The Japanese Screen Page 15

  Marla shook her head. ‘But what will Tia Amalia say? Does she know?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Susannah’s tone was dry. Then she tried to instil a little enthusiasm into the girl. ‘Marla, we could go to Cadiz. I’ve never been there. I’m longing to see something of the countryside around the casa. You can show me!’

  Marla still looked hesitant. ‘And my father permits this?’

  Susannah controlled her impatience. ‘Why not?’

  Marla shrugged. ‘Always I go out with Tia Amalia.’

  ‘Before I came, I agree. But, Marla, I’m just as capable of taking you out as—as Tia Amalia.’

  Marla looked at her doubtfully. ‘If Papa is agreeable…’ she murmured.

  ‘He is.’ Susannah lifted her shoulders. ‘Marla, try and think of this expedition as—as an adventure. Something exciting and enjoyable—and not to be taken too seriously.’

  A smile touched Marla’s pale lips. ‘I will try, Miss King. But I do not think Tia Amalia will be very pleased.’

  Amalia d’Alvarez was not pleased, indeed, she was positively furious. ‘What can Fernando be thinking of?’ she demanded coldly, her narrowed eyes moving from her great-niece to the unwelcome figure of Susannah seated on the couch, quietly drinking her morning chocolate. ‘Besides, Marla always keeps me company in the afternoons, do you not, Marla? Do my needs matter so little when compared to an outing with Señorita King?’

  Marla looked terribly uncomfortable. ‘It was Papa’s idea, Tia Amalia,’ she stressed urgently, and Susannah did not contradict her. ‘And tomorrow I will take tea with you as usual.’

  Susannah bit her lips to prevent herself from disabusing her of that idea. Sufficient unto the day, she thought wryly. And if Marla enjoyed herself this afternoon perhaps it would be easier tomorrow. Perhaps even Señora d’Alvarez would concede a point if Marla was enthusiastic, but that was carrying wishful thinking a little too far, she realized. It was evident from the old woman’s expression that she knew at whose door to lay the blame for this change of circumstances, and Susannah had no doubt that she would do everything in her power to make Fernando withdraw his approval.

  All the same, nothing could completely douse the feeling of excited anticipation she felt that afternoon as she and Marla climbed into the back of the sleek cream open tourer Pedro Morales had brought to the entrance to meet them. Susannah had determinedly shed her more formal clothes for a short red pleated skirt and a white ribbed cotton sweater, and Marla, in her dark green dress of silk jersey, looked rather sombre beside her.

  But if Marla was conscious of their differences in appearance she made no comment upon it, and gave Susannah her usual controlled smile as Pedro sounded his horn and the tall gates in the high wall were opened for them.

  The heat of the day was subsiding a little, and the movement of the car created a slight breeze which lifted the weight of Susannah’s hair and tore it out of its confining knot. She had to content herself with looping it behind her ears, but even this was useless as they drove along and she gave up and allowed it its freedom. Marla’s hair was, as usual, confined in the single braid, and Susannah longed to see it loose about her shoulders. With the right clothes, and a less restrictive attitude, Marla would be very attractive, and it seemed a terrible shame that no one, not even Monica, had seen this and done something about it. As it was the girl looked plain and dowdy, and much too old for her ten years.

  Cadiz lay on a peninsula, separated from the mainland town of San Fernando by a narrow isthmus. For some distance before reaching the peninsula they had been following the coastline, and the sea looked incredibly blue and inviting beneath the cloudless sky. They passed villages along the way, that had changed little for centuries, where gardens rioted with colour and donkeys still provided a necessary means of transport. The scents of the flowers were intoxicating and not until the salty tang of brine invaded their nostrils did they shed their perfumé.

  Cadiz itself was definitely African in appearance, a fitting reminder of its violent history. There was a predominance of white-painted buildings, some with cupolas that glinted in the sunlight. There were churches standing in oases of green, and palm trees that spread their smooth leaves towards the enormous landlocked harbour that sprawled along the city’s inner boundaries. There were parks where one could sit and look out over the Gulf of Cadiz and colourful markets where traders plied their produce—from the silvery sardines brought into the harbour to delicate necklaces of gold and silver filigree made across the straits in North Africa. It was a busy, brawling port contrasting its narrow, over-crowded streets with quiet squares.

