Dear Stranger Page 3

  About to move away at last, Shara’s attention was caught by a small girl of about five years of age emerging from the front porch, her white dress starched and altogether too immaculate, her dark hair plaited neatly and secured with two pink ribbons. Not a crease in her socks; her white buckskin shoes appeared to be brand new. She carried a leather satchel on her back and a small white bag in her hand. She came down the steps and as

  Shara moved away she heard a female voice saying in broken English,

  ‘Mind you don’t get dirty, now. You know what your papa will say if you get a mark on your dress.’

  No answer from the child and a few minutes later she was sitting primly beside the driver in the massive car which passed Shara in the lane. Shara had stepped to one side and the child was nearest to her. Their eyes met... and something tingled along Shara’s spine.

  Noble classical features and a wide intelligent brow; very dark hair and a full generous mouth ... But it was the eyes which had caught Shara’s attention and caused the disturbance within her ... the dull-green eyes....

  CHAPTER TWO

  ON her return to the villa Shara was surprised to find Gilbert engaged in conversation with a visitor. Both men rose as she stepped out of the sitting-room on to the patio.

  ‘This is Mr. Broadhurst—’ Gilbert gestured towards the stout, greying man who was regarding Shara with undisguised admiration. ‘Miss Shara Angelos, my secretary.’ ‘Angelos?’ The man extended a hand in a rather vague sort of way. ‘That’s a Greek name, but you’re English, surely?’

  ‘My adoptive parents were Greek Cypriots,’ she informed him, taking the proffered hand.

  ‘They were?’ His eyes widened with interest. ‘It’ll be like coming home, then?’

  She smiled and shook her head.

  ‘I’ve never been in Cyprus before. My parents were naturalized Britons.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ The two men sat down after Shara had taken possession of a chair, and Gilbert explained that Mr.

  Broadhurst, who lived in Ayios Michaelis, a mile or so from Lapithos, had heard of their coming to the island and suggested he give an informal party so that they could meet other English people, and also his own particular friends among whom were one or two officials from the various embassies in Nicosia, a few people from the base at Episkopi, and a couple of wealthy Cypriots.

  ‘This is most kind of you, Mr. Broadhurst,’ began Shara when he interrupted with,

  ‘Call me Dick. No one uses surnames here.’ His grey eyes twinkled. ‘I hope I can call you Shara?’ She nodded and he continued, ‘I’ll arrange for the party, then.’ He glanced enquiringly at Gilbert as he went on to ask what date would be suitable to him.

  ‘It doesn’t really matter; we haven’t any engagements yet. Also, I’m not starting work for a couple of weeks or so.’ He gave a slight shrug, telling Dick to go ahead with any arrangements he liked to make. ‘And I must thank you again, smiled Gilbert. ‘As Shara says, it’s kind of you to bother, and we both appreciate that kindness.’

  ‘No bother at all.’ Dick grinned at them in turn. ‘Cypriot hospitality, you know. When you’ve lived here a while it rubs off on you.’

  ‘I suppose it does. We’ve already heard of the Cypriot hospitality, but we didn’t expect it to catch up with us quite so soon.’

  Dick merely laughed and rose in preparation for his departure.

  ‘Just you wait.’ He wagged a finger as he spoke. ‘You’ll begin finding all sorts of things on your doorstep or windowsill.’

  ‘All sorts of things?’

  ‘Oranges and lemons, and anguri, maybe, and tomatoes

  - anything they grow in their gardens. Then at Easter you’ll find someone’s made you an Easter cake - rather special, that is. Yes, you’ll soon be one of them - and,’ he went on warningly, ‘you’ll be invited to every wedding that takes place here or in the village. They love having us at their weddings, even though they have a thousand or so other guests besides.’

  Shara’s blue eyes opened wide.

  ‘A thousand!’ she gasped.

