The Youngest Sister

by Anne Weale

  In the course of their work, the rest of the family were always meeting famous or important people. Normally she never did. Now, having met someone outstanding, she had been hoping that for once it would be Frances who was impressed and curious.

  ‘Yes, I knew him a long time ago. So did Anna. Where did you meet him?’

  ‘On the flight coming out. I couldn’t believe my luck.’

  ‘How did he react when you introduced yourself? Did you tell him who you were?’

  ‘If you mean have I mentioned Mother, no, I haven’t. It hasn’t come up.’

  ‘There are plenty of Vales besides us, and you don’t look like the rest of us. I suppose he hasn’t made the connection. It could be that he’s forgotten.’ Frances sounded thoughtful.

  ‘Did you know him well? Was he a boyfriend?’

  ‘He was a prize rat,’ said her sister with sudden vehemence. ‘Have nothing to do with him, Cress. His books may be good, but he’s not. Don’t let him add your scalp to his belt.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Cressy. ‘What did he do? I’ve never heard you mention him.’

  ‘And you’re not to mention him either. Don’t ever breathe his name to anyone in this family. I mean that. I’m dead serious, Cress. Say nothing about him. Keep your mouth shut.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘There’s a call on the other line. I’ll talk to you later.’ Her sister rang off.

  CHAPTER SIX

  AS CRESSY hung up the receiver her mind seethed with unanswered questions. Why was Nicolas’s name taboo? What could he possibly have done to cause Frances to issue such melodramatic warnings?

  All her pleasure in the lovely weather and her beautiful surroundings evaporated. At first she had been glad that her sister had taken the trouble to call her—now she wished she had gone to fetch Kate’s books before lunch. Then Catalina would have said she was out and Frances might not have bothered to call back. She always had a packed diary and a lot on her mind.

  Cressy went to the changing room to dry and dress. Then she took the borrowed swimsuit and pegged it to a line at the back of the barn where Catalina hung the household linen.

  She was starting back to the house to do something about her wet hair when she suddenly remembered the dog. What with one thing and another she had completely forgotten the vagrant spaniel.

  She was crossing the yard between the barn and the terrace when she was astonished to see the subject of her thoughts lying at ease in the shade of the vine, inside a large dog basket, looking a different animal from the dejected creature of a few hours earlier.

  In the meantime he—or it might be she—had been thoroughly washed and brushed, and the ghastly sore had been covered with a professional-looking dressing.

  ‘What happened to you?’ she exclaimed. ‘Who gave you a bath? Catalina? Are you feeling better?’

  The dog didn’t cower when she put out her hand to stroke it. The attentions it had received seemed to have restored its faith in the human race as being welldisposed towards canines.

  Catalina reappeared to set the table. ‘You?’ Cressy asked, pointing at her, at the dog and then at her own still damp hair.

  The housekeeper shook her head. ‘Yo, no... el señorito—’ she made a gesture towards the top floor of the house ’—y esto...’ she indicated the dressing ‘...el veterinario .’

  So Nicolas had washed the spaniel himself, taken it to a veterinary surgery and unearthed an old basket used by a larger dog. It didn’t seem to tie in with Frances’s description of him as a ‘prize rat’.

  In her bathroom Cressy upended a canister of conditioning and styling mousse and squeezed a dollop of foam onto her palm. As she applied it she wondered if Nicolas had decided to bath the dog himself to save her the trouble of doing it. If he had—if she wasn’t deluding herself—it must mean that he really liked her. Or that was the conclusion she would have drawn before talking to her sister. For what man went to that kind of trouble, unless he was crazy about dogs, except for a girl he liked and wanted to please?

  But now, after Frances’s cautionary, ‘Don’t let him add your scalp to his belt’, it was hard to know what to think. Perhaps he had looked after the dog because he thought it was quicker to do it himself and get the chore out of the way.

  The door of his room was open when she passed it on her way down, but she didn’t glance in. He was on the terrace before her, drinking a glass of orange juice.