  Pedro drove through the city, pointing out the ruined watch towers set at intervals as a protection in olden days, and even Marla became enthusiastic as she caught sight of the vessels in the harbour. Susannah saw a stall with oranges and wanted Pedro to stop, but he drove on to park on the Alameda, a promenade overlooking the sea.

  Susannah leant forward and touched his shoulder. ‘Can we get out?’ she asked.

  Pedro looked doubtful. ‘Por que, señorita?’

  Susannah sighed. ‘To walk for a while. Surely you don’t expect to take us straight back to the casa, do you?’

  Pedro frowned, looking confused. Clearly he had not understood everything she had said, and Marla, after a moment’s hesitation, translated for him. Pedro listened, and then made an involuntary movement of his hands, saying something in a rapid patois that Susannah could only guess at.

  Marla shook her head. ‘Pedro says it would be better if we permitted him to drive us wherever we want to go, señorita.’

  Susannah felt impatient. ‘But the exercise would do us good.’ She looked all round. ‘There are people walking here. What harm does he expect can come to us?’

  Marla half smiled. ‘Would you like to see the catedral instead? We could walk there.’

  Susannah looked at her. ‘You mean inside, of course,’ and at Marla’s nod she acquiesced. ‘Why not? I would like to see the cathedral.’

  They spent almost an hour going over the building which had been constructed during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries; a Christian temple in purely Moslem surroundings. In spite of her earlier annoyance Susannah could not remain unmoved by the red and white marble pillars that supported the roof, or the domed vault which carried the weight of the High Altar. Marla who had, she said, been to the cathedral many times with her father, told Susannah a little of its history and explained that the huge monstrance which had been made in the seventeenth century, and which was easily the most valuable article among the treasures of the cathedral, was carried in procession through the city every year on the feast of Corpus Christi.

  It was almost seven o’clock when they arrived back at the Casa d’Alvarez, but Marla seemed unconcerned. Throughout the hours they had been away, she had become more and more talkative, exhibiting an intelligence which was both sharp and instructive. She was showing how much she had absorbed and had never found any outlet for until now. Susannah allowed her to speak unrestrainedly, only occasionally putting in some opinion of her own. She was realizing that Marla’s problem lay in this lack of communication with either her aunt or her father, and the confidence she was now displaying must be allowed to develop. She couldn’t help but feel delighted at the success of the outing. She only wished she could go to Fernando and show him this other side to his daughter.

  The following morning Señora d’Alvarez was unusually silent when Marla tentatively explained that she and Miss King were going out again that afternoon. Susannah guessed that she had spoken to Fernando and that he had explained the alteration in the present arrangements. The old woman contented herself with casting malevolent glances in Susannah’s direction, and the girl had no doubt that she would be blamed entirely for this unwelcome state of affairs.

  But Susannah did not spend too long worrying over Amalia d’Alvarez. The outings were a success, and Marla grew more enthusiastic daily. They went to Algeciras and Jerez, they saw the v
ineyards whose grapes produced the wine for which this area was famous, and on one special occasion they left immediately after breakfast and drove to Seville to see the cathedral and the Alcazar. If Marla saw it all simply as a way of showing her governess a little of the beauty of this part of the world, Susannah did not mind. The less obvious the attempt to arouse Marla from her apathy, to turn her from a shy introvert into a spirited teenager, the better.

  Susannah had even coaxed her to her room and one afternoon she encouraged the Spanish girl to try on some of her clothes. Although Marla was much younger, she was quite tall and well built for her age, and as Susannah was very slim her clothes fitted quite well—sufficiently so to enable Marla to see how attractive she could be in casual slacks and sweaters.

  ‘Papa would never permit me to wear anything like this,’ she said regretfully. ‘Besides, Tia Amalia would never agree.’

  Susannah studied her thoughtfully. ‘If I shortened those trousers,’ she murmured, half to herself, ‘you could have them. I seldom wear them. Green isn’t my favourite colour. And I’ve got loads of ribbed sweaters like the one you’re wearing. You can have that, too, if you like.’

  Marla gasped, ‘You’re not serious!’

  ‘Why not? Don’t you like them?’

  ‘You know I do.’ Marla looked at her reflection with troubled eyes. ‘But what shall I say to Papa?’

  ‘Tell him to mind his own business!’ remarked a cool voice from the doorway, and both girls swung round in amazement.

  ‘Mama!’ gasped Marla in horror.

  ‘Señora d’Alvarez!’ Susannah was astounded. ‘When did you get back?’

  Monica d’Alvarez shrugged and strolled lazily into the room. ‘Half an hour ago, I guess,’ she replied, looking round at the strewn garments. ‘You’ve been having some fashion parade! What goes on?’

  Marla hesitated, looking at Susannah, and Susannah saw the confidence draining out of her. Rushing into speech, she said:

  ‘Marla has just been trying on a few of my things. I’ve been showing her how much less—confining—casual clothes can be.’

  Monica glanced down at her own shirt and slacks and nodded. ‘I’ve been trying to tell her that for years,’ she observed dryly.

  ‘Yes, well—’ Susannah felt awkward. ‘Perhaps Marla needed to see herself to be convinced.’

  ‘Maybe so.’ Monica took out her cigarettes and lit one. ‘In any case, I’m pleased to see you’re making some progress, Miss King. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived, but…’ She made a dismissing gesture. ‘Perhaps it was just as well. I can see you’ve settled into the job very well.’

  Susannah wished Marla would say something, but the younger girl was standing stiffly, clearly embarrassed, and totally incapable of relaxing with her mother. Susannah, who until then had thought that perhaps Marla had more in common with her mother, now saw how wrong she had been. They were totally different. Monica, with her brashness, her lack of sensitivity, would never understand the complex individual who was her daughter, and Marla could only be hurt by her mother’s lack of perception. Although Susannah shared Monica’s concern for her daughter’s subjugation in this household, Marla would never turn out to be the kind of girl Monica wanted her to be. And for that Susannah found she was thankful.

  Now she said: ‘Marla and I have been spending a lot of time together, haven’t we, Marla?’ The girl nodded, and Susannah went on: ‘I suppose you have spoken to—to your husband since your return.’

  ‘Yeah!’ Monica flicked ash carelessly on to the tiled floor. ‘I’ve spoken to him. I guess it was pretty rough on you to begin with. I thought it might be.’

  And that’s why you went away, thought Susannah dryly, beginning to understand Monica a little better.

  Monica flicked her gaze to her daughter. ‘You surely do look more like my daughter in those clothes,’ she commented mockingly.

  ‘What is going on here!’

  Fernando was standing in the open doorway, dark and alien in the black garb he seemed to prefer, a riding crop hanging from his long fingers.

  Marla could not have looked more distressed and Susannah wanted to rave at both her parents to get out of here and leave the girl alone. But of course she could not, and in any case it was Monica who spoke first.

  ‘Marla’s been trying on a few of Miss King’s clothes, honey,’ she drawled with evident satisfaction. ‘Don’t you think she looks cute?’

  ‘Señorita!’ Fernando ignored his wife. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  Susannah heaved a sigh. ‘The meaning of what, señor? As your—as your wife has just said, Marla was just seeing how she looked in slacks and a sweater.’

  Fernando looked at the other garments draped about the room. ‘And these things, señorita? Do you normally leave your belongings strewn about like this?’

  Susannah avoided his glittering eyes. ‘No. No, of course not.’

  ‘So am I to understand that Marla has been trying all these garments?’

  ‘Some of them.’

  Fernando struck his boot angrily with his crop. ‘And what explanation can you give for such—such irresponsible behaviour?’

  ‘Oh, really, Fernando,’ exclaimed Monica, in a bored tone. ‘Must we make an inquisition out of it? Where’s the harm? All girls like dressing up!’

  ‘I agree,’ Susannah nodded. She looked at Marla. ‘We were just having fun, weren’t we?’

  Marla was silent for so long that Susannah thought she was too shocked to say anything, but then, amazingly, she said: ‘That’s right, Papa. We were having—fun.’ She took a step forward. ‘Do you not think that these clothes are attractive, Papa? My dresses are all so—so old-fashioned. Miss King said so.’

  ‘Good for Miss King!’ commented Monica delightedly, but Fernando scowled.

  ‘Miss King is not here to instruct you in the manner of dress, Marla,’ he stated coldly. ‘Nor, might I add, do I approve of you putting on someone else’s clothes, whether for fun or otherwise.’ He flicked an angry look in Susannah’s direction. ‘In future, señorita, you will restrict your educative powers to the schoolroom!’

  Monica gave an impatient snort. ‘For God’s sake, Fernando, let them be! Why shouldn’t Marla choose what she wants to wear? She has very little choice in anything else, heaven knows!’ Fernando turned to his wife. ‘Please leave this to me, Monica. I will not have Marla upset unnecessarily.’

  ‘You’re the one who’s upsetting her,’ retorted Monica shortly.

  Fernando’s face was grim. ‘Marla was perfectly happy until you began interfering with things that do not concern you, Monica. Just because, from time to time, you feel the need to behave a little more as her mother should behave, do not presume to think that this gives you any rights on her behalf! Confine your activities to the things you do best!’

  ‘Why, you—you swine!’ Monica’s lips were clenched. She seemed unconscious of Susannah’s presence. ‘One of these days—one of these days—’

  ‘You will leave? I know.’ Fernando’s mouth curved contemptuously. ‘However, until that day comes, you will leave Marla’s affairs to me!’

  As Monica replied angrily to his denunciation, Susannah wished the floor would simply open up and swallow her. This was terrible! She didn’t want to stand here listening to Fernando and Monica demonstrating the irretrievable breakdown of their marriage. She didn’t want to be involved. She didn’t want to take sides. And yet, listening to them, it was almost impossible not to do so. It was obvious, it had been obvious since Susannah’s arrival, that Marla cared little for her mother, and if Monica spent so little time with her daughter what could she expect?

  But Fernando soon called a halt to their argument. He, at least, was conscious of the effect it might have on Marla herself, and with another flick of his crop against his boot, he said:

  ‘Put on your own clothes, Marla. I am on my way to the cortijo. I thought you might like to come with me.’

  Marla was galvanized in
to action. ‘Oh, yes, Papa,’ she exclaimed, her earlier disappointment at Fernando’s reception of her appearance forgotten apparently. She quickly thrust off the offending sweater and trousers in Susannah’s bathroom and emerged in the plain brown muslin she had been wearing when she came to Susannah’s room. ‘I am ready, Papa.’

  Fernando cast a ruminative glance at the two women and then with a slight, almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders he indicated that Marla should precede him out of the room.

  After he had gone, Susannah didn’t know what to say, so she began gathering the strewn garments together, folding them into neat piles. Monica watched for a few minutes and then she said:

  ‘Well? Aren’t you going to say anything?’

  Susannah fastened the zip on a pair of jeans. ‘No, señora. It’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Oh, don’t give me that! You know perfectly well that you’ve formed opinions, just like anyone else. What do you think of my charming husband here? Do you think he’s changed from your conception of him in England?’

  Susannah felt the hot colour burning in her cheeks. ‘Wh—what?’ she stammered.

  ‘I asked whether you thought Fernando was different here than in England.’

  Susannah hugged the sweater she had been folding to her. ‘How—how do you know I—knew your husband in England?’ she faltered.

  Monica stubbed out her cigarette in a nearby ashtray and lit another. ‘How do you think?’ she exclaimed irritably. ‘Lucie told me.’

  ‘Lu—oh!’ Susannah felt weak at the knees. ‘Señora Castana!’ she murmured with relief.

  Monica looked up from her cigarette, her eyes narrowed. ‘Sure, Lucie told me. She’d have told me anything to prevent me from employing you.’

  Susannah turned away so that Monica should not see how her hands were trembling. ‘What did—Señora Castana say?’ she asked, hoping she was displaying a mild interest.

  Monica sniffed. ‘Oh, just that Fernando had taken you and their boy out one day. To the zoo, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Susannah pushed sweaters into a drawer.