Island of Mermaids (28 page)

‘
Did you do all this yourself?
’
she asked when Margot entered with the tray of tea.
‘
I mean decorate and furnish, of course.
’

‘
Yes. It
’
s the best I could do on limited means—oh, I don
’
t mean that,
’
she corrected herself hastily.
‘
I mean I might not stay here long. It wasn
’
t worth doing anything elaborate.
’
Althea gave no sign of having noticed that slip. So Margot was finding some difficulties financially and was probably too proud to let her own parents help or ask Brian for assistance. Mentally, she chalked that up to the girl who could obviously make a harmonious home setting for herself and some sort of living when pushed. Why had she not co-operated more with her artist husband when her own talents lay in such similar directions?

Margot asked if Brian was prospering.
‘
I believe he opened a shop in Capri.
’

Althea smiled.
‘
He likes it called a
“
studio
”
. Actually he
’
s done quite well for a first season. Anacapri is a village away from the town of Capri and not all the tourists have time to go there, but he
’
s sold a number of pictures.
’

‘
And what about the winter when there are no tourists?
’

‘
He talks of going to North Africa for a few months and taking a load of pictures with him. He doesn
’
t need a studio there. He can exhibit them in the open air. Now that so many people go to North Africa, Tunisia, Morocco—all those places, for winter or early spring holidays, he says there ought to be some scope there. He
’
ll paint a few local scenes as well.
’

‘
Tunisia, Morocco,
’
murmured Margot.
‘Y
es, I suppose they would be quite fascinating.
’

Althea believed she could follow the drift of the other girl
’
s thoughts. Her marriage had crashed because she felt constricted by lack of money and Brian
’
s need to spend so much time working. By parting from him, she had given him the opportunity to free himself, to live an unfettered life in exotic places—Capri—North Africa—and she was not with him, but had tied herself to a far less colourful existence.

Althea rose.
‘
Thank you for seeing me,
’
she said politely.
‘
I
’
ll tell Brian you
’
re going along all right.
’

‘
What do you do in Capri?
’
asked Margot.

Althea spoke briefly of her father
’
s rest-cure which had led to his second marriage, the buying and selling of fabrics.

‘
That
’
s why I
’
m here now, acting for my father. I have to go to Ireland and then to Scotland to arrange about tweeds and woollens for export. Then I shall go back to Capri and work on the apple of my father
’
s eye—his shop.
’

‘
No personal attachments?
’
queried Margot.
‘
No handsome Italian counts or millionaires?
’

‘
None in sight,
’
laughed Althea.

‘
Oh.
’
Margot
’
s mouth took a sudden drop.

There was a long pause. Neither girl seemed to have anything more to say.

‘
Goodbye,
’
Althea said at last.

Margot opened the door. A young man in a tweed jacket and turtle-necked sweater almost blocked the opening.

‘
Hallo, Margot, my pet!
’
he exclaimed.
‘
I was just about to ring.
’
He glanced down at Althea.

‘
I
’
m just on my way out,
’
she said quickly.

‘
Goodbye, Miss Buckland,
’
muttered Margot.

As she walked towards the lift, Althea heard the man say,
‘
I thought you
’
d be ready. Hurry now or we
’
ll be late for
‘

The door clicked shut.

It would have been unnatural to suppose that during the years that Margot and Brian had been parted such an attractive girl would not have acquired a number of men-friends. Was this man merely one of Margot
’
s circle or what she called a
‘
particular Number One
’
?

Althea could not regard her mission as a success at all. At first she had seen the hard outer shell with which Margot protected herself, then the glimpse of the vulnerability inside, but that final encounter with the young man had dashed Althea
’
s faint hopes of a reconciliation. She had done her best to be tactful and helpful, that was all.

At the end of the following week Althea
’
s preoccupation with selling Italian silks had slowed down. The dress-shows and fabric exhibitions were finished for the time being, she had no more appointments with manufacturers and when she totted up her order-book she was reasonably pleased with herself on her first venture in selling. She had now to go to Ireland and Scotland to buy as judiciously as her customers for silks had weighed their preferences.

She flew to Dublin, a city she had never visited, and was charmed with what she saw in the shops. Beautiful hand
-
woven materials, superb knitted wear, the loveliest embroidered linens. Yet, ironically, in one shop was a display of garments, dresses and knitteds,
‘
Specially imported from Italy.
’
Well, no matter, she thought. Sending one country
’
s goods across the world and receiving another
’
s at least kept the shipping trade busy.

