The Guilty Secret

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘Yes Aunt Harriet,’ I interrupted before she got too side-tracked into bovine virtues. ‘ I’ll be with you in another few days. I just thought I’d do a little sight-seeing up here first.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure that’s the only reason for your delay.’ Aunt Harriet didn’t sound sure but then she knew me very well. ‘Mary and Tom are here and Rozalinda and Harold. I’ll tell them you’ll be here later this week.’

  ‘Yes, do that. And take care of yourself.’

  ‘Bye, God bless.’ Aunt Harriet said as I slowly put down the receiver.

  I knew now why those hazel eyes had looked so familiar. The colour was different, but the expression in them was identical to that in my own. They were the eyes of someone who had suffered and had built a wall around themselves. From the very fist I knew that the golden-haired Englishman was seeking sanctuary in the same manner I was.

  Idly I swung the stand of picture postcards round, finally selecting one that showed the Hotel, the small red canopies that fluttered over its balconies giving it an air of nineteen-thirtyish grandeur. Carefully I wrote the name of Doctor McClure and the address of the psychiatric clinic I had just been discharged from, then I stopped, staring at the blank space for the messages. What did one write to a man who had been alternately kind and cruel, patient and furious in his efforts to get me back to so called normality?

  Wish you were here? Hardly.

  Having a lovely time? I could imagine his comments to that.

  In the end I simply scrawled ‘Jenny’ in large letters across the space, and handed it over to the dark eyed boy on reception to post. For the first time since I had booked into the Santa Luzia, I did not return immediately to my room. Doctor McClure had instilled some confidence into me. I might have found some of his forms of therapy futile but I was certainly in far better shape when I had left the clinic than when I had entered. For that I had to give him some credit. My daily retreats into my room, locked with myself and my memories, spending whole days at a time in brooding, was the most dangerous thing I could do if I wanted to recover fully. McClure had been adamant.

  ‘Get a car. Meet people. Work. Travel. Open your mind to fresh experiences. Have an affair. Anything. But don’t creep into the haven of your bed each day. You’ll only slip backwards, Jenny.’

  Since I’d left the clinic I’d done exactly that. The only positive thing I had done was to hire the car, and if a quick uninterested drive through France and Northern Spain could be called travel, then I had travelled. But not in the way Doctor McClure had meant. Not with my senses open to fresh experiences. Not with any anticipation of enjoyment. Well, I wasn’t prepared to follow all his advice. I wasn’t going to go back to work as yet. And having an affair wasn’t exactly as easy to do as hiring a car. Besides, affairs meant confidences shared, past experiences recounted. I definitely wasn’t playing that game with anybody. It was bad enough friends knowing about me. I wasn’t going to broadcast the news to any new man who should walk across my path. But I could travel in the way McClure had meant. Become a tourist instead of a hermit. I took a steadying breath and went out into the hotel grounds to the car.

  I took the winding road, drenched in the overhang of greenery, far more slowly than the Englishman had. For a brief moment the car swung out of the trees and onto the small promenade that fronted the Igreja Santa Luzia and gave photographic enthusiasts a one hundred and eighty degree view of the Portuguese coastline and the valley of the river Lima. A couple of cars were already parked. I swept past them diving down once more into cool greenness, the road curving snakelike till it emerged onto the main road into Viana. Minutes later I was parked in the main square, looking every inch the typical English tourist. It was an easy accomplishment. The rest of the female population dressed completely in black, shawls over their heads as they chattered loudly, their baskets of shopping over their arms, or more usually, piles of washing or sacks of grain carried with ease on their heads. Certainly a fresh experience. I selected a reasonably clean looking street cafe and ordered coffee, sitting out on the pavement and watching this totally new world go by.

