by Hilary Wilde
and then there was a pavement cafe with people sitting at tables under striped umbrellas, sipping drinks.
As the lights turned red, the car braked and stopped. And a voice cried urgently, “Kate!” Startled, Kate turned, and saw Mr. Lister running towards the car. He looked hot — red as a lobster — and could hardly speak for breathlessness. His words surprised her still more. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
Kate’s young, generous heart forgave him instantly. How wonderful of him to run after her. How well he must know the short cuts through the streets.
“Of course I will,” she told him reassuringly. “A new job is always rather an ordeal, but ...”
He nodded, his breathing easier now, but his eyes still concerned. “I know. I wish I could come with you, but ...” Somewhere a clock chimed and he looked horrified. “Is it so late? You will be all right, Kate?” he repeated, his voice reassuring, yet to Kate it sounded as though he wanted to reassure himself as well as her. “It’s just that you looked so young and lost — just like a forlorn waif.”
Kate’s cheeks were hot. Why must everyone harp on her youth?
Nineteen wasn’t so young.
“Don’t forget I’m used to working — and to meeting people,” she said a little stiffly.
“I know but ...”
There was still indecision in his mind. He was obviously weighing up the importance of his interview as against the importance of escorting her.
Somehow she was not surprised — though rather disappointed—when his interview won. Mr. Lister was the kind of man for whom personal considerations would always take second place.
All round them, cars were beginning to hoot, and a big white bus lumbered by, the driver leaning out of the window to shout something obviously rude as he passed. Mr. Lister’s chauffeur looked anxiously over his shoulder, and Randel nodded. “I’ll see you later,” he said curtly to Kate, and stepped back.
Kate turned her head and watched him for as long as she could see him.
Rather to her surprise, she saw that he, too, was watching the car until it was out of sight. She felt happier for the little incident. It showed he understood some of her difficulties. That he was human.
Feeling better, she looked round with interest. They passed a park full of gracefully waving palm trees, with flower beds full of color. The car swung round a corner and there was a big hotel, the front of the building curved like the prow of a ship. On they went past white villas with brightly painted front doors and roofs, and window boxes full of flowers. Kate looked at them eagerly and wondered what sort of home Mr. Lister could have. It would be sure to be very bright and modern, probably with contemporary furniture and lots of color.
Suddenly the car swung off the main road and went down a steep side street. Ahead of her she could see glimpses of the bright sun showing through the trees. The car stopped outside a square grey stone building.
Startled, Kate stared up at it, for printed on the stone in faded white letters were the words PENSAO FADORA.
She stared, amazed, as the chauffeur opened the car door for her and then went to the trunk to get her cases. She looked up in horror at the dingy building. Mr. Lister could not live here!
But the chauffeur went into the house with the luggage, opening the swing doors with his shoulder, then came back to her, waited while She got out of the car, touched his cap, got into it, and drove away before she could speak.
What could she have said? She stood very still, staring up at the house.
There must be some mistake. Mr. Lister was a wealthy man. He would not live in an obviously third-rate pension like this, surely? He was a man of character and strong personality. She could not see him living in such surroundings. But what was she to do? It must be the place. The luggage was inside.
Slowly she pushed open the swing doors and went into the dark, cool hall. There was a curved reception counter with an open ledger on it. A few wicker chairs were grouped round a wide staircase. There was an archway covered by a curtain of wooden beads. Everything was clean and highly polished, but it looked so drab, and had a musty smell.
Mr. Lister could not live here. There must be some mistake.
Then she thought of something else. Perhaps she was to live here —
and go to her job daily? But surely not. Mr. Lister had stressed so firmly that he wanted his little daughter to spend her whole day with her English nursery-governess — and that surely meant living in?
When she saw the telephone, she moved towards it impulsively, going to her handbag for the note she had made of Mrs. McCormack’s telephone number. Then Kate sighed, closing her handbag again. How could she telephone and say she did not like the look of the place, and was
— let’s be honest, she told herself — rather frightened?
She drew a deep breath. This must be the right place— it was just that it was so disappointing.
A sound made her look up, to see a young man leaping down the stairs, halting abruptly when he saw her, his hand on the iron banister. He was slender, dressed in a white suit, his skin was olive, his raven hair smooth, his dark eyes bright with curiosity.
“I can be of some aid, senhora?” he enquired politely.
Kate stared at him. For whom should she ask? Mr. Lister had given her no name. True, James had spoken of the Senhora Dom ... Domin ... If only she had written the name down. But then, of course, she had never expected to be in such an awkward position. She had been sure Mr. Lister would introduce her personally to the family.
She wondered miserably if she looked as foolish as she felt, standing there as if struck dumb. The young man came down the stairs rapidly and stood too close to her. She did not like the look in his eyes and found herself moving away a little.
“My name — I am Antonio Vidal, at your service, senhora,” he said, with a bow. He smiled at Kate, took her hand and kissed it.
Without thinking, she snatched her hand away, and then felt more foolish than ever, for he looked amused. It was probably a Portuguese custom and she had acted like a naive schoolgirl.
“The senhora—” the young man said softly, and leaned closer towards her.
