Island of Mermaids (3 page)

‘
No trick at all, I assure you. I didn
’
t mean to offend you in any way.
’

Carla finally flounced out of the room, vowing that she would never allow Althea or any other girl to come between her and the one man in all the world who could turn her dismal life into a dream of beauty and joy.

In her own bedroom Althea decided that if Kent Sanderby was to prove such a troublesome acquaintance she would give him a wide berth. She would certainly not call again at his Villa Castagna, and since he was an unwelcome visitor to Signora Emilia Marchetti, it was unlikely that he would come frequen
tl
y to the Villa Stefano.

At dinner Carla had composed herself into a polite calm and Althea made great efforts to restore the amicable relationship between herself and the Italian girl.

‘
One of my nephews is shortly coming to stay for a week or two,
’
announced Signora Marchetti at the end of the meal.
‘
Cristoforo.
’

Carla clapped her hands enthusiastically.
‘
Oh, that is good. I am so fond of Cristo.
’

Her mother beamed, and Althea wondered if the Signora hoped for a marriage between Carla and Cristo or whether it was merely a question of a suitable cousinly escort.

Two days later the young man arrived from Rome where he lived with his mother, Signora Leonora Turriani.

Cristoforo Turriani looked younger than the twenty-five years he admitted. His figure was slender and boyish and his lean face had scarcely achieved hard masculine contours. His dark brown eyes, however, held sometimes the open frank look of youth and, much more often, the bold or subtle admiring glances of a much older man well versed in the arts of love and confident of his power to attract women.

Carla evidently liked him, for she seemed invigorated by his presence. Perhaps, Althea thought, in Carla
’
s eyes any visitor, especially male, was preferable to a humdrum existence.

When Carla sang after dinner, Cristo sat close to Althea, his eyes gleaming with appraisal that held invitation. At the end of Carla
’
s songs he clapped vigorously, as though to prove that he had concentrated on drinking in every word, every note. Yet his eyes strayed constantly to Althea, until she began to find his scrutiny slightly embarrassing.

‘
Let us go into the garden and watch the sea,
’
he suggested.
‘
We have your permission, Zia Emilia?
’

His aunt graciously nodded and began a conversation with Althea
’
s father.

An excuse to escape would have been both churlish and unnecessary. Althea could easily find some pretext for leaving Carla and Cristo alone with each other. But Althea had not counted on Carla
’
s quick-wittedness. The three had scarcely reached the end of the path flanked by orange and lemon trees before Carla exclaimed,
‘
Oh, I forgot! I promised to telephone someone.
’
Her flame-coloured dress flashed, then vanished around the curve before Althea had quite taken in the girl
’
s excuse.

Cristo nodded his satisfaction.
‘
Now we shall be alone for a short time and you will tell me about yourself, your life, everything.
’

A long stone beach strategically placed in front of the parapet that overlooked the amethyst sea was the obvious choice for after-dinner confidences and Althea agreed, almost in spite of herself, to sit down with Cristo and answer some of his questions.

She told him briefly how she had worked with her father until his illness.
‘
Then we came here,
’
she finished.

‘
And you will live here with my aunt all the summer or even longer?
’
he asked eagerly.

‘
The summer, yes. After that, I
’
m not sure where we shall go. It depends on my father
’
s health.
’

‘
But you must stay here—for a long time.
’
He had seized one of her hands.
‘
Please say you will stay. We must learn to know each other.
’

In a way Althea was rather amused by this extremely intense young man, but she was not foolish enough to believe that his apparent instant attraction to her would be of any lasting duration. This was merely the Italian temperament.

She gently withdrew her hand.
‘
Perhaps we should go
back to the house.
’

His face indicated an almost childish chagrin.
‘
So soon? We have been here scarcely two minutes.
’

‘
More than half an hour,
’
she corrected him with a smile.

He leaned towards her, his mouth only a few inches away, but she rose smartly and moved along the path towards the house.

