Unknown (20 page)

He chattered all the way past the bougainvillaea-covered fence and down the steep path, but Minella wasn’t listening. Sam was all around her. She could almost hear his voice berating her for being such an idiot, saying that she had always been a nosey brat and it served her right. When she reached the grove of trees that caught the shifting light and shimmered with magical colour she felt they ought to still reflect the pink and gold of dawn as they had that morning when he had caught her peering in the hut window, but now the sun was behind them, and they were richly green. A faint breeze rustled the leaves, like whispered criticism. She was trespassing, not only on his land but among his private possessions which he had kept hidden from prying eyes over the years, and she had no right here.

Vasco, still in a garrulous mood, was undoing the lock, and as the old wooden door opened on squeaking hinges she wanted to shout at him to close it again. Her breathing was shallow and she quivered with a new fear quite apart from the worry of being alone with Vasco. She was stealing into Sam’s life, encroaching on personal revelations that were not for her eyes, and she was
_A
frightened of seeing the portrait of Annette. Frightened in case it revealed a depth of emotion for her which she no longer wanted to know about.

Sunlight poured into the little stone hut. and Vasco held open the door, waiting for her to go inside, but she hung back.

‘I don’t think we should,’ she said. ‘Sam would be furious.’

‘It does not matter what Sam would think. Who will know we have been here? You are a coward.’ Vasco tossed the last disparaging remark over his shoulder as he went through the doorway.

He was right. She was magnifying things out of all proportion, and having come all this way with only one purpose it was quite ridiculous to let principles stand in the way. She followed him into the hut.

It was whitewashed inside as well as out and bone dry. Sam’s painting materials were scattered over a bench at one end, just as he had left them last time he had been down here working, messy tubes of oil colour strewn around amidst papers and pieces of rag, but his brushes were collected together in a stone jar beside a half-finished canvas. She touched the brushes, her fingertips hovering over the bristles near enough to cause a tingling feeling to spread up her arm. These were things that Sam used lovingly. The tingling increased and reached her scalp.

Vasco was sorting among the canvases near the window, knowing what he was looking for, and when he couldn’t find it he swore in Portuguese. Minella glanced up. On a shelf above her head was a framed canvas wrapped in polythene. She reached up and tipped the edge of the frame until it fell into her hands, nearly making her overbalance. Vasco looked round and gave a yell of delight.

‘That is the one!’

Her hands were shaking as she removed the polythene. A moment later she was staring at the portrait of her brother’s wife, knowing there had been no mistaken identity. It was a very glamorous picture. The blonde hair had light behind it, softening it, and the eyes were heavily made up, though the expression was not hidden. Annette’s mouth pouted slightly, as if she was waiting to be kissed, and it was very definitely a study of a girl in love.

‘Ah!’ breathed Vasco, gazing at it reverently.

Minella closed her eyes, hating to look at the proof of Sam and Annette’s love for each other. It was by far the best painting he had ever done, and she could see why it appealed to Vasco so strongly. Annette’s delicate beauty had been cleverly captured and a sexual attraction added which must have been very potent when she was a single girl out to win Sam Stafford. No wonder Sam still wanted her! It must have been a great shock to him when she arrived out of the blue, still as beautiful, and married to another man. Not that he would let a little thing like a wedding ring stand in the way. If the portrait was of such sentimental value he couldn’t bear anyone to see it, his memories of Annette must be even more so, and whatever the reason for his original desertion it counted for nothing now. Minella gave a choked cry.

Vasco held the picture in both hands, pleasure illuminating his face, but at the sound of her despondency he put it down carefully.

‘It’s all right, Minella Sparrow,’ he said, misjudging her reaction. ‘It is nice to see this again, but it mean nothing to me now I have you.’

He took her in his arms so abruptly she wasn’t prepared. His young mouth stifled any scream she would have made and he pressed her against him so hard she couldn’t move. Resisting with all her strength, she found the only way she could make an impression was to kick his shins, and this she did with such force he had to relinquish his hold.

‘Vasco, stop it! I don’t want you like this,’ she cried. ‘You’re my friend, that’s all.’