  On the street corner nearest to me, a cheerful, middle-aged woman wearing knee length socks and wooden clogs was selling fish from a barrow. This entailed a lot of gesticulating and loud laughter with her customers and a lot of nods in my direction and then more chatter and the words ‘Inglese’. It seemed I was one of the first tourists of the year and though I didn’t look wealthy would probably spend a lot of money in the shops around the square. Most of the shops’stock seemed to be displayed outside the premises. Pots and pans, gaily decorated pottery, hand knitted sweaters and brightly coloured rugs hung from doorways and walls, was spread out on the pavement. Around the ornate fountain a group of men gathered, deep in conversation, occasionally spitting with great gusto, hands thrust into their baggy trouser pockets as their women folk scurried up and down on the square with huge weights on their heads, their hands free to grasp at straying toddlers. The Lamborgini came as I knew it would, skidding to a halt amidst a cloud of dust on the far side of the square. He slammed the car door shut, locking it and then looking around him without much interest. He was tall and slim, and when he finally moved, it was with loose limbed grace but there was nothing effeminate about him. Rather the opposite. He gave the impression of strength and aggression being held on a very tight chain. The men at the fountain turned to watch him as he strolled slowly along past the shops with their profusion of goods and souvenirs then they turned back into their tight little group, muttering. I could well imagine what they were saying. The tourist was not a man to pick a fight with. There were no smiles from them as he passed closely, though the women smiled, but then I imagined that most women would. He was the sort of man by whom any female, sophisticate or peasant, would like to be noticed. He disappeared into the dark depths of a cafe on the far side of the square, emerging minutes later with a bottle of wine and a glass. He sat at one of the deserted metal tables, leaning back easily on his chair, pouring what looked like a tumblerful of wine.

  I watched intrigued. Was the stranger’s great secret to be nothing more interesting than alcoholism? Somehow I doubted it. He looked like a man who had himself very firmly under control. My presence, even at the distance across the cobbled square must have been obvious to him, but he didn’t look my way. I didn’t have to be vain to know that I was a girl men stopped twice to look at. My problem in life had been fighting off unwanted admirers, not encouraging them. But as far as the Englishman was concerned I didn’t rate a second glance. And he knew I was staying at the same hotel, and from my colouring it must be equally apparent that we were the same nationality. Despite myself, I felt interested. I ordered another coffee, settling myself comfortably in the warmth of the morning sun, letting my imagination run over the list of possibilities that caused his eyes to hold the same deadened expression mine did.

  It wasn’t until eleven-o-clock when he paid the waiter and rose languidly to his feet and back to his car, that I realised for the first time in months my mind had been totally occupied by something other than my own nightmare, and all due to curiosity about a man I hadn’t even spoken to as yet. Perhaps Doctor McClure’s therapy was working.

  Chapter Three

  I didn’t return directly to my own car, but strolled aimlessly through the narrow back streets, small doorways opening onto dark interiors of wine filled shelves and bags of wheat and dried beans. There were plenty of pastry shops, their windows crammed with delicious sugar encrusted buns and cakes. I ventured in, pointing out two and watching intrigued as the smiling woman behind the counter parcelled them expertly into a neat package. She had wasted her time. Once out in the sun again I undid the neat folds of stiff paper, eating as I strolled along. A group of children giggled at my approach, scurrying into a doorway until I had passed by. A toothless old woman, shawl clutched tightly around her head, waved her stick at them, shouting chastisement. I smiled and walked on, dodging beneath lines of sp
otless washing that hung across from house to house, seeking my leisurely way back to the square.

  I felt better than I had done for a long time. The fresh air had revitalised me. Tomorrow, I decided, I would go further north and take my camera with me. Being a tourist wasn’t such painful therapy after all.

  As I entered the dining-room he was just about to leave. He placed his napkin on the side of his table and rose to his feet, his eyes meeting mine as he did so. This time I didn’t avert my head. I couldn’t. Our eyes held, the feeling of physical attraction so strong that it seemed ridiculous I should be making my way to my own table and not to his. He stood quite still, his chair pushed back, his fingertips resting lightly on the white cloth in front of him. There was no hint of a smile on the firm sensuous mouth, and the expression in his eyes was unreadable, yet the magnetism was so strong I was unable to move. Manuel, the head waiter, hurried over to me, carefully ushering me to my table, breaking the spell. The Englishman’s eyes dropped. As I sat down I saw him nod briefly in Manuel’s direction, leaving the room without a backward glance.

