Circles of Fate Read online

  CIRCLES OF FATE

  Anne Saunders

  CHIVERS

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available

  This eBook published by AudioGO Ltd, Bath, 2012.

  Published by arrangement with the Author

  Epub ISBN 9781471311963

  Copyright © Anne Saunders 1973

  The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  All rights reserved

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental

  Jacket illustration © iStockphoto.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  ONE

  Anita was among the first passengers to board. Feeling nervous, she smiled brightly at the air hostess, hoping to dispel the butterflies and exude complete calm and confidence. Not that she deceived the girl in the blue and grey Airways’ uniform. Air hostesses are trained to spot the timid first-timer; one of their less arduous but tricky duties is to see that first-time flight nerves do not spread. And, so stressed the Airways’ instructor many times during the long and expensive training, the best way to do that is to tackle the problem at source.

  The air hostess walked down the narrow aisle, helping passengers to stow away belongings and, where necessary, assisting in the fastening of seat belts, stopping as if by chance by Anita.

  “Are you quite comfortable, madam?”

  The girl’s voice, pitched low to inspire confidence, was a great nerve steadier. As she smiled her thanks, Anita felt almost calm.

  The aircraft door slammed shut and the plane taxied down the runway. Just for a moment, before it thrust its giant bulk into the air, it seemed to hesitate and that was the moment Anita closed her eyes and wished herself back home. Armed to the back teeth with statistics, she knew there was less chance of coming to grief while airborne than travelling on the tightly packed roads. But cars are in frequent usage, whereas planes are still nerve-rackingly out of the ordinary, except for a minority of blasé business people travelling on expense accounts.

  Suddenly she realized they were up, cutting through clouds as wispy as cigarette smoke into a blue, sunlit world. With feminine perversity she thought, Why, there’s nothing to it! If Edward could see me now he’d be really quite proud of me. She wished the plane was taking her all the way to Leyenda. Unfortunately the small airfield there only catered for light aircraft, so after this journey she was still faced with another take-off, another landing.

  The hostess who had spotted her little idiosyncrasy was politely enquiring whether she would like tea or coffee with her lunch. As she began to eat she realized how hungry she was. She had been too excited to eat a proper breakfast, half a slice of toast and half a cup of tea had gone down very slowly and, anyway, that was hours ago. She noticed that her travelling companion, a woman of about forty with sad brown eyes, barely touched her tray.

  “Is this your first flight, too?” asked Anita, full of sympathy.

  For a moment the woman did not answer; it seemed as though her thoughts absorbed her to the exclusion of everything else. Then, realizing:

  “Gracious, no! I’ve done this trip scores of times.” With precise, deliberate movements she turned from Anita to catch the hostess’s eye, indicating that she wished her to remove the unwanted tray. Repressively, because above all else Anita longed for a feminine natter to keep her mind off other things, the woman opened a magazine. Opened it, but did not bother to read it. She stared glassy-eyed at the same line, not even making the pretence of turning a page now and then. Anita respected the barrier and did not attempt to draw the woman into conversation again.

  The big plane touched down. The huge engines screamed as the wheels slowed on the tarmac, so that even when the plane stopped moving and all was quiet, the noise lingered in Anita’s ears. There was a murmur of voices, a shuffle of feet as people rose, collecting holdalls, handbags and suchlike. Anita edged forward and took her place in the slow-moving queue, smiled her goodbye to the air hostess and came out into a shimmering dance of light. The sky was a bright intense blue, innocent of all but one tiny finger-smudge of cloud, and the light bounced back off the stark white airport buildings, so that she was forced to reduce her eyes to slits to combat the glare.

  Clear of passport control and customs, she stopped an airport employee and asked where she should go to catch the plane to Leyenda. He grinned at her and pointed a bronzed finger in the direction of the restaurant building.

  “You mean I’ve time for a cup of tea?” she said, feeling keen relief because she wasn’t going to be hustled straight on another plane.