He was stunned. His black eyes didn’t leave her face and he was hurt more by the rebuff than the attack on his shins.

‘Friend!’ he shouted. ‘You asked me to bring you here, away from everyone. You make me think you want to be alone for the same reason as me. And now you are ... ice! I do not understand.’

He tried to regain his hold, but she backed away quickly, only to find herself cornered. Fear gripped her because there was no way she could escape. He waited like a boxer, feet astride and arms ready to catch her whichever way she darted.

‘Please, Vasco, take me home to Sam,’ she pleaded. She couldn’t have said anything worse to inflame the situation. Sam’s name was an anathema to him, and the muscles in his neck became cords of anger.

‘Sam! Always it is Sam!’ He grabbed the bench and tipped it up with a furious jerk, spilling paints and brushes everywhere. At the same time he drove a fist at Minella’s stomach, not hard enough to hurt, but she was temporarily winded as she fell among the tubes of paint. ‘Well, Sam can have you! And he can come and fetch you!’

He careered out of the hut in full temper, the noise of his going taking over from the commotion his action had caused. He slammed the door shut so hard it shuddered, and crumbling wood fibres showered to the floor. Minella couldn’t get to her feet and she screamed at him to wait, but Vasco was deaf to everything but his anger.

To her horror she heard the key turn in the lock, and she reached the window just in time to see his fleeting figure disappear among the candleberry trees.

She
returned to the debris and sat down. It had been useless to shout and her throat was hoarse, her fists sore from hammering on the door, but fear and anger had driven her to protest as loudly as she could, knowing it was futile.

Vasco would come back, of course. She pictured him reaching the top of the path and sitting on the motorbike saddle with the key burning his palm, and he would be sorry for what he had done. At any moment he would open the door, full of contrition, begging her to forgive him, which she had no intention of doing. He was impetuous and hot-tempered and it was cruel of him to frighten her like this, but he wouldn’t leave her imprisoned for long. He couldn’t possibly be that wicked!

The minutes passed and lengthened perceptibly. Insects buzzed in the cobwebbed rafters. The smell of oil paint, linseed oil and turpentine stung her nose and the heat was oppressive. She began to count her heartbeats, tried to empty her mind and stay calm, but solitary confinement was having a claustrophobic effect even in a short time. Her fingers clenched, the small bones cracking with a sharp echo in the quietness, and she listened with increasing anxiety for the sound of returning footsteps. They didn’t come.

For a while she watched a shadow on the wall, concentrating on its movement in relation to a mark on the stonework, and the gap widened as the sun moved round. It was shining now through a narrow skylight directly above the shelf where Annette’s portrait had been. Minella supposed she ought to put it back.

Why had she mentioned Sam? What on earth had made her say such a stupid thing when he was the last person she wanted to see? Greg was waiting at the house and he was the one she always turned to. She and Greg would have to stick together from now on, because it looked as if it was just going to be the two of them. She drew up her knees and cradled them with her arms, resting her cheek against them as memories swamped her in despair. For days now Sam had filled her mind completely and it was impossible to forget him. She would never do that as long as she lived, but perhaps when the pain eased she would be able to think of him more comfortably and reconcile herself to this extraordinary trick of fate. It wasn’t Sam’s fault, or Annette’s either, that they had been brought together again. All Minella longed for was to get away from this hut, and this island, where everything reminded her of her own folly. She wanted to be done with Sam for good. Except that she would be glad to see
anyone
right now to let her out of this infernal prison.

Damn Vasco! Where was he? It must be half an hour since he had stormed away, quite long enough for him to come to his senses. She got up again, fury mounting at her helplessness in this ghastly charade. It was hot in the hut. She felt as if she was suffocating and the walls were closing in on her. It had been exceptionally hot all day.

The door was old but solid. No amount of hammering on it had any effect and all she did was fill the already heavy air with more dust. The window offered no hope either. It consisted of a dozen small panes nowhere near big enough for her to climb through, and the frame was as solid and unyielding as the door. It was a waste of energy trying to make any impression on either, and she gave up for the second time.