  ‘In these villages everyone’s related, so they all come. Then there are the aunts and uncles and cousins from other villages. Yes, a thousand’s not unheard-of by any means.’ ‘But where do they put all these guests?’

  ‘Well now, you probably know that the bride brings a dowry. It’s always a house and often there’s a good deal of land attached. So the wedding feast is spread out under the olive or lemon trees on her land — all beautifully done with snow-white cloths on the long tables, which are laid with crockery and cutlery from all the relations’ houses. And the food! Never have you seen such a feast! The wine flows, too - the sparkling Cyprus wine.’ Dick made for the steps leading off the patio. ‘Yes, you’ll enjoy attending a Cypriot wedding.’ Lifting a hand to gesture a brisk farewell he left them, turning at the gate to wave and call out, ‘You’ll be receiving your invitations to the party in about a week.’

  The party was held at the rear of the taverna, situated close to the perennial spring of Kephalovryso, which spumed forth from a gash in the rocks high above the township of Lapithos. The gardens of the taverna had a magnificent view down the mountainside to the sea, glowing like burnished copper in the reflected light of a lowering sun. Bouzouki music echoed through the still balmy air as Gilbert and Shara left the car and walked the short distance to the taverna. Under a canopy of vines they were introduced to Dick s friends, all of whom welcomed them to the island.

  ‘Now where are my two Cypriot friends?’ Dick glanced around. ‘Ah, Andreas! I want you to meet Shara. ...’ The introductions made, Dick glanced around again. ‘Have you seen anything of Carl?’

  ‘He’s somewhere about— over there, talking to the Dennings.’ Andreas turned his attention to Shara, his dark eyes wandering over her slender figure after remaining far too long on her legs.

  ‘You’re writing a book, Dick tells us?’ he began when Shara laughed, interrupting him.

  ‘My employer is; I only help.’ She was following the direction of Dick’s gaze, seeing the back of a tall lean man with a very dark head set on wide arrogant shoulders. Dick called; the man turned, excused himself and, leaving the Dennings, strode towards them.

  Shara felt the colour drain from her face, was overwhelmingly aware of the increased speed of her heartbeats, and the sudden weakness of her legs.

  ‘Carl ...!’ The exclamation escaped her before he reached her and he stopped, staring at her for one uncomprehending moment before slowly covering the distance that separated them.

  As Dick’s attention had been momentarily caught by someone else he missed Shara’s astounded utterance and consequently made the introductions. As in a daze Shara extended a hand, felt it taken in a grip that made her wince. Vaguely she noticed that someone tapped Dick on the shoulder saying that Georgios, the taverna proprietor, wanted a word with him. She also noted in the same vague sort of way that Andreas excused himself and she and Carl were left alone on the edge of the high garden fringed by palm trees, black against the vermilion pool of sky left by the sun as it dropped behind the bay beyond Vavilos.

  Carl did not speak and at last Shara murmured, still aware of the warmth and strength of his grip.

  ‘I can’t believe it, Carl. This is the most pleasant surprise!’ So often she had wondered where he was, sure that he still lived in Greece. And yet she now realized that she should have made a more accurate guess as to his whereabouts, for after all, Cyprus was his native island, and the possibility of his return should have been considered. ‘I just can’t believe it,’ she said again, an awkwardness creeping over her because Carl merely stared at her in wordless silence, and apart from that he seemed both distant and hostile. Maturity had etched more deeply the classical lines of his face, seeming to add a pagan quality which was accentuated by those remarkable dull-green eyes. His jaw, always strong, she recalled, was now more firmly thrust forward, his mouth thinner and more ruthlessly set. Brown-skinned and lithe, he h
ad even grown in stature, she thought, tilting her head right back to look into his face.

  He still remained silent and she wondered if the meeting had hit him with as stunning an impact as it had her. She glanced round suddenly, seeking for his wife ... and she was remembering the little girl with the dull-green eyes....

  ‘Alison - is she with you?’

