Within minutes their baggage had been weighed. Moving smoothly through passport and security checks, they reached the peaceful oasis of the First Class departure lounge with a quarter of an hour to wait before boarding their airliner. The Count seated himself with a copy of Time magazine, while Catriona joined his sister in front of the huge window overlooking the runways.
‘Would I be safe to offer you a cup of coffee, Miss Browne?’
Catriona swung round quickly to see the Count holding two cups of coffee for Toni and herself. Was it her imagination or did she see a glint of humour in his eyes, as she took the cup?
The Malta flight was soon called, and within a few minutes she was climbing the short gangway that led to the Trident’s First Class cabin. A smiling stewardess showed them to their places, and she found herself sitting by a starboard window, next to Toni.
‘I don’t like window seats,’ the Maltese girl told her. ‘Anyway, I’ve seen it all before.’ She was beginning to look happier and more relaxed, almost as if she might be prepared to enjoy herself, and Catriona felt relieved. The Count had a window seat on the opposite side of the plane, and they were to be separated from him by an extremely fat Italian businessman, a circumstance which seemed to work wonders for Toni’s morale. By the time they were airborne she had kicked off her shoes, retouched her make-up and piled her thick black hair on top of her head, securing it deftly with pins extracted from her beauty-box. When the steward appeared she asked for Campari and lime, then curled up in her seat like a kitten.
Sipping a tonic water, Catriona eyed her curiously. ‘You must know Malta very well,’ she remarked.
Toni wrinkled her nose. ‘I suppose so. It’s not bad, really, and it can be fun.’ She hesitated. ‘There was a boy, two years ago ... someone I liked. One evening he was allowed to take me to a concert.’
Catriona smiled. ‘One concert? Was that all?’
‘I was only sixteen,’ Toni reminded her. ‘And I am Maltese. Maltese girls are not always permitted to behave like English girls—not even nowadays.’ She sighed. ‘But he was very nice, and now I expect he has lots of girl-friends. Perhaps he is even married.’ Abstractedly, she studied her polished fingertips. ‘I cannot believe, sometimes, that I am old enough to be married ... I don’t feel old enough. And yet I think it would be nice to be someone’s wife.’
‘Marriage is a serious thing,’ Catriona pointed out. ‘And I’d say you were a bit young to start worrying about it.’
‘Still, it must be wonderful when there is someone who belongs only to you.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ Catriona agreed. ‘If the “someone” is right for you.’
While lunch was being served they passed over rows of snow-capped Alps, and a short time later the Mediterranean appeared beneath them. As the plane banked a little, turning eastwards, Catriona saw that the sea was dark purple, and as smooth as glass. She had never been so far south before—Paris and Amsterdam had marked the limits of her previous travels—and she was startled by the intensity of colour. It was a shock to her senses, and she found herself longing for a paintbrush.
But when, half an hour later, they came in sight of Malta, she felt a sharp pang of disappointment. The island was yellow-brown and rocky, scorched by sun. Dusty villages were scattered among the hills and across the arid plains, but there was no hint of vegetation or even of colour. The plane was getting lower, coming in to land, and the harsh brown landscape rushed up to meet them.
Fastening her seat-belt, Toni yawned. ‘Well, here we are.’
They were down, bumping across the tarmac, and low white buildings were flashing past them. Several times they circled the small airfield, then gradually they slackened speed, coming to Test at last in front of the terminal building.
Catriona was not prepared for the searing heat that met her as she left the plane. She had tried to imagine, sometimes, what it might be like to live in a hot climate, but it had never occurred to her that air could be so stifling, or that warmth could be a tangible thing.
Immigration and Customs were dealt with swiftly, and within a short time they had moved through the booking hall and out once again into blinding sunlight. In front of the terminal building there were a few scattered palm trees and a vast car park, but some taxis and private cars were waiting close to the building itself. The Count strode ahead making straight for a gleaming white Citroen that was parked directly in front of the entrance. Catriona thought of the stately grey Bentley they had left behind in England, not to mention the chauffeur, who had also been left behind, and she wondered how many cars he possessed.