She picked up the picture of Annette and studied it painfully. She had to get it back on the shelf out of sight, but as she reached up her foot slipped and the picture crashed to the floor. The gilt frame broke like matchwood. There was no glass to shatter, but the canvas lay face downwards with the backing loose, and if Sam found his masterpiece like that he would think it had been flung down in spite. There was nothing for it but to try to repair the damage. She lifted the picture, intending to replace the backing first, but when she examined it there was newspaper in the way, wedged in the hollow made by the canvas stretched over wooden framework. She pulled it out. What careless workmanship! She was about to throw the paper aside when a photograph on the folded front page caught her eye, and she drew in her breath. She was looking at a full page article about Sam.

The newspaper was eight years old and the headlines concerned an event that had happened one hot August day in London when an attempt was made on the life of a visiting head of State from one of the Far Eastern countries. He had been received with pomp and ceremony, and was leaving a lunchtime banquet when the would-be assassin stepped out of the crowd and fired. The first shot went wide of the mark and winged the ornate lintel a few inches to the left of the silk-robed figure it was intended to kill. The second, following instantaneously, hit Superintendant Sam Stafford of the Special Branch in the leg as he threw himself on the diminutive statesman, felling them both to the ground with split-second timing.

‘This brave man saved my husband’s life,’ the statesman’s wife was quoted as saying afterwards. ‘No award is great enough to show our gratitude and admiration. He acted selflessly and with outstanding courage.’

The photograph of Sam showed him without a beard, the square jaw, firm mouth and shrewd eyes leaving no doubt about his ruthless authority. Strength was in every line of his face. Underneath was a potted biography. His father was a judge, his mother an artist, and throughout history the family had bred tough sons. It was no surprise when Sam trained for the Special Branch and received mentions for dangerous assignments right from the beginning of his spectacular career. He had been purposely chosen as bodyguard to the Head of State after rumours of extremist threats had reached government ears, and it had been proved there was no one more capable of doing the job. Finally, it reported his condition in hospital as being serious, but goodwill messages were pouring in and his fiancee, Annette Moran, was by his bedside.

Minella lowered the paper, mesmerised by what she had read and still seeing the picture of Sam in her mind. To think she had once wondered if he might be a crooked art dealer! Anyone in their right mind would have known the kind of man he was, and if she hadn’t been blinded by her own conflicting emotions she would have seen it, too. Only once had he hinted at anything like the truth, and she had thought he was joking. Oh, Sam! What a wonderful, heroic thing to have done! She re-read the page again, and found her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

She felt very small and insignificant. She had had the temerity to fall in love with someone so far beyond her reach it was laughable. When she thought of the dangers he had faced, the people he had mixed with, the respect and fear he had commanded, she was amazed he had even looked at her at all. No wonder he lost patience with her easily! She dreaded what his reaction would be to this latest escapade.

And then she decided she didn’t care. Annette had been with him after he was wounded, probably out of her mind with worry, and all the thanks she had got was a disappearing act as soon as he was fit to leave. Perhaps he thought she wasn’t good enough for him after all the praise and adulation he received. The tale about him losing his job must have been pure fabrication. He was a swollen-headed, arrogant devil, out to cover himself in glory. Why else would he have treated them to that vain display yesterday at the bullfight?

Yesterday. It seemed like a month ago.

Minella glanced at the newspaper once more, then put it carefully back with Annette’s portrait. It might be wiser not to let him know she had seen it, for while it answered many questions that had puzzled her, it posed even more, and she was determined not to become further involved. She pressed her fingers to her temples. Her head was throbbing.

She went back to the window and peered through the trees for a sign of movement that might mean someone had come to look for her, but the trees were motionless. To occupy her mind she tried to remember what Sam had told her about them. Candleberry trees, he had called them. They were candleberry myrtle, but the first settlers had thought they were beech and named them
faya.
They grew very quickly and protected the orange groves from thieves better than stone walls, and because they covered the landscape, the island was called Fayal after them. These were protecting Sam’s property. She imagined them getting taller even as she watched shadows play among the leaves, and they seemed to be closing in on her. She had never felt so small and alone in her life.