But she broke off in obvious astonishment as she recognised Christina and her face changed remarkably from smiling welcome to veiled hostility: ‘Christina! In heaven’s name, Christina, what are you doing here?’
Christina felt the first twinges of real anxiety. ‘I—I walked here—from the station at Lagos!’
Sheila shook her head incredulously. ‘But what are you doing here in Portugal? I thought you were at university!’
Christina’s fingers fumbled with the ropes of her duffel bag. ‘I was. It’s the summer vac, Sheila.’
Sheila Ashley spread a hand helplessly. ‘Christina, maybe I’m phrasing my questions badly, or maybe you’re deliberately misunderstanding me, I don’t know, but I want to know why, even if it is the summer vacation, you’re here!’
Christina’s anxieties crystallised into real doubts. ‘Do—do you mean to say—I’m not expected?’ she ventured carefully, her grey eyes never leaving her sister-in-law’s face.
Sheila Ashley was an attractive woman. In her early thirties she had all the poise and elegance of a fashion model. Tall and slim, with sleek dark hair knotted at the back of her head, she had none of the slightly harassed air sometimes visible in the faces of married women, and Christina privately thought that that was because nothing ever moved Sheila. Nothing ever troubled her more than slightly, and as she had no children no disfiguring bulk of pregnancy had ever marred that slender frame. But right now Sheila was disturbed. It was visible in the tightening of her lips, in the narrowing of her dark eyes, in the way she plucked almost nervously at the fine material of her thin dress.
‘How could you be?’ she began now, in answer to Christina’s question. ‘We didn’t even know the term was over.’
Christina felt an overwhelming sense of impatience. It was obvious now. Bruce had not told his wife she was coming. And because she had not written to let him know when she was arriving he had not had a chance to tell her. She should have known that Sheila would be the last person to welcome her young sister-in-law into their home.
But now Christina had to say something, and realising it would serve no useful purpose to explain that Bruce had written to her inviting her to stay and help them with the hotel, she said:
‘I naturally assumed that once the university closed I would be welcome here for a couple of weeks. Now that Father’s dead—–’
‘But you should have let us know you were coming, Christina,’ Sheila burst out. ‘I mean, your father’s been dead ten months now, and you must have realised before the term ended that you would have to find a job of sorts to support yourself now that university’s closed!’
Christina hesitated. ‘Actually, I thought I might help you here, Sheila.’
Sheila’s eyes widened in amazement. ‘You mean—you mean work here—in the hotel!’
‘Yes.’ Christina glanced through the open doorway towards the uncleared tables on the forecourt. ‘Don’t you need some help?’
Sheila was clearly battling within herself now, unable to find any logical reason to reject such a suggestion. ‘We manage,’ she began. ‘There’s not just Bruce and me, you know. Julio serves in the bar in the evenings, and Maria does all the cooking.’
Christina wondered where Bruce could be. Standing here in the hall like this, arguing with Sheila, was hardly the welcome she had envisaged, and she had the distinct feeling that Sheila would send her away without even seeing her brother if she could.
‘Where is Bruce?’ she questioned now. ‘Isn’t he here?’
‘No—yes—that is, he’s out right now.’ Sheila bit her lip. ‘Look, Christina, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but quite honestly you’re not the type to work in the hotel.’ She surveyed Christina’s appearance critically. ‘What on earth could you do?’
‘I can make beds, wash dishes—anything you like.’ Christina sighed. ‘Do you think I could have a cup of tea? I’m terribly thirsty.’
Sheila gave in with ill grace. Short of physically ejecting Christina from the building there was little else she could do. ‘Very well,’ she agreed shortly. ‘Come through here. Our rooms are at the back of the hotel.’
Christina followed her sister-in-law along a white-emulsioned passage to a room at the back of the building which overlooked a walled garden. It was not a big garden, but it was a veritable wilderness of flowers and flowering shrubs. Christina stared out at the confusion in delight, wondering how anyone could allow such beauty to go to waste.
Sheila, noticing her interest, commented off-handedly: ‘We don’t have time to attend to the garden. When Bruce has the time, he’s going to find a gardener.’
Christina thought she might have added, when Bruce can afford it, but she refrained from making any response and dropping her duffel bag and suitcase thankfully, she flung herself into a low basket weave chair. Sheila walked through into a small kitchen, and Christina could hear her filling the kettle and setting cups on saucers. There was a kind of suppressed violence about the way each cup clattered into its place, and Christina sighed, cupping her chin on one hand dejectedly. She had expected antipathy from Sheila, but not to this extent.
Sheila came back into the room. ‘How long did you expect to stay?’ she asked abruptly.
Christina was taken aback. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Of course it matters. Christina, this is Porto Cedro, not the Kings Road! Things are different here. Oh, I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to you, but—well, your ways are so very different from ours. People here are not so—easy-going, as they are back in England. I can’t speak for Portugal as a whole, of course, but here in the Algarve, in Porto Cedro particularly, we observe the codes of conduct that have been upheld here for centuries!’
Christina frowned. ‘Don’t you mean the rules for the Portuguese?’
‘Yes, of course. And as we live here—we make our living in this village—we are expected to conform, too.’
‘You can’t be serious!’ Christina stared at her.
‘Of course I’m serious. That’s why I find your presence here so hard to condone. Christina, you’re a nice girl, and I’ve no doubt in England your attitudes would go unnoticed—–’
‘What do you mean? My attitudes?’ Christina was stung by the scathing note in Sheila’s voice.
‘Well, honestly, dear, one doesn’t wear slacks, let alone jeans, unless one is going sailing, of course. And young women are protected here. They’re not even allowed to mix with their fiancés unless a chaperon is on hand—–’
‘But I’m not Portuguese, Sheila—–’
‘But can’t you see, Christina, I’m trying to explain. When one lives in a country—when one makes one’s living from that country—one is expected to observe the rules,’
‘Rules!’ Christina raised her eyes heavenward. ‘Honestly, Sheila, you can’t expect me to believe that no tourists appear here dressed as I’m dressed. That everyone who visits Porto Cedro observes these so-called rules!’
‘Of
