by Betty Neels
She smiled at him. ‘No offence taken,’ she told him cheerfully. ‘I’m glad the operation was a success.’
‘Early days, to be sure, but we caught it in time.’ He drank the rest of his tea and got to his feet as she put down her cup. ‘We’ll have another look, shall we?’
Amalia went off duty soon after that. It had been arranged that a nurse would come if Eugenia rang the bell. ‘And I’ll be in and out during the night,’ said Mr Grenfell, disappearing through the door.
He came twice before midnight and again as she was making a careful check with Amalia. Everything was going well. Mrs Clarence, well sedated, was sleeping and the paraphernalia surrounding her was functioning just as it should. ‘Go to bed,’ said Mr Grenfell, and Eugenia, with a muttered ‘Goodnight’, went.
The next forty-eight hours were vital to Mrs Clarence’s recovery, and Eugenia, beyond a brief sleep and meals eaten as quickly as possible, had no leisure. But at the end of that time, with her patient free from tubes, bottles and oxygen mask, sitting up groggily in a chair, she was able to relax.
Mr Grenfell, coming, the epitome of the well dressed gentleman, at half past seven in the morning on the third day, pronounced himself satisfied and well pleased with his patient. The look he cast at Eugenia wasn’t so satisfied, however. He said abruptly: ‘You’ve had no off duty, have you, Eugenia? I think tomorrow you must have a free day. Everything is going well, another twelve hours and we can start thinking about getting Mrs Clarence back home. I’m entirely confident of Dr da Marcos’s handling of the case, and Amalia is admirably suited to taking over from you. After today you and I will take back seats.’
He didn’t stop to hear if she had anything to say but disappeared through the door.
It would be nice to have a day to herself, thought Eugenia tiredly. She had gulped in the fresh spring air for five minutes after her meal breaks and had longed to get out of uniform and go a long walk—somewhere along the coast, in the rather wild country leading down to the shore. Of course that would be too far, but she would certainly explore the town and walk along the boulevard towards the sea. Praia da Rocha was only a mile or so away, Amalia had told her, with its lovely beach and little shops. Too cold to swim, of course, she had added, but Eugenia, looking at the bright sunshine outside, thought it would be warm enough to walk along the sands and have coffee outside a café. Which reminded her that she had no money—Mr Grenfell had said he would see to all that, but he hadn’t mentioned it again. She would have to find time to ask him before the morning.
He came again at midday with Dr da Marcos and there was no chance to speak to him, only to answer his abrupt questions and listen to his instructions, but that evening he came alone and sat down beside Mrs Clarence with the air of a man who had time on his hands.
‘Another two or three days and you’ll be feeling well enough to go home,’ he promised her. ‘Sister Smith and I will stay until then and after that Dr da Marcos and Amalia will take over. You’ve done very well—go carefully, and don’t do more than Dr da Marcos allows—when you come to England at Easter I’ll give you a check-up.’
Mrs Clarence beamed at him from a still wan face. ‘I’ll never be able to thank you both enough for all you’ve done, nor will my husband. That first day when Eugenia got me into a chair and I could have screamed at her—because all I wanted to do was to lie still and die, but now I know that she was keeping me alive. You have no idea what it feels like to be given a second chance…’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Mr Grenfell seriously, and she said contritely: ‘Oh, of course you do—it’s you who gives people like me that chance…’
‘I wouldn’t be able to do it without Eugenia or Amalia or Dr da Marcos.’
Mrs Clarence turned to look at Eugenia, standing quietly by. ‘Such a beautiful girl too—quite wasted on miseries like me!’
‘Mrs Clarence, I can assure you that Eugenia will not be wasted.’ He got up and strolled to the door, ignoring Eugenia’s enquiring look. It was a minute or two before she remembered that she hadn’t asked for some money; she said breathlessly to Mrs Clarence: ‘I won’t be two ticks,’ and flew out of the door after him. He was at the end of the passage talking to the anaesthetist, but he looked round enquiringly as she reached them.
‘Forgotten something, Sister?’ he asked.