An elderly, grey-haired Maltese was waiting beside the Citroen, and at sight of Count Vilhena he hurried forward.
‘That’s Mario,’ Toni informed her companion, as they pushed their way through the crowd. ‘He has been with my family since before Peter was born. He knows everything there is to know. I think perhaps he is the only person Peter trusts.’
It was a relief to get into the car, away from the violence of the sun, and as Catriona leant back she wondered for the first time exactly where they were going. What sort of life did Peter Vilhena lead on this dry and dusty island? What kind of house did he own? So far, Toni hadn’t told her much, and she hadn’t particularly wanted to ask, but now she was beginning to feel curious. Despite the heat, and the slight disappointment she had experienced when she first caught sight of Malta, she was looking forward to seeing Peter Vilhena on his own home ground. Quite possibly, she decided, he would be even more dictatorial there than he had been in England.
Slipping between the airport gates, they turned into a dusty highway. Oleander bushes lined the road, and spicy flower scents drifted through the car ..windows. It was intensely hot, Catriona found herself beginning to perspire. The road ran past churches and factories, patches of rough open ground and rows of neat houses. These were the drab environs of the airport, reminiscent of similar areas all over the world, but the district wasn’t entirely unattractive and she realised that it had a character of its own. Some of the houses were very modern, others much older, but they were all built of the same honey-coloured stone, and they looked as if they regularly absorbed the golden rays of the sun. Here and there she glimpsed gardens, and in some of the gardens there were unexpected splashes of vivid colour. She recognised hibiscus and purple bougainvillaea, plumbago and japonica, and she wondered why, from the plane, it had all looked so lifeless.
‘I didn’t realise there would be so many gardens,’ she said to Toni. ‘From the air everything looked so burnt-up.’
‘The sun is hard on us, Miss Browne. But we have many gardens, many fine old houses. Malta is a beautiful island.’
The Count had spoken without looking round. Startled by his sudden intervention, Catriona stared at the back of his head.
‘I’m sure it is,’ she said quietly.
‘I know you’ll like it,’ Toni put in quickly. ‘There’s so much that you’ll want to paint. I can’t wait for you to see Peter’s house. It looks right out across the sea...’
‘We are not going to Gozo.’ This time her brother’s voice had a sharp edge to it.
‘Not...’ Toni looked taken aback. ‘Why not? We can’t stay in Valletta, it’s too hot.’
‘I am extremely busy at the moment. I have a number of business appointments, and I shall be spending a great deal of time in Merchant Street.’ His voice seemed to grate. ‘At this time of year the temperature in Valletta is no more oppressive than it is in any other part of the Maltese Islands.’
Toni gasped. ‘It will be stifling!’
‘That is nonsense. You must not listen to Antoinette, Miss Browne. My house is perfectly comfortable, in winter and in summer.’
Uncertain what response was expected of her, Catriona said nothing. Toni made an expressive face and sighed dramatically, but significantly she didn’t attempt to protest further.
Ten minutes later they crossed a wide, open piazza, circled a massive central fountain, a
nd plunged through an archway into a maze of ancient streets.
‘Well, we’re nearly there,’ Toni said resignedly.
They were moving through streets so narrow that in some places the car seemed to be in danger of being scraped by the walls, and on either side of them tall stone buildings rose towards the sky. Catriona leant forward eagerly. So this was Valletta. From this city, for hundreds of years, the Knights of St. John had ruled Malta, at the same time keeping a benevolent eye on the whole of the Mediterranean. They passed rows of smart shops, a hotel, a consulate. Then they turned into another street, this time lined with magnificent baroque buildings. There were tall windows protected by iron grilles, coats of arms out into the stonework above massive doorways and strange, enclosed wooden balconies. Then there were narrow archways through which she caught tantalising glimpses of secret courtyards ablaze with colour. Between the houses, long, narrow flights of steps plunged downwards towards the sea.
Catriona caught her breath. It was a strange, fairy-tale city, an enchanted place.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said softly.