  “I mean you’ve time for several,” came the puzzling reply. Whereupon he let out a bellowing laugh and went away holding his head in mock disbelief.

  She tried again. This time her quarry made better sense.

  “You’ll be wanting Rock Bennett’s crate. Now let me see, if you go ... Ah, look! There’s Mrs Perryman. She’s going to Leyenda. Your best bet would be to tag on to her.”

  With precisely that in mind, Anita picked up her suitcase and legged it after the stylish back. “Excuse me,” she said breathlessly drawing alongside.

  The club-cut brown hair swung away and those sad brown eyes surveyed Anita again, causing her to bite her lip in dismay. Of all the unhappy coincidences, it was the uncommunicative woman she had sat next to on the plane.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I honestly wouldn’t have come chasing after you, no matter what the man said,” she gulped with an intrepid rush of honesty, which could hardly be called flattering.

  “What man?”

  “The man I asked to direct me to the Leyenda plane.”

  “Oh, I see. And he directed you to me.”

  “Yes, but it’s all right. I’ll ask someone else.”

  “That would be pointless. I suggest you join me for a cup of tea.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t ... couldn’t force myself on you.”

  “But you already have, dear,” pointed out the older woman reasonably. “We are both Leyenda bound, it seems. If I let you go now I shall feel a worse monster than I do already. I’m not usually this boorish and unsociable, but I’m wrestling with a gigantic domestic problem which has blinded me to the point of impoliteness and has stolen my normally unimpeachable good manners. Let’s start again, shall we? I’m Monica Perryman.”

  Dazed by earlier rebuffs, Anita stared, not immediately grasping the meaning of the outstretched hand. Then her mouth rushed full-force into a smile, as her own hand went forward to do the niceties. “Anita Hurst. And if you don’t want to talk, I won’t. I’m just grateful to be alongside.”

  “You’re not used to being on your own, are you?” enquired Monica Perryman shrewdly.

  “No,” said Anita, her eyes filling with uncontrollable tears. “I’m not.”

  “Tea first,” said Monica Perryman, taking hold of Anita’s elbow and steering her purposefully forward.

  Then, cryptically: “We’ll have to toss for who has first go –”

  “First go?”

  “Unloading. Unburdening. On second thoughts I think I shall be mean and execute the prerogative of age. I’m aching to whisper my troubles into an uninvolved, discreet ear. Are you discreet?”

  “Well, I think so,” said Anita, “although it’s a long ti
me since I’ve been put to the test.”

  The older woman’s throat surrendered a tiny sigh. “I’m an idiot not to keep my own counsel. Hang on while I get the tea. It’s self-service, so you grab a table.”

  Monica Perryman stripped off her gloves. Her hands were broad, her fingers fat and stumpy and did not do justice to the rings on her marriage finger. Her wedding ring was a broad, many faceted band, but it was the other ring with its single ruby stone which fascinated Anita.

  “Yes, it is rather nice,” said Monica Perryman. “I’d let you try it on, but it doesn’t come off that easily. If I were knocked down and robbed, at least my rings would be safe.” She spread her fingers out and looked at them disparagingly. “The only place I admit to putting on weight.” She had a droll, rather dry way of talking, which Anita was just beginning to get used to. If she was cynical then someone had made her that way, someone had fashioned that mouth into bitterness and filled those brown eyes with sorrow. Suddenly they fixed on Anita.

