Black Handkerchief - White Handkerchief

BLACK HANDKERCHIEF

- WHITE HANDKERCHIEF

ENA LYNN

AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd.

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© 2013 by ENA LYNN. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

The right of Ena Lynn to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/09/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-0279-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-0281-6 (e)

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

Thanks to Shirley for all her help and encouragement.

CHAPTER I

I had been a guest of Joyce de Silva, my old school friend, for well over the two weeks’ rest prescribed by the family doctor early in May. Promises over the years to visit her island home had been broken so many times. It was the usual story of unforeseen circumstances or children’s illnesses. But at last I was able to fulfil my promise. To everyone’s delight, I really was enjoying the experience, which was all new. I was relaxed, and yet I felt detached, the outsider watching everything through a small aperture.

I was persuaded to stay on for a further two weeks. In all fairness, it was not a hard task and my happy relaxed feeling banished any of the urgency I had felt to return to my life of suburban London with business worries and family problems.

My friend had changed little, she was enjoyable company, obviously liked by most people she knew, a socialiser with great charm. All in all, a very fine lady, most of her friends agreed. From my point of view they were much the same in style, no one really shone. Most of the ladies were British and with the same stance on life. They lived with their comfortable rounded men, whether married or not, in their beautiful villas on this grey, stony, sun-drenched island, for tax purposes, the sun or both.

They visited mainland Europe at least three times a year to catch up with the outside world and spread themselves a little, intellectually and physically. There was not much scope for either on a small piece of land floating in a constant blue sea. These excursions were both revitalising and therapeutic and quite a few had confided that they couldn’t possibly live at all unless they had the escape routes to London, Paris or Rome from time to time. One or two of late had not even bothered to return to their cosy little palaces inclusive of maid services; had thrown caution to the wind and followed the dictates of their minds and bodies whilst in the whirlwinds of sophisticated cities, never to return to the fascination of island living.

The British invasion of this little blue haven had been going on for many years. The island had prospered and progressed, and the locals had accepted the quirks and shortcomings of their new neighbours. In many cases, the natives agreed, most of them were quite decent folk when you got to know them. After all, they were island people too and therefore must live well together; it was only the burning sun that really made the differences of temperament but, the elders agreed, the British would get used to that in a few generations.

Gossip was a religion to these expatriates, it was all part of the pattern of islands, of small communities pushed together in a limited area. Life revolved around the latest piece of information gleaned over long cool drinks at pool sides or overheard in the local watering places, served under shady umbrellas in the small towns which vied with each other to attract the business of the moneyed and influential on the island.

Apart from private gatherings and local cafés there was, of course, ‘The Club’. To any newcomer in this part of the world, ‘The Club’ was quoted in all conversations; it had either happened there, had been seen there or was about to happen or be seen. This very important edifice had become the centre of their world.

As yet I had not been initiated into this very special enclave, whether by accident or design I did not know. I was told there were certain times of the year that ‘The Club’ did not live up to its reputation as the nucleus of all it represented and surely I must have arrived just at that time. Not that I hadn’t been entertained fully and frequently during my stay. I had been fêted in many of the pink washed, garlanded villas dotted all over the place; but ‘The Club’ was still an enigma to me. Now that I had consented to stay within the sanctity of the de Silva household, this error was to be corrected, my hostess announced that tonight we were to dine with a few friends at The Club. My small holiday guide book gave two sentences to this monument of social life, and informed me quite brusquely that The building had originally been the home of a retired naval officer. He had left the house in his will to the foreign nationals of the island as a gathering and resting place. Not really a full description of such an influential and all enveloping memorial bestowed on visitors and residents for the past 100 years, I thought, but soon I should be able to judge it for myself.

As the skies turned into hues of blue and orange and the slightly cooler night air wafted over the terraces of the villa, bringing with it the pale perfumes of the daytime flowers, our guests for the evening arrived for their pre-dinner drinks. It was relaxed and friendly, lots of banter and chat, titbits of gossip on who had arrived and who had left for where and why, typical of many conversations I had heard over the past few weeks. My mind wandered many times to the view of the sea in the distance and the slight rise of the blue green hills to my right which seemed almost to touch the balustrade around the pool. What a haven of peace this place is, I thought, as large moths fluttered around the lights and an occasional miniature bat flew away to the hills.

