by Iris Danbury
“Only one window and small at that,” observed Brent. “That should present no difficulty, but there’s one big snag. No sink or running water.”
“I don’t think we could have extra plumbing put in,” she said mildly.
“No, of course not. The owner might not be pleased.”
He moved about the room, inspecting the wallpaper and paintwork. “There’s another drawback, too. Inevitably a few spots and stains of chemicals will spoil the walls and Stephen will have to make good the damage.”
“Then what?” she queried.
“I’m thinking that it might not be a bad idea if I had Tomaso fix up my cottage. There’s a kitchen sink of sorts, rather primitive, but it would do. You could use the room whenever I’m away and sometimes I could use it myself for my own photographic stuff.”
Rosamund was dubious. In one sense she was reluctant to receive favours from Brent, but on the other hand she foresaw that the arrangement would involve her in frequent visits to his cottage whether he were there or not. There might be advantages.
“I’d better consult Stephen about it,” she decided. She would have been happier working in this room, which was apparently used only for storing spare furniture and even if the walls became soiled with chemical stains, the room could be re-papered when the tenancy came to an end.
“In the meantime, I’ll take your spool of film and develop it myself and let you have a set of prints,” he offered. “Of course you’ll have to learn to do this for yourself later on, but I can’t wait to see the portraits of Whisky-soda.”
“Whisky-soda?” she echoed.
“The cat. Don’t you know his name?”
“I didn’t. I’ve heard Maria call him, but his name didn’t sound like that.”
He grinned. “Her Sicilian accent.”
“I’ll go and find Stephen,” she suggested.
The professor was not in his study, but out on the large terrace taking his siesta. He was stretched out on a long cushioned chair and opened one eye when Rosamund appeared.
She explained the situation about a darkroom and Brent pulled up an adjacent chair and offered his solution.
“Why, yes, of course. That’s a splendid idea,” agreed Stephen.
In a few moments the two men were talking about rock strata, evidence of excavation finds in Sicily, Minoan civilisation, and Rosamund unobtrusively left them.
She decided that as Erica had gone up to the Mandelli swimming pool, she would go down to the small beach at Torretta. Dressed in a bikini and a thick towelling wrap, she went down the winding path and arrived at the little sheltered beach. Today it was more crowded than usual, but of course holiday visitors were enjoying the sun and sea, and a number of cars were parked on the concrete circle above the beach.
She settled herself on the towelling wrap and gave herself up to placid contemplation of the blue arch of sky. Perhaps she dozed, but it seemed only five minutes later that a voice was calling “Signorina Rosamund!” and there was Seppi.
“Oh, hallo!” She sat up, a little ruffled at being disturbed, but trying not to show it.
“I have not been able to see you for a long time,” he said, squatting cross-legged beside her.
“Have you been away?”
The boy pulled a face. “I have been in Palermo. My father sent me for a few days! You see, my mathematics are not good, so I have had to study with a tutor. Oh, it was paining.”
“Painful,” she automatically corrected him.
“Ah, painful. That is a better word. My days were full of pain. Oh, such figures—each time I calculated, the answer was different. But now, I am free for a while. Tell me what you have done.”
She told him of the Good Friday procession and the restaurant meal later.
“Yes, in Palermo there was a procession,” he said. “Last night there were fireworks, splendid colours.”
“Have you seen the puppet shows in Palermo?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied indifferently. “They are clever, but the stories are old and not very interesting. All battles and Norman warriors.”
“But that sounds most exciting to me. I’m looking forward to seeing the plays.”
“Perhaps, if you have not already seen them,” he admitted.
After a short time, Rosamund demanded to talk in Italian and let Seppi correct her. She tried to tell him of the photographs she had taken this afternoon, but her sentences were very lame and she ended up laughing.
“Have you been swimming?” Seppi asked.
“Not yet.”
“Our swimming pool is warmer water than the sea. You should come there more often.”
She smiled. “I know, but sometimes I might be intruding.”
“No, no. Never. Erica comes many times. Why not you?”
“I like the sea better. I think I shall go in now.” She pushed her hair inside her cap, kicked off her sandals and trotted down to the shore edge. The water was colder than she had expected, but after the first shock, she struck out and swam across the little bay, avoiding the rocks. Then she turned over and floated on her back.
When she came out of the water and reached the spot where she had left Seppi and her own belongings, she was astonished to find Brent there instead, lying full length on the beach.
“How Seppi has grown!” she mocked, as she took off her cap and shook out her hair. “Where has he gone?”
Brent shrugged. “I gather that the signorina is not pleased at this base substitution. I wonder if I could call Seppi back, but I’m afraid he has gone too far.”
“How did you know I was here?” she asked, as she wrapped the towelling around herself and vigorously rubbed herself dry. Then she realised that perhaps she was flattering herself to believe he had come specially to see her.
“Your devoted slave, Lucia, told me that she had seen the signorina going to the shore. So I thought I could do with a breath of sea air.”
“And Seppi? How did you frighten him away?”