‘
A young man who loses no time in pursuing a first acquaintanceship,
’
she told her reflection in the dressing
-
table mirror as she prepared for bed.

Still, he would probably be staying at the villa for only short visits of a week or so at a time, and Althea believed that after this first headlong rush, Cristo would soon regard her merely as someone staying at his aunt
’
s villa for a few months.

After lunch next day Althea took the bus down to Capri. The little town fascinated her with its piazza and the narrow streets leading off from it, streets that were traffic-free. Indeed, the lanes were so narrow that one had to stand well aside to allow a handcart to make progress.

At this hour the streets were almost empty and she strolled leisurely in the direction of the Gardens of Augustus, a visit she had intended to make ever since she had come to the island.

She walked slowly, not so much because of the afternoon heat, for it was yet only mid-May, but because she wanted to savour the unexpected glimpses of so many varied details. Gaily coloured porches and doorways wreathed in vines; a sudden vista of the distant sea between the whitewashed houses. Sometimes a house, disdaining the universal whiteness, revealed its basic red volcanic stone; windows glowed with carnations, leading the eye upwards to roofs and the overhanging clear blue sky. The contrast when one glanced at the roadway underfoot, sombre black lava, was almost overpowering, like a canvas where the artist has forgotten restraint.

She toured the gardens, landscaped in slopes and terraces to make the most of varying levels, and on her return journey made a detour to wander about the old Carthusian monastery and through its shady cloisters.

By the time she walked back to the piazza the square was alive with people, for this was the hour when everyone emerged to do their shopping, chat with friends, drink coffee or wine at the cafes.

She shopped first, making a few purchases for her father and herself, then went to one of the cafes in the piazza.

She had scarcely sat down before the doctor who attended her father came up to her table.

‘
Miss Buckland! It is charming to see you,
’
he greeted her.
‘
May I order something for you?
’

‘
Thank you, Dr. Fortini. I
’
d like coffee. Will you join me if you have time?
’

He gave the order to the waiter and fanned himself with his hat.
‘
Today I have time,
’
he answered.
‘
My patients tell me they are well and do not need me, but of course it is now May and the time for enjoyment and sitting in the sun.
’

‘Do
you think my father is also improving?
’
she asked.

‘Y
es, but not very fast. He is better only if he takes great care not to exert himself too much. I know your father,
signorina.
If I tell him he is much better, then he thinks he can climb Monte Solaro on foot or scramble down to the Baths of Tiberio. Before I can say two words, he will be off to Naples—or even Milan—to stir up his business affairs.
’

Althea smiled.
‘Yes,
Doctor. You know my father well. I try to keep a balance between depressing him about lack of progress and inciting him to all sorts of rash impulses.
’

On his regular visits to the Villa Stefano, Althea had come to regard Dr. Fortini as a friend as well as a medical adviser. He was in his late fifties, with a deeply-tanned face and very keen brown eyes that observed but gave nothing away. He had spent most of his medical life practising in the poorer parts of Naples. Now he was semi-retired and lived in Anacapri in a small, pink-washed house at the foot of Monte Solaro. He still spent much of his time attending to patients in all parts of the island and was especially loved by children who often played in his garden or trotted along the street with him and waited outside the houses he visited.

Suddenly she became aware that a tall figure loomed above the table. The doctor glanced up and exclaimed enthusiastically,
‘
Kent Sanderby? My dear fellow, I did not know you had come back to us. When? How long have you been here?
’
Then, remembering Althea, he presented Kent Sanderby to her.

‘
We
’
ve already met,
’
Althea acknowledged in a cool voice.

‘
You are near neighbours,
’
the doctor continued.
‘
The Villa Stefano and Signor Sanderby
’
s old ruin are only a short distance apart.
’

‘
Yes,
’
answered Althea lamely.

Kent Sanderby was regarding her with a slightly amused air.
‘
May I join you and Dr. Fortini?
’
he asked her politely.

