and preoccupied at her side. No doubt he was wondering how he could use the situation to the best advantage... his, of course!

  The house was set in sweeping farmland, and when they turned in past the traditional high courtyard wall she gasped at the lines of squat-looking trees that stretched almost to the water's edge. Each one was laden with huge bunches of pale green grapes. Chris calculated that there must be hundreds on each cluster, so low did they hang from the branches ... so low in fact, that if one turned one's face up and opened one's mouth...

  She resisted the temptation and became aware instead of the sound of heavy footsteps in the courtyard. She didn't see where the man came from, but he confronted them now with an apprehensive stare. Boyd said something and the man shook his head vigorously. He was a dour, thin-faced person with a mass of thick curls and a black strip of moustache.

  Chris didn't think he looked at all pleased at their arrival. Perhaps he feared for his grapes!

  Boyd spoke again, lengthily this time. The farmer's face worked and then slackened. Relief seemed to take the place of apprehension. He nodded his head slowly and though the dourness remained there was a brief flash of teeth. Boyd seemed to be asking questions. The man nodded more readily now. He babbled on in his own tongue and jerked his hands expressively. Occasionally his eyes would dart to the side of the house and then out across the bay.

  The more he gesticulated the more, it seemed, did Boyd's jaw tighten, but Chris had already decided that this must be typical of a Greek farmer's welcome. No doubt the beaming smiles and open arms would come when he had satisfied himself that they were just harmless English visitors.

  She let her eyes roam leisurely over the trim white house, the ironwork at the windows. Men in cloth caps and open-necked shirts worked in the buff-coloured fields and . . . her gaze swung back towards a movement at the side of the house. A voice called out,

  "It's all right, Stavros!" and a slender girl stepped forward.

  Chris knew at once that she was Paula Fry. Clive had captured perfectly the heart-shaped face and wide smiling mouth in his carving, but such colouring had to be seen to be believed.

  Her hair was a smooth red-gold that fell in gleaming strands about a dusky pearl-rose complexion. The eyes were as incredibly green as the grapes in the background and thick bronze lashes dipped attractively as she surveyed the scene. At first glance the exquisite features might have given an impression of defenceless femininity, but Chris found it was rather like examining a piece of delicate porcelain and discovering that it had a fibreglass durability. There was an underlined sturdiness about the face, a keen worldly light in the pastel green eyes.

  It warmed to an emerald glow as the gaze rested on Boyd. A slim honey-gold hand was extended.

&nbs
p; "Boyd! This is a pleasure!"

  Compared to the Greek farmer's her voice sounded almost gay . . . and yet Chris couldn't help feeling the tones were tinged with some kind of strain.

  Perhaps she had missed Boyd more than she cared to admit.

  Boyd smiled and took the hand. "Hello, Paula." He reached an arm out to include Chris. "This is Miss Dawnay ... Chris Dawnay."

  "Hello, Chris." An appraising glance fell her way and Paula nodded over her shoulder as though to indicate the way, but Boyd stepped briskly forward.

  "She's not staying," he said.

  Chris saw green and woodsmoke eyes meet and hold and then Boyd was saying easily,

  "I've made arrangements for one of the hands to take you back to the villa. Would you like a drink, some kind of refreshment before you go ?"

  "Not a thing!" Chris replied with a glazed smile. "I'm ready to go just any time it's convenient."

  Boyd helped her into a two-wheeled donkey-drawn cart and spoke several brisk sentences to the driver, then he turned into a garden at the side of the house, his arm resting lightly across Paula's shoulders, his face close to hers.

  Chris swallowed a boulder-like lump in her throat and gazed stolidly ahead. So he hadn't needed her after all, hadn't even bothered to hide the fact. Within minutes of seeing Paula he had shown only one desire - to be rid of her ... Chris... as soon as possible.

  The cart jolted along and the road became shot with slivers of flashing lights. She turned her head, but the sea too was just a sparkle and dazzle of tears. How ridiculous to feel this way when she knew the whole story from Mrs. Lovell. And anyway, shouldn't she be grateful to Boyd for bringing her along? Seeing him and Paula together like that was just what she needed to squash any romantic notions she might be feeling since that kiss in Beirut.

  The road back to the villa was a bumpy one, both inside and out, but at the end of it Chris considered she had got herself fairly well sorted out.

  Whatever Boyd had to say to her after his afternoon with Paula could only fit in with her own plans to re-visit Clive and then return to England. No time must be lost in finding a way to work off the debt that she and her father had incurred over the weeks.

  She spent the rest of the day flicking through a collection of rare books in the villa library and swimming half-heartedly alongside a rubber float in the pool. Just before seven she dressed carefully for dinner and walked down the stairs, bracing herself for Boyd's words, but they didn't come ... at least not that evening.

  Howes was waiting for her in the hall. He informed her that Mr. Wyatt had sent a message to say he would be staying at the farm for the night. With a smiling marble-like composure Chris accepted the news and allowed Howes to lead her into dinner. She was becoming quite used to the gnawing ache that spiralled through her each time the names Boyd and Paula cropped up, but nothing could equal the dejection she felt now, knowing they would be together tonight at the farm.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Bernard Howes was an unobtrusive little man with opaque blue eyes and a deep melodious voice like the low notes on a piano. He went out of his way to be entertaining, instructing Chris in the games of chess and Chinese chequers and letting her beat him whenever he could.

  The following morning he pointed out the more exotic types of plants in the villa grounds and joined her in a game of tennis, whacking the balls around the court with the quiet gusto of a sixteen-year-old.