Then we were off, all of us squashed together, legs all over the place filling the capacious interior of the de Silva Mercedes, its sleek black body bowling along the dusty road through the town and out again. We entered a driveway to the salute of the wrinkled and brown-faced local gentleman wearing a dusty peaked cap, who beckoned our driver to park next to the Ford in the corner. Not a very impressive introduction, but we were all happy to be together and the night was young.

The formalities of signing in a guest taken care of, we proceeded to amble into an extremely large lounge bar area where quite a number of people were gathered. Even the inhabitants had a dusty look about them, the average age showing some evidence of a dying era. If they stood stock still it would have been like a caricature of 50 years previous. The gentlemen wore faded cream trousers with navy jackets or those cream linen jackets that crease so badly, making the wearer appear crumpled too. Their ladies were not much better. One could see they had all made a special effort tonight and that they were not quite used to wearing eye shadow or lipstick; so many of the colours had slipped, they looked like clowns not quite able to smile. Two large rotating fans over the bar area moved the air slowly around the room. Through the open doors leading to the garden drifted voices and laughter, obviously the younger people must be out there, I mused, and I made myself an appointment to investigate those voices. First drinks and introductions took over now and names were passed to and fro, sticky handshakes, hard ones, limp ones and even one or two adventurous touchings and caresses shifted in and out of my outstretched hand.

Now that was all over, I thought, perhaps I shall get some time to look around a little more. So with my sherry-filled glass firmly clutched in one hand and my small bag tucked under my arm I sat down in the nearest comfortable armchair which, although better than most of the leather chairs I could see, had certainly seen better days. The room filled up somewhat and there seemed to be a constant flow of people greeting and acknowledging each other very briefly as though apprehensive of contact, but making sure not to offend. Human contact on this level seemed to me to be superficial. I made a mental note of this fact, and a little promise to myself that my greetings and friendships in future would be with sincerity.

No one appeared to be missing my company. Our party were happily drinking and chatting a few feet away and I had assured them that I was perfectly happy taking in everything from the comfort of my armchair.

The lady clowns paraded to and fro over the marble floors laid with faded Persian runners on the busiest routes to the cloakrooms discreetly situated behind a large Chinese lacquered screens at the far end of the room. The fashion show of outdated chiffon cocktail dresses with sweetheart necklines and faded Horrockes cottons full-skirted over even fuller behinds was not a pretty picture. But the ladies concerned appeared to be quite happy with their own portraits as they glided back to their own little groups and held on firmly to their glasses of coloured waters floating with ice cubes. Enough of this sour and critical viewpoint. I excused myself to Joyce and the party and proceeded through the open doors into the garden where laughter floated to greet me.

The garden was a surprise after the dusty appearance of the interior of the building, so much so that I had to blink in order to assure myself that it was real. Quite a different picture to what I had just left and I was right, this is where all the young people were. They sat on chairs around small tables, stood in groups or lolled over the stone wall perimeter around the little pond where frogs croaked furiously in competition with the humans.

Torches placed strategically shone on the young men and women dressed in whites, pale pale pinks, lemon and blues, like a summer rainbow; tanned and bright eyed, beautiful bodies etc. etc. They sat and stood with their arms about each other, on shoulders, round waists or with tall glasses in their hands and tennis racquets propped against or squeezed between their knees. Waiters buzzed about, took and executed orders swiftly and silently, the young people barely acknowledging their existence. I could see they were very much at ease in this environment, their obvious enjoyment of each other’s company evident in their demeanour/behaviour.

My eyes roved around the garden to the trees and plants, indeed an oasis on this barren island. Apart from one or two gardens attached to the villas I had visited I had as yet not seen a well-kept garden or a decent piece of lawn since leaving England. Although the grass area was small in comparison with the rest of the garden, what we would call in England a handkerchief size, it was perfect, green as green could be, soft in appearance with droplets of water showing. Someone not only cared for this place but loved it dearly and it showed, shady corners with flowering shrubs mingled with bougainvillaea and hibiscus trumpets now closed with the night air framed the area. Cacti were everywhere, large and fruitful, grey greens mixed with dark green spikes, bright red flowers pushing their way through their hard sharp cases. The small pond and home of the frogs was quieter now, the water lilies closed for the night, the undersides of the petals pink and lemon matching the shirts and trousers of the guests. Tall bull rushes edged the water and a few brightly coloured dragon flies zoomed about the cool waters. The terrain smelled damp, cool and inviting, interspersed with expensive after shave and perfumes from Paris and Rome.

