That Special Touch

by Anne Beaumont

  Her brush with Sinclair, infuriating as it had been, had stimulated and unsettled her. She wasn't masochistic enough to want to meet him again, but somehow everything had become flat and boring, including people she'd previously found interesting.

  Austyn had made her feel the same way.

  Drat Austyn. Drat Sinclair. Drat Richard's thesis, which he was expounding again for her and Sue's benefit. Sue, still too tottery after her bout of food poisoning to work, but no longer ill enough to lie in bed, was all attention. Rich was a very attractive man.

  Elisa was finding it difficult to concentrate or contribute anything to Rich's ideas. The three of them were drinking coffee in a cafe farther along the beach, squandering the couple of hours he had off duty. It seemed a bit of a busman's holiday to Elisa, but the other two were perfectly content.

  They had planned to take out a pedal-boat, with Rich and herself doing the work and Sue relaxing on the back, but the weather had turned again. The winter and spring rains which made this jewel of an island so green and fertile should have ended last month, but this was proving to be a very wet May. The sky was overcast again, a downpour was imminent and Elisa was trying hard not to drum her fingers on the table. She was a doer, not a dreamer, and inaction bugged her at the best of times. She wished it wouldn't seem so rude if she just got up and walked away.

  She turned her head towards the sea at the sudden sound of a speed-boat gunning across the water. A man was standing on the platform anchored out in the bay, attached by a harness both to the boat and the multicoloured parachute stretched out behind him. The boat zoomed away, the parachute filled and the man soared into the air.

  Parascending. A sport she loved and could easily become addicted to. She wished she were up there now. Unfortunately, it was an expensive form of escapism for somebody saving to finance further travel.

  Elisa smothered a sigh and tried to pay attention to the discussion. Sue was a bouncy little brunette and her brown eyes were glowing into Rich's as she told him, 'I think you're frightfully clever, but I honestly can't see what's interesting enough about us seasonal workers to put into a thesis.'

  'You're a fascinating bunch,' he assured her. 'On the surface you're such different types and you give apparently differing reasons for working abroad, but when I've enough case histories on record I suspect an overall pattern and motivation will emerge.'

  'Oh,' Sue said doubtfully, 'I think you've lost me somewhere.'

  'OK, what does a medical secretary from a comfortable home have in common with a dole drop-out from an underprivileged background, or a computer programmer with a bricklayer?'

  'Not a lot,' Sue replied after some consideration.

  'The first thing they have in common is that back home they wouldn't dream of doing menial work for long hours, precious little pay and living accommodation that's inadequate to say the least. They'd regard the work as beneath them and scream of exploitation, among other things, if they were forced to do it. Yet they come out here to do it willingly and call it fun. Why?'

  Sue, the medical secretary he'd referred to, shrugged. 'Everything's different abroad, isn't it? Must be the sun.'

  Rich smiled. 'It's more than that. You're all running— either away from something you don't like, or to something you haven't found yet. In some cases, both.' His eyes flicked to Elisa as he concluded, 'Some people know they're running, others don't. In any case, it's a social pattern that's providing me with some fascinating research.'

  Elisa had caught his look and the speculation in it. Rich suspected she'd kept back more than she'd revealed when he'd interviewed her, and he was too dedicated a researcher to be satisfied with less than the truth.

  She didn't want to go under the microscope again. She was still in a funny mood, feeling things she didn't want to be honest about even to herself. To sidetrack him, she said, 'Aren't you forgetting the rootless young isn't a modern phenomenon? Maybe we're subconsciously obeying a primitive urge to migrate. I mean, the world wasn't always settled, was it? Maybe we've become so civilised, we simply don't recognise the urge to move on for what it really is.'

  'How come everybody doesn't take off when spring comes and the weather's suitable?' Rich asked.

  'Some of us are more primitive than others,' Elisa hazarded. She was talking off the top of her head and didn't want to defend an idea she'd thrown out as a hopeful red herring, and nothing more.

  'An interesting theory,' Rich acknowledged. 'What are your thoughts on it, Sue?'

