The Sun and Catriona Read online

  Catriona looked around her. The floorboards were dusty, too, and the windows were very dirty. Apart from a telephone, which had been left on the floor, there did not appear to be any furniture in the place. She glanced at Peter in bewilderment.

  ‘Why is it empty?’

  At some time a piece of plaster had fallen from the ceiling and now it lay in a hundred fragments on the floor near the foot of the stairs. Peter bent to examine it. Evenly, he said:

  ‘A few years ago I had the furniture removed and the place locked up.’

  ‘But why?’

  Frowning, he pushed a door open and walked through into another room. Catriona followed, and gasped at the sight of a magnificent plaster ceiling. She gazed up at it.

  ‘What do the figures represent?’

  He answered without glancing at the ceiling. ‘The figure on the left, playing a harp, is meant to be King David. His music is driving an evil spirit from the heart of Saul.’ He threw the scene a cursory glance. ‘I suppose it needs restoration pretty badly.’

  Catriona stood in the doorway, watching him as he casually tested a rotting floorboard with his foot. ‘This is a wonderful place,’ she said. ‘Why did you stop using it?’

  He shrugged. ‘I had a reason. While we’re here we had better look at the rest of the house, but I don’t want to waste too much time.’ His voice was clipped and unemotional, but at the same time Catriona sensed that he was in a very unusual mood.

  Talking less and less, they toured the rest of the ground floor, and her heart warmed to the charm of the old house. There was a sort of morning-room, originally intended for the ladies of the family, and also a small library equipped with French windows that had once opened into a tiny courtyard. Now, the library’s walls were lined with empty shelves, and coarse yellow grass pushed its way between the flagstones in the courtyard. The old salotto, once the heart of the house, now brooded in silence behind shuttered windows, and its doors had been attacked by woodworm. Alcoves which had once accommodated rare porcelain now harboured nothing but cobwebs, and winter rains, beating hard against the eastern wall, had caused widespread patches of damp.

  ‘Did your parents live here?’ Catriona asked, still shocked by the abandonment of so much that was beautiful and that had once been cherished.

  ‘For much of the time, yes. My mother preferred it to Malta.’

  ‘Then you must have grown up here.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She found herself visualising Peter as a child, an incredibly good-looking and probably quite adorable small boy, and she watched him as he threw open one of the windows. Pushing the shutters back, he stared out into the garden, and she thought that he looked curiously young now, young and vulnerable, as if this visit to his old home had somehow stripped him of his defences—the hard veneer that normally made it difficult to get close to him. She wondered whether Jacqueline had ever been to Ghajn Lucia—and then, resolutely, she pushed Jacqueline out of her mind.

  Peter was staring fixedly at the sky. ‘There’s a cloud,’ he said.

  She moved across the room and looked over his shoulder. A cloud, small but very dark, had appeared over the pine trees and was drifting slowly westwards.

  ‘It’s so small,’ she objected.

  ‘M’mm.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I shall check the rest of the house, and then we had better be going.’

  He fastened the faded shutters, sliding a large bolt firmly into place, and as he did so Catriona wondered rather sadly how much time would elapse before they were opened again.

  They went through into the kitchen, which was large, Victorian in design and in need of extensive renovation. The antiquated sink was the size of a horse trough, and a blackened stove that had once been used for cooking might easily have been on display in a museum. Above one of the doors there was a large, silent clock. Its hands stopped at a quarter to nine.

  At last, after a cursory inspection of various sculleries and pantries, they went back to the hall and began to climb the main staircase. Peter was very silent now, and all around them the brooding, throbbing stillness seemed to have deepened. Catriona felt an almost unbearable tension beginning to take possession of her.

  The staircase rose gradually, curling round on itself, arid foolishly Catriona started counting the stairs. There were twenty-five of them. She reached the top ahead of Peter, who had paused to examine some telltale traces of woodworm and for a moment she leant against the balustrade at the top, looking down on his dark head. As she did so something stirred inside her—something she didn’t understand...

  And then she heard the thunder.