  Shara’s hand was abruptly released; she sensed Carl’s deep withdrawal when at last he spoke.

  ‘She died soon after our daughter was born.’ The veins suddenly standing out on his temples betrayed the presence of some strong emotion, although he continued to stare at Shara dispassionately as if he too were discovering the changes wrought by time. But Shara knew he was remembering also,

  remembering everything.

  ‘I’m sorry, Carl - so very sorry.’ A great unhappiness engulfed her. That he should lose his wife so soon, lose the only person who had ever loved him - or at least the only person whom he knew had loved him. His face was still set and impassive; it was impossible to guess whether or not he was pleased at this reunion. Awkwardly she glanced around, aware of the purple tints now superimposed on the brilliant sky. ‘Shall we sit down? There’s a place over there, under the trees.’ A smile quivered on her lips; her eyes were wide and inviting. She felt so happy at meeting him again after all those separating years.

  ‘Sit down together - you and I?’ Firmly he shook his head, the apathy resulting from his surprise giving way to a harshness it was terrible to see. ‘There isn’t a thing we have to talk about, Shara.’ Deliberately he glanced away. Some of the guests were sitting under the trees or vines while others stood by the improvised bar talking to Georgios, who was thoroughly enjoying himself, as he always did when the British residents hired his garden for a party such as this. Several men drifted in and Carl said; without so much as looking at Shara, ‘I see some friends of mine over there ... if you’ll excuse me ...?’ He began to move away but, impulsively, Shara placed a restraining hand upon his arm.

  ‘Don’t go,’ she pleaded, distressed and bewildered by his expression as he glanced disdainfully down at the fingers resting on the snow-white sleeve of his shirt.

  ‘Why should you say we’ve nothing to talk about-?’

  ‘You’ve a very short memory, Shara. I’ve just told you Alison died - five years ago,’ he added significantly. With a gesture of distaste he removed Shara’s hand and would have left her, but she spoke again, urgently.

  ‘I don’t understand? Why do you say I’ve a short

  memory?’

  He turned back, the answer ready on his lips.

  ‘Five years ago I sent you a cable explaining that as a result of complications after the birth of. our daughter Alison needed an urgent operation. A London surgeon had been recommended to me, but at that time I hadn’t the fares to England. I asked you for a loan.’ He stopped, a shade of colour creeping under the tan of his skin. ‘I had never thought to humble myself in such a way,’ he continued, ‘but pride had no place in those desperate circumstances when Alison’s life was in danger.’ He looked down at Shara, his face tight and a little grey. A trembling hand went to Shara’s cheek and an anguished expression settled on her face even before Carl, with slow and emphasized deliberation, went on to say, ‘You ignored my request, Shara, and although I eventually managed to borrow the money it was too late.’ He became lost in bitter reflection, while Shara just stood there, appalled by what Carl had revealed. That he should have been forced to beg for money which was rightly his was bad enough, but that his wife had died because that money was not forthcoming.... Shara’s voice was husky when she spoke, and with a little access of despair she felt it was also unconvincing.

  ‘I never received your cable -I swear it. It must have come during one of my many absences from England. I’m hardly ever at home - because of my job.’ She looked at him, trying to read his thoughts. ‘You must believe me, Carl -you must! Surely you know me better than to believe I’d ignore your cable?’

  Perhaps it was the vehemence in her tone, or it might have been the distracted look in her eyes, but Carl made no further effort to move away, his attention being with her now as he searched her face intently as if seeking full proof of her

  sincerity.

  ‘You didn’t receive it? Is that true, Shara?’ ‘Absolutely.’ Carl continued to examine her face and she added desperately, ‘Say you believe me, Carl, please say you believe me!’

  He nodded at last and his taut features relaxed.

  ‘Yes, Shara,’ he returned quietly. ‘I believe you.’

  She smiled then, and a lightness entered her heart. For so long he had harboured bitterness against her, and now it was gone.