Brent laughed and leaned back with his hands behind his head. “Oh, he took one look at me and said some rude words in Italian and went off in disgust.”
“Pity. I was getting on well with him. He was improving my Italian.”
“And you think that’s beyond my capabilities?”
“Stop baiting me, please,” she said amiably as she settled herself on a dry part of the towel. “You’re English and he’s Italian, so I have more faith in him—as far as languages are concerned,” she added hastily.
“M’m, yes. And in Niccolo? Was he trying to improve your Italian last night, or were you smartening up his English?”
She grinned mischievously. “I thought we might have an inquest on that subject.”
“He seemed to be pouring out his sorrows. Were you able to comfort him?”
She stared up at the sky. “I try not to go in for tittle-tattle. You must ask Niccolo himself about the nature of his sorrows. That is, of course, if they concern you.”
He did not reply and after a few moments she turned her head to glance at him.
“I might equally well be interested in your distribution of favours between Adriana and Erica.”
“Yes?” he queried lazily.
“Yes,” she repeated with some emphasis, and sat up. “Please, Brent, don’t encourage Erica to believe that—that you’re attracted to her.”
“But I am attracted to her. I find her company most soothing—especially after your acid disposition.”
“That isn’t what I mean—and you know it. Erica is very susceptible. She becomes infatuated almost at the drop of a hat—and suffers accordingly afterwards when the beautiful bubble bursts in her hands.”
“So what have I done to encourage her?” he demanded.
Rosamund looked away and gazed at the little ripples fringing the shore. “Well—”
“So last night I gave her a chaste good-night kiss. Is that my crime?”
“Erica valued it more highly than it was probably worth.”
Now he rolled over on one elbow. “So you don’t go in for tittle-tattle? You two girls must have given me a right going-over last night.”
She avoided his gaze. “I’m only trying to shield Erica until she’s a year or two older. Then she’ll have more sense.”
“More sense than to tattle about a kiss at the front door, I hope.”
There was nothing she could reply to that. She collected her belongings, stuffed them in her beach bag and settled the towelling wrap around her shoulders.
He accompanied her up the path to the villa. As they passed between his cottage and the side of the villa, he said casually, “I’m going back to Belpasso tonight, so there won’t be any distribution of good-night kisses from me.”
She gave him an amused oblique glance and perhaps he assessed that as provocation, for he swung an arm around her shoulders and kissed her full on the lips.
"But that’s an afternoon sample, just to show you that I try to be fair and equitable.”
He had disappeared behind the screening trellis before she had recovered from that attack. Then she saw Lucia standing there near the kitchen door, holding a bucket of water and transfixed in arrested motion. The girl smiled briefly and hurried away around the corner of the villa.
Marching up the stairs, Rosamund stamped her feet firmly on the treads, as though perhaps Brent’s face might be underneath.
In her room, as she showered and then dressed for the evening she reflected that perhaps she had been unwise to open a discussion involving Erica. That had merely given him the excuse to imagine that she was jealous and was now demanding equal treatment. She did not want equal treatment, but much more.
In a way she was glad that the Easter week-end was over and she welcomed the prospect of concentrated work with the professor.
Stephen, too, seemed happy to settle down to his research.
“Time we really made an effort,” he said the following morning. “The subject is going to take all our time anyway.”
Rosamund typed out Stephen’s notes, filled in with extracts from books borrowed from Signor Mandelli and gradually became fascinated with his theories that he was piecing together.
Erica was now restless and at a loose end unless she could rely on Niccolo’s company.
“Funny thing, Niccolo seems quite different lately,” she said to Rosamund one afternoon after lunch.
“How?”
“Oh, moody, irritable. Well, I suppose it’s mutual. At first he was so gallant and charming, but probably the novelty has worn off now. I expect he realises that I’m not so interested in him as I was. He can see for himself that I like Brent better.”
Rosamund gave Erica a sharp look, but the latter was lost in her own reflections.
“But I wonder, too,” went on Erica, “if Niccolo has recently found some new attraction.”
“That’s possible,” murmured Rosamund non-committally.
“I wonder who she is.”
Rosamund laughed lightly. “He may not want to tell you.”
Erica passed on to other topics, and Rosamund was relieved. It would be disastrous for everyone if Niccolo disclosed who was the latest object of his infatuation.
A few days later Stephen announced that he and Rosamund would drive down the coast to Acireale.
“I understand that there are small sections of the coast where some of the different rocks and varying strata can be seen.”
“And how am I supposed to occupy myself?” demanded Erica.
Stephen observed his daughter. “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t also come, but I thought you’d be bored.”
“Not as bored as I might be hanging about at home here.”
“It’s only a day trip,” he pointed out. “If we made a fairly early start, we should be home by dinnertime.”
“Well, when are you going?”
“Tomorrow,” her father replied.
“All right, I’ll come.”
When it was time to start next day, Erica seemed reluctant. “I’d half a mind to ask Niccolo to take me somewhere for a drive, but perhaps I’d better come with you and Father.”
“Niccolo may be otherwise engaged,” Rosamund reminded her.