  At first it was little more than a murmur, gentle and distant, but seconds later it came again and this time it was an ominous growl, drawing steadily nearer. Peter abandoned the woodworm and swiftly covered the remaining stairs.

  ‘That’s close,’ he said lightly. ‘I’ll take a look and see what’s going on out there.’

  He passed through an archway, crossed a wide landing, and opened a door that was directly opposite the head of the stairs. Catriona waited a moment, then rather hesitantly she followed him, realising as she crossed the threshold that it was the room with the Romeo and Juliet balcony. Peter was already unfastening the long windows that opened on to the balcony, and as she glanced past him she saw that she had been right to imagine the room would have a wonderful view. Beyond the tree-tops she could see the magnificent curve of the Mediterranean, and she realised at once that it would be a superb vantage point from which to watch a summer sunrise.

  Then she looked again, and saw that the sea was an ominous mauvish grey. A line of cloud had built up along the horizon and as she watched there was a vivid flash of forked lightning, followed almost immediately by a slightly louder rumble of thunder.

  Catriona shrank back, fighting to control her own reactions, ashamed of the shudders running through her. She hated thunder—how she hated it! Peter was out on the balcony, staring out to sea, but she didn’t join him, and it wasn’t until she heard the soft whisper of water falling on dry ground that she realised it was raining.

  In Malta, she knew, there was never any rain between May and the end of August. During those weeks the islands just roasted beneath the ruthless sun. But now it had come, and the dry, dusty days were over. The rain went on falling, lightly and very softly, almost like dew, and when she drew near to the open window Catriona could feel the gentle touch of moisture on her face. For the first time in her life she appreciated how very much like a miracle a shower of rain could seem.

  Then another shaft of lightning flickered in front of them, and this time the thunder was much louder. Catriona tensed, her fingernails digging into the palms of her hands. Whatever happened, Peter Vilhena must not be allowed to guess how much she hated the storm. Making a supreme effort, she steeled herself and went out to join him on the balcony.

  He turned his head slowly and their eyes met. A tremor ran through Catriona, and she knew it had nothing to do with her fear of the storm, but when she tried to look away from him she couldn’t. His dark gaze was holding hers and she didn’t even want to break away.

  Thunder rolled directly overhead. It seemed to shake the house, and from the tops of the pine-trees a flock of birds rose in panic. Catriona drew back against the window-frame, shattered by emotions that were tearing her in two. He wouldn’t understand ... nobody could.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. His voice was taut. ‘You’re not afraid of thunder?’

  She shook her head desperately. ‘It’s something that happened a long time ago.’ To her horror, a tear hovered on the end of her lashes.

  ‘What happened?’ He moved closer to her, and she could feel his breath on her cheek. His nearness made her slightly dizzy.

  ‘My parents quarrelled—during a thunderstorm.’ She didn’t add that she could hear their voices still—her father’s bitterly angry, her mother’s hard and defensive.

  There was a tiny silence. When Peter spoke his
voice was very gentle. ‘Does it matter ... now?’

  ‘I suppose not. But my mother left after that quarrel. She never came back.’

  Almost before she knew what was happening, his arms were round her and he was holding her so tightly that she could scarcely breathe. Pulses throbbed wildly all over her body and she gasped, clinging to him, overwhelmed by the sudden realisation that this was where she had wanted to be. Dazedly, she wondered whether there had ever been a time when she had not longed to be in his arms. Then rational thought became an impossibility, for his lips were on hers and the pine-tops swayed erratically. As the kiss went on the whole world lurched, and she knew that for her nothing would ever be the same again.

  At last he released her mouth and pressed his cheek, damp with rain, against hers. Thunder rumbled again, but this time it was a little farther away, and in any case she hardly heard it. Nothing was real any more, nothing in the world mattered, except Peter—the strength of his arms about her, the feel of his lips, the way his eyelashes fluttered against her cheek. Her fingers entwined themselves in his hair, and as he kissed her again she felt that she was drowning in ecstasy.