  Sue didn't have any thoughts beyond how dishy Rich was, but she wasn't going to disappoint him so she began talking anyway. Far from relaxing, Elisa was increasingly hard put to it not to fidget. She wanted to get away, not from Rich and Sue particularly, but from herself.

  She recognised the symptoms well enough to diagnose the sickness. It was Sinclair. The man was married, disagreeable and disinterested. A complete turn-off from any point of view. She could live with him raising her hackles. That was normal, given the sort of person he was. What she couldn't live with was him getting under her skin. That was abnormal, given the sort of person she was. And leaping out of the frying pan into the fire just wasn't in it!

  Sue paused for breath. Elisa silently blessed her, seized her chance and stood up. 'I think I'll make a dash for the shops before the rain starts,' she said. 'While I'm up there, I think I'll get some work in, too.'

  Sue, predictably, didn't protest, but Rich said, 'You're keen. You had enough customers at lunch time to last a week.'

  'Nothing like striking while the iron's on the sizzle,' she replied, giving him a big grin she hoped didn't have 'deceit' printed all over it.

  But Rich, besides being handsome and nice, was also sensitive. 'Is everything all right? I've never known you so quiet.'

  'You mean that with a chatterbox like me it shows.' She laughed but he didn't join in, just continued to watch her with thoughtful eyes. Blast you, Rich, she thought.

  Why do you have to be perceptive? If I'd fallen for you, I'd be charmed, but since I haven't you're just irritating me. Let me go without a fuss, there's a honey.

  It wasn't Rich's day to be a honey, because he continued, 'Quiet and restless. An intriguing combination.' He stressed the 'intriguing' slightly so that she was reminded of how she'd told him, when she'd denied any interest in Sinclair, that she'd merely been intrigued.

  She had to let it pass. If Rich knew she'd made the connection he really would be suspicious. Just because she'd felt like a maiden aunt once that day was no reason for encouraging him to turn into a kindly uncle. She didn't need a lecture. She could deliver a pretty telling one herself.

  'Quiet, restless and intriguing,' she mused, making a joke of it. 'Great. Maybe it will improve my artistic charisma. Anything rather than cut an ear off like Van Gogh.'

  Another smile and she moved off, taking a narrow path that meandered around newly built hotels sited at all sorts of angles to the beach, past agricultural plots and small fenced-off lemon groves, until it emerged eventually at the tarmacked coastal road.

  As Rich had once observed, half the little resort looked as though it were falling down and the other half looked as though it were being built up. It was the charmingly muddled effect of an ancient agricultural-fishing community transforming itself into a far more lucrative tourist industry.

  Nobody had given a thought to pavements, and walking along the narrow road where the cafes in front of the hotels edged it on either side was rather like dicing with death. The Corfiots, from what Elisa had observed, drove like maniacs, and she stopped several times to press herself against the wall of a cafe or bar as cars, coaches and huge delivery lorries hurtled past with apparently scant regard for pedestrians or each other.

  Elisa cheered up as she answered a constant stream of greetings from holidaymakers she'd sketched, seasonal workers who included her in their close-knit community, and Corfiots who welcomed her as an asset into their cafes and encouraged her efforts to speak Greek.

  Sh
e'd made herself a profitable niche in this friendly, carefree little resort. She had advertisements up in several cafes, but it was word-of-mouth recommendations that brought her more work than she'd dreamed of.

  She was doing so well, she'd decided to use the resort as a base from which to explore the island instead of moving on every few days to start up all over again, as she'd originally intended.

  Now she wasn't so sure. Much as she wanted to stay and exploit her success, all her instincts told her to run. The frying pan and the fire analogy had sent warning shivers up her spine. Already emotionally weak from frustrated longings, she had a horror of becoming involved on the rebound.

  So many women did that, then awoke one morning to find a man beside them they'd only imagined they'd loved, because the emotion suppressed inside them had to spill over somewhere.

  Elisa didn't want that to happen to her, especially with a man like Sinclair. He might be taboo, but her uneasiness was caused by the conviction that they hadn't finished with each other yet.