  Over the past few months I had grown quite accustomed to knots of painful tension in my stomach. Now a new feeling was forming there. One of suppressed excitement. I stirred rice and eggs and sauce meditatively around my plate. Was it just the feeling that we were two of a kind, both alone and desperately unhappy. Or was that only my imagination. Nothing more than wishful thinking. Even worse, was I subconsciously on the look out for McClure’s other suggestion of therapy. A new love affair. A carefree association with someone who knew nothing about my past and whom I would have no reason to tell? I cast the thought aside. For one thing, I doubted that any involvement with the Englishman would be carefree. Intense. Distressing. But never carefree. I wondered how long he was staying at the Santa Luzia. When Manuel came to remove my plate I asked casually:-

  ‘Is your new guest English as well?’

  A smile flashed across Manuel’s dark face. ‘Yes. Senor Brown is here until the end of the week.’

  I smiled noncommittally and asked if they had any of the cheese I had had last night for dessert. Only too anxious to please, Manuel pushed the sweet trolley, heavy with cream rolls and flans, to one side and hurried off to find the cheese.

  Brown. It wasn’t the kind of name that I had expected. I spent the afternoon on the terrace soaking up the sunshine and looking out over the swaying sea of trees to the distant sea. I had a book in my hand, but my thoughts kept drifting away from it and onto the more interesting subject of Mr Brown. What gave his eyes that frightening expression I had grown so used to whenever I looked in a mirror? I determined to find out that night after dinner.

  I judged eight-o-clock to be about the right time to make my entrance. Manuel’s eyes opened wide at my approach. Previously I hadn’t bothered to change for dinner. Tonight I had gone to town. My dress was deceptively simple, Chiffon, the exact shade of my eyes, that hung closely around my breasts and hips, swirling softly into a flared skirt. I had spent more time than usual on my face and hair, spraying perfume at wrists and throat, gold earrings swinging gently against the red of my hair. If I didn’t lure him into conversation tonight, I might as well abandon all hope. I sensed him rather than saw him. Sensed also the turned heads of the businessmen and the murmur of appreciation from a table full of early season tourists. To Rozalinda, admiration was meat and drink. Under normal circumstances I would hardly have been aware of it. But tonight, like Rozalinda, I was going out of my way to be noticed. Carefully I kept my eyes away from his table, ordering my dinner, surprising Manuel by asking for half a bottle of Viana Verde instead of my usual mineral water. Through the draped windows could be seen the distant mountains that separated Portugal from Spain, turning a hazy grey beneath a sky of flame. I heard his chair move back and continued to eat leisurely. I had no intention of making the first move. If he had no desire to talk to me that was fine by me. True, I would be disappointed. I couldn’t remember ever before having to try to fall into conversation with a desirable male, and there is such a thing as pride. Rozalinda would have been quite direct in her approach, but I wasn’t Rozalinda and didn’t want to be. Before my own private nightmare had distorted my life Aunt Harriet had said I was too shy and retiring. But eighteen months with Doctor McClure in the psychiatric clinic had changed me radically. My personality would never be the same again, and I was just beginning to come to terms with the new Jennifer Harland.

  Unhurriedly I finished the delicious local wine, watching as the candy-floss clouds deepened from flame to purple, and then casually I walked into the bar.

  The bar was the only room of even slightly modern decor in the Santa Luzia. All the rooms had a carefully tended Edwardian elegance, emphasized even more so on an evening when the massive chandeliers glittered with a hundred lights. The bar was a cosy room decorated entirely in a glowing crimson. Carpet, walls, ceiling and curtains met in a single blend of colour. The soft leather seats that ran around two sides of the small room were in black leather. So too were the plushly topped bar stools. Everything else, the solid looking foot rest that skirted the bar, the fitments, were all in heavy gilt. Whether the effect strived for was modern or Victorian was hard to make out. The result was one of warmth and comfort. The two businessmen paused in their conversation as I entered. The young barman beamed. The Englishman, sat at the far curve of the bar on a bar stool, nursing a glass in his hand, didn’t look up. I sat some distance from him and ordered a vodka and tonic. I didn’t normally drink and what the effect the vodka would have on top of the wine and my tablets was anyone’s guess.

