Free Sleeping Tiger by Rosamunde Pilcher Page B

He lifted the heavy crate with the spare propeller, and Frances carried the basket, and led the way down the stone stairs to her enclosed courtyard, where the lemon tree grew by the well. She opened the heavy double doors that led to the narrow street, and stepped out in the sunshine. Here, on the crazy slope of the hill, George’s ridiculous car was parked, an ancient Morris Cowley, with yellow wheels and a hood like a perambulator. They loaded it up, and George turned to say good-bye.
    â€œIt’s been fun,” he said.
    â€œThat’s because we didn’t plan it, darling. What’s the word? Spontaneous.” She kissed his mouth. She was so tall that she did not have to reach up to do it, merely leaned forward and caught him unawares. She wore a bright, thick lipstick that came off on his mouth and tasted sweet, and when she drew away, he wiped the stain away on the back of his hand.
    He got into the car.
    â€œGood-bye, darling.”
    â€œâ€™Bye, Frances.”
    â€œâ€™Bye.”
    She removed the stone which, last night, feeble with laughter, they had jammed beneath the front wheel, and George took off the brake and the car free-wheeled away, gathering terrifying speed as it went, and taking the corners of the narrow, steep street like a helter-skelter at the fair, scattering cats and chickens and causing the Guardia Civil, posted at the gate of the old wall, to suck their teeth in violent disapproval.
    He bowled back to Cala Fuerte, down the dusty roads, through the neatly-tended fields, past the windmills, and the patient horses turning the water-wheels. He came to the winding road beneath the mountains, and the cross of San Estaban towered above him. He squinted out to sea for signs of the returning storm, and he thought about Frances. He thought of going to live in San Antonio with Frances, if only for the satisfaction of writing to Rutland, the publisher, and telling him to go to hell, he wasn’t going to write any more books, he was going to become a beachcomber, a lotus-eater, he was going to be kept by a rich American.
    At San Estaban, the siesta was over, the shutters had been thrown wide and a few peaceful customers sat outside the cafés. As George passed, tooting the horn of the car, they called “Hombre!” and waved, because they all knew him, if not by name, then by sight, because he was the mad Englishman in the little car with yellow wheels, who drove around the island wearing a yacthing cap and sometimes wrote books.
    As he came free-wheeling down the last stretch of road that led to Cala Fuerte, he had a small debate with himself as to whether or not he would call in at Rudolfo’s for a drink. In the end, rather to his own surprise, he decided against it. He would undoubtedly meet friends, would stay longer than he intended, would drink more than was good for him. He did not trust the weather, and Pearl would be hungry; so instead, he compromised with a friendly toot on his horn as he came through the square, and a genial wave to anybody who might be sitting on the terrace of the Cala Fuerte. There was no sign of Rudolfo, but one or two startled drinkers waved back, and there was the good feeling of coming home, and George began to whistle.
    *   *   *
    He was whistling when he came into the house. Selina, still sitting on the ladder, heard the car come over the hill, and down the slope, and stop, with a great screeching of ancient brakes, outside the Casa Barco. She sat motionless, the white cat, a great, heavy weight, asleep in her lap. The car engine was switched off, and it was then that she heard the whistling. A door opened and was slammed shut. The whistling continued, grew louder. The door of the Casa Barco was pushed open, and a man came in.
    He carried a basket in one hand, a cardboard box under the other arm, and a roll of newspapers in his teeth. He shut the door with the seat of his pants, put the basket down on the floor,