Kate backed away, frightened and wondering how to cope with the situation, and remembering all Mrs. McCormack’s warnings about amorous young Portuguese. To her great relief, the bead curtains rattled, parted, and girl came through the archway.
Kate turned to look at her, thankful that the interruption had rescued her from what might have been an embarrassing moment. She saw a young girl of her own age, but one who looked so unhappy that it shocked her. A girl with eyes deep-set in her sallow cheeks, with a sulky mouth. She moved very awkwardly, with jerky uncoordinated movements as she leant on a stick and touched the wall or chairs as she passed them. “Bom dias,” the girl began, and switched to English. “Can I, perhaps, be of some assistance? She had an unusual voice, Kate thought. It was low, and sounded desperate, almost pleading.
The young man moved away. “Adeus, Menina,” he said haughtily, and went out through the swing doors.
The girl’s face puckered. For a moment Kate thought that she was going to cry, but, as she watched, the girl bit her lower lip hard and went on moving, with her jerky, clumsy movements, behind the counter.
Kate wondered how to explain who she was. “Mr. Lister’s chauffeur brought me here,” she began slowly.
The girl looked up and smiled. Kate was amazed. Why, she looked quite pretty. And her eyes offered friendship. Was there also compassion in them?
“Ah, you are the Engleesh mees? For the little Rosa, no?” Kate sighed. She was not sure whether to be glad or sorry, but at least she was expected. But here, of all places! She could not understand it.
“I understand I am expected,” she said stiffly.
“But of course—” The girl clapped her hands. A young African boy, wearing white shorts and jacket, came running. He hastened to her quiet words, grabbed Kate’s cases, and shot up the staircase as if pur
sued by bandits.
The eyes of the two girls met, and they smiled. “Do not be persuaded by his manner, the Portuguese girl told Kate. “He is a rascal but when he thinks our eyes are opened, and there is hope for a ... a ... I do not know your word for it, but you will understand. Not that it is necessary — of a certainty not.” She smiled at Kate. “To them, a little means so much. You will follow him, pliz, mees?”
“Yes, of course. Thank you.” Kate hesitated. Looking at the girl, she longed to ask questions. Yet wouldn’t that be rather undignified? And disloyal to Mr. Lister? She straightened her shoulders and faced the stairs.
This ordeal had to be faced some time and she could no longer postpone it.
She turned and smiled at the girl, who stood by the counter and watched her with a strange look in her unhappy eyes, and then Kate went upstairs.
She saw that the carpet was a good one, the walls were clean, everything polished brightly. Yet there was a deadness about the building, a sort of hush — an uncomfortable, frightening hush as though people were hiding and watching and listening.
“Don’t be so silly,” she told herself crossly. She was letting her imagination run away with her thoughts. Yet the thought persisted again and again — how could a man like Mr. Lister bear to live in a place like this? It did not make sense.
On the different landings she caught glimpses of straight corridors and darkly curtained windows. She saw no one. At the end of the third flight of stairs there was a closed door.
Even as she approached it, it flew open and the African boy dashed out, pausing to look expectantly at her. She was sorry she had no Portuguese money, so half smiled, spreading out her hands hopelessly. The boy gave her a dejected look, ducked his head, and went by her, leaving the door ajar.
C H A P T E R T W O
KATE hesitated before the half-open door, for she could hear someone’s excited voice, though of course she could not understand a word of it. She knocked rather timidly. No answer. She waited again and then knocked a little louder. She felt silly standing there, and wondered if whoever was talking might imagine she was eavesdropping.
“Un momento!” the angry voice cried out.
Kate waited nervously. How horribly gloomy it all was. She stared down a long passage. There was a window at the far end, but dark curtains were drawn across it. At last the voice stopped and she could hear what sounded like a telephone receiver being slammed down.
A door in the passage was jerked open and a tall woman came out of a room. She was dressed in black, the long strings of jet beads round her neck swinging as she walked, and her olive skin was beaded with perspiration, A heavily built woman, her snow-white hair was piled high on her head, and she was patting it as she came down the passage. She wore no make-up and her lips were an odd sort of blue color as she peered at Kate through half-shut eyes.
Kate listened to the Portuguese words and smiled apologetically.
“Mr. Lister ...” she began.
The elderly woman stopped speaking and her mouth formed a peculiar smile. “Ah — the Englese miss. Enter, if you will.” Kate obeyed, thinking with relief that at least someone talked English.
She followed the Portuguese woman into the room she had just left and sank obediently into a chair when told. Then she stared round her, and it was like a nightmare; there must be some mistake, she thought wildly. A man like Randel Lister could not live here!
“Mees Williams? I am the Senhora Amelita Dominguez, the grandmother of Rosa,” the elderly woman said grandly.
Kate bowed. “How do you do,” she murmured, and thought for the thousandth time what an idiotic greeting it sounded. “Rose — I am looking forward to meeting her.” Kate was ashamed of her voice, for it shook slightly. She wished she was not so nervous. Maybe it was because she had been so excited and now everything had fallen – maybe just the atmosphere in the room as the Senhora Dominguez went on peering at her, giving funny little rabbit-like nibbles at her lower lip as she did so.
