Authors: Rosamunde Pilcher
"We'll make our own beds."
"Poor thing, she's only got one dress."
"Well, buy her another."
"Perhaps she's nervous."
"Not too nervous to wash. Give her a bar of Lifebuoy."
"I'm not certain that that would make much difference. Perhaps ... for Christmas ... I could give her some talcum powder . . . ?"
But even this timid notion came to nothing, for, soon after the wedding, Lottie dropped the tray and broke the Rockingham china, and Lady Balmerino was finally driven to firing her. By Christmas Lottie was gone from Croy. Now, trapped in Mr. Ishak's shop, Edmund wondered if she still smelt. He was not about to risk finding out. Trying not to make it too obvious, he moved a pace or two away from her.
"Yes," he said, sounding as pleasant and friendly as he could. "Of course, I remember you . . ."
"Those days at Croy! The year Archie was wed to Isobel. Oh my, what times those were. I remember you coming up from London for the wedding and around the place all that week, helping Lady Balmerino with one thing and another."
"It seems a long time ago."
"Yes."
"And all of you so young. And old Lord and Lady Balmerino so good and kind. Croy's changed now, I hear, and not for the better. But then, hard times come to everybody. It was a sad day when Lady Balmerino died. She was always so good to me. She was good to my parents too. My mother and my father died. You knew that, didn't you? I've been wanting to talk to you, but somehow I missed you in the village. And all of you so young. And Archie with his two good legs . . . fancy getting his leg shot off! Never heard of anything so ridiculous . . ."
Oh, Mrs. Ishak, come back quickly. Please, Mrs. Ishak
,
come back to me.
". . . hear all your news from Edie, of course; very worried about Edie, she's grown so fat, can't be good for her heart. And all of you so young. And that Pandora! Flying around the place like a spinning top. Dreadful way she went, wasn't it? Funny she never came home. Always thought she might come back for Christmas, but no. And not to be there for Lady Balmerino's funeral, well, I'm sorry and I don't like to say such things, but in my view, it was downright unchristian. But then, she always was a wee fly-by-night ... in more ways than one . . . you and I know that, don't we?''
At this point she burst into a peal of manic laughter and actually struck Edmund a playful, but quite painful, blow on his arm. His immediate and instinctive reaction was to hit her right back, a good punch, bang, square on the end of her long, inquisitive nose. He imagined it crumpling, concertinaed, into her face. He imagined the headlines in the local newspapers: "Relkirkshire Landowner Assaults Strathcroy Lady In Village Supermarket." He thrust his hands, the fists balled, into his trouser pockets.
. . and your wife's been in London? Nice. And the wee boy with his gran. Seen him sometimes around the place. He is peaky, isn't he?" Edmund could feel the blood rising to his cheeks. He wondered how long he could continue to control himself. He could not remember when any person had cast him into such a confusion of impotent rage. ". . . small for his age, I'd say . . . not strong ..."
"I am sorry, Mr. Aird, to keep you so long." It was Mrs. Ishak's soft voice that finally stilled the flood of Lottie's mindless malice. Mrs. Ishak, bless her darling heart, come to his rescue with the cardboard crate of tonic water borne before her like a votive offering.
"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Ishak." And not a moment too soon. "Here, let me take that." He went to relieve her of the heavy load. "I wonder, can you put that down to my account?" He could easily pay in cash but did not wish to linger a moment longer than he had to.
"Of course, Mr. Aird."
"Thank you." The crate was transferred. With its weight safely in his arms, he turned to take his leave of Lottie and make his escape.
But Lottie had jumped the gun and was gone. Abruptly and disconcertingly, she had simply disappeared.
Chapter
9
Tuesday the Thirtieth
"Has she always lived in Majorca, this aunt of yours?"
"No. She's only been here for about two years. She lived in Paris before that, and New York before that, and then California before that," Lucilla said.
"A rolling stone."
"Yes, I suppose you could call her that, except that she's gathered lots of lovely moss."
Jeff laughed. "What's she like?"
