“No,” I said, in a tone not designed to carry much conviction, “no, not exactly, but if you continue to find Corfu a more attractive anchorage than Ithaca—”
A touch of plain, straightforward jealousy seemed to me to provide a flattering and persuasive pretext for wishing to resume our voyage immediately, without returning to the Villa Miranda. I was unlikely, I thought, to be suspected of duplicity in admitting to feelings so unbecoming to a reasonable, civilized woman; and despite the convention that jealousy is to be resented, I have met few people who are not just a little pleased to be its object and do not at all enjoy the sense of magnanimity which comes from indulging it. The crew did not prove to be one of them — though it is fair to say that he behaved very well, and was not nearly as insufferable as many men would have been about being magnanimous and indulgent.
Before setting sail I went ashore again and found Dolly still bargaining for eggs and aubergines in one of the village shops. I accounted for our change of plan on sentimental grounds, explaining apologetically that Sebastian and I had few opportunities to be alone together and that I had been overtaken by a fit of possessiveness. She thought she understood perfectly, and assured me that neither she nor her husband would take offense at our abrupt departure. This was on condition that I brought Sebastian back to Corfu in time for the cricket match between the Writers and Artists: foreseeing that nothing I could say would keep him away from it, I promised that I would.
I allowed her to think that we still meant to sail first to Gouvia, on the east side of the island, and take a look at Corfu town; but once out of harbor I headed westwards. It was absurd, of course, but I somehow found it more comfortable to think that no one at the Villa Miranda, not even Dolly, would know our exact whereabouts. I continued on a westerly course until we reached Cape Cefali and then made all speed south, using the engine when the wind slackened and not stopping for anything until we reached Paxos.
I am slightly anxious about Camilla, but can’t see what to do about it. One can hardly suggest to her, can one, that until her inheritance vests in possession she would be wise to avoid the company of her relatives? It’s a monstrous suggestion, and there’s no real evidence for it. Indeed, seeing things from an objective distance, you may already have decided that I am making much out of nothing, with the subconscious motive, perhaps, of finding a respectable reason to leave the Villa Miranda. Very well, Julia — if you choose to have such a low opinion of my subconscious, I won’t argue with you. It’s true that the pipe could have broken by accident, though I checked it at Preveza and it looked sound enough. On the other hand…
On the other hand, Julia, when one has been sailing for a number of years, there are various safety precautions which one takes more or less instinctively and without needing to think about them any more than cleaning one’s teeth in the morning; and whatever you may say about my subconscious, one thing I don’t think I would forget is to turn off the pressure valve of the gas cylinder before going ashore.
I will send you postcards from Ithaca, but expect to be back in London before them.
With very much love,
Selena.
Soothed by gin, and the thought that Selena was now at a safe distance from any persons of homicidal tendency residing at the Villa Miranda, Julia was restored to her usual cheerful spirits and displayed a healthy appetite for lunch. I refrained from any comment which might reverse these happy consequences; but I could no longer deflect my thoughts from a chain of disquieting speculations which my conscious mind at least had hitherto managed to exclude.
“What’s got into you, Hilary, old thing?” asked Cantrip, observing my abstraction. “You’ve been moaning all week about us being too busy to gossip and buy you drinks, and now we’re taking you out to lunch you sit there looking like a wombat that wishes it was somewhere else. What’s up? Was something wrong with the lobster?”
“No indeed,” I answered, touched by the boy’s solicitude. “The lobster was excellent. I was reflecting — I was reflecting on the familiarity between the solicitor and the temporary typist.” There is a sense in which this was entirely true.
CHAPTER 15
It was not until the others had left us and Timothy was settling our account that I mentioned my need to borrow a rather substantial sum of money: the holiday season being at its height, I feared that it would only be by tendering the first-class fare that I could persuade any airline to convey me to Corfu by the following morning. Unfortunately, since the rewards of Scholarship are not of a material nature…
“Yes,” said Timothy, seeming perplexed, “yes, Hilary, I know about the indifference of the Scholar to worldly wealth, you’ve told me about it before. But why have you suddenly decided that you want to be in Corfu by tomorrow morning?”
“Because tomorrow is the day of the cricket match between the Writers and the Artists, and Sebastian is not a young man to default on such an obligation. He and Selena will therefore return to Corfu tomorrow. There is little doubt that they will receive an invitation to spend tomorrow night at the Villa Miranda; and I am concerned for their safety.”
“My dear Hilary,” said Timothy, “you can’t possibly be serious.” It took me several minutes to persuade him that I was in earnest.
“Well,” he said at last, “if you really think there’s going to be some sort of unpleasantness, I suppose it would be better if I went. God knows what Henry will say.”
“There is no need,” I said, “to disrupt your professional engagements. My dear Timothy, you cannot imagine that I propose to engage in any adventure of a physical nature — it is simply a matter of persuading Selena and Sebastian not to return to the Villa Miranda.”
Eventually, though not without doubtful looks and anxious murmurs, he agreed that it was I who should go — only, perhaps, because he still did not altogether believe that the matter was a serious one.
“I can understand,” he said, “that Camilla might be in danger. But what earthly reason could anyone have for doing any harm to Sebastian and Selena?”
“I think,” I said, “because Sebastian talked too much about Book XI of the
The Esplanade at Corfu, if considered as a public park, is not particularly extensive. The Corfiots, however, do not choose so to regard it, but boast instead that it is the largest public square in Europe. An elliptical space of ground lying between the town and the Citadel, encircled and traversed by avenues of chestnut and acacia, it beguiles the memory into recalling it as green — a varied and luxuriant green; though the truth is that the grass does not flourish there, and much of its area is a bare and sunburnt brown. From a table on the pavement in the Liston, the arcade of shops and cafes which occupies the north-western quarter of its circumference, I sat looking across at the more westerly of the two peaks of rock on which the Citadel is built, trying in vain — so precipitous is the rock and so massive its fortification — to distinguish the work of Nature from the work of man. The eastern summit, though hardly less formidable, is hidden by its companion from the view of spectators in the Liston.
Corfu has the charm of a place which reminds one of other places — which and for what reason one is not altogether certain. The deviousness of the narrow streets, winding in and out of small, unexpected squares; the elaborate little balconies tete-a-tete above long flights of marble steps; the bazaar-like profusion of merchandise outside obscure shopfronts; the noises of seafaring; the occasional smell of drains mingling with the scent of flowers — these things, I suppose, remind one chiefly of Venice, especially of those things in Venice which remind one of Istanbul. The Liston, however, has a certain Parisian flavor; and there is something about the Esplanade — the neo-Classical architecture and the circular bandstand — which irresistibly recalls Cheltenham or Bath. A town, one can hardly deny it, in every sense provincial; but with the faded, rather sluttish elegance of a provincial beauty who a long time ago spent a season in the capital.
I had lunched at the Aiglou restaurant, thinking it the probable rendezvous for those engaged to play cricket on the Esplanade in the afternoon. Two or three of those who passed by were known to me from previous visits, and paused to exchange greetings; but of those concerned in the matter which brought me there there was no sign.