‘You think so?’ Toni grimaced. ‘It’s very old, and some of the houses are damp. Valletta is built on a peninsula. The sea almost surrounds it.’
They turned another corner, crawled forward a few more yards, and then the car stopped. Catriona realised that they had reached their destination. A great stone house loomed over them, and to her it looked larger and more impressive than anything they had so far seen. Its baroque facade seemed to be about a hundred yards long, and it was obviously very well maintained. A long line of beautifully wrought grilles obscured the ground floor windows, and the Boors were like the doors of a fortress. She was reminded, for a moment, of Paris, but the setting was more romantic than anything she had seen in Paris.
She descended into the shadowy street and the great doors swung open, revealing a wide stone archway. It was the sort of archway that cuts through the gatehouse of a mediaeval castle, and like so many of the archways she had already glimpsed, it opened into a courtyard. But she was sure there were not many courtyards like this one, not even in Valletta. She could see a sparkling fountain and a tree laden with oranges, a graceful stone statue and a mass of scarlet flowers. Iron lanterns swung from the roof of the archway and on the right-hand side, in a niche, a lamp burned before a tiny figure of the Virgin.
Catriona moved gratefully into the shadow of the doorway. A white-coated manservant appeared and began taking suitcases from Mario. Then Toni whirled past and subsided dramatically on to a wide stone seat. Resting her head against the wall behind her, she closed her eyes.
‘Santa Maria! Peter, it’s too hot, you can’t make me stay here.’
Her brother studied her without emotion. ‘You are going to live here,’ he said firmly. ‘Now go to your room. Carmen will look after you.’
An olive-skinned girl in crisp maid’s uniform appeared in one of the doorways opening off the passage, and with the limp grace of a ballet-dancer Toni got to her feet. Her lovely mouth was set in a sulky line, and she refused to look at her brother, but without another word she followed the maid out of sight.
Uncertain what to do, and feeling vaguely uncomfortable, Catriona stood looking around her. The Count touched her arm.
‘In a moment,’ he told her, ‘Carmen will be back to take charge of you. While you are waiting, however, I would like to talk to you.’
He held open a door on the other side of the passage, and half blinded by the brilliance of the sunlight she moved through into a small, square room. The floor was of black marble, and she noticed that the heavy furnishings looked as if they had come mainly from seventeenth-century Spain. Two tall windows looked out through a grille on to the quiet street. An ebony crucifix hung on the wall beside the door.
The Count waved his hand in the direction of a chair. ‘If you wish you may sit down, but I shall not detain you long.’
Catriona remained standing, her body tense. She was very aware of his dark eyes fixed on her. She had the absurd feeling that his intense dark gaze had the power to penetrate her soul.
‘Antoinette is a spoilt child,’ he said abruptly. ‘She must be controlled. I should tell you that I expect you to do that.’
Catriona raised her eyebrows. ‘I understood that I was to be your sister’s companion, not her governess.’
‘My sister is too old for a governess, but she is not too old for sensible supervision. You are, I understand, several years her senior and you appear to have an unusually strong will.’ He moved over to a large desk that occupied one corner of the room. ‘Use your will to control my sister, Miss Browne. That is all I ask.’
Catriona stared at him. ‘But ... she’s just high-spirited. Just a schoolgirl!’
‘She’s silly and vulnerable, and liable to cause trouble, both for herself and for other people. I am placing you in charge of her. If you fail to do your job adequately it will, of course, be necessary to replace you.’
Catriona felt stupefied. She wanted to point out that in England, before they left, his definition of the job she would be doing had been altogether different. But no words would come.
An electric bell had been let into the wall beneath one of the windows, and when he pressed it Carmen appeared. She must, Catriona thought, have been waiting outside the door. The Count spoke to her in English.
‘Carmen, when I telephoned this morning I gave instructions that a room was to be prepared for Miss Browne. I hope everything is ready?’
The maid smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. ‘Yes, signur.’
‘Good ... grazzi.’ He glanced at Catriona. ‘I suggest that you go now, and rest. I shall hope to see you this evening.’