"I don't know because I've never seen her. By the time I was born, she was gone, married to an immensely wealthy American and living in Palm Springs. It seemed to me that she must be the most glamorous woman in the world. So wicked and sophisticated like someone out of those old 1930 plays, with men falling for her like ninepins, and always unashamedly outrageous. She eloped when she was eighteen. Such a frightfully brave thing to do. I'd never have had the nerve. And she was beautiful."
"Will she still be beautiful?"
"I don't see why not. After all, she's only about forty, not over the hill yet. There's a portrait of her at Croy in the dining-room. It was painted when she was about fourteen and even then she was a stunner. And photographs too, all over the place, in frames or the old albums that my grandfather used to fill with snapshots. I used to welcome wet afternoons because then I could spend them poring over those old albums. And when people talked about her, even if they started by being disapproving because she'd been so thoughtless and uncaring to her parents, they always ended up by remembering some funny anecdote about Pandora, and then of course there could be nothing but laughter."
"Was she surprised when you spoke to her on the telephone?"
"Of course she was. But pleased surprised, not horrified surprised. You can always tell. At first she could hardly believe it was me. But then she just said 'Of course you can come. As soon as possible. And stay for as long as you like.' And she gave me directions and hung up." Lucilla smiled. "So you see, we're good for at least a week."
They had hired a car, a little Seat, the cheapest they could get, and were now well on their way across the island, driving over flat, intensely cultivated countryside, dotted here and there with slow-moving windmills. It was afternoon and the road ahead of them shimmered in the heat. On their left, far-distant and hazy, marched a range of impassable-looking mountains. On the other side, somewhere out of sight, lay the sea. For air, they had opened all the windows of the car, but the wind was scorching and dusty and very dry. Jeff was driving and Lucilla sat beside him, holding the scrap of paper on which she had scribbled the directions that Pandora had given her over the telephone.
She had rung Pandora from Palma, having arrived with Jeff that morning in a boat from Ibiza. They had spent a week in Ibiza, staying with Jeffs friend, Hans BergdOrf. Hans was a painter and his house had taken some finding, being at the very top of the old town, within the ancient walls of the fortified city. Finally discovered, it had proved very picturesque. It was thick
-
walled and whitewashed, but primitive beyond belief. The views from its jutting stone balcony took in the whole panorama of the old town, the new town, the harbour, and the sea, but even this delight scarcely made up for the fact that any cooking had to be done on a miniature Calor gas stove and the only running water came from a single cold tap. Consequently, both Jeff and Lucilla were extremely dirty, if not to say smelly, and the bulging backpacks piled onto the back seat of the car were stuffed with unsavoury, soiled and sweaty clothes. Lucilla, never a girl to spend time worrying about her appearance, had started to have fantasies about washing her hair, and Jeff in desperation had allowed his beard to grow. It was blonde like his hair, but uneven and straggly and made him look more like a down-and-out than a Viking. In fact, the pair of them presented such a disreputable picture that it was a wonder that the hire-car man had agreed to rent them the Seat. Lucilla had
. N
oticed a certain suspicion on his face, but Jeff had produced a wad of pesetas and, with cash safely in hand, he could scarcely refuse.
She said, "I hope Pandora's got a washing-machine."
"I'd settle for a pool."
"You can't wash your clothes in a pool."
"Want a bet?"
Lucilla gazed through the open car window. She saw that the mountains had drawn closer and the countryside become more lush. There were pine trees, and the smell of warm resin blew in through the open windows along with the dust. They came to a junction joining another main road. They paused for traffic to pass. The road sign was marked "Puerto del Fuego."
"Well, we're on the right track. What happens now?"
"We take the Puerto del Fuego road, but we have to turn off to the left in another mile or so. It's a little road and it's signposted to 'Cala San Torre.' " The traffic thinned. Taking his chance Jeff cautiously negotiated the junction. "If we find ourselves in the port, then we've gone too far."
"That follows."
Now she could smell the sea. Houses appeared, a new apartment block, a garage. They passed a riding stables with scrubby paddocks where sad, bony horses tried to graze.