  ‘How did your morning go?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine, thanks.’ She gave him a brief account of her activities. ‘Catalina tells me you are responsible for the dog looking so much better.’

  ‘I felt you had enough on your plate. The dog is a bitch, by the way. So far there’s no indication of where she came from. The vet doesn’t know her, and Catalina’s enquiries drew a blank. If she’s going to be here for some days we had better give her a name. Any suggestions?’

  While he was talking he had been pouring orange juice from a vacuum jug into a tall glass for her.

  ‘Thank you.’ After drinking some, she said, ‘What about Star, from that poem by F. Scott Fitzgerald and Edmund Wilson?’

  ‘I know the poem.’ Nicolas laughed. ‘Star it is.’ After a pause, he added, ‘You’ve just passed one of my congeniality tests.’

  ‘I have? How?’

  ‘I’m irritated by “don’t knows”. I like people who, when asked a question, have something positive to say...even if I don’t agree with it. It’s the same with suggestions. It’s exasperating when people are asked to put up ideas for a day out, or whatever, and they have nothing to offer.’

  ‘Do you have a lot of congeniality tests?’ she asked, wondering if she had already failed several.

  ‘A fair number, yes. Doesn’t everyone? Don’t you?’

  Cressy thought about it. ‘I don’t much like people who never help with the chores... who sit back and expect to be waited on.’

  She was thinking of some of the guests at her parents’ weekend place, who didn’t even make their beds and took it for granted that invisible hands would take care of all the domestic arrangements.

  ‘Do you find that, because of your job, your family and friends expect you to sort out their difficulties?’ he asked shrewdly.

  ‘I meant people generally. I do see a good deal of selfishness in other people’s families, but not in my own,’ she said staunchly.

  ‘Catalina tells me you’ve had a call from England.’

  ‘One of my sisters rang up to ask how I was getting on.’

  She wondered how he would react if she were to repeat what Frances had said about him.

  But was Frances’s ‘prize rat’ accusation justified? There were a number of men who were on her sisters’ blacklists. Their love affairs had seldom ended amicably. One month they were mad about the guy, a month later they would be wishing they’d never set eyes on him.

  Catalina came out with their lunch—an earthenware dish filled with salad, sliced avocados and anchovies. A large loaf of village bread was already on the table under a protective dome of fine mesh.

  As he had the previous evening, Nicolas saw that Cressy was seated before sitting down himself.

  After helping herself to the salad and turning the olive-wood servers in his direction, Cressy said, ‘This afternoon I’m going to the cottage again. Kate wants some books, and I want to look round more leisurely and plan how to make it comfortable for when she comes out of hospital.’

  ‘Are you sure you can find your way there?’

  ‘Yes, no problem, I’ve got an excellent sense of direction... said she modestly.’

  Nicolas laughed. ‘There was no need for that rider, Cressy. You’ve already established that you’re not conceited. I suspect your opinion of yourself is too low rather than too high.’

  ‘What on earth makes you say that?’

  ‘A wide experience of human nature. For a year, after Cambridge, I worked as a guide for a travel company specialising in treks. You bec
ome a good judge of people’s characters and how they’ll react when the going gets rough, as it frequently did on those trips. Will you have a glass of wine?’

  ‘Not for me, thanks.’

  ‘I don’t drink at lunchtime either, not when I’m writing.’

  ‘Do you have any secretarial help?’

  He shook his head. ‘It might have been necessary in pre-PC times. But with a computer I don’t need any hired help. Frankly, I’d just as soon not have a secretary hovering around. I work best in solitude.’

  ‘That makes me feel an intruder on your peace and quiet. I was going to ask if I could help with any clerical chores as a small return for your kindness. But obviously not.’

  Nicolas was eating with his fork. He was righthanded. He put his left hand on her forearm.

  ‘You are definitely not an intruder. I’m very happy to have you here for as long as you wish to stay. Are you an experienced PC user?’

  ‘Not in my job, but in my free time, yes.’ Cressy was sharply aware of the long fingers resting on her arm. ‘I know my way around most systems.’