From first glance, I would say the average age was about thirty, maybe the girls were a little younger but I had unknowingly introduced myself to the pivot of the social life of this island.

A pair of rickety looking white painted metal chairs were vacated by a couple of young women and I claimed one quickly. It was like being in a theatre with all the stage set out directly in front, the actors oblivious of your presence and yet needing your acclamation. As I sat there, maybe I was an invader on their territory or perhaps just a strange face in their midst. Whichever it was, I intended to see the play. There were a number of couples and groups but the assembly that caught my interest were nearest to me and the most convivial and their laughter the heartiest, all male, in the centre of which was the darkest and handsomest of them all with the friendliest smile. Once or twice our eyes had met during his telling of yet another of his stories. He was the only person present wearing all black, he was swarthy-skinned, and his fine shaped head covered with jet black hair nodded and shook with laughter every few minutes. He was not just sun-tanned blond or sun-tanned brown like the others and I surmised there and then that he was born and bred on this island. No visitor could have skin quite like that. His eyes were so dark in colour one would say at first that they too were black.

He knew he was being examined by someone and he played well to his audience. The group around were slaves to his quips and he loved it all. He broke away suddenly from the enclave as though tired and bored with the company and made a beeline to where I was sitting, a broad grin and smiling eyes preceding his greeting. Welcome to our lovely island, Madam, with a very slight accent on the Madam. May I sit with you? I gave a quick nod of the head to his request and found myself smiling in return to this very open face now quite near to mine. He kept his face exceptionally near to mine as people often do when speaking to foreign visitors, to make certain they do not miss a single word. Such behaviour had previously always made me feel slightly embarrassed; no such feeling was with me now. In general, at home, my opinions were disregarded so I had, over many years, trained myself to listen and I loved to hear the stories of friends and to learn from their experiences.

The young man, whom I would judge to be in his early thirties, introduced himself as Antonio Castello with special emphasis on the double ell part of his name, smiling with his whole face. His face was close enough for me to see directly into a few cavernous scars of a past skin disorder on his cheeks, now healed but no doubt a permanent reminder of some juvenile problems. I was rather pleased that he had some flaw about him, no one should look that healthy, handsome, sophisticated and outstanding in any company—it would not be an equal distribution of chromosomes. I began to wonder whether there were other imperfections about Antonio but I was sidetracked as he wished to hear all about me, who I was, where I came from, how long did I intend staying, polite and usual chatter for two strangers meeting, but his intonation showed real interest. So I rose to the occasion with gusto and proceeded to tell him my name was Lucy, where I lived and about my visit to Joyce, my extended stay on the island about which I flattered out of all proportion the beauty, enchantment and hospitality of almost all I had seen and everyone I had met.

Oh yes, I know London a little, he interrupted. I’ve been there twice with my friend Phillip who comes from near London. It is a very big place with many theatres to go and things to do, I hope to go there again very soon, my friend is in London now and will return soon. He gave me this all in one breath in a great rush of words coming to a sudden halt which appeared almost to trip him up.

He was pleased with my comments about his island, a warm friendly feeling passed between us, he smiled, his eyes shone with a personal and patriotic pride. As I had anticipated he was born on the island, all his family were islanders, his two sisters, older than he, were married to men on the island, but Antonio was not married, he informed me in serious manner. He lived at the Villa de Marco in a small but prosperous village a few kilometres from the capital. He didn’t tell me it was a wealthy village; I had been told about it by the de Silvas. Somewhere in the back of my mind I also had heard a story about this particular villa but failed, for the moment, to recall the details.

He gave me this information as though it was expected that I knew all the details of his domicile and did not elaborate on this part of his life but proceeded to talk about his family life with his sisters on a small farm as a young boy. His elder sister had encouraged him to work hard at school and he eventually became