Francie Again: Adventures in Portugal Read online

  Francie had discovered that these transplanted English had a local joke: those who lived in Oporto in the vineyard country, as the wine families of course did, pretended to look down on the permanent British residents of Lisbon. Many were the arguments about North versus South. But here in Estoril, the holiday place, such differences were forgotten.

  And they were never real differences, reflected Francie. The Portuguese British all stuck together. They were like a family living abroad, a family that managed in spite of inevitable expansion and dilution to remember its relationship, and present a united front to the world. They were a tight little group. Everyone seemed to know everyone else, so that it gave Francie a slight twinge of envy to hear them laughing and talking of absent friends, of Bobby This and Brenda That. In just such a way, she thought wistfully, Glenn and Ruth and the others in Jefferson were probably speaking of her, to the utter mystification of some unlucky visitor who had never heard of Francie Nelson. It was good to belong somewhere, she said to herself, and felt homesick for her own friends.

  Indoors the older people played bridge or canasta. She could see them through the glass, cozy and cut off from the noise and chatter of their young people. Aunt Lolly was there; she had actually ventured to spend several hours out of her room, and that was a good sign. Everyone but the family who lived in the villa was strange to both the Americans, but how easily she got on with strangers! From the bottom of her heart, Francie envied her godmother her calm assurance.

  She herself was in the throes of shyness. She felt very much out of everything. Phyllis Wilkinson, the daughter of the house, was a nice girl. Francie had already met her several times, but Phyllis was newly engaged, and the presence of her young man had made her forget Francie for the moment. So Francie sat tongue-tied on the veranda, dutifully smiling when the others laughed, though the witticisms meant nothing to her. She would have liked to sparkle, but didn’t know how to begin.

  “I do feel like a drip,” she thought despondently. “I wish I were spending the afternoon with Maria and Ruy. They’re much more friendly.”

  She felt herself slipping back to the paralyzing timidity of her first days in England. But just before she despaired, Phyllis remembered the stranger.

  “We’ll have to see what kind of tennis Francie plays,” she told the others. “I should think she’s rather good. I’ve already seen her style at golf.”

  “Don’t expect too much,” said Francie. “Tennis isn’t my game, really.”

  “What is, then?” asked Edward, a dark boy who had been showing signs of wanting to talk to her. Francie said she liked swimming and spent a good deal of time on the hotel beach.

  “I swim out of hours,” she added, “during the siesta. As a matter of fact, I swim out of season, too. Nobody else seems to go in. At first I actually thought swimming wasn’t allowed in Portugal except in midsummer.”

  The others laughed. “People think it’s too cold,” explained Phyllis. “Most Portuguese won’t go into the water in the winter, but some other people are hardier. You’ll see masses of people at Cascaes the year round, including the ex-crowned heads of Europe.”

  “Wearing everything to bathe in, even their crowns,” put in another girl and everyone laughed again. Francie had to ask what the point was.

  “We mean bathing suits,” said Phyllis. “You see, the Portuguese police are awfully particular about costumes. I do hope you haven’t been sporting a smart two-piece, or exposing your midriff or anything like that, because it isn’t permitted. In the season, the police send picked men to patrol the beaches and protect public morals.”

  “We’ve heard sinister rumors that an unfortunate American female was taken away and never heard of again,” said a red-haired girl, “because she wore a Bikini.”

  “A Bikini!” said Phyllis in horror. “There’s no doubt about it then. She must have been executed within twenty-four hours.”

  “No, but really, what are the rules?” asked Francie. “I’ve never got them straight.”

  They explained, all at once. One must wear a modest one-piece suit at the very least, and with shoulder straps. Even men had to wear tops to their trunks. “And that reminds me,” said the dark boy, breaking off in the middle of a remark, “hadn’t somebody better warn Mark about it? He’s due to arrive soon, isn’t he, Derek? Better drop him a line about our bathing suit restrictions. He’ll bring ordinary trunks otherwise.”