  ‘Do you indeed? That’s unusual.’

  His hand was still on her arm, his thumb moving gently back and forth.

  Her throat tight, she said, ‘I do a newsletter for a club I belong to, and I’m typing the memoirs of a darling old man who can’t afford to have them privately printed. He wants half a dozen copies to send to his children and grandchildren scattered round the world. His handwriting is a bit tricky, but once I’ve deciphered it the typing and lay-out is easy. Photocopied and spiralbound, the copies will cost a fraction of printed memoirs.’

  Nicolas said, ‘I guess so. Has he had an entertaining life?’

  Although he listened to her answer, he was more interested in watching her. He could feel the tension in her arm and see by the way she kept pausing and swallowing that she was reacting to his touch.

  The more she revealed of her character, the more obvious it became that she was an extremely nice girl—in his mother’s definition of that term. But it was the other kind of girl he needed right now, and he thought it likely that Cressy had it in her to be a passionate woman as well, if she chose.

  Even after this short time in Majorca she had begun to ripen, like a melon placed on a sunny windowsill. It would take several days for her skin to turn golden, but already she had a glow she had lacked the first time he saw her. He thought it was because she knew he found her attractive and felt the same way about him.

  But was it fair to take advantage of her feelings when there could be no future in it?

  She had finished talking and was trying to eat her salad. He could see she had lost her appetite. That happened when other, stronger appetites intervened. He felt the same way himself.

  He removed his hand from her arm, saying briskly, ‘I forgot to mention that we’ve been invited to a drinks party tonight. I don’t usually go to them, but it’s a spectacular house which I think would interest you. It’s typical of Mallorca in a quite different way from this one. We’ll leave about six-fifteen, if that’s all right with you?’

  An hour later Cressy obtained the key of Kate’s house from her neighbour and took a second look at the mess inside the cottage. She had seen this sort of thing before in the houses and flats of old people who basically had no reason to go on living. But as Kate still had her faculties, including a formidable intellect, why should she lose interest in life?

  Cressy had a feeling there had been a clue to the enigma in Kate’s behaviour this morning when she had given that sigh and had murmured that regret was the worst pain. What was it she regretted?

  Catalina had lent Cressy some cleaning equipment. After throwing open all the shutters, and letting the sunlight flood in, she swept the floors, dealt with an accumulation of washing-up, stripped the bed of threadbare sheets and pillowcases, which should have been replaced long ago, and started a grand tidy-up.

  It was the wrong time of day to be active, and soon her T-shirt and the waistband of her shorts were soaked with sweat. As there was no one about, she stripped down to her bra and briefs which felt a lot more comfortable.

  At five o’clock she closed up, took back the key and deposited a bin-bag of rubbish in the boot of the car. Somewhere along the way she had noticed a big receptacle for rubbish by the roadside. Tomorrow she would track down a launderette. No doubt Catalina would allow her to use the washing machine at Ca’n Llorenc, but she didn’t want to ask for more favours than she was receiving already.

  After she’d had a shower, she decided she would have to ask Catalina if she could use the iron to press her skirt to wear for the drinks party.

  To her embarrassment, Catalina insisted on doing it for her. In mime, she indicated that Cressy must rest. She would bring the skirt to her room.

  Half an hour later, she tapped on the bedroom door and handed over a clothes hanger with the skirt immaculately pressed attached to it by its loops.

  ‘Muchas, muchas gracias, Señora.’

  ‘De nada, señorita,’ the housekeeper said with a smile.

  As she closed the door Cressy made a mental note to buy her some flowers or chocolates, and to acquire a Spanish phrasebook.

  The skirt was an Italian cast-off from Anna’s holiday wardrobe. It was made of white cotton gabardine and, when she was standing still, appeared to be almost straight from hip to hem. When she moved the seams broke into slits from her knees to her ankles. Anna had had the hem turned up, but luckily she hadn’t worn it long enough for that hem to make a permanent line when Cress had let it down to suit her own longer legs. The style was no longer top fashion, but that didn’t worry her. With it she wore a clean T-shirt and a pair of white sneakers. Finally she added some imitation amber earrings and a transparent bracelet the colour of honey.