Catriona found that her room was situated at the far end of the house, overlooking a narrow side street. Its walls were starkly white, almost monastic in their bareness, but the furnishings were ornate and once again she was reminded of Spain. When Carmen left her alone she went straight to one of the windows and began struggling to open the tightly closed shutters. It was still only a quarter to five, but despite the presence of an electric fan the air was so oppressive that beads of perspiration were beginning to form on her forehead. After a few seconds she succeeded in pushing the shutters back, but. immediately a wave of heat engulfed her, and she realised why it was that the maid had not attempted to open them. It was as if she had unfastened the door of an oven. Quickly she closed them again and in the warm dimness found herself wondering just exactly what kind of life she had let herself in for.
She was to be ‘in charge’ of Antoinette Caruana, but what exactly did that mean? In England the Count had told her that his sister needed nothing more than a companion. She would not have taken the job on any other terms, and she certainly had no intention of allowing herself to be turned into a watchdog. She would do the job she had originally been asked to do, but that was absolutely all.
Anyway, if Peter Vilhena wanted his eighteen-year-old sister to stay out of mischief, why had he brought her to live in the heart of the Maltese capital? Most people knew that Valletta was a bustling, cosmopolitan city. Its social life, Catriona would have thought, was likely to be fairly exotic. In such stimulating surroundings it might be extremely difficult to keep Toni Caruana’s adventurous spirit firmly within the bounds imposed by her censorious half-brother. Besides, despite its obvious charm, Valletta clearly wasn’t the best place to be during the last torrid days of August.
Slipping out of her skirt and blouse, Catriona lay down on the embroidered counterpane that covered the big sixteenth-century bed. So much had happened in just a few hours that she still found it difficult to take everything in, and when she closed her eyes she had the strange feeling that the world was revolving round her. Moist afternoon heat prickled on her skin, but she was too deadly tired to let it worry her any more. Valletta was very quiet. The siesta hour had begun, and no sound came to her through the louvred shutters, or through the oak door leading to the corridor.<
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Within minutes she had dropped into a dreamless, exhausted sleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
When Catriona awoke, several hours later, she lay for a moment or two with her eyes closed. Then she became aware of a light, flickering draught. It was playing on her cheek, lifting the ends of her hair, and it felt pleasantly cool. Opening her eyes, she lay staring around her, and at first she found it difficult to remember where she was. She was in a very large bed, and the room was very large too, with a high ceiling. It made her feel small. There was nothing even slightly familiar about the place, and because the windows had been covered up she couldn’t even see very much...
Then everything came back. She sat up. Turning her head, she looked for the source of the draught, and immediately discovered that the electric fan was still humming quietly beside her. She pushed it away and lay back against a pile of pillows, trying to collect her thoughts.
The air was much less stuffy, and her ears detected a vague, distant murmur of sound. It was a sort of muffled hum composed of traffic noises, barking dogs and faint, indefinable rumbling sounds. It meant, obviously, that the siesta hour was over. Valletta was waking up.
Catriona glanced at her watch and made the discovery that it was a quarter to seven. What was it Carmen had said? When the Count was at home he usually dined at eight o’clock. She slid off the bed, found some slippers, and went over to one of the windows, pushing the shutters back. Outside, the air was much cooler and the sun had disappeared, leaving the sky a deep glowing turquoise. Already stars were glimmering above the flat rooftops, and evening was closing in on the city.
Catriona hung out, gazing across the narrow street at a building on the other side. Nearly opposite her window, there was a balcony hung with geraniums. As she watched, an elderly woman appeared on the balcony with a watering-can. A small, shrunken figure in rusty black, she watered the flowers thoroughly, then vanished again into the house, emerging a few seconds later with a large birdcage. The cage contained two brightly coloured budgerigars, and as the old woman placed it on a table she seemed to be talking to the birds. After a time she let them out, and one by one they fluttered to the balcony rail, but neither ventured beyond it. They belonged to the old woman’s secret, flower-filled world, and they were held within it as if by a spell. Once again, Catriona was reminded of a half-forgotten fairy-tale, and she wondered if the whole island were enchanted.
The Sun and Catriona Page 3