  At the name Mark Francie pricked up her ears. She knew a Mark in England. But after all, she reminded herself, it was a common name. It would be silly to ask if this was the same boy. Nevertheless she listened alertly, and at last she was rewarded.

  “Isn’t that just like old Turnbull!” said one of the boys indulgently, after an anecdote.

  Mark Turnbull! That was the name of her friend. Francie spoke up and asked where their Mark came from. Sure enough, Edward had known him at Oxford, where Mark had been when Francie left England. There were exclamations, and excited plans were made to arrange a meeting as soon as he should arrive. Francie started home in a happy whirl.

  “Whatever do you think?” she demanded of Mrs. Barclay in the car. “Mark Turnbull’s coming to Lisbon! He’s in Oporto already. Isn’t that the queerest thing, to run into him here?”

  “I can hardly agree, dear, until you tell me more about him. Who is Mark Turnbull? Is it that nice boy from Jefferson?”

  Francie said, “Oh, Aunt Lolly, surely you remember? Oh—no, I don’t suppose you do. I knew Mark in England. It’s Glenn you’re thinking about in Jefferson. I only wish he’d come too.” She sighed a little. “But Mark, oh, Mark’s cute. He’s a dream-boat.”

  “What is the dreamboat doing in Portugal?” asked Aunt Lolly.

  “I couldn’t quite make out, but I gather he’s got something or other to do with spinning mills in Manchester. Anyway, his father has. He’s combining research into cloth design, or whatever it is—textiles, I guess you’d call it—with just plain visiting. The thing is, he’s got these friends in Oporto he can stay with. People can’t get out of England, you know, unless they’ve got business abroad. It’s something to do with not being allowed any money.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Aunt Lolly.

  “It must be terrible, having to do without money when you’re traveling,” said Francie thoughtfully. “The poor English.”

  Her mind soon strayed from these unfamiliar paths, for it seldom occurred to Francie that money troubles might exist. Pop always let her have whatever she needed. She went off into a pleasant reverie in which the past, when she had been a schoolgirl with a bit of a crush on Mark, mingled with a future in which matters were reversed and Mark was hopelessly enamored of her.

  “He seemed so grown up when I first met him at Jennifer’s,” she said happily, coming out of it, “but now I think I could manage him. Did I ever tell you what happened, Aunt Lolly? You see there were these two boys, Mark and Peter, and they used to drop in at Jennifer’s house where I was visiting. Jennifer was catty. I hated her. I’d never have gone to visit her, but Pop made me on account of Jennifer’s father being in his company. Well, Jennifer liked Mark, so I made Mark like me.” She looked doubtfully at Mrs. Barclay to see how she was taking this confession. “Of course we were very young,” she added.

  “What a nasty little beast you must have been,” said Mrs. Barclay.

  “I suppose I wasn’t very nice,” said Francie. “Not all the time, at any rate.”

  The car slowed to a gentle stop before the hotel door. It was growing dark. Aunt Lolly struggled to her feet, and with the help of the chauffeur and Francie got out and adjusted her cane. Francie walked with her to the elevator.

  “I think I’ll leave you here, Aunt Lolly,” she said. “I’m going to take a little walk, a quick one before dinner.”

  Mrs. Barclay thought a moment. “Do you think you should, dear?” she asked.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, it’s not customary, you know,” said Mrs. Barclay.
r />   “Oh, Aunt Lolly,” said Francie impatiently. “A little walk! What’s the harm in that?”

  “No harm at all,” said Aunt Lolly, “but it’s not the custom. I know what you’re going to say—that you needn’t stick to the custom because you’re a foreigner. But this time I think it might be unwise to go out alone. It’s almost dark now, and I’m not sure it’s safe.”

  Francie’s lower lip thrust out. “I’m not afraid,” she said.

  “Very well, my dear. I’ll see you later.” Mrs. Barclay, with no sign of displeasure, stepped into the elevator and was whisked away.

  Francie did not feel quite comfortable about it. Not that Aunt Lolly would brood about her or disapprove of things without saying so—you could trust her to be forthright. But it was barely possible that she was right, and that Francie was unwise to insist on having her own way.