  She heard Nicolas going downstairs while she was checking her appearance in the long mirror.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not very elegant. I hope this will do,’ she said apologetically when she joined him. ’

  He looked her over. ‘You have something going for you that none of the other guests will have.’

  ‘I do?’ she said, baffled.

  ‘You’re young. Your face has no lines. Your body is firm. Your hair thick. They’ve lost all those assets. Unless some of them bring younger house guests, the average age will be sixty, if not older. If it gets too deadly, we’ll leave early. It’s Catalina’s night off, so we’ll eat out.’

  ‘I could have cooked for us. I’m quite a good cook,’ said Cressy. ‘But maybe Catalina wouldn’t like someone else using her kitchen.’

  ‘She approves of you,’ said Nicolas. ‘She doesn’t mince words if she takes a dislike to my guests.’

  ‘What have I done to earn her approval?’

  ‘You made your bed this morning, left your bathroom in order and you have a good appetite. People who push food round their plate annoy her.’

  ‘Do she and Felió have children?’ she asked as they left the house.

  ‘Three sons and a married daughter. They get together on weekends.’

  This evening the Bentley had its hood up so it wouldn’t be necessary to wear a scarf. As Nicolas waited for her to arrange the panels of her skirt before he closed the passenger door Cressy said, ‘Oh...what about the animals? Might Juanito go for Star if there are no people here?’

  ‘I’ve put her basket in one of the outhouses. She’s sleeping a lot. I expect it’s a reaction to the time she was adrift.’

  ‘Tell me about the people giving the party,’ said Cressy as the car rolled forward.

  ‘They’re multi-millionaires, some of the many who have holiday houses on the island. You would never know they were among the super-rich. They’re a nice, unpretentious couple. They live in considerable style, as you’ll see when we get there, but it’s not an ostentatious display of wealth. There’s a lot of that here as well, but I avoid those people... and the ones whose money may come from dubious sources.’ He changed the sub
ject by asking, ‘How did you get on at the cottage?’

  ‘It’s looking a bit more civilised. But what it needs is to be repainted, inside and out, and the kitchen and bathroom improved. I don’t think Kate has the funds to do that. I’m going to write to my father and ask if he’ll put up the money.’

  ‘Why not fax your letter?’ Nicolas suggested. ‘Otherwise it could take a couple of weeks to reach him. Have the people at the hospital given you any idea how long Miss Dexter will have to remain there?’

  ‘I asked about that this morning, after I’d seen Kate. She was tired, so I didn’t stay long. The doctor says her leg will need to be in plaster for about twelve weeks, and her wrist half that time. Luckily the fracture of the femur wasn’t a really bad one. They’ve pinned and screwed it to a plate.’

  Nicolas said, ‘I’ve heard that people of eighty heal as well as children of eight, providing their bones aren’t diseased. The problem with older people is their muscle tone isn’t as good. If they’re immobilised for long, the wasting of the muscles can be irreparable.’

  ‘That’s exactly what the doctor told me. She wants to get Kate on her feet at the earliest possible moment, and she talked about the importance of physiotherapy. I think she’s a very good doctor...very well-trained, with all the latest know-how at her fingertips. Is there a nursing home on the island where Kate could be cared for between leaving hospital and going home?’

  ‘I’m not well up on that sort of thing. Ask the advice of the people you’ll be meeting at the party. They’ll be experts on the subject.’

  Privately Cressy thought that although their advice might be good, if you happened to be in their income bracket, it might not be applicable to Kate, dependent on a pension and probably without an investment to her name.

  Cressy had no doubt that her father would stump up the cash to put the cottage to rights, but her parents weren’t rich enough to subsidise Kate indefinitely. They both had good incomes, but also a lavish lifestyle. They liked to keep up with the Joneses, and, in their milieu, the Joneses spent a lot of money on things which weren’t really necessary but made them feel good.