  No, she didn't want Sinclair, love on the rebound or anything like that. She just wanted time to heal properly. When she was whole, she wouldn't have to take fright when she felt this alertness, this tingling tension in all her senses. She would be able to trust love, and herself— but it had to be with an eligible and uncomplicated man.

  Fate, she felt, owed her that much.

  What fate sent her right then was a torrential downpour that had her racing into the nearest cafe. The awning outside, and her speed, kept her and her art materials dry, and it wasn't long before she was busy sketching. The rain didn't last long and then the sun shone again with steaming brilliance.

  The brolly-and-bikini weather continued throughout the rest of the afternoon and evening. Elisa sketched on, using work as a therapy, trying to close by mental effort the vulnerable chink Sinclair had pierced in her emotional defences.

  When she felt hungry she walked away from the bustling tourist development and climbed the incredibly steep track to the tranquillity of the old village. She passed between pastel and whitewashed houses clinging to the hillside and each other like so many tiered cubes that hadn't been properly stacked.

  She came to her favourite little restaurant, where she dined cheaply and well on moussaka, fruit and a local wine that wasn't half as rough as-some of the stuff sold in fancy bottles at her supermarket back home.

  She should have been content. In fact she was as restless as ever.

  Irritated with herself as much as anything, Elisa walked down the hill to her tiny whitewashed room that reminded her of nothing so much as a monk's cell. When she'd changed into a loose black sweater and a colourful Indian cotton skirt, she joined Rich to teach Greek dancing to the hardy souls who braved the chill damp air to finish their night's entertainment at the beach cafe.

  It was past two in the morning when Elisa fell into bed, exhausted and exasperated. She'd spent the entire evening searching for one particular face and feeling both gladness and sorrow when she didn't see it. She woke late to a cloudless sky, a fierce sun that had the promise of permanence about it, a headache and a resolution to stop being such a silly fool.

  She took the day off, hired a scooter and headed for the hills. By the time she came back down again, she reckoned, she'd have exorcised her ghosts.

  She rode sedately, mindful of the grisly lecture Rich had delivered along with the full English breakfast she'd ordered at the cafe.

  'Only the mentally deficient ride scooters on these roads,' he told her. 'Do you know how many accidents there have been on them, how many lives lost? Inexperienced idiots hire them and go joyriding over tracks meant only for goats. I tell you, those scooters are notorious out here.'

  'I'm not inexperienced. I used a scooter to get to school when I was doing my A-levels.'

  'That was a long time ago,' Rich pointed out.

  'Thanks very much. You're a great ego booster at breakfast. Well, in my decrepit state I won't be doing any joyriding, will I? No, just pottering along as befits my age, and stopping now and again to do some sketching.'

  But there was no kidding Rich out of his doom and gloom. He grumbled, 'I know you. You'll be so entranced by the shape of a tree, you won't see a hole in the road until you fall into it. Look at you, bare legs and flimsy blouse, no protection for your skin if you do come off. And who's going to help you? Wait until I can wangle a day off and I'll come with you.'

  'Rich!' she'd protested, laughing. 'If I listen to you much longer I'll shoot back to bed for fear I trip and break my neck. You're making me a nervous wreck. If I were the fragile little goose you seem to think me, I'd have fled back to England months ago.'

  He hadn't been amused, but Elisa smiled reflectively as she headed south, then turned off along a dirt road that looked as though it might lead somewhere interesting. She'd no set destination in mind, meaning to wander wherever her fancy took her.

  She felt comfortable in her well-worn cut-offs and open-necked blouse, and scarcely felt the weight of the little haversack slung over( her back containing her lunch, a sweater, sketchbook and sketching sticks. It was a windless day, but she was travelling just fast enough to stir up a breeze. It lifted the heavy hair from her neck, creating a nice feeling of freedom after having worn it in plaits for so long. There was no need for her to be neat today.

  The track climbed steadily, wide enough for two cars to pass at a pinch, until she was well into the hills. She hadn't passed a thing, although she'd seen an occasional worker in the olive groves, and passed an occasional house. Rich had been right about the roads, and she had to swerve to avoid ruts now and again, but the peace and solitude soothed her spirit while the freedom of action and movement the scooter gave her satisfied her restlessness.