‘Tomorrow—if I’m to have a free day—I haven’t any Portuguese money. You did say…’
‘I’ll see you in the morning.’ He spoke pleasantly, but she felt herself dismissed. With her head seething with plans to leave the hospital without waiting for his convenience—she could surely get her English money changed—she went back to her patient.
‘You do look cross,’ commented Mrs Clarence.
Eugenia summoned up the sunniest of smiles. ‘Oh, but I’m not—I’ll get your morning drink and have mine with you. Mr Clarence will be here soon, won’t he? I’ll do your face first, if you like, a little blusher on your cheeks and that new wrap he brought you. You look pretty good to me. I’ll wash your hair this evening if you feel like it…’
The day went well. It was nice to see Mrs Clarence improving almost by the hour—she had a long way to go, of course, but she was well on the way to convalescence now, another two or three days and Eugenia supposed she and Mr Grenfell would go back to England. But first, she thought with delight, she had a whole day in which to explore even this tiny corner of Portugal. She had no plans; a quick look at Portimao as soon as she had had breakfast, and then a bus to the beach and a walk on the shore. She handed over to Amalia, had her supper and went to her austere little room, her head full of plans, but too tired to bother with them.
She took a look at Mrs Clarence when she got up in the morning. The night, Amalia reported, had gone well, and the charts showed the gradual, undramatic improvement they all hoped for. The day nurse would be on presently, a quiet serious girl Eugenia had already met and instructed about Mr Grenfell’s methods. She went back and dressed, had a sketchy breakfast, collected her handbag and sunglasses and left the hospital, walking into a bright sunny morning, already pleasantly warm.
The hospital was in the centre of the town, its courtyard surrounded by high walls, pierced by tall wrought iron gates, left open. Eugenia stood for a moment on the pavement, wondering whether to go left or right, when a ramshackle Simca drew up beside her.
‘There you are,’ said Mr Grenfell; his tone implied that she had kept him waiting. ‘Get in, then, if we’re to make the most of our day.’
Eugenia made no attempt to move. ‘Get in?’ she queried. ‘Why? I’m going to explore the town and then go to the beach at Praia da Rocha.’
‘What an ungrateful girl you are! I’ve taken the trouble to get a car for the day—I thought we’d drive along the coast to Cape St Vincent, an absolute must for the tourist, and then take a look at Henry the Navigator’s place—it’s close by. Then there’s Sagres. We can lunch there before driving up through the mountains to Monchique—a very restful and rural place. But of course, if you had your heart set on peering into shop windows, I’ll have to go by myself.’
He contrived to look so forlorn that her kind heart was touched. She said carefully: ‘It sounds delightful, if you’re sure you’d like me to come… It’ll be all day,’ she added doubtfully.
‘All day;’ he agreed gravely, ‘but I daresay we’ll be able to rub along if we try hard enough.’ He held the door open more widely. ‘Get in.’
She did so, telling herself it would be silly to refuse such a chance to see so much of the surrounding country; she might get the opportunity of a visit to the town before they left.
‘Read anything about this part of the world?’ asked Mr Grenfell.
‘I’ve hardly had the time…’
‘Well, the fashionable end of the coast is behind us—there are several popular beaches and small seaside towns between here and St Vincent, but most people go to Faro or Albufeira. There’s a large luxury hotel at Praia da Rocha, but further alo
ng the coast it isn’t as grand, and much nicer.’
He was urging the little car along the road towards the sea, past the old fortress of St Catherine and then along the boulevard by the beach. There were a few people there, for it was warm enough to sit in the sun even at that early hour, but it was a glorious beach, and the wide sweep of the sea took Eugenia’s attention as they drove round the bay to Lagos.
There was another river here; she craned her neck to see it as they swept over a bridge and entered the town. ‘Coffee,’ said Mr Grenfell, and parked the car on a corner of waste ground. ‘Through here,’ he told her, and took her arm to lead her through a narrow lane which opened into a cobbled square, lined with shops and shaded by orange trees.
Eugenia stood and gaped, oranges and orange blossom on the same trees was something to gape at, but she wasn’t given time to look around her for more than a few minutes. He sat her down at one of the little tables outside a café and ordered coffee from a hovering waiter.