‘
Of course. Why not?
’

He ordered wine for all three, but it seemed that the doctor had discovered how time flies. No
sooner had he swallowed his wi
ne with rather more haste than a good wine deserves than he rose from the table, made hurried goodbyes and left Kent and Althea together.

There was a long silence between them, although all around was the continuous hum of chatter punct
u
ated by laughter. Althea sipped her wine. Then the bell in the church tower across the piazza chimed the hour. She gathered her parcels and handbag.
‘
I must be going back to Anacapri,
’
she said.
‘
Thank you for the wine.
’

His head was turned away from her.
‘
Take a look at the scene around you.
’
He ignored her readiness to leave.
‘
There
’
s something very operatic about it—or perhaps more of a musical comedy. That flight of steps in front of the church, this cluster of cafes, the parapet of the terrace over there with the whole view of the Bay of Naples as a natural backcloth. Every time I sit here I wait for the strolling crowd to group themselves against
th
is perfect setting and begin a rousing chorus.
’

‘
Yes, I see exactly what you mean.
’
The atmosphere of colour and movement was indeed theatrical, but Mr. Sanderby had given lucid expression to her unconscious impression.

He turned towards her with a smile.
‘
Oh, I
’
m not being original. A number of people, writers, painters, poets, have all made similar comments about the place.
’

‘
But I
’
m told you
’
re a composer, so you would see it in terms of music.
’

‘
Oh? Composer? It sounds rather a grand designation. All I
’
m capable of is writing a few tunes which one day may mould themselves into a fairly short opera.
’

‘
Am I allowed to ask what it
’
s about?
’
she queried.
‘
Or are you one of those people who don
’
t like talking about what they
’
re trying to create.
’

He rested his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands.
‘
I suppose Carla gave you this high-flown version of me.
’

‘
She told me one or two facts about you. At least, I suppose they were facts.
’

‘
Including the fact that her mother, Signora Emilia, would dearly love to kick me out of her house.
’

‘
Perhaps Carla
’
s mother doesn
’
t wish to encourage someone she thinks might be a bad influence on her daughter.
’
Althea could not resist that dig.

He laughed.
‘
Those wild parties last year! A few of my friends came for a
little
music and dancing. I asked the Marchettis, mother and daughter, to the first one, but Mamma didn
’
t care for the company, apparently, although everyone was quite well-behaved. After that, it seemed that Carla was forbidden to come, but she sneaked out at nights, although I warned her that sooner or later her mother would find out and then I should be clearly in the soup.
’

‘
Perhaps Carla is at the age where she resents discipline and is determined to flout her mother
’
s wishes just for the sake of being a daredevil.
’

‘
If I give any parties this year, will you come?
’
His eyes held mocking gleams.

‘
I
’
ll wait until the invitations arrive,
’
she answered smoothly.
‘
I was in some trouble with both Carla and her mother over your visit.
’

‘
And why was that?
’
he queried with a blandness that irritated her.
‘
What objections could they make when I was really calling on you—and your father?
’
he added belatedly.

Althea realised now that she had disclosed too much.
‘
Oh, because you
’
re not popular with them, I suppose,
’
she answered casually.

For a moment or two he was silent, but she became uneasily aware that he was scrutinising her, although she carefully kept her glance fixed on the other side of the piazza.

‘
You mean you hadn
’
t said anything about that slight accident or meeting me?
’
he hazarded.
‘
So of course when I called, I clumsily let the cat out of the bag?
’

She turned towards him, an expression of distaste on her face.
‘
There were not exactly cats to be let out of bags. I didn
’
t know then that you were the man whom Carla thought of as her special friend, the composer.
’

‘
And she made a scene?
’
His eyebrows lifted.
‘
Oh, you
’
ll soon get used to Carla
’
s outbursts. They
’
re usually over nothing or anything.
’