  Maybe it's not Sinclair at all, she thought. Maybe I've really turned into a nomad, and a fortnight in one place has become too long. Maybe...

  Her thoughts came to an abrupt end as she saw a small figure appear at the bend ahead and trudge towards her. Elisa was surprised. She hadn't passed any type of habitation for some time, and certainly no small child without an adult close by. She slowed down then stopped as she recognised the little face and unmistakable fair curly hair of Penny Sinclair.

  'Penny!' she exclaimed. 'Where do you think you're going?'

  'Hello!' Penny's face lit up and she ran over to her. 'I'm looking for the sea. I want to watch the pedal-boats.'

  'You can't walk to the sea. It's much too far.'

  'I know, but there's a gap in the trees somewhere where the sea shows through. I've seen it from Daddy's car, only I've been walking for ages and I can't find it.'

  Elisa had passed a place about two miles back where it was possible to look down over the hills to the sea far beyond, although the beach and the pedal-boats certainly weren't visible.

  'It's too far for you to walk, Penny. Where's your father?'

  'At his office in Corfu Town. He left very early this morning.'

  'And Miss Tilson?' Elisa asked.

  'She's lying down. She said I should lie down, too, but I'm not sleepy, so I came out to look for the sea.'

  'Then nobody knows where you are? Oh, Penny, she might be looking all over for you.'

  The child shook her head. 'She took some pills. She sleeps for ages when she takes those.'

  'Is she still ill?'

  'I don't think so. She told Daddy she was better.'

  Elisa looked at her watch. She'd been late setting out on her trip because she'd got up late, but it still wasn't quite midday. A bit early for a siesta. 'Is there anybody else at home to look after you?' she asked.

  'There's Mrs Pappas. That's what we call her because her real name is very long and complicated. She's our housekeeper but she lives at the farm, not with us. She comes in the mornings and lets me help in the kitchen. That's fun, only she's gone home now and won't be back until this evening.'

  'I'd better take you home, then,' Elisa told her. 'Your daddy won't want you wandering around
on your own like this.' He probably won't like me taking you home either, she thought caustically, but there's not a lot I can do about that.

  'Oh, Elisa, please can I look at the sea first? Please, just one tiny peep.'

  Elisa looked at the hopeful little face and discovered she was softer than she'd thought. 'All right, then, one quick look and straight home again—and you must promise you won't wander off if your nanny is still asleep.'

  Penny's face flushed with pleasure. 'I promise. Thank you. Goodbye.' And she started trudging on again.

  'Not by yourself!' Elisa called, turning the scooter and moving her haversack round to her front. 'Hop on, hang on and sit still. Got that?'

  Penny did as she was told, saying excitedly, 'I've never been on a scooter before and my feet are tired. I didn't think it would be so far. It's so quick in Daddy's car.'

  Elisa started off slowly and rode steadily back the way she had come, with Penny squealing with pleasure behind her. It was the first time she'd behaved like a normal little girl. When they came to the gap in the trees Elisa cut the motor, put her feet down on either side of the scooter and said, 'There's your sea, Penny. If you put your hands on my shoulders and stand on the pillion, you'll see much better.'

  Penny stood up. 'I can't see the beach or the pedal-boats.'

  'No, I'm afraid those lower hills are in the way. Disappointed?'

  'N-no. The sea's lovely and blue, and the scooter's fun.'

  'Right, down you get and I'll take you home.' Elisa heard a car and looked away from the sea to the road ahead.

  Penny hadn't had time to get down, and she gave a little hop of surprise. 'It's my daddy.'

  The scooter wobbled. Elisa steadied it as a dusty Land Rover drew level and stopped. Sinclair jumped out. He was wearing the trousers of his lightweight business suit, but he'd taken off his jacket and tie. The top buttons of his blue and white striped shirt were undone and the sleeves rolled up above his elbows.

  He looked very male. He ignored her, giving all his attention to his daughter. 'Hello, Penny,' he said, plucking her from the pillion and swinging her into the Land Rover, 'you're a long way from home.'