  Mid-afternoon Boyd arrived back in the hired car and gave orders for it to be driven back to town. Chris carried on towards the swimming-pool. She had no intention of behaving as though today was any different from any other day. She had done four rapid lengths of the pool when a voice drawled,

  "I think that takes care of the exercise today. Come on, out, and get dried off."

  Boyd stood holding a huge lemon towel. Chris climbed out at the opposite end and pulled her own towel from the rail. She drew off her cap and proceeded to rub her hair vigorously. A few seconds later the lemon towel was being draped and patted around her, and Boyd was asking,

  "How did Howes make out? I asked him to keep an eye on you."

  "Admirably." Chris tossed her hair back to give him a direct gaze. "Though I like to think I'm past the age of requiring a baby-sitter!"

  "So do I," he helped her into a short towelled jacket, "but this isn't England, and you're my responsibility."

  She was a little surprised at the taut way he expressed himself, and replied with a startled laugh.

  "This isn't the heart of the Casbah, is it?"

  "Let's hope not." He led her to a chair and took out cigarettes, eyeing her keenly. "Any ideas as to why I had you brought to the villa?" he went on.

  Plenty! Chris wanted to retort, but she could only manage a sober,

  "You didn't tell me you knew Paula."

  "We've met."

  Which must be the understatement to end all understatements, Chris thought bitterly.

  Boyd studied the end of his cigarette.

  "Heard from your father?"

  Chris nodded. "This morning. He says to let you know he's following up your suggestions for re-positioning the men."

  "It might be a good idea if you went over there to give him some assistance."

  Chris counted her heartbeats.

  "What about the airstrip ... the contract?" she began.

  "We'll leave things ticking over a while."

  "Is this a polite way of saying my services are no longer required?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "No, but you're obviously finding it necessary to beat about the bush." She stood up. "As it happens I'm more than ready to go. I can leave right away, if you'll take me to Cyrecano."

  He jerked up to stand over her.

  "You know my views on that."

  "If you don't take me I'll find someone who will!" she flashed, struggling to contain the maelstrom of pain and him: that threatened the floodgates of a carefully posed indifference.

  "Try it," he snapped. "There isn't a boatman on the island who would go against my word."

  "Good old autocratic Boyd Wyatt!" Her voice was no more than a sob.

  "Now listen..."

  "No, you listen!" She raised tear-starred eyes. "I'm going to Clive. And I'll get there without your help!"

  "We'll see."

  "Yes, we'll see!"

  She jerked her wrist away from his grasp and turning from the strained dark features stumbled towards the villa.

  Chris had never thought that Boyd would really refuse to take her to Cyrecano. It was a shock to find he had done just that... and over the next few days he showed no signs of altering his decision. Nor could she get anyone else to listen to her pleas.

  Down in the harbour the boatmen turned when they saw her approaching. The ones she did manage to confront put on the usual friendly smiles and pretended not to understand her signs, or shifted humorously from one foot to another as though Cyrecano was some never-never-land in the blue.

  She came near to hating Boyd for his unreasonable stand on the matter and was tempted more than once to give up the idea and start for home. But she had promised Clive she would re-visit the island, and it was maddening to think that but for Boyd's stubbornness she could have been there and back by now.

  She had just about given up all hope of making it when one day, walking along the harbour path, she saw a boat different from the usual local ones she had come to know almost by heart. It was a caique, but much larger and bulkier than the others. Grubby and unkempt, it had a solidness that suggested longer voyages. Chris was convinced it didn't belong to the island, especially as it was anchored on its own on a deserted stretch of the quay.

  She walked past it several times weighing up her chances. The men on board began to follow her with their eyes and she bit her lower lip uncertainly. It wasn't the kind of boat she would have chosen for the trip, but it was better than not going at all. Quickly she walked along the precarious plank that led to the deck and stepped down among
st a group of startled boathands. As her knowledge of the Greek language was practically non-existent she had to resort once again to signs and mime to make herself understood. The men seemed in no hurry to grasp the fact that she wished to see the man in charge. Nor did they show any particular inclination to let her pass until a middle-aged man in sea-stained clothes appeared from below.

  To Chris's relief he spoke passable English, and after greeting her ordered the men back to their tasks.

  "Please, could you help me?" she started straight off. "I want to get to the island of Cyrecano.''

  "Cyrecano?" He fingered the stubble on his chin. "No one ever goes to Cyrecano."

  "But I must get there. I'm willing to pay if you will take me."

  She opened her handbag and searched out all the Greek currency she had. He took it, flicked it through with a grubby finger and shrugged with a disdainful' 'Phttt!''

  Chris gathered from his expression that there wasn't much there.

  "Not to matter." He pressed the money into her hand and lowered a slow glance over her. "Cyrecano, you say? When would lady wish to go?"

  "As soon as you can," Chris replied eagerly. "If you would take me there I could get you some more money from my friend who lives on the island." He scratched his head and she added, "Really I wouldn't be any trouble, and I'm absolutely desperate..."

  "Despret? What is this... despret?"

  "Well ..." Chris searched her mind for the right word, "for me it is very... important to get to the island."

  "Ah yes! Impor ... tant. I know this word." He shrugged. "But there are lots of boats, no?"

  "No one will take me to the island," Chris confessed. "They don't know I've come to you."

  "Nobody knows you come to me, hah?" He chewed on a stub of pencil. There was a peculiar light in the dark eyes, and Chris didn't much care for his smile, but if he consented to take her she could put up with that. He seemed to be busy with his own thoughts. She found it necessary after several moments to prompt him with,

  "Well, what do you think? Could you take me?"

  He shrugged again. "This is not passenger line. Only my own and crew's quarters."