‘Have you any idea where we’re going?’ He frowned. ‘You said you’d had no chance…’
‘Not since we came,’ she told him calmly. ‘Before we left I looked at a map. I do know that we’re going due west and then turn north into the mountains, but I know nothing about the towns or the people or food…’ She sipped her coffee, dark and strong in a little cup. ‘You’ve been here before, I expect?’
‘Yes, I don’t know much about the eastern end of the coast, but I’ve stayed around here several times.’ He added a little impatiently: ‘Do you want to stop for half an hour and look at the shops?’
‘No, thank you.’ She sounded convincingly certain, although she glanced with regret at a nearby shop window, filled with delicate embroidery. There was bound to be a shop very similar in Portimao.
They went back to the car and he took the road west, through groves of almonds and fig trees, past narrow lanes leading down to the sea and the small villages there. There were a few villas here and a lack of any land development, only a rather wild country which Eugenia loved. When they reached Vila do Bispo, Mr Grenfell observed: ‘This is the last village of any size before Cape St Vincent—we’ll go there first, and then we’ll go to Sagres and look at Prince Henry’s Fort.’
Cape St Vincent looked forbidding and bleak; there was a lighthouse at its tip and several stalls selling knitted jackets and caps and embroidery. Eugenia was swept past them, given a swift tour of the lighthouse, and urged back into the car. The short drive around the bay to the other side to Cape Sagres was wholly occupied in asking questions, answered good-naturedly enough by Mr Grenfell.
Prince Henry’s Fort was far too interesting to hurry over; she lingered there, asking more questions, trying to imagine what it must have been like in the fifteenth century, sending ships to Madeira, the Azores, the west coast of Africa. She listened carefully to all that her companion had to say and when at length they left the place, she said: ‘I must get a book about this and read it when I get back.’
‘Or come back and see it for a second time,’ he suggested casually.
‘That would be nice.’ Her voice was unknowingly wistful.
They had lunch at the pousada overlooking the beach at Sagres. It was a low white building with a red-tiled roof, charmingly furnished and, at that time of year, half empty. They ate octopus cooked in tomato sauce, although Mr Grenfell didn’t tell Eugenia that until she had eaten every scrap of it and voted it delicious, and little tarts filled with thick custard and figs, and they drank a local wine, pale and rather too dry for her taste. The coffee was dark and thick. ‘Not at all like Nescafé,’ remarked Mr Grenfell, ‘but when in Rome…’ He smiled at her and it struck her that he was really rather a pleasant companion. ‘There’s a small estalagem in the Monchique mountains where one can get a splendid pot of tea. We’ll go there on our way back.’
They didn’t linger over their meal; it was early afternoon by now and pleasantly warm, but as they climbed towards Silves, it grew cooler, but the country was delightful with its trees and small houses tucked away by the side of the road. Mr Grenfell stopped at the summit of a hill overlooking the town. ‘Moorish,’ he observed, ‘liberated in the thirteenth century. That enormous building in the centre is their old fort and the cathedral is next to it.’ He started the car again and went slowly down the hill and then into the town of white-walled houses and presently parked close to the cathedral.
‘Not bored?’ he asked as they crossed the road and went inside.
Eugenia shook her head. ‘It’s all marvellous; if only I can remember this day!’
He stopped halfway down the aisle of the great building, ‘I shall remember it,’ he told her quietly.
They spent some time there, not talking much, and then looked round the fort before going back to the car. As they got in Eugenia observed: ‘I thought it would be cooler—we’re going up into the hills, aren’t we?’
‘Yes, but Silves is in a hollow, it can be very hot here in the summer; it will get cooler again as we climb.’
The road wound through cork trees, orange groves and eucalyptus trees going gently uphill, and presently they passed the small spa of Caldas, used in Roman times, revived during the eighteenth century and once again falling into gentle decay, although they saw there was a small modern hospital there where patients went for the treatment of rheumatism and to take the waters.