“Ah — Rosa is walking herself with the housemaid. Doubtless she will be back here un momento. The Senhor Lister — he did not come with you.”
It was a statement, not a question. The harsh voice was uneven as if the speaker was suppressing some strong emotion. Kate wondered if it was anger or resentment. Had the Senhora been talking to Mr. Lister on the telephone?
“He has an appointment. Doubtless he will be with us later,” Kate said, and then stopped, appalled. She looked nervously at the Senhora, afraid lest it be thought she had been mimicking the older woman. Odd how infectious a pedantic way of speech can be.
There was silence. Kate tried not to fidget. She was very hungry indeed, for breakfast had been hours before and she had eaten very little. The clock on the table said nearly midday. It was a dark unfriendly room with heavy furniture, and to Kate, in her tired over-emotional state, there was something menacing about it.
They both heard the child’s voice at the same time. Both turned to look at the door. Kate’s spirits rose a little — this was what she had been waiting for.
“Rosa!” the Senhora called, and added some words in Portuguese.
The door that had been half closed was pushed open and a child stood there. Kate’s heart seemed to jerk with the shock. She understood now what Mr. Lister had meant when he told her, “Rose reminds me of a plant kept too long in a dark cupboard.”
It was an exact description. The child was tall – too tall and thin for her age. She wore a starched white dress of broderie anglaise — an old-fashioned dress, too long, with a full skirt and, obviously, several starched petticoats beneath it. She stood there very quietly with her hands clasped and stared at Kate.
Her eyes were huge and dark and there was something pathetically old about her little thin face with its pale skin. Her soft flaxen hair had been scraped back from her high forehead, and up at the back of her neck, as well — strained across her scalp and twisted into a tight chignon on top of her head. Not even one little soft wisp of hair was free.
Kate stared back, shivering a little. Her vivid imagination pictured how strong and ruthless must be the hands that brushed that soft hair every day, twisting, imprisoning it. It was lovely hair and should have been like a cloud of spun silk on the child’s back, capturing the sunshine, bouncing lightly as she walked.
Kate went on staring — mentally changing the stiff uncomfortable dress for a gay cotton dress, short white socks and sandals instead of the long black stockings and heavy shoes.
These things Kate knew she could alter — but could she ever hope to wipe out that look of utter desolation, of hopeless fear, that shone from the child’s eyes? No child should look like that. How could her father have left it so late before seeing how badly she needed help? Was it too late already?
Kate’s mouth was suddenly dry as she tried to think of the best way to make the first move. Whatever happened, it must not be a false one.
She held out her hand. “Hullo, Rose — I’m Kate.”
Then the most awful thing happened. The child’s face began to quiver and she turned and ran from the room, screaming, “Anna! Anna ... Anna
...!”
Kate’s hand dropped to her side. She looked at the Senhora and saw the triumph flash in those beady eyes before the Senhora lowered her eyelids. The harsh voice held a false sympathy that was pure condescension.
“You must have the patience. What would you — she is so young, and you are a foreign stranger.” Her words were dipped in acid. “I do not think it will be easy for you,” the Senhora finished smugly.
“I do not expect it to be,” Kate said stiffly, feeling anger throb through her. So they were going to be difficult? She recognized the threat behind the words, and all that was young and gallant in her rose to the surface.
For a moment she felt strong enough to do battle with a thousand dragons; somehow that child must be rescued, helped. Then her temporary confidence vanished as she faced facts. The first thing was to know what had b
een said to make the child so terrified of her.
Kate stood up. It would not be easy, but she must try. Most important of all, she must walk warily. Whatever happened, the Dominguez must be given no chance to complain of her behavior, nor be able to accuse her of rudeness.
“Senhora,” she said with great politeness, “is it permitted for me to see my room? I should like to wash and unpack.”
She found herself forming odd stiff sentences, her very anger and fear making her mind slow. As she watched the older woman, Kate saw the beady eyes were bright with amused triumph, and knew that Round One had been won by the Dominguez.
“But of course, mees....”
The Senhora told Kate how to find her room. It was the door on the right at the end of the corridor. Then she turned away, picked up a piece of material and bent over it, and began to stitch.
Kate flushed. Dismissal — and indifference. All right, she could take it.
But her cheeks were still burning as she went down the passage and found her room, where the suitcases were waiting.
She stood in the doorway and was filled with dismay.
The room was dark and dingy, such a striking contrast to the sunshine and blue sea and white villas of the town. Dark green curtains were drawn to shut out the sunlight. The high narrow bed had a mattress that proved, on testing, to be very hard. There was a dressing-table with a spotted mirror that hideously distorted her face as she stared into it. In the corner was a small washbasin, but the water only trickled slowly out of the cold tap and none at all from the hot one.
Trying to fight her depression, Kate jerked back the curtains, and for the first time felt happier. The curtains had covered french windows and there was a small balcony.
As she stepped outside, the hot air greeted her. She stared over the rooftops of the many little houses, right over the tops of the palm trees which moved very slowly in the slight breeze — and there was the sea.
It was so wonderfully blue. Even as she watched, a small cloud passed over the sun, and miraculously the sea changed to a dark aquamarine color.