The Sun and Catriona Page 11

  ‘I can swim,’ she retorted crisply. ‘If you’d prefer it, though, I’ll go back to Malta by ferry.’

  He stared at her, then turned impatiently away. ‘I shall be extremely busy this morning, and I shan’t have much time to spare. You had better have a look at the village of Mixija, which is not far from here. If you come to the office, someone will give you a lift.’

  She opened her mouth to protest, but had no opportunity to say anything, for he immediately strode away along the jetty. The other man, who had been watching her with an air of puzzled appreciation, fell in beside him, and she could do nothing but follow them, for the heat was tremendous and there was no possibility of lingering by the unshaded waterfront.

  The ‘office’ turned out to be a square hut with a roof of corrugated iron and a single window that badly needed cleaning. Inside, there was a deal table littered with diagrams and typewritten lists, and the walls were covered by giant photographs of yachts and motorboats. Two men were bent over a chart that had been spread out at one end of the table, but because of a radio playing noisily in one corner of the room they didn’t hear their employer’s approach until his shadow fell across them. The older of the two became aware of his presence first.

  ‘Bon giorn, signur.’ Straightening hurriedly, he nudged his companion, who went over to turn the radio off. Then they all began talking in Maltese.

  Half wishing she had not come, Catriona seated herself on a hard wooden stool and waited while they discussed, at considerable length, whatever it was the charts represented. She felt out of place, even slightly ridiculous, and she was embarrassed by the interested stares of the men. A large fan, mounted on the ceiling, rendered the temperature in the hut reasonably bearable, but she knew that outside it was like an inferno, and she couldn’t imagine what she was going to do.

  At last the discussion came to some sort of conclusion, and belatedly Peter remembered her. He turned and walked over to her, but she could see that irritation was still strong in his face:

  ‘I am going on a tour of inspection,’ he told her. ‘I shall be busy for two hours, maybe more. One of the men will drive you to the village, where you will be able to obtain a cool drink.’

  She stood up, eyeing him in disbelief. ‘A cool drink won’t keep me occupied for two hours, and it’s too hot to walk about much. Couldn’t I go round with you? I’d much rather see the boatyard.’

  He sighed, rather as if his patience were about to give out. ‘Perhaps, but I have important work to do, and I shall much prefer it if you wait for me in Mixija. Besides, if you don’t wish to walk about in the heat I would not advise you to linger here.’ His expression grew a little less hostile. ‘The church contains a particularly fine painting, said to be the work of Caravaggio. I am sure you will find it interesting.’ Without waiting for a reply, he turned to one of the men. ‘Joe, drive this lady to the village. Put her down in the piazza, then come back here.’

  For the second time that morning Catriona opened her mouth to protest, but no sound emerged. Grinning from ear to ear, Joe produced a bunch of keys from his pocket, and she found herself being escorted outside. On the shady side of the building a battered little Triumph had been parked, and with elaborate courtesy the Maltese held a door open for her.

  She got in, and when he had succeeded in closing the door, which appeared to possess a faulty lock, he climbed in beside her. At the fourth or fifth attempt he managed to get the engine going, and this success appeared to afford him considerable satisfaction. ‘Today,’ he remarked, ‘I am lucky.’

  They swung round in a circle, and clouds of acrid smoke from the exhaust pipe found their way in through Catriona’s window. A selection of dolls, dangling from the windscreen, danced grotesquely as they roared away up a narrow, bumpy track. At the first bend they narrowly missed an oncoming donkey cart, and Catriona, closing her eyes, hoped Joe’s luck was destined to hold.

  The Maltese was clearly curious about her, but he was also discreet and in his way the soul of courtesy. When they reached the village, a small collection of houses gathered round a wide square and an imposing church, he set her down beside the café and recommended her, with avuncular solicitude, to keep out of the sun.

  ‘In there, they look after you.’ He grinned more widely than ever. ‘Enjoy yourself, lady!’

  He was gone, roaring away across the square in a cloud of dust, and Catriona was left standing alone on the pavement, feeling very much as if she had just been deposited in the midst of the Sahara.

