The Sun and Catriona (3 page)

CHAPTER THREE

Three
hours later, having packed a couple of suitcases and made her brief farewells, Catriona settled herself on the back seat of the Bentley. Breathlessly relieved and excited, Toni Caruana scrambled in beside her, bringing with her a cloud of light French perfume, and the English girl reflected ruefully that no one could possibly fail to recognise the enormous difference between Toni’s circumstances and her own. Catriona’s blue denim skirt and white shirt blouse were three years old and looked it. Her battered shoulder-bag and low-heeled sandals had been acquired during art college days. Normally, her appearance didn’t worry her too much, but all at once, today, she felt shabby and dull.

Tony was beautifully made up, and she was wearing a light green dress that did things for her creamy southern skin. Despite the fact that she was only eighteen her figure was voluptuous, and the skilfully cut dress did nothing to minimise her curves. Not surprisingly, a bevy of porters seemed to have been vying for the privilege of carrying her luggage from the hotel. Her pigskin beauty-box was handed to her with loving solicitude. Mildly amused, Catriona found herself wondering what it would be like to possess so much blatant sex appeal, then she pushed the thought from her mind. She had enough to worry about already.

Count Vilhena established himself in the front
passenger seat, almost immediately opening a briefcase full of papers. Obviously, he had absorbing work to do.
Once the car had drawn away from the hotel steps and had begun gathering speed along the broad, mile-long drive, he hardly spared a glance for the two girls in the back.

As they sped through the dripping lanes and along crowded motorways, en route for Heathrow Airport, Toni
c
hattered a good deal, and she was obviously in high spirits because Catriona had finally decided to accompany her. But there was no doubt that she was inhibited by the presence of her half-brother. She talked very little about herself or her own past life.

Catriona, sitting quietly in her corner, stared through a wide expanse of window at the tired August countryside flashing past them. She was leaving England, and it all seemed so strange. What a lot of things could happen, sometimes, in just a few short hours, Every so often her attention was drawn back to the arrogant profile of her new employer, and once or twice she half expected him to turn round and say something, but he never lifted his eyes from the documents in front of him. Whatever his business interests were, they were evidently of paramount importance. She was sure, still, that he was a coldblooded, unpleasant man, and in some ways she felt very uneasy about the decision she had taken.

They reached the huge, sprawling airport just before twelve o’clock and having been decanted at Terminal One made their way into the booking hall. Though not noisy it was very crowded. There was a feeling of bustle, spiced with suppressed excitement. Here, after all, one took off for the Rest of the World. Here, anything was possible.

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, and 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.’