  My drink came and with it some admiring bantering from the barman. I smiled but did not get involved. It was the Englishman I wished to talk to. Perhaps ordering the vodka had been a bad move. Perhaps he was only interested in respectable girls who did not sit in bars, even five class hotel bars. A sensation of heat flooded through me. He had lifted his head from his glass and was looking at me. With immense effort I kept my eyes lowered. He ordered another drink for himself. A scotch on the rocks, but still I knew he was looking at me. When I had stood it as long as I could I raised my head, forgetting my previous intentions and said:-

  ‘It’s very quiet for this time of the year, isn’t it?’

  His eyes met mine with devastating effect.

  ‘Yes. Rather like an elegant mausoleum.’

  ‘In another month it will be packed to capacity and this little bar will be crammed with tourists.’

  This time he smiled, but the reserve was still there. The eyes still devoid of any true expression, carefully masked so that the suffering in them should not be exposed to the rest of the curious world. It was a trick I had learnt myself very successfully.

  ‘Will you still be here when it is?’

  ‘No. I’m leaving at the end of the week.’

  ‘Would you like another of those?’ he nodded in the direction of my empty glass.

  ‘No thank you. Could I have a fruit juice please?’

  ‘One orange and another scotch,’ he said to the waiter, slipping down from his stool and moving to the one next to me.

  A current ran between us, so sharp and vibrant that I knew he was conscious of it himself. He had to be.

  ‘Are you alone?’ he asked, passing me my drink, scooping ice into his glass.

  ‘Yes.’

  He raised his glass to mine. ‘That makes two of us. Didn’t your mother tell you never to talk to strangers?’

  ‘I don’t. Usually.’

  He stared into his glass, swirling the chunks of ice around broodingly. ‘I have a feeling I should say nice to have met you and bid you a hasty goodnight.’

  My heart was beating painfully. ‘And?’

  ‘Against my better judgement I’m not going to.’ The harsh lines around his mouth softened slightly and again there was a hint of a smile. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Jenny.’

  ‘Do you smoke, Jenny?’

  ‘Not often. I wil
l now.’

  He lit two cigarettes and passed one to me, our fingers touching as he did so. It was as if sparks struck between us. If you go near the fire you’ll only get burned, I said silently to myself. Use your better judgement. Wish him a short, sharp goodnight and go to bed.

  He said:- ‘I’m Jonathan.’

  I remained on the bar stool.

  ‘I saw you in the square this morning.’

  ‘Why didn’t you speak?’ I managed at last.

  He shrugged. ‘I’m not on the look out for a holiday romance. Are you?’

  ‘No.’ It was true. I hadn’t been on the look out for it. That it was already beginning to happen was neither here nor there.

  ‘This is a hell of a place to come by yourself,’ he said.

  ‘You came.’

  ‘I’m at least ten years older than you and looking for peace and quiet. A friend told me this was the exact spot to find it.’

  ‘I’m not quite sure about the ten years, but I wanted somewhere quiet too.’

  He said, and it wasn’t a careless question, ‘Why?’

  Here it was. The nitty gritty. To tell or not to tell. What had Doctor McClure said to me? It is unnecessary to torture yourself by reliving the past with every new acquaintance you make. Think of it as a form of egotism. Wanting to shock and be the centre of attention. That will soon stop you doing it. I made up my mind then and there.

  ‘I’m recuperating from a nervous breakdown. I’ve just spent eighteen months in a private clinic.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The words weren’t the polite ones so many others had given. He meant them. And he wouldn’t probe. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had told him some of the truth, and what I had told him wouldn’t affect whatever relationship lay ahead of us. Jonathan Brown wasn’t the kind of man to fight shy of someone whose mental health had needed treatment anymore than he would have fought shy of someone whose physical health had needed treatment. I knew that instinctively.