Sleeping Tiger (11 page)

Selina said, “Are we going to be all right?”

“Why shouldn't we be all right?”

“I'm frightened of thunder.”

“It can't hurt you.”

“Lightning can.”

“Well, then, be frightened of lightning.”

“I am. I'm frightened of that, too.”

She felt that he should apologise, but he merely felt in his pocket and pulled out a soggy packet of cigarettes. He chucked this into the spitting fireplace, and went prowling, searching for more, eventually running a packet to earth in the galley. He took one and lit it, and then, while he was there, poured himself a stiff whisky. He brought the glass to the well, let down the bucket and brought it up brimfull, and, with a dexterity born of long practice, tipped the water from the bucket into the glass without spilling a drop.

He said, “Do you want a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

He took a mouthful of whisky and stood watching her, and she couldn't guess if he was laughing or not. They were both of them as wet as if they had fallen into a bath. Selina had shucked off her ruined shoes and now stood in an ever-widening puddle of water with her dress-hem dripping and her hair plastered to her face and neck. Being wet did not appear to bother George Dyer as much as it bothered her. She said, “I suppose you're used to this sort of thing,” and tried to wring out the hem of her dress. “There wasn't even any need for it. We could easily have sheltered till the storm was over. Rudolfo would have let us.…”

He set down the glass with a small clash, and went across the room, and, two at a time, up the ladder to the gallery.

“Here,” he said, and threw down a pair of pyjamas. “And here.” They were followed by a towelling robe. There was the sound of a drawer being opened and shut. “And here.” A towel. He stood, his hands on the rail, looking down at her. “Use the bathroom. Take everything off and give yourself a rub and get changed.”

Selina went to pick up the clothes. As she opened the bathroom door, a wet shirt came over the gallery rail to be followed by a soaking pair of denims. Swiftly she shot into the bathroom and locked the door.

When she emerged, dried and dressed in the over-large clothes, and with her hair wrapped in a turban of dry towel, she found a certain metamorphosis had taken place.

The fire was blazing brightly once more, and there were three or four lighted candles standing about in old wine bottles. The transistor radio was playing flamenco music, and George Dyer had not only changed and cleaned himself up, but shaved as well. He wore a white polo-necked sweater, and a pair of blue serge pants, and red leather slippers. He was sitting on the hearth with his back to the fire, reading one of his English newspapers and looking as relaxed as any gentleman in his country home. He glanced up as she came in.

“Well, there you are.”

“What shall I do with all my wet things?”

“Chuck them on the bathroom floor. Juanita can cope in the morning.”

“Who's Juanita?”

“My maid. Maria's sister. Do you know who Maria is? She runs the grocery store in the village.”

“The mother of Tomeu.”

“So you have already met Tomeu.”

“Tomeu brought us here today; he led the way on his bicycle.”

“Tomeu brought a chicken in that big basket of groceries. It's in the oven now. Come and sit by the fire and get warm. I'll pour you a drink.”

“I don't want a drink.”

“Don't you ever drink?”

“My grandmother didn't really approve.”

“Your grandmother, if you'll excuse the expression, sounds an old bitch.”

Despite herself, Selina smiled. “She wasn't really.”

He was surprised by the smile. Still watching it, he said, “What part of London do you live in?”

“Queen's Gate.”

“Queen's Gate, S.W.7. And very nice, too. And I suppose your Nanny took you for walks in Kensington Gardens?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“No.”

“Uncles and aunts?”

“No. Nobody.”

“No wonder you were so desperately in need of a father.”

“I wasn't desperately in need. I just wanted one.”

George rocked his glass, watching the tilting amber liquid. He said, “You know, it's occurred to me that people you … are fond of … they go on living until some meddlesome fool comes and tells you they're dead.”

Selina said, “I was told years ago that my father was dead.”

“I know, but to-day you've been told for the second time. And it was I who killed him.”

“It wasn't your fault.”

