HONEYMOONERS

Waking up at Casa de Limones is blissful.

For Margaret it is home, a place of indulgence and happiness, far away from the feeling of brooding resentment at Tregethlen. She loves the challenge of restoring the house and garden but is aware that Diana disapproves. Even the house itself seems to resent change, having slipped into indolent decay.

For Edward, this is how he would like to live – the only decisions being where and when to eat, drink, swim and sail. The fine voile curtains waft at the open window and they can hear the sound of sprinkling water as the gardener begins his work.

Margaret ruffles Edward’s curls, blazing auburn in the morning sun on the white linen pillow. He gently kisses her shoulder over which tumble her paler tresses.

Elena, the maid, discreetly serves breakfast on the terrace that overlooks the turquoise waters in the cove below. There is champagne in an ice bucket, strong, bitter coffee, and sweet figs and peaches, with soft warm rolls and apricot jam. Jasmine and lemon flowers scent the air, and a donkey brays in the distance. A church bell tolls far away.

‘Come for a swim?’ suggests Edward, but Margaret declines, intending a long bath followed by choosing her outfit and preparing her face for the day.

Edward wanders down to the pool, between rows of olive trees bordered by fragrant herbs and oleanders. The water is silken against his bare skin as he dives in and swims lazily, admiring the mosaic below.

Refreshed, he returns to meet Margaret who is sashaying down through the garden towards him. She is wearing a peach silk kaftan, embroidered with exotic birds, and gilded sunglasses, her hair soft upon her shoulders.

‘I’m going to take you to my favourite cafe by the harbour for lunch. They serve the most delicious paella.’

‘Brilliant,’ says Edward, ‘then we can sail over to Macarella this afternoon and swim off the boat to that lovely beach. Good snorkeling too. We could spend the night on board.’ He laughs, ‘Better change into something more suitable, sweetie, that might be a bit of a disadvantage on board.’ 

Margaret had envisaged a shopping trip to Castillon, buying local pottery for Tregethlan and maybe a new linen dress for herself, followed by meeting friends there for dinner and dancing afterwards in one of the lovely old squares. She has never actually sailed on Iolanthe, only enjoyed drinks aboard with friends before dinner in one of the marina restaurants. Daddy bought the boat to celebrate his 60th birthday and loves sailing with Edward, who is so much more experienced than himself. Her brothers prefer their powerboats and so she and her mother have always had plenty of time for sightseeing, shopping and leisurely afternoons in cafes, or sunbathing. She pouts like a spoilt child and goes back to change.

Lunch is delightful, a seafood dish suffused with saffron and paprika. The little cafe is quiet, only one Spanish family with grandmother in black, and solemn little children carefully eating their prawns and calamari. ‘So sweet,’ thinks Margaret. Edward hasn’t noticed them, too busy planning his voyage. The midday air is still and hot but as they finish lunch, they can hear a slight breeze rattling the rigging of the yachts.

Holding hands, they walk along the quay until they arrive at the beautiful Iolanthe. With her sleek lines, pale decks and shining metalwork, she stands out amongst the brightly coloured local fishing boats. She tips gently as they step aboard. This is where Edward is in his element. He checks ropes and winches, removes sail covers and ceremoniously unfurls the ensign, while Margaret stows her handbag and jacket down below. The sun glistens on the sparkling water and a fish jumps nearby.

‘Cast off!’ calls Edward happily.

He had explained to Margaret how and when to release the rope, but she finds it heavy and taught and, in spite of her smart chamois leather sailing gloves, very unpleasant to hold.

‘Darling, it’s awfully difficult!’ There is disgusting green slime dripping off the rope on to her new white slacks.

‘I’ll do it,’ yells Edward confidently, striding across the foredeck. ‘It’s perfectly simple.’

The sails fill and lift the boat gently out of the harbour. As Edward busies himself, adjusting tensions on various ropes and checking their course on the compass, Margaret lies back in the cockpit, luxuriating in the sunshine. She quite likes her new sailing outfit of stripy Breton T-shirt, wide white linen trousers with navy buttons, a jaunty silk scarf tying up her blonde curls, but spoilt by these ugly, compulsory deck shoes to protect the pristine teak decks. As they leave the harbour, the breeze picks up and soon they are racing along, the boat heeling and straining against the wind.

‘Should it do this?’ screams Margaret. ‘Can’t you slow it down?’ as she clutches on to the nearest rigging and the edge of the cockpit, which is now sprayed by continuous waves, splashing over her.

‘You’ll be fine, old gal,’ shouts Edward, enclosing her in his huge warm arms. His chest feels reassuring, but it is still all so horrible, frightening, cold, wet and unnerving. Her trousers are soaked, her scarf blown off and her curls are unravelling. And why does Edward have to speak so loudly all the time?

‘Isn’t it wonderful, just us, the sea, wind and sky? We could sail on forever.’

‘Please, please let us go back!’ This is the most terrifying experience of her life – Margaret understands nothing of the sea and boats, she even hates beaches; warm swimming pools with sun loungers and drinks are so much more civilized. She loves the glamour of marinas, seafood and champagne under the stars, wandering around the Mediterranean resorts with other wealthy yacht owners – but this? NO!

Chapter 31