  At first she didn’t feel particularly inclined to go into the cafe, partly because it had been Peter’s suggestion that she should do so and partly because, if external appearances were anything to go by, the place wasn’t exactly tempting. As far as she could see, the dust of several summers had been allowed to settle undisturbed on the narrow window ledges, the faded paintwork was peeling everywhere and the doorway was covered by a decidedly grubby curtain of beads. But it was too hot to stand about in the open for long, and when eventually she plucked up enough courage to push the curtain aside, she found that behind it things were slightly more reassuring. There were three or four formica-topped tables, all of them spotlessly clean, and the tiled floor was bright and well polished. One wall was dominated by a painting of the Virgin Mary, another by a faded photograph of what appeared to be a local football team, and on a third someone had hung a picture of the Queen, evidently cut from a magazine and lovingly framed. Beneath all three pictures there were small bunches of flowers.

  From somewhere at the back of the place a plump young woman appeared carrying a tray of glasses. She was wearing a shabby black dress and one of her front teeth was missing, but she had an endearingly cheerful smile, and she didn’t seem particularly taken aback by the sight of Catriona.

  ‘It’s hot, my goodness!’ Picking up a newspaper, she fanned herself vigorously. ‘You like something cool, signurina?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Catriona sat down, taking off her sunglasses, and the other woman studied her with increased interest.

  ‘You tourist?’ she enquired, pouring something brown and fizzy into a tumbler.

  ‘Not exactly. I have a job—in Malta.’

  ‘But you’re on holiday today, uh?’

  ‘Yes.’ She got up and went to collect her drink from the counter. ‘What is it?’ she asked curiously. ‘It’s not Coca-Cola.’

  ‘No, no, it’s what we call Kinnie. It’s good for you, there are herbs in it.’

  Catriona tasted the sparkling drink. It was slightly bitter, but ice-cold and very refreshing. ‘I like it,’ she said. ‘It’s just right, somehow.’

  The girl started polishing glasses. ‘You like Malta, lady?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘I don’t like Malta.’ She gestured expressively. ‘Everywhere hotels and restaurants, and people running about.’

  ‘You have tourists here, too, don’t you?’

  ‘Not many—not in Mixija. We don’t need to make money that way. All the boys work for is-Signur ... always plenty of jobs in his boatyard.’

  Catriona felt herself stiffen slightly. ‘The men get well paid, then?’

  The girl nodded. ‘They get a lot of money. And Count Vilhena is so nice—my goodness, he is a kind man!’

  ‘He is?’

  ‘Just like a brother to the young ones, and a son to the old men. Always he worries about the village. He would do anything for any of us.’

  Slightly taken aback, Catriona digested this information. ‘Everybody likes him, then?’

  ‘I tell you...’ The Gozitan girl spread her hands expressively. ‘I love him like he was my uncle.’

  Catriona stared hard into her glass. She couldn’t think of an appropriate reply, and though dozens of questions flew into her mind she somehow couldn’t bring herself to ask any of them. She longed to keep the conversation going, to find out more, but suddenly, unaccountably, she felt self-conscious. She said nothing further, and the girl behind the bar, turning on a rad
io, filled the room with the voice of Elvis Presley.

  ‘I’m not made of wood, and I don't have a wooden heart...’

  Catriona stood up abruptly and paid for her Kinnie. The Gozitan girl looked surprised.

  ‘You got your own car out there, lady?’

  ‘No, someone is coming to collect me—in about an hour, I think. I’d just like to go and have a look at your church.’

  She slipped out, through the whispering curtain of beads, into fierce sunlight and walked across the piazza to the church. Its massive honey-coloured facade soared above her, and as she climbed the steps an unseen bell began chiming the hour. It was eleven o’clock.

