there’s
something
in it, only I don’t know what. He christened the girl ‘Miranda’, and can you imagine any Corfiote hatching up a name like that? And then Maria’s husband deserted them. What’s more, I’ll swear Julian Gale’s been supporting the family. Maria’s never said a word, but Miranda’s let things drop once or twice, and I’m sure he does. And why, tell me that? Not just because he happened to know the husband during the war!’
‘Then if Miranda and Spiro were twins, he’s Spiro’s father, too?’
‘The facts of life being what they are, you might even be right. Oh!’ She went rigid in her chair, and turned large eyes on me. ‘You mean – you mean someone ought to go and break the news to
him
?’ All at once she looked very uncertain and flustered. ‘But, Lucy, it’s only a rumour, and one could hardly
assume
it, could one? I mean, think if one went over there, and—’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ I said. ‘In any case, it’s not our job to tell him, Maria’ll tell him herself. He’ll hear soonenough. Forget it. Where’s this lunch you were talking about? I’m starving.’
As I followed her out to the kitchen, I was reflecting that Julian Gale had almost certainly had the news already. From my chair facing the
salotto
windows, I had seen Maria and her daughter leave the house together. And not by the drive that would take them back to their own cottage. They had taken the little path that Miranda had showed me that morning, the path that led only to the empty bay, or to the Castello dei Fiori.
4
He is drown’d
Whom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocks
Our frustrate search on land: well, let him go
.
III . 3.
D AYS went by, peaceful, lovely days. I kept my word, and went down daily to the bay. Sometimes the dolphin came, though never near enough for me to touch him, and, although I knew that for the animal’s own sake I ought to try to frighten him and drive him away, his friendly presence delighted me so much that I couldn’t bring myself to what would seem an act of betrayal.
I did keep a wary eye on the Castello terrace, but there was no further shooting incident, nor had there been any rumour that a local man might have been trespassing with a rifle. But I swam every day, and watched, and never left the bay until the dolphin had finally submerged and headed for the open sea.
There had been no news of Spiro. Maria and her daughter had come back to the Villa Forli the morning after the boy’s death, and had gone stoically on with their work. Miranda had lost the plump brightness thatcharacterised her; she looked as if she cried a lot, and her voice and movements were subdued. I saw little of Maria, who kept mostly to the kitchen, going silently about her work with the black head-kerchief pulled across her face.
The weather was brilliant, and hot even in the shade. Phyllida was rather listless. Once or twice she went with me on my sightseeing trips, or into the town of Corfu, and one evening Godfrey Manning took us both to dine at the Corfu Palace Hotel, but on the whole the week slipped quietly by, while I bathed, and sat on the terrace with Phyllida, or took the little car and drove myself out in the afternoons to explore.
Leo, Phyllida’s husband, hadn’t managed to get away for the weekend, and Palm Sunday came without a visit from him. Phyllida had advised me to go into the town that morning to watch the Palm Sunday procession, which is one of the four occasions in the year when the island Saint, Spiridion, is brought out of the church where he lies the year round in a dim shrine all smoky with taper-light, and is carried through the streets in his golden palanquin. It is not an image of the Saint, but his actual mummified body which is carried in the procession, and this, somehow, makes him a very personal and homely kind of patron saint to have: the islanders believe that he has Corfu and all its people in his personal and always benevolent care, and has
something
in it, only I don’t know what. He christened the girl ‘Miranda’, and can you imagine any Corfiote hatching up a name like that? And then Maria’s husband deserted them. What’s more, I’ll swear Julian Gale’s been supporting the family. Maria’s never said a word, but Miranda’s let things drop once or twice, and I’m sure he does. And why, tell me that? Not just because he happened to know the husband during the war!’
‘Then if Miranda and Spiro were twins, he’s Spiro’s father, too?’
‘The facts of life being what they are, you might even be right. Oh!’ She went rigid in her chair, and turned large eyes on me. ‘You mean – you mean someone ought to go and break the news to
him
?’ All at once she looked very uncertain and flustered. ‘But, Lucy, it’s only a rumour, and one could hardly
assume
it, could one? I mean, think if one went over there, and—’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ I said. ‘In any case, it’s not our job to tell him, Maria’ll tell him herself. He’ll hear soonenough. Forget it. Where’s this lunch you were talking about? I’m starving.’
As I followed her out to the kitchen, I was reflecting that Julian Gale had almost certainly had the news already. From my chair facing the
salotto
windows, I had seen Maria and her daughter leave the house together. And not by the drive that would take them back to their own cottage. They had taken the little path that Miranda had showed me that morning, the path that led only to the empty bay, or to the Castello dei Fiori.
4
He is drown’d
Whom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocks
Our frustrate search on land: well, let him go
.
III . 3.
D AYS went by, peaceful, lovely days. I kept my word, and went down daily to the bay. Sometimes the dolphin came, though never near enough for me to touch him, and, although I knew that for the animal’s own sake I ought to try to frighten him and drive him away, his friendly presence delighted me so much that I couldn’t bring myself to what would seem an act of betrayal.
I did keep a wary eye on the Castello terrace, but there was no further shooting incident, nor had there been any rumour that a local man might have been trespassing with a rifle. But I swam every day, and watched, and never left the bay until the dolphin had finally submerged and headed for the open sea.
There had been no news of Spiro. Maria and her daughter had come back to the Villa Forli the morning after the boy’s death, and had gone stoically on with their work. Miranda had lost the plump brightness thatcharacterised her; she looked as if she cried a lot, and her voice and movements were subdued. I saw little of Maria, who kept mostly to the kitchen, going silently about her work with the black head-kerchief pulled across her face.
The weather was brilliant, and hot even in the shade. Phyllida was rather listless. Once or twice she went with me on my sightseeing trips, or into the town of Corfu, and one evening Godfrey Manning took us both to dine at the Corfu Palace Hotel, but on the whole the week slipped quietly by, while I bathed, and sat on the terrace with Phyllida, or took the little car and drove myself out in the afternoons to explore.
Leo, Phyllida’s husband, hadn’t managed to get away for the weekend, and Palm Sunday came without a visit from him. Phyllida had advised me to go into the town that morning to watch the Palm Sunday procession, which is one of the four occasions in the year when the island Saint, Spiridion, is brought out of the church where he lies the year round in a dim shrine all smoky with taper-light, and is carried through the streets in his golden palanquin. It is not an image of the Saint, but his actual mummified body which is carried in the procession, and this, somehow, makes him a very personal and homely kind of patron saint to have: the islanders believe that he has Corfu and all its people in his personal and always benevolent care, and has
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