  ‘Shall we sit down?’ she said again, her voice soft yet eager, her glance straying to the bench under the trees.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Tell me what you’ve been doing?’ she invited as, Carl having brought over their drinks, they sat together, strangers, as she had always known they would be should their paths ever cross again, Carl hard and masculine and cloaked in a sort of aloof politeness, Shara softly feminine, and vitally aware that the regret she had stored since their parting was still unspent. ‘Or would you like me to talk?’ she added and, before Carl could answer, ‘I’m here working.’

  He turned his dark head and she saw the sceptical light in his eyes.

  ‘Working? You’ve no need to work, surely?’ The intonation was a subtle reference to the money - his money. Shara flinched but returned in gentle tones,

  ‘I do have to work, Carl, to earn my living.’

  ‘You have to work?’

  She was silent a moment, mentally framing her words.

  ‘Your money’s intact. I never had any intention of accepting it.’ She watched his face in profile, noting the sudden flexing of his jaw and the swallowing movement in his throat.

  ‘It’s your money,’ he said harshly at last, but Shara was shaking her head.

  ‘No, Carl, it’s your money.’

  Turning his head he looked straight at her.

  ‘Any money I have is what I’ve earned.’

  She was hurt by his tone, repeating that it was his money. ‘You’ve not spent any of it?’ Again he was sceptical.

  ‘I didn’t consider it was mine to spend.’ Impulsively she moved a little closer to him. ‘Carl, don’t blame me for what happened. I couldn’t help being adopted by your parents, and I had no control over the way they treated you.’ She stopped for a moment and when she continued the regret in her voice was unmistakable. ‘I was dreadfully upset when I realized how things were between you and them.’ She looked pleadingly at him. ‘Can’t we forget it, and be friends?’ Rather desperately she asked this of him, aware of the glimmer of some dormant flame and just as suddenly smothering it. Carl was not for her in that way, but she knew she could never let him go out of her life a second time. ‘It’s nice to have someone of one’s own,’ she added persuasively. ‘You have your little daughter, but I have no one.’

  Had her plea touched him? - awakened a desire for the friendship and affection of a sister? With a sort of urgent desperation she waited, conscious of deep anxiety... and of a desire.

  With a slow and rather lazy movement Carl placed his glass on the table, and as he turned to look at her a difficult smile broke over his dark and handsome features.

  ‘Yes, Shara, I see no reason at all why we shouldn’t be friends.’

  Her eyes glistened and a wave of thankfulness swept over her even while he spoke, for a softness had erased every

  harsh line from his face, and although his tones were roughly masculine, to Shara they were more caressing than tenderness itself. Emotion held her silent for a space before she murmured simply,

  ‘Thank you, Carl.’

  In the interlude which followed there was neither awkwardness nor strain between them as they sat there, the exhilarating tang of well-watered gardens all around them, palpable and heady. From the far end of the g
arden laughter and chatter mingled with the rather melancholy strains of the bouzouki music, to which four young Greek Cypriots were dancing, twisting and leaping with incredible agility.

  ‘You’re working, you say?’ Carl’s deep rich voice invaded the silence between them as he brought his attention from the dancers to Shara, who had been deep in thought, an idea having occurred to her - an idea about the money. When a suitable opportunity presented itself she would ask Carl if she could make it over to his daughter. Should he agree to this Shara knew she would shed a great load. ‘It isn’t easy for foreigners to obtain work permits here,’ Carl was saying. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I work for Gilbert Holgrove, the writer.’

  ‘Travel books? I’ve read several of his. It must be a most interesting job.’

  ‘It is, because of course we go to a new country every year. We’ll be in Cyprus for about twelve months, I expect.’ A small pause and then, ‘When I leave we’ll correspond, though, won’t we, Carl?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘And perhaps I’ll have a holiday with you some time?’ Hesitant the suggestion and Carl replied at once, as if aware of her anxiety.