"Oh, poor creatures," said the tender-hearted Lucilla, but Jeff had eyes only for the road ahead.
"There's a sign. 'Cala San Torre.'"
"That's it!"
They turned off the sun-baked dual carriageway and found themselves, abruptly, in a green and verdant countryside totally unlike the flat and exposed land through which they had been travelling. Umbrella pines threw shade across the road, speckled by sun splashes, and from ramshackle farms came the contented cackle of hens and the bleat of goats.
"It's suddenly gone pretty," Lucilla observed. "Oh, look at that sweet little donkey."
"Keep your eyes on the map, girl. What happens next?"
Lucilla obediently consulted her notes. "Well, next is a very sharp turn to the right, and then we go right up a hill to the last house at the very top."
They came upon the turning around the next corner. Jeff changed down and made the turn. The Seat, sounding as though at any moment it might boil like a kettle, ground painfully up the steep and winding lane. There were other houses, large villas scarcely glimpsed beyond closed gates and burgeoning gardens.
"This," said Lucilla, "is what estate agents call a much-sought-after neighbourhood."
"You mean snob."
"I think I mean expensive."
"I think you do too. Your aunt must be loaded."
"She's got a Californian divorce," Lucilla told him and her voice implied that there was no need to say more.
Another hundred yards or so, another hairpin bend or two, and they had reached their destination. Casa Rosa. The name, embellished on decorated tiles, was set into a high stone wall and clearly visible despite a cloak of pink-blossomed mesembryanthemum. Open gates lay ahead. A driveway, deeply bordered, sloped up to a garage. The garage had a car parked in it, and another car-an enviable silver BMW-was parked in the shade of a gnarled olive tree. Jeff switched off the engine. It was very quiet. Then Lucilla heard water splashing,! as though from a fountain, and the distant, gentle clangour of sheep bells. The mountains now were close by, their summits bleached and barren, their lower slopes silvery with groves of olive.
They got slowly and gratefully out of the car, stretching their sweaty limbs. Up here, so high, there was a breeze blowing off the sea, cool and refreshing. Lucilla, looking about her, saw that the Casa Rosa stood on a rocky bluff above them, the main entrance reached by a flight of steps. The risers of these steps were set with blue-and-white tiles, and pots of geraniums stood sentry all the way to the top. As well, all was entwined by a torrent of purple bougainvillaea; and hibiscus grew, and plumbago, and a tangle of azure-blue morning glory. The air was sweet with flowery scents mingled with the damp smell of newly watered earth.
So amazing was it all, so unlike anything they had previously experienced, that for a moment neither of them could think of anything to say. Then Lucilla whispered, "I'd no idea it would be as grand as this!"
"Well, one thing's for sure, we can't stand here all day."
"No." He was right. Lucilla turned towards the first step, leading the way. But before she had mounted the first step, the silence was broken by the sound of sharp heel-taps, hurrying along the terrace above them.
"Darlings!" A figure appeared at the head of the stairs, arms outstretched in welcome. "I heard the car. You've come. And you've not lost the way. How clever you are and how perfect to see you."
Lucilla's first impression of Pandora was one of insubstantial thinness. She looked ethereal, as though at any moment she might blow away. Embracing her was like holding a little bird. You didn't want to hug too hard in case she snapped in two. Her hair was chestnut brown, swept back from her forehead and falling, in frondy curls, to her shoulders. Lucilla guessed that Pandora had worn her hair that way when she was eighteen and had never seen any reason to change the style. Her eyes were dark grey, shadowed by sooty black lashes, and her curving mouth full and sweet. On her right cheek, just above the corner of her upper lip, was a round dark beauty spot, too sexy to be called a mole. She was dressed in loose pyjamas of the brilliant pink of the hibiscus flowers, and there were gold chains around her neck and knots of gold in her ears. She smelled . . . Lucilla knew that scent. Poison. She had tried wearing it herself but could never decide whether she loved it or hated it. Smelling it on Pandora, she was still not certain.