  “Would you take a piece of advice from someone who’s experienced life the hard way?” She pointed to Anita’s engagement ring. “I see you’ve already chosen your man. Accept him for what he is; don’t go blithely into marriage with the thought that you can change him because the chances are you won’t succeed. At the age of matrimony a man is more or less moulded in his ways; if they’re not your ways then tear up his letters and give him back his trinkets while they are just that, and not perks that go with the job, paid for with years of bending to his will and flattering his silly ego.” Her mouth tightened and for a moment she seemed to drift away into a world of her own as she said: “They’re mine now, no matter what the outcome. I’ve taken care of that.” She broke off to sip her tea and she regained control of the moment. Still cradling the cup in her hands, she said, entreated almost, “Don’t make the mistake of listening to his promises. Three years, my man said. Try Leyenda for three years and if you still don’t like it, we’ll find some place you do like. Okay, I said. Three years later I said, I’ve given the island a fair trial and I don’t like it. Let’s go. One more year, honey, he begged. The business isn’t going so well. Never let it be said that your husband walked out on a failure. Ten years later there was rather a subtle change. You can’t expect me to walk out on a success? Give up my life’s work? Not likely! Go visit your sister, he said. Compare her life with yours and don’t come back until you are in a more reasonable frame of mind.”

  “Is that where you’ve been,” interrupted Anita, “visiting your sister?”

  “Yes. And making unfair comparisons because my sister’s husband has fought ill-health all his life and has never been able to give my sister much in the way of material advantages. But do you know, on happiness, on understanding and togetherness, they are points ahead.”

  “But you’re still returning to your husband?”

  “No dear.” She reinforced herself with a huge breath. “I’m leaving him.” Then she sat back, highly satisfied, as though voicing it to a stranger was a gigantic step forward. “You’ve heard the classic joke, I’ve come to say I’m not coming. Well, I’m returning to say I’m not returning. I could have written a letter. Almost did. But my sister persuaded me not to take the coward’s way out. She said I owed Claude a face-to-face explanation. So here I am. And now, my dear, I must extract a promise from you that you will not repeat one word of this conversation to a living soul. I’ve told you all this to relieve my feelings and not to steal a petty advantage. Claude Perryman is, in every way, a fine man and a kind, considerate employer. I’m throwing that in because for all I know you might be going out to work for him. He is, after all, the island’s chief source of employment and I don’t want to prejudice you right at the beginning.”

  “I’m not going out to a job.”

  “I didn’t think so, but I couldn’t be sure. If you meet my husband socially, do like him. We are both really very nice people who are mismatched and should never have fallen in love. Now, I’ll have your promise, please.”

  “Of course. I promise.”

  “Thank you. Now I wonder what’s keeping Rock Bennett.” She consulted her watch. “He’s scandalously late.” She smiled and added: “As usual.”

  “Is he a bit of a joke, or something?” ventured Anita. “The first man I asked directions of found it all highly amusing.”

  “Rock Bennett is no joke, he’s a first-class pilot, but the crates he flies aren’t what you might call confidence inspiring. Not to worry,” she said, answering the flicker of alarm in Anita’s eye. “To the best of my knowledge he’s never lost a plane or a passenger yet.”

  “Someone defaming my character?” cut in a lazy voice.

  “I may be indiscreet –” flashing Anita a smile – “but I never talk slander.” As Monica Perryman’s gaze was drawn to the blue eyes with a high masculine charm-rating, of which their owner was totally unaware and which probably made him such a nice person to know, Anita also looked up.

  “Rock Bennett – Anita Hurst,” introduced Monica Perryman.

  Anita decided his eyes were such an intense shade of blue because they contrasted so vividly with his black lashes and brows.

  “Charmed,” said Rock Bennett, making a performance of bending low over Anita’s hand as he greeted her in true continental manner. A flame of warm attraction sprang between the girl whose eyes contained a keen romantic longing that did not go with the ring on her finger, and the pilot who lived with his head in the clouds and didn’t seem to require man’s basic need of feminine companionship, despite his ease of greeting.

  A speculative smile quirked on Monica Perryman’s mouth. She half-envied, half-sympathized with Anita. The years of love and passion are so few, a wild untamed flower that flourishes in young breasts, with a heart that quickly withers and dies or, in exceptional cases, changes into a fireside bloom of eternal quality. It could have been like that with Claude and me, she thought. It was all there, the passion ready to sweeten into mellowness and warmth, only we never found the right fireside. A roughness entered her voice as she rounded on the bland faces of the other two.