  “I just can’t keep worrying about what strangers might think or say about me,” she decided at last. “Everyone’s got to be a little independent in this world.”

  Now that she had made her point and was outside, however, she was not very much tempted to take her walk after all. It was difficult to decide where to go. Along the beach? No, there were too many barriers there. You could hardly walk at all before you ran into some private estate, and it was very dark below the street level. Inland, away from the shore altogether? Francie made a tentative beginning, crossing the wide street. But the roads which were so broad and open in the daytime, curving in the glaring sun between lawns, looked like canyons at night, for every house and garden had a wall, and every wall shed a shadow. The great trees along the roadside were sinister.

  Francie settled at last for the ordinary stroll along the front. It was reasonably well lighted, so she re-crossed the street. She stepped out briskly, and enjoyed it. The pedestrians at night weren’t at all the same crowd that she was used to in the daytime. They were men, for the most part, sauntering in groups and talking pleasantly among themselves. Most of them looked like bank clerks in their conventional dark clothes and white shirts. A family, complete with all the children down to the smallest toddler, moved along in a shifting mass. As they passed, Mama and the older girls looked curiously at Francie, and she looked as curiously back. The men pretended not to see her. One very small girl in a long pink frock, her hair pulled up to a smooth glistening knot at the top of her head, stopped in Francie’s path and stared up at her with enormous black eyes. She was exactly like a Kate Greenaway child, thought Francie.

  “You darling!” she said impulsively, and leaned down. The child was startled and skittered back to her family, and everyone laughed. Francie heard them chattering behind her as she went on.

  A peasant girl came along, carrying a large bundle on her head. Her full skirts swished, her bare feet made no noise on the pavement. Three ragged small boys followed Francie for a little, holding out their palms and begging. She gave them some coins and they disappeared.

  The sea was lost now in black distance, except when a car turned out of a side road and threw its lights across the beach. Even here by an oil-soaked highway, the air was fragrant with sea smell and some kind of flower perfume.

  “I must get out into the country somehow, for a long visit,” thought Francie. “I’m wasting my time. I must see more of Portugal. I wonder if the da Souzas could help me.”

  Ahead of her she saw a familiar figure approaching. At first she thought her imagination was playing tricks on her, but as he reached the light of the street-lamp she saw that it was indeed Ruy da Souza.

  “Ruy!” she cried in pleased tones.

  Ruy paused, startled. His eyes went beyond Francie, as if he were looking for a companion. “Good evening,” he said. “Are you—is everything all right?”

  “Perfectly all right, thank you,” said Francie. “Are you going back to the hotel?”

  He seemed to think it over. What was the matter with him, she wondered irritably. Surely he knew if he was or wasn’t going to the hotel!

  “Anyway, I am,” she said, turning round. “I came out for a walk, but I’d better hurry now, or Aunt Lolly will be worried.”

  Ruy fell into step with her. “Worried? She does not know you are out so late, then,” he said. His tone implied that this explained everything.

  “Oh yes she does,” said Francie blithely. Again Ruy looked puzzled, or at least uncertain.

  He was in an uncommunicative mood, and replied to all her remarks with monosyllables. When they arrived at the door he hesitated.

  “Aren’t you coming in?” Francie asked in surprise.

  Ruy shrugged, and walked in behind her. Across the lobby Francie saw Maria and Dona Gracia, evidently waiting for him. They looked surprised at sight of her, and Dona Gracia did not seem pleased, for some reason.

  “Moody people, these Portuguese,” thought Francie as she rang for the elevator. “You never know where you are with them.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The sea breathed softly against pale sand, and the air was gentle as milk. Mrs. Barclay was reading in bed; her curtains had actually been drawn back enough to let the light in. (“It’s growing cooler now,” the chambermaid said in explanation.) Francie sat near the bed, sharing her breakfast.