  Somewhere, a telephone was ringing. Catriona. didn’t recognise the sound at first, and anyway it didn’t seem to matter. But the shrilling was very persistent, and after a time Peter lifted his head. His hold relaxed a little, and she sensed that he was drawing away from her. Her arms about his neck, she willed him to come back, but already the spell was broken. He looked down into her face, his eyes unreadable, and she felt a stab of uneasiness. How could he look at her like that? It was as if—almost as if he were trying to remember who she was.

  Gently he released her. ‘I must answer the telephone,’ he said. ‘No one would contact me here if it were not important.’

  He stepped through the window into the empty room beyond, and she heard his footsteps echoing firmly along the passageway and down the stairs.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It had stopped raining and the clouds were moving on, drifting across the island. Catriona stood where Peter had left her, one hand resting on the iron balustrade. She wondered why it was that she didn’t seem to be able to move. Perhaps, she thought, it was because she had taken a step into the unknown, and the ground seemed to have crumbled away beneath her feet.

  Very slowly she took a firm grip on herself. She heard the telephone stop ringing, but the walls of the old house were very thick, and she couldn’t hear Peter’s voice. Eventually she wandered inside, and had just reached the head of the stairs when he appeared below her. He didn’t look up, and when he spoke his voice sounded odd.

  ‘That was Antoinette. She wanted to remind me that we all have an engagement this evening.’

  ‘An engagement?’ Catriona repeated.

  ‘A theatrical presentation in the gardens of Castel Verdala, our Governor’s country residence.’ There was a pause, then he went on, ‘It’s a performance of Twelfth Night. Jacqueline has the part of Olivia.’

  Catriona’s fingers curled tightly around the balustrade.

  ‘In any case,’ Peter went on, ‘it is time we were going. The storm is moving on and there will be no more rain for several hours, but it may return later. We should get back to Malta as quickly as possible.’

  For several seconds Catriona stood still. She didn’t understand. Had she dreamt those moments on the balcony? Was it only in her imagination that a few minutes earlier...

  Feeling like a sleepwalker, she moved down the stairs. They left the house by the front door and Peter locked it behind them, turning the heavy brass key. Outside, it was still very warm, but the air was much fresher and there was no longer an all-pervading smell of dust. The leaves were a brighter green. The old, battered Triumph actually looked cleaner. But Catriona hardly noticed. She just got into the car and sat staring in front of her.

  Peter drove very fast, almost recklessly, and as they made their way down the drive, through the jungle of newly washed growth, she tried to guess at the thoughts that might be passing through his head. But his face remained set, impassive, and he didn’t speak until they reached the gates. Then he glanced round.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said abruptly.

  Catriona moistened her dry lips. ‘What—what for?’

  ‘I think you understand what I mean.’ His voice grated a little. ‘I don’t usually behave in that sort of way. Please forget it.’

  Forget it!

  She stared hard through the newly washed windscreen, willing the tears to stay away. Could he really be so insensitive? Hadn’t he recognised her response at all? Didn’t he realise she was in love with him?

  The words echoed through her head almost as if she had spoken them aloud. She, who in all her adult life had never felt more than mildly attracted to any man, was now in love herself—so much in love that the pain was almost more than she could bear.

  She couldn’t trust her voice, so she didn’t say anything, and after a minute or two he spoke again.

  ‘When we first met, Catriona,’ he said very quietly, ‘you made your feelings clear. You once called me a parasite, and you may have been right. There was a time, I believe, when I was a little different, but that ended twelve years ago.’

  She looked at him. ‘What happened—twelve years ago?’

  He shrugged. ‘You must have wondered why Ghajn Lucia was abandoned.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I did.’

  ‘Well, as I told you, it was our family home. Most Maltese families don’t spend too much time over here on Gozo, but my parents were particularly fond of the place, and anyway, my father had his boatyard here. When I was a boy I spent more time at Ghajn Lucia than anywhere else in the Islands. I loved it. I didn’t want to live anywhere else.’ He paused, and she noticed that his knuckles were white, as his hands gripped the steering-wheel. ‘My father had a brother, Tomas. They were partners in the family business, so, naturally, Uncle Tomas also spent much of his time on Gozo, and when he came to see us he brought his daughter, Marina.’ The strong voice hesitated and then went on. ‘I taught Marina to sail, and together we explored every nook and corner of the Gozo coast. When I was twenty-two years old and she was eighteen we became engaged to be married, but my uncle would not allow her to go through with the wedding until she reached her nineteenth birthday. He said no girl should be married so young, that she needed more time.’