“I'm sorry, just the same.” He added, more gently, “You could do with a drink. Just to warm you up.”

She shook her head, and he let it go, but it made him feel uncomfortable just the same. He was so used to being with Frances, who could hold her own, drink for drink, even if she did get a little blurry by the end of the evening, and ready to fight at the drop of a hat; and the next day she was as clear-headed and bright-eyed as ever, if you could discount the slight tremor of her hand as she reached out for the tenth cigarette of the morning.

But this child. He looked at her. Her skin was like ivory, creamy, quite unflawed. As he watched, she took the towel off her head and began to rub at her hair to dry it, and her ears showed, touching, and vulnerable as the back of a baby's neck.

She said, “What are we going to do?”

“What about?”

“About the money. And paying Rudolfo, and getting me back to London.”

“I don't know. I'll have to think about it.”

“I could cable my bank in London, and they'd send me something.”

“Yes, you could.”

“Would it take long?”

“Three or four days.”

“Don't you think, perhaps, I should try and get a room at the Cala Fuerte Hotel?”

“I doubt if Rudolfo would have you.”

“I don't really blame him, you know. Even when he was sober, Toni was rather terrifying. Drunk, he must have been really scarey.”

“I doubt if he scared Rudolfo.”

“Well … where am I going to stay?”

“Where else but here? In the
Matrimoniale.
I'd go out to
Eclipse,
only not in this weather, and it won't be the first time I've slept on the sofa.”

“If anyone's going to sleep on a sofa, then it should be me.”

“Whichever you like. It's all the same to me. I'm sorry that the Casa Barco isn't more conveniently designed, but there's little I can do about it now. I never imagined I'd have a daughter come to stay.”

“But I'm not your daughter.”

“Then let's say you're George Dyer Junior.”

7

Six years ago, when George Dyer had first come to live at Cala Fuerte, Juanita had presented herself at his door and announced, with great dignity, that she would like to work for him. She was the wife of a farmer from San Estaban, she had four children, who were at school in the village, and poverty was never far away. She needed the work, because she needed the money, but there was nothing in her erect and proud demeanour to give any hint of this. She was a small woman, with the square, toiling sturdiness of a working peasant, dark-eyed, short-legged, and with a smile of great charm only spoiled by the fact that she had never cleaned her teeth.

Each morning she was up at half past four, did the daily chores in her own house, fed her family and saw them off to work, and then walked down the hill from San Estaban to Cala Fuerte to present herself at the Casa Barco at half past seven. She cleaned and cooked for George, did the washing and the ironing, combed the cat and weeded the garden, and was not averse, if the need arose, to taking the dinghy out to
Eclipse
and scrubbing down her decks as well.

When
Fiesta at Cala Fuerte
was published, George gave her a complimentary copy, with a dedication written on the fly-leaf,
“Juanita from George Dyer, with love and respect,”
and it was perhaps her most precious possession, after the marriage bed which had been bequeathed to her by her grandmother, and the linen sheets, heavy as leather, which she had embroidered herself. She spoke no English and read in no language, but the book was already on show in her house, arranged, like an ornament, with a lace doily all to itself. She never let herself into his house. In Juanita's code, this appeared to be a breach of etiquette. Instead, she would sit outside, on the wall, with her hands in her lap and her legs crossed at the ankle, like Royalty, and wait for him to come and open the door and let her in. He would say,
“Buenos días,
Juanita,” and they would exchange pleasantries about the weather, and she would ask how the Señor had slept. He had never discovered the reason for this strange shibboleth, and did not like to ask. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he did not have a wife.