  “Well, are we going to stay here all day? How do you expect to make a living, Rock Bennett, when you don’t give a reliable service?”

  “I was unaware of the hurry,” he drawled. “So, also, is my third passenger. I am afraid we’ll just have to wait until he arrives.”

  “Who is it, this inconsiderate man who commands V.I.P. treatment?”

  “Felipe Sanchez. El valiente, himself.”

  For some inexplicable reason that seemed to satisfy Monica Perryman. For another reason, equally obscure, it heightened Anita’s own sense of anticipation. She couldn’t wait to meet the man responsible for her new friend’s sudden mood change.

  He came strolling up half an hour later, turning a few heads, quickening a few heartbeats with his dominating personality and formidable strength of both feature and stride. He had about him that special quality one associates with foreign aristocracy, a certain mystique that defies exact definition. Introductions completed, a cool handshake with none of the flourish and fervour of Rock Bennett’s greeting, she wondered whether his black eyes were symbolic of his nature. A fascinating complexity of black-panther cruelty and friendly imprudence, they looked into hers with a depth and intensity that made hers retreat like those of an embarrassed child’s.

  She fancied he laughed because she wasn’t mature enough to face that glance, although his lips did not betray his inner thoughts and remained in a courteous and correct enquiring tilt.

  “I hope I haven’t kept you good people waiting.” Pure lip service, she decided ungraciously, unfairly committing a snap judgement, something she prided herself on not doing no matter what the circumstances.

  She was piqued to have to sit next to him on the plane. Monica Perryman neatly organized this by commandeering the lone bucket seat at the rear. Her nearness to home put a strain on her face. There was still time to change her mind. Would she? Wou
ldn’t she? She withdrew to wrestle with her problem. She was the uncommunicative, hostile woman Anita had first met.

  “Have you been to the Isla de Leyenda before?” enquired Felipe Sanchez.

  At first Anita had thought he could have passed for a Frenchman, but only because his temperament seemed less excitable than either Spanish or Italian. His carefully accented English gave him away more surely than the slightly darker colour of his skin, and pronounced him a proud and arrogant Spaniard.

  “It is my mother’s birthplace,” she told him, lifting her own shoulders to inject her words with importance.

  “So?” There it was again, that deep and probing glance which made her shrink from even an implied lie.

  “I have never been there, except in my imagination.”

  “What better reason could you have for going now. I envy you.”

  “How so?”

  “To see the Island of Legend for the first time is a truly memorable experience.”

  “Island of Legend,” she mused. “I’d forgotten that was what Isla de Leyenda stood for.”

  “Of course, you would speak the tongue of your mother’s birthplace,” he teased.

  “Rustily, I’m afraid,” she admitted, adding ruefully, “At the moment it sounds more gibberish than Spanish.”

  “It will come.” His tone was bitter. “A foreign language is like a youthful folly, never wholly forgotten.” Before she could add her own comment, he was pointing out of the window. “If you look carefully you will see the coast of Africa.”

  The tiny smudge of cloud had grown into a shelf which obscured her view, but occasionally a break allowed her eyes to drop all the way to the brooding sea, but the coastline he referred to remained elusive and she thought perhaps he was looking with the eye of memory. He had the air of the seasoned traveller about him and, like Monica Perryman, he would have made this journey numerous times, so that he could accept the frailness of the craft in which they flew. All Anita’s flight-nerves had returned threefold.

  “Mire! Mire!” Excitement forced a Spanish imperative from Felipe’s lips, and Anita obeyed and looked. Magically the clouds of knitted purple had dispersed once more and she could see the collection of volcanic thrown islands, dark petrified blobs, fantastically and dramatically contoured by the prevailing wind and the greedy lick of the grey sea. Soon the tiny plane would sweep down into the lush green beauty of the Poniente Valley, and Edward would be waiting to transport her to the best, and probably only hotel Cala Bonita thought fit to provide.