  ‘What—what happened?’ Catriona asked.

  He stared hard at the twisting road in front of them. ‘She was a strong swimmer, and she loved sailing. One spring afternoon she took a small racing yacht out into the bay. While she was out the Sirocco sprang up ... the warm wind from Africa. Because she was alone she could not cope. The yacht was smashed against a small island off the coast of Malta—they call it Filfla, it’s a sanctuary for birds. When they found her, a day or so later, her father could not identify her, but I knew her by the ring she was wearing. I had given it to her.’

  Catriona closed her eyes, trying to shut out the horror of it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and knew that no words had ever sounded more inadequate. She wanted to throw her arms around him—somehow, to find a way of putting an end to his suffering. But she couldn’t, because he didn’t want her.

  All at once everything fell into place. His embittered outlook on life, his feeling that at times it was hardly worth living—everything made sense now. And she thought, miserably, that she even knew why he had kissed her back there on the balcony. In that moment he had just needed somebody. That was all.

  They were passing through Mixija now, and within a few minutes they would be at the boatyard.

  ‘I did not intend to tell you about Marina,’ he said suddenly, ‘and I did not mention her because I wanted your sympathy, but because I wished you to understand that I shall never fall in love again. I shall marry, but that is another matter. My wife will be an intelligent woman with her own interests, sensible in her approach to marriage. She will appreciate the position I can give her, but she will never exp
ect me to pretend that I am in love with her. I would not marry on any other terms.’

  Staring blindly ahead, Catriona wondered if he considered that Jacqueline Calleja would meet his requirements in this respect. Probably he did. After all, he was hurrying back to Malta because he didn’t want to miss her interpretation of Olivia. On the other hand, why, until Toni telephoned, had he apparently forgotten all about the performance? Why had he chosen that day, of all days, for a visit to Gozo?

  They jolted down on to the quayside, and Catriona forced herself to speak.

  ‘Don’t you think there’s a—a possibility? Don’t you think you might one day meet someone who could change your mind?’

  The car came to a halt, and he switched the engine off. ‘It’s too late.’

  The Sultana was waiting for them, bobbing gently on the water, and without speaking again he handed Catriona aboard. All the clouds had moved over now, and the sky was once again a tranquil blue. In the clear, strong light of early afternoon they swung away from the jetty and headed back towards Malta.

  During the short return trip they hardly talked at all, and that at least was a relief to Catriona, for she could not possibly have maintained a normal conversation. Being so close to Peter was wonderful or, at least, it could have been. But she knew that in every important sense he was as far away from her as it was possible to be, and because of that her whole body ached. She thought of Marina, the girl who had died, and wondered what she had been like. They had both been so young. Could they really have been so deeply, so completely in love that there could never be anything else for the one who was left behind?

  Then she pulled herself up short and forced herself to face the fact that, probably, in the end, there would be someone else for Peter. He just had to meet the right girl. Although he might not realise it yet, it was possible that he had already met her in the person of Jacqueline. Catriona herself was not the right one, and perhaps, in the kindest way possible, he had been trying to tell her that. Obviously, he had moments of intense, agonising depression—even despair—and in those moments he needed someone, anyone. Once or twice, lately, she happened to have been the one who was on hand, but she would be crazy if she imagined that he felt anything for her, personally. She remembered the night when he had kissed her on the cliff-top, and she thought she understood, now, what it had all been about. Those cliffs had looked out towards Filfla, and on that summer night, staring out through the darkness, Peter had felt the horror of his loss all over again. She had been there, and instinctively he had turned to her, but only, undoubtedly, as he might have turned to any woman.