  Inside, the air was cool and heavy with incense. By comparison with an English country church, the basilica seemed vast, but its vastness was oddly soothing. There was something reassuring about the candles glimmering on the altar and before the figures of the saints, and a deep and timeless peace hung in the atmosphere. It was a peace almost as real and inescapable as the overpowering scent of incense. Beside one of the great pillars an old priest was kneeling alone, lost in prayer or silent meditation, and his tranquil stillness was so impressive that Catriona, for a moment, couldn’t resist stopping to stare.

  Such peaceful detachment, of course, was part of the religious life. It wasn’t really within the reach of ordinary people in the everyday world. But, even so, there was such a thing as being at peace with oneself, even when one was caught up in the rough-and-tumble of normal human existence. Anyone could possess inner tranquillity. Until a few days ago Catriona had felt that she possessed it herself.

  So what had happened?

  She moved closer to the High Altar, and stood gazing upwards at the wonderful painting that formed the reredos. Jesus and the Children ... It was an unusually gentle subject for the dramatic hand of Caravaggio, but though she was no expert on the Masters she could see that it might well have been his work. Human beings could be surprising, sometimes.

  Slowly she turned away from the altar, and as she wandered back down the long aisle she found herself wondering whether it could be true that Peter Vilhena was capable of so much kindness and humanity. She supposed it must be true, at least as far as his own people were concerned, for the girl in the café was not likely to have been making things up as she went along. Helpless, dependent people obviously brought out the best in him, and that didn’t surprise her, for almost from the beginning she had realised that his strength was not the strength of cruelty. At least, he would never be cruel to those not in a position to hit back.

  Once again she emerged into the sunshine, and as she stood hesitating on the church steps it struck her that sooner or later, probably within the next week or two, she would be going back to England. She would be leaving Peter Vilhena behind her, together with all the complexities of his enigmatic nature, and she wouldn’t need to think about him any more. This Maltese episode would be a closed chapter in her life. It would belong to the past. She would just have to turn the page and go on to something else.

  Waves of depression rolled over her, and she stared unseeingly at a nearby oleander. Then her ears caught the sound of an approaching car, and seconds later the vehicle came into view. It was bumping its way round the square, a cloud of dust rising behind it, and she recognised the ancient Triumph in which she had been driven from the boatyard. With a protesting squeal of brakes the car slid to a halt in front of her, and the driver got out.

  Catriona stared. It wasn’t the workman who had brought her up from the shore. It was Peter Vilhena himself.

  Slowly she descended the steps. As she drew nearer to him she could see that he looked rather tired, and there was something in his face she didn’t understand.

  ‘Get in,’ he advised, ‘before you are overtaken by sunstroke.’

  Remembering his attitude earlier in the day, she hesitated. Stiffly, she said: ‘I’m perfectly all right, really. If you’re still busy...’

  ‘I’m not.’

  Rather reluctantly she settled herself in the front passenger seat, and he got in beside her.

  ‘You have seen something of Mixija?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘Not really, it’s been too hot to walk around. But the church is wonderful, and that painting...’ She gestured expressively. ‘The villagers must be very proud of it.’

  ‘They are. There has been some disagreement about the identity of the artist, but most experts attribute it to Caravaggio. He did, after all, spend quite a lot of time in the Maltese islands, and several of his works are known to have been left here.’

  ‘I’m not surprised that he wanted to come here. There’s so much to paint. Gozo, particularly. One day I’d like to come back with my colours and brushes.’

  ‘Gozo has many facets,’ he told her. ‘Not all of them can be represented on canvas.’

  He started the engine, and they drove slowly round the square before turning into a narrow alleyway which, after a time, widened into a lane. As they passed, chickens scattered and children flattened themselves against the drystone walls. Dust clouds hung in the air behind them, and the heat was intense.

  Catriona felt she had to say something. ‘Are we going back to Malta now?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Peter guided the car carefully round a narrow bend. ‘We shall, I hope, be back in time for lunch, but I have one more task to complete.’

  ‘Oh! I thought you said...’

  ‘This has nothing to do with business.’

