Mask Of Scars. Anne Mather

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      Christina looked down at her worn jeans. ‘Yes, I have dresses. I make my own, mostly. But quite honestly, Bruce, I’m more at home in trousers. I never wear anything else back—back—–’

      She had been about to say back home, when it suddenly occurred to her with rather shattering poignancy that there was no back home any more. There was back in England, or back at the university, but that was all.

      Bruce seemed to sense her sudden remorse, for he moved towards the door, swinging it open and saying: ‘Come on! Sheila should have that supper made by now. I’ll show you round the hotel tomorrow. I guess tonight all you need is something to eat and then bed!’

      Christina’s room overlooked the sub-tropical brilliance of the walled garden at the back of the hotel. It was not a large room, but it was attractively furnished with light walnut and apricot coverings and curtains. Obviously all the rooms at the front of the hotel overlooking the sweep of beach and ocean were reserved for paying guests, but Christina didn’t mind. The scents from the garden floated in through her open windows and she could hear the sea even if she couldn’t see it.

      The morning after her arrival, she awoke with a feeling of something ominous hanging over her head, but the feeling dispersed as she washed and dressed and did her hair. It was early in the morning, only a little after six-thirty, but the air was warm and the entrancingly blue sky was an open invitation to be outdoors which Christina could not resist.

      Heeding Bruce’s kindly remonstrances, she dressed in a plain shift of periwinkle poplin and she secured the long weight of her hair with an elastic band. As she seldom wore make-up her skin was smooth and she knew that in a few days the sun would begin to tan her a golden brown. She had not the usual fair skin that went with her hair, and in consequence the sun did not burn her. The skirt of her dress was absurdly short, but that was something she could not help, and she only hoped Sheila would appreciate the change of attire too much to notice details.

      Downstairs she found a young man sweeping in the dining room, and he looked up with interest at her appearance. ‘Bom dia, menina!’ he said cheerfully.

      Christina smiled. He was a very handsome young man, and it was a relief to meet someone who did not immediately disapprove of her. ‘Bom dia,’ she answered his greeting. ‘You—you must be Julio.’

      ‘Esta bem, menina.’ The young man nodded. ‘And you are Senhor Ashley’s sister, sim?’

      ‘Yes.’ Christina was relieved that he spoke English even if his accent was rather pronounced. ‘It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?’

      ‘A lovely morning,’ he repeated slowly. ‘Sim, menina, muito formoso!’ A smile spread over his face. ‘You are here to stay long?’

      Christina shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ She glanced round. ‘You start work very early.’

      Julio leant lazily on his brush. ‘Sim, I start early. But then I am free later in the morning.’

      ‘Ah!’ Christina nodded understandingly. ‘And then what do you do?’

      Julio narrowed his eyes. ‘Many things, menina. Sometimes I swim—sometimes I go out in the boat. Senhor Ashley—your brother—and I sometimes go—how do you say it—skin-diving, sim?’

      ‘Do you? How super!’ Christina was enthusiastic. ‘Does Bruce have a boat?’

      Julio nodded. ‘A small one, menina. Do you skin-dive, also?’

      Christina shook her head laughingly. ‘Not yet. But I’d like to learn.’

      ‘Perhaps you would permit me to teach you?’ Julio’s eyes were eloquent with meaning, and Christina felt excitement bubbling up inside her. She could not remain subdued for long, and already the morning which had seemed so foreboding when she awoke had brightened considerably.

      Last night when she had gone to bed she had found herself wishing she had never agreed to come here in the first place. Sheila’s antagonism had been like a tangible wall of opposition, and she had felt certain that nothing could alter the situation.

      But now, this morning, with the sun spreading its warmth over the magnificent sweep of sea and shoreline visible through the open door of the hotel, and Julio’s undeniable attraction, Christina began to feel entirely different.

      ‘Perhaps you could,’ she responded now, in answer to Julio’s question, and they shared a mutual smile of anticipation.

      ‘I suggest you get on with your work, Julio!’ snapped a brittle voice behind them, and Christina swung round to face her sister-in-law.

      ‘Oh—good morning, Sheila,’ she murmured uncomfortably. ‘Isn’t it a marvellous morning?’

      Sheila raised her eyebrows indifferently. ‘I haven’t had time to notice,’ she commented brusquely. ‘Now—if you’ll come with me, Christina, I’ll find you something to do, and introduce you to Maria, our cook.’

      Christina cast one lingering glance at the vista outside before shrugging her shoulders resignedly. Julio, turning back to his own chores, closed one eye deliberately, and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth before she followed Sheila down the hall to a door at the far end.

      They entered an enormous kitchen. It was partially tiled and spotlessly clean, with many modern amenities. A rotund Portuguese woman of indeterminate age was in the process of taking a tray of newly baked rolls out of the oven as they entered, and she beamed cheerfully as she placed the tray on the scrubbed wooden table in the centre of the room. The rolls smelt delicious, and Christina’s mouth watered in anticipation.

      ‘Bom dia, Maria!’ said Sheila coolly. ‘This is Senhor Ashley’s sister. She’s come to help us for a while.’

      Maria nodded smilingly, but Christina didn’t altogether care for Sheila’s method of introduction. It seemed obvious that so far as her sister-in-law was concerned, she was to be treated in exactly the same way as the other employees.

      Now Sheila looked round, seemed satisfied with what she could see, and went on: ‘I’ll leave Menina Christina with you, Maria. After she’s had something to eat, perhaps you could give her something to do. Preparing breakfast trays—something like that?’

      ‘Sim, senhora.’ Maria was polite.

      ‘Good.’ Sheila nodded and walked to the door. ‘I expect I’ll see you later, Christina.’

      Christina didn’t bother to make any comment. Sheila expected none, and besides, what could she say that had not already been said? So she merely nodded, and after Sheila had gone she looked expectantly at the cook.

      ‘You are hungry, menina?’ Maria’s face was never long without a smile. It was evident from the upward tilt of her wide mouth and the laughter lines beside her eyes.

      Now Christina nodded eagerly. ‘Starving,’ she agreed, smiling in return. ‘Do you think I could have some coffee and rolls?’

      ‘Why not?’ Maria moved to the dresser which stood against one wall and came back with a dish of yellow butter and some plates. ‘There you are, menina.’ She moved back to the stove. ‘I will make the coffee.’

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