Nevertheless they didn’t stop there, but followed the ever-climbing road until they reached Monchique. Eugenia was enchanted by the sight of it, little houses built in terraces, the spring flowers and shrubs, the magnificent view towards the coast behind them and so far below. They wandered round the small square and she bought postcards and obediently drank Madronho, distilled from arbutus berries. She didn’t like it over-much, but Mr Grenfell seemed to expect her to drink it.
‘It’s so far from everywhere,’ she said, unable to put into words what she meant. ‘It’s a different world…’
Mr Grenfell agreed gravely, lent his pen so that she could write her cards and suggested that they might climb another mile or so and have tea at the estalagem Abrigo da Montanha.
The road wound uphill, giving a magnificent view of the coast in the distance, and presently he parked the car and trod up a narrow path to the estalagem, and since it was still warm in the afternoon sun, they had tea on its terrace.
‘What a heavenly spot,’ declared Eugenia, ‘just to stay here and roam around and come to this every evening.’
‘You have simple tastes, Eugenia,’ observed Mr Grenfell. ‘No dancing or cabaret or disco?’
‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘No—though I like dancing, but who would want to dance when there’s all this to explore?’ She waved an arm at the surrounding countryside. ‘I won’t forget it.’
Mr Grenfell’s eyes gleamed beneath their lids. ‘And nor shall I.’
They went back presently, travelling the eighteen miles or so to Portimao without haste, stopping here and there to scan the country below them, stopping again at a wayside shop, where Eugenia bought a little knitted wrap and a hand-carved box for her father. ‘I’ll get sweets for the twins in Portimao,’ she explained to Mr Grenfell. ‘They like chewing things.’ She added unguardedly: ‘Perhaps your fiancée would like a wrap—they’re so pretty…’
She was instantly put in her place. ‘Not quite Miriam’s style,’ said Mr Grenfell austerely.
They parted at the hospital entrance and Mr Grenfell received her thanks with a coolness that damped her pleasure in the day’s outing, still further damped when she heard from Amalia, whom she met as she went in, that he had a dinner engagement and was already late for it. She thought guiltily of the time she had taken to choose the wrap; a garment which he so obviously despised as not worthy of his Miriam.
Mrs Clarence, once she got going, made great strides; two days later she was put into an ambulance and driven carefully back to her home with Eugenia in close attendance. Amalia was to take over in a couple of days’ time, whe
n she had had a free day or two, and Mr Grenfell and Eugenia would return to England. The whole thing had been highly successful; Mr Clarence could find no words to express his gratitude and Mrs Clarence, still weak, was already planning her trip to England to see the boys.
Eugenia had seen very little of Mr Grenfell; he came and went frequently enough, but the talk was solely of their patient and he addressed her austerely as Sister Smith. It was hard to remember that he was the same pleasant companion who had spent the day with her. When he appeared soon after breakfast the day after Mrs Clarence was back home and informed her that they would be leaving in two days’ time, she said merely: ‘Very well, sir, I’ll have another session with Amalia and make quite sure she understands, although she’s a splendid nurse…’
‘Do that. Do it in the morning; you mustn’t leave Portugal without seeing the sea caves at Ponte de Piedade—we’ll go there after lunch.’
‘I have to pack,’ said Eugenia matter-of-factly.
He opened his eyes. ‘One case? Surely a matter of minutes?’
It sounded tempting. Perhaps he was bored with his own company. ‘That would be nice,’ said Eugenia primly.
It was another glorious day and pleasantly warm. It was only a short distance to Lagos, but they didn’t stop there, but went through the town, towards Ponte de Piedade, where Mr Grenfell stopped the car, urged her to get out and got out himself. ‘We’ll walk,’ he observed, and glanced down at her feet. She was thankful that she had had the sense to wear low-heeled sensible shoes.
It meant a good deal of scrambling and climbing down towards the sea, but the caves were worth it, and Eugenia, quite carried away, took off her shoes and tights and paddled in the chilly water when they reached the beach.
‘I could stay here for ever!’ she exclaimed happily, and turned a beaming face to his. ‘Isn’t it heaven?’
There was a look on his face which she had never seen before; he said softly: ‘Yes, and I’ve only just discovered it.’
‘Oh, haven’t you been here before? Do we have to climb through those rocks to get back to where you left the car?’