  The road rose steeply, leaving the village behind. On one side, cultivated terraces sloped gently towards the sea. On the other, more terraces climbed the rocky hillside above them. Every so often, a carob tree bent its gnarled shape across the roadway, and grotesque clumps of prickly pear huddled behind the low stone walls. It was greener, more beautiful and more primitive than Malta.

  They travelled for about a mile, twisting their way upwards through the rocky countryside, always within sight of the sea, and then they came to a pair of gates—tall iron gates mounted on massive stone piers. The gates were standing wide, and beyond them a dusty track wound out of sight through a grove of pine trees.

  They slowed and turned in through the gateway, lurching violently over the uneven, neglected track. Catriona stared at the strange, exotic jumble of growth hemming them in on either side, and was reminded suddenly of some child’s picture-book version of a lost, idyllic South Sea island. Hibiscus, oleander and rose bushes jostled one another among the pine trees, and there were other flowers, too, that she could not identify. Through a gap in the trees on one side of the road she glimpsed the beginnings of an olive grove and also the remains of a path, now choked by overgrown bushes, that had once led towards it.

  She glanced at the man beside her. So far he had said nothing and offered no explanations. He seemed more taut and withdrawn than ever. Somehow, Catriona couldn’t bring herself to, ask questions. Besides, the rasping, noisy engine made conversation almost an impossibility.

  They rounded a sharp bend, emerged abruptly from the little wood and there, in front of them, was a house. It was built of stone, mellow, golden stone that had witnessed many centuries of sunlight, and in shape it resembled a small French chateau. At one end of the building there was a circular tower, windows were scattered erratically about its massive walls, and in front there was a wide terrace. Trees and shrubs had been allowed to run riot all around, and in its isolation, half abandoned by man, the place had acquired a lost and secret look.

  Peter switched off the engine and without a word he got out of the car. Catriona followed his example and the warm stillness came at her as if it were a living thing. She looked at Peter.

  ‘Where are we?’

  He didn’t answer at once. Instead he stood looking around him, his gaze travelling slowly over the old walls, the rutted driveway, the wild, deserted remains of what had once been a garden.

  ‘It’s my family home,’ he said at last. ‘Or it was. Ghajn Lucia ... the Fountain of Lucia.’

  ‘
It’s so beautiful,’ Catriona said slowly. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  She looked up at the front of the house. Quite a long way up, there was a window that opened on to a small rounded balcony, a balcony that might have been designed for the use of Romeo and Juliet. She thought of Peter’s ancestors, those mysterious, vaguely exciting people who had once lived in this house, and wondered if their colourful ghosts ever wandered in the tangled gardens or lingered on the little balcony. From that height, she thought, it must be possible to look out across the tops of the pine trees to the waters of the nearby Mediterranean.

  From one of his pockets Peter had produced a large, ornate brass key, and was inserting it in the lock of the front door. Rather reluctantly it turned, and the door swung inwards. Fascinated, but half feeling that she was a trespasser, Catriona remained where she was.

  ‘If you’re going to have a look round I’ll wait for you here,’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘Why?’ he demanded, inspecting the door’s rusty hinges with a critical eye.

  ‘Well...’ She shrugged helplessly, not knowing quite what to say.

  Suddenly he looked round at her. ‘Come inside,’ he said. ‘You’ll be perfectly safe. I did not bring you here with seduction in mind.’

  A flush spread beneath her tan. ‘I only meant...’ she began.

  ‘Well, whatever you meant, would you be good enough to come inside? I’m here to look at my house, and it will be annoying if I have to keep remembering that I’ve left you on the doorstep. Of course, if you would really prefer not to see the house, perhaps you would like to wait in the car.’

  ‘Oh, no, I’d like to see it—very much,’ she said meekly, running up the steps.

  He stood aside, allowing her to precede him into a large square room dominated by a graceful wooden staircase. At one time, probably, the stairs had been polished, carefully and regularly, but some time had elapsed since any kind of care had been lavished on them, and the shallow treads were coated with fine yellow dust. Cobwebs clung between the banisters and a dead butterfly lay where it had last fluttered, on the bottom stair.