The morning after the storm he awoke at seven. He had slept on the sofa, after all, because he hadn't the heart to take the comfortable bed for himself. It was very quiet. The wind had died, and when he got up and went to open his shutters and go out on to the terrace, the morning was fresh and quiet as a pearl, without a cloud in the sky, and the world smelt damp and sweet after the rain, although the water of the harbour was murky from the rough weather, and a certain amount of devastation would have to be cleared away. To start with, he picked up his rickety terrace furniture from where it had been ignominiously blown, and tipped a puddle of water from the top of the table, and then he went back inside, and lit a cigarette, and thought that he would make a cup of tea. There was, however, no water in the kettle and he did not like to let the bucket down the well for fear of waking Selina.

He looked for his clothes, but the sweater and pants he had worn last night were unsuitable for the day's work, so he went to the gallery to fetch himself some others. Selina still slept like a child, engulfed by George's pyjamas and the enormous bed. Moving quietly, he took the first shirt and pair of pants that came to hand, and eased himself down the ladder again. He had a shower (the water was icy after the storm) and dressed, and then went to open the door for Juanita. She had not arrived, but if the door stood open, she would come in and start to cook his breakfast. Then he went back out on to the terrace, down the steps to the slipway, pushed out the dinghy and rowed out to
Eclipse.

She seemed to have weathered the storm with her usual calm. He checked her mooring ropes, then went aboard. With a certain amount of forethought he had secured the tarpaulin cover over the cockpit, and although this sagged with pools of water, the cockpit itself was relatively dry. He loosened off a couple of straining halyards, and went below to make sure that his forward hatches had not let in any of the rain. Reassured, he returned to the cockpit, and perched himself on the coaming and lit a cigarette.

It was going to be a very warm day. Already steam was rising from the wet decks, and the tarpaulin, which he had spread out to dry. The air was so clear that he could see far inland, beyond the distant cross of San Estaban; and so quiet that when a fisherman, busy on his boat, talked in undertones to a companion, George could hear every word. There was only the slightest movement of water. The dinghy's prow resisted this, with a soft lapping sound, but the yacht moved lightly, as though she were breathing.

Soothed by familiar surroundings, familiar smells and sounds, George felt himself begin to unwind. Calmly, now, he could consider the day ahead, and give a certain order to the problems which beset him.

The first was Rudolfo. He did not mind the row; it was not the first and it would not be the last, but Rudolfo was not a wealthy man, and somehow, and soon, the six hundred pesetas had to be paid back. George could not risk waiting until his own money was cleared by the bank in Barcelona. These delays had happened before, and he had once had to wait nearly a month before it came through. If, however, they sent a cable to Selina's bank there was the possibility that the money would be in San Antonio in three or four days, and Rudolfo, knowing this, would be only too pleased to put her up at his hotel, and that way conventions would be respected, and no fine feelings, vulnerable in Cala Fuerte, would be offended.

On the other hand, there was Frances. Frances would lend him six hundred pesetas and Selina's return air fair, if George could bring himself to ask her. But with Frances, money talked. And if he was going to get into her debt, he would not do it for Rudolfo, nor a girl who had come looking for her father, but on his own account, because only he would be able to settle the bill.

A movement from Casa Barco caught his eye, and he looked up and saw that Juanita was on the terrace, hanging the red-and-white blanket from the sofa over the washing line in order to air it. She wore a pink dress and a brown apron, and she went back into the house, only to reappear with a broom, and began to clear up the debris of last night's broken flowerpots.

George wonderd how he was going to explain the presence of Selina in his bed. He had always been very careful never to let such a situation arise, and as far as Juanita was concerned, he had no idea how she might react. He did not like the thought of deceiving her, but on the other hand he did not want to lose her—for any reason. He could tell her the truth, but it was so far-fetched that he doubted whether the simple Juanita would swallow it. Or he could say that Selina was a visiting cousin, who had had to spend the night because of the storm. After some deliberation he decided that this was the best story, and had the added advantage of being more or less true. He tossed his cigarette overboard, let himself down into the dinghy and rowed gently back to Casa Barco.

Juanita was in the galley, boiling a kettle for his coffee

“
Buenos días,
Juanita.”