  In the Paris edition of the Herald Tribune which Aunt Lolly had just handed over across the coffeepot, Francie read incredulously of the cold weather at home. Snow-bound cars in Chicago held up for days in their parking lots, fires from overstoked furnaces, floods where ice dams had broken. She looked around her at the warm, sunny room and asked herself, “Is it the same world?”

  There was a knock on the door, and the maid brought in the morning mail. Francie eagerly tore open a letter with an American stamp, and Mrs. Barclay, looking up from her own letters, saw the girl’s contented expression change as she read.

  “Anything wrong?” asked Aunt Lolly.

  “Nothing really,” said Francie, “but I’m getting peeved at Ruth. This letter’s from her.”

  Aunt Lolly said, “Let me think—oh yes, Ruth’s your great friend in Jefferson, isn’t she?”

  “That’s the one. We’ve been intimate friends all our lives.” Francie propped her chin on her hands. “Aunt Lolly, do you think I’m getting boastful lately? You know—stuck up?”

  “Boastful?” Aunt Lolly paused a moment to think gravely about her reply. “No, I really hadn’t noticed it. Why? Is Ruth accusing you of it?”

  “In a roundabout way she is. At least that’s what I think she means. Listen to this—” Francie picked up the letter and read aloud, “‘I’d ask you heaps more, only I’m sure you’re getting much too grand to bother answering the questions of us ordinary people.’ Now I ask you, is that fair, Aunt Lolly? I’m always writing to Ruth. I’m always answering her. I’ll bet I write more often than she does, even.”

  Her voice trembled. She was hurt more deeply than she could have explained, and more deeply really than the silly little sentence warranted. Francie was in a sensitive mood. Recent developments in Portugal were more to blame for this than was Ruth.

  “She’s probably joking,” came Aunt Lolly’s calm voice in the midst of her struggle against tears. If Aunt Lolly noticed any agitation, she was tactfully ignoring it.

  Francie recovered herself. “I haven’t been boasting,” she said.

  “Then I shouldn’t worry. Ruth may be a tiny bit jealous of your visit to Europe. It would be only natural, wouldn’t it? If I were you I’d ignore it, and write to her as usual, as if she hadn’t said anything spiteful.”

  “Oh dear, everything seems to get difficult all at once,” said Francie. “I didn’t mean that really,” she added hastily. “I only meant I feel strange here, with all these new people, and now here’s Ruth telling me I’m acting strange with her, too.”

  Aunt Lolly waited, but Francie did not continue with the subject. There was a silence, while Mrs. Barclay returned to her mail and Francie to the Herald Tribune. At last Mrs. Barclay put down her papers and took off her glasses.
“There are times,” she said carefully, “when we don’t like anybody very much, and it seems as if nobody likes us very much either. Yes, my dear, I have those days, too. Just try to remember that we can’t be everything everybody wants us to be, all the time. It would be superhuman.”

  Francie kissed her and went to her own room. Aunt Lolly was wonderful, of course. “But she can’t know quite how I feel,” Francie thought, “because she’s never felt like a fool when she’s with foreigners.”

  Uneasily she thought again of the afternoon she had spent, the day before, with the da Souza family. It was a week since her walk alone in the dark near the hotel, when she had seen, or fancied she had seen, a coldness in Dona Gracia’s face at the sight of her coming in with Ruy. Nobody had ever spoken about it, not even Maria. It had evidently blown over. The da Souzas had no doubt reminded themselves that American girls have a different code of behavior, as they had seen in New York.

  So everything was all right again until Dom Rodrigo came home and the da Souza family left the hotel to move back to their flat in Lisbon. Francie missed them. Maria still kept in close touch with her—after all, Estoril was practically part of the city, only a short train ride off—but still, Francie didn’t see as much of Maria now, and Ruy was busy with his father at the office. Francie told herself it was all for the best. She had been neglecting her English acquaintances in her eagerness to learn more about Portugal, and this made it rather awkward for Aunt Lolly sometimes. Now she was able to spend more time with Phyllis and the other young English people. Then yesterday she had seen all the da Souzas together, and it hadn’t been a success.