House in the Hills Read online

  ‘I’m not a child,’ said Catherine in a small, hard voice. ‘I’m going to live there again – one day.’

  It didn’t matter that Conceptua didn’t hear; that she was busy organizing their luggage. Catherine was speaking to herself. In the meantime she would have to live with this great-aunt.

  She took deep breaths in order to reinvigorate her weariness. She wanted to be alert. She wanted to hate her mother’s aunt, but she was also curious. This was new territory, a land she’d never seen before.

  In the meantime she sought to occupy herself. She would not plunge into despair.

  No! You will live, she told herself. First, you will learn.

  The station building was covered in colourful tiles depicting the story of how port wine was produced. There were figures planting, watering and harvesting vines; figures driving carts; figures pounding the juicy grapes between huge wooden wheels.

  Catherine took too long looking at them, poring over each pattern, putting off the moment when she would say goodbye to Conceptua and thus sever her ties with the past for ever.

  Her heart ached and the emptiness in her stomach would not go away. She wondered if death itself was something like this. Perhaps her father wanted her to be dead, just as he had her mother. She’d convinced herself of the fact.

  Conceptua kept giving her sidelong glances, her brow furrowed with concern. Catherine refused to meet her looks, angry that her nurse had a part to play in this even though the poor woman had no say in the matter. She was a servant and merely carrying out her employer’s orders.

  For her part, Conceptua was feeling low about letting her charge go. Appearing impatient and bad-tempered seemed the best way of dealing with her feelings. ‘Come along, child,’ she said brusquely. ‘There’s no point in dawdling.’

  She narrowed her eyes, inwardly cursing that her sight was not as good as it should be. ‘Someone should be here to collect you,’ she snapped. Picking up the cases, they struggled out of the station; Catherine kicking the dust as she went, her last chance to convey her despair.

  The yard in front of the railway station was dusty and simmered in the heat of the sun. Beyond the whitewashed houses the hills were a mix of green, blue and mauve.

  There was only one car; a gentleman who had also been travelling on the train hailed the driver, who was obviously his chauffeur. A bevy of station staff and a valet struggling with his belongings followed behind.

  Besides the car there were a number of horse-drawn vehicles, their drivers sporting flat caps over faces the colour of toasted walnuts.

  Catherine’s attention was drawn to a single dog cart pulled by a shiny chestnut with jingling bells hanging from its bridle. The driver, a boy no older than fifteen, looked back at her.

  Conceptua set down the tan leather bags she carried, stretched, rubbed at the ache in the small of her back and kneaded her ample backside with her fists.

  ‘You,’ she called, suddenly spotting the boy who eyed her as if waiting to be spoken to. ‘Lopa Rodriguez?’

  He nodded casually. She got the impression he didn’t care whether he spoke to her or not. ‘Lopa Rodriguez sent me.’

  The boy had a sardonic look, as though nothing the world could say or do to him would come as any great surprise.

  ‘Then help us with this luggage,’ snapped Conceptua. She was frowning at him in annoyance and her tiny mouth was pursed. Catherine knew that she’d snap plenty more if the boy didn’t move quickly.

  His hair fell over his face as he bent and effortlessly picked up the luggage. Catherine glimpsed a smile. An upstart. Too cheeky for his own good. That’s what Conceptua would say if she’d seen it. For the first time in weeks, Catherine smiled, though chose to hide it. The feeling of being abandoned made her defensive. She wondered if she pointed out his rudeness, Conceptua might take her home. Home! The vision was clear in her mind; sun-kissed walls, their warmth at the end of the day, the fountains, the swallows nesting beneath the eaves. A single tear seeped from the corner of one eye, but she brushed it away.

  ‘Conceptua!’ she cried, determined to mention the boy’s behaviour. She had no chance to say any more. He was brown, lithe and moved fast. Taking her by surprise he picked her up and placed her in the seat of the horse-drawn buggy.

  Catherine was speechless. It was the closest contact she’d had with any human being since her mother had died. Conceptua never cuddled her, and the other servants wouldn’t dare.

  ‘Have you been paid?’ Conceptua asked, delving with an air of hesitant reluctance into an old-fashioned pocket strung on a ribbon from her waist.

  The boy stood with his hands on his hips, one knee bent. The smile still played around his lips. ‘No.’

  Conceptua looked outraged. ‘You mean I am to pay you? What is wrong with the woman? This is her great-niece. Her own flesh and blood.’

  His smile broadened. ‘There is nothing wrong with Lopa Rodriguez. She just likes holding