Stephen drove along the coast road to Acireale, a pleasant coast town lying at the foot of the eastern slope of Mount Etna.
“We have to go into the town,” he explained. “I have to find somewhere to park the car.”
Rosamund walked a few yards along a street that would give her a good view of the handsome church of St. Sebastian. She took several photographs of the ornate façade and one of an interesting street nearby.
“I need a little practice in handling this up-to-date camera,” she confessed to Stephen when she rejoined him nearer the harbour. He appeared to be looking about as though in search of something or someone.
“What’s the next stage?” Rosamund asked.
“We have to hire a boat,” Stephen answered.
“To take us along the coast?”
“That’s right.”
Erica, who had just been ambling along the quay, heard these last words. “A boat? Who is going to row? I’m not sure I trust either of you and I can’t row.”
Stephen grinned. “Have no fear. We’ll have a boatman.” Then he waved to someone behind the two girls and as Rosamund turned, she saw Brent coming smartly along the quay.
Erica’s reaction was one of the utmost pleasure and she greeted him effusively, but Rosamund was no more than politely chilly.
“So you’re the boatman who will row us round the bay?”
“Not likely,” he retorted. “I wouldn’t dream of taking on the risk.”
A suitable boat was hired and the four of them jumped in and seated themselves.
“You’d better be on this side,” suggested Brent to Rosamund. “Then you’ll have an uninterrupted view as we slide by the cliffs.”
“When shall I know what to take?”
“I’ll point out the right places and the right moments,” he assured her. The words were innocuous, but the tone of voice in which they were said held an inner meaning and the glance that accompanied them was slightly mocking.
The boatman guided his boat out of the harbour and then turned along a course parallel with the shore. He rowed quite slowly and stopped altogether when Rosamund was taking photographs.
“Take one of Brent and me,” Erica suggested at one point.
“I’m not sure whether I can spare a film on you. You’d better wait until I’ve finished all the cliff pictures.”
“What Rosamund really means,” put in Brent, “is that she doesn’t want to sully the camera with shots of me.”
Rosamund would not reply, but concentrated on focussing the next section of cliff.
On the return journey Brent suggested further shots. “The light catches the formation of the cliffs differently when you take them from this angle.”
She could find no fault with his advice, but was relieved when they all arrived back at the quay and stepped ashore. Brent suggested lunch at a restaurant he knew and after the meal Erica annexed him. “I’ve seen some small pieces of jewellery in a shop. Come with me and tell me if they’re worth buying.”
Rosamund and Stephen walked around the harbour and then along a path up a wooded hillside.
“You didn’t tell me that Brent was coming today,” Rosamund said mildly.
“I wasn’t quite sure whether he could get away. Did it matter?”
“To me? Oh, no,” she answered hastily. “In any case, I was glad of his help.”
“That’s what I thought.” He indicated a stone seat along the path and they sat down. After a longish pause, he said, “I have the feeling that you don’t get on too well with Brent. Have I imagined it?”
Rosamund hesitated before replying. Her answer needed some thought if she was not to give her employer a totally wrong impression. “I don’t think it’s quite accurate to say that I don’t get on well with him,” she began
slowly. “It’s more a matter of not always feeling at ease with him, I think. I never know how to take him.”
Stephen smiled. “I admit he’s not an easy person to know, but Erica seems to find him an acceptable friend.”
Stephen was placing her in a most awkward position, she thought. If she said that she considered Erica was foolishly throwing herself at Brent, Stephen might be offended. If on the other hand she declared that she was not willing to be one of a casual collection of girls who found Brent acceptable, then Stephen would probably take the view that she was allowing personal likes or dislikes to cut across business relationships.
She tried to find a compromise. “I expect I shall understand him better in the future. In any case,” she hastened to add, “I shall never do or say anything to upset the very pleasant relationship which you’ve found with him.”
“Good. You’re too efficient a girl to allow a slight personal prejudice to interfere with our work.”
Rosamund imagined that the subject was closed for the time being, but Stephen said after a few moments, “I’m thinking very much about the future—and particularly Erica’s future. I know she’s very young yet and the last thing I want to do is to put any kind of pressure on her to marry too soon. But if in a year or two she happened to choose Brent as a husband, I’d be more than delighted.”
Rosamund was stunned. Only a few months ago he had not only disapproved of all Erica’s friends, but eventually wrenched her away from that environment and "marooned” her—as she termed it—in Sicily for at least a year. Now he was indirectly pushing his daughter towards an alliance with a man who might prove entirely unsuitable.
“But Brent has a very roving life,” she pointed out gently when she could break silence. “His work as a geologist and his study of volcanoes takes him to rough places sometimes. Would you mind that for Erica?”
“Oh, he won’t always be roving about on the practical sites. Academically he’s brilliant and I’m positive that in a few years’ time he could be found an excellent professorship in England.”
Resentment flared in Rosamund’s mind. So Brent was to be tamed into a docile, sedentary job. He was to sit at home to write books about other men’s exciting achievements. He was to be denied the thrill of his own possible discoveries.