She had three showrooms to visit. The first had some fine cloths, but the display was poor. Bad lighting, a jumble of parcels which had to be untied for her inspection, these things did not dispose her in the firm
’
s favour, although the prices were reasonable. She was attended by a sharp-faced, thin man who looked as though he had been inadvertently wrapped up in one of the parcels for several years on end.

‘
Is it possible to see some of the fabrics in a better light?
’
she asked.
‘
And I want to see whole lengths, not half a yard or so.
’

The man glared at her as though she had demanded floodlighting and a display in Phoenix Park. In the end she chose a few sample patterns to be sent to her hotel.

The second showroom was better, but the products were either dull in design or meretricious in an effort to be fashionable. It was the third showroom which attracted her, for here were excellent fabrics exhibited in comparable style.

The walls were a pale dove-grey with white paint, the carpet dark blue with hints of blush-pink and white. The tables and chairs were white and provided fine contrast for the lovely tweeds with which Althea was now confronted. It was impossible not to exclaim with delight at the subtle or daring combinations of colours; blazing orange linked with petunia, acid greens softened with violet and pale yellow. She was also interested in the weaves, the more intricate honeycomb, the stripes and tartans.

She restrained her enthusiasm as she argued about prices and delivery dates, reminding the director that the real decisions must come from her father.

‘
Yes, I understand that. Miss Buckland,
’
he answered gravely,
‘
but I think you
’
re somewhat taken with our products and perhaps you
’
ll be able to influence your father?
’

She smiled and knew how to answer that remark noncommittally.

She certainly did recommend the cloths to her father when she wrote to him. By the time he replied, she had left Ireland and was in Scotland. His letter was full of congratulation and she felt elated. He had examined some of the samples and now told her what to order. Only limited quantities at first to see how they sold in Capri or Naples.

‘
When you
’
ve finished seeing the various manufacturers, you could take a short holiday in Scotland,
’
he wrote.
‘
It
’
s quite the best time of year, as you know. There
’
s a small inn called
“
Jock o
’
the Glen
”
in the Trossachs, near Loch Achray. Your mother and I stayed there many years ago and found it very comfortable. Of course, you might have other plans and go touring elsewhere. Anyway, take a rest
—
after you
’
ve finished with the business end of your British marathon. I know myself how tiring it can all be. You might let me know when you do go on holiday and let me have your addresses, if you can, so that I can keep in touch with you.
’

The rest of the letter dealt with Emilia and Carla who
both sent their love.

By the time she had finished her visits to Perth, a dozen towns in the Lowlands, a trip to Harris and Benbecula in the Hebrides, Althea realised that her father
’
s advice was sound. She needed a short break when she could forget herringbone weaves or diamond checks. After a week in Oban, followed by a few days touring the area between there and Inverness, she decided to visit the inn,
‘
Jock o
’
the Glen
’
, which her father had recommended.

She wrote to her father that she would probably be at the inn for about a week, she thought, unless something quite unexpected turned up.

The place and its surroundings were all that her father had claimed for it. Althea took long walks over the hills or ambled by the loch, never tiring of the magnificent colouring of heather-covered slopes or the pale grey-greens of valleys. She had hired a car to drive herself about
Scotland
, but now she was content to leave it in the hotel garage and explore on foot.

Late one afternoon she was on her way back to the inn when she paused at a fork in the paths. Mist was rising from the loch and she decided to take what she judged from the map was the shortest of the two routes. She had gone only a few steps when a man
’
s figure emerged from the mist. She stopped dead, believing that she was the victim of an hallucination. How could this image in tweed jacket and sweater possible resemble Kent? She closed her eyes and opened them again, looking in another
direction
. She had been working too hard and now this snapping of tension in such a quiet, restful place had conjured up ghosts.

‘
Althea!
’
The ghost even had a voice like Kent
’
s.
‘
Why, you look as though you
’
d seen a ghost!
’

Her knees felt weak and suddenly his arms were folding around her, holding her close.

For a second or two she resisted, then leaned against him.

‘
Darling!
’
he whispered.
‘
What a job I
’
ve had to find you
!’

‘
You mean you
’
ve come all this way looking for me?
’

‘
What else?
’
he demanded.

‘
But how did you know where I
’
d be?
’

‘
Your father is a very useful correspondent.
’

Althea laughed happily.
‘I
suppose I ought to have known there was some conspiracy between you two when my father asked me to keep him informed about my addresses, and even recommended the inn where I
’
m staying.
’

Then his lips claimed hers and she knew the ecstatic moments for which she had waited so long. There was so much to explain between them, but explanations could wait. Let her enjoy this tiny passage of time where nothing else mattered.

‘
Are you staying here at the hotel? When did you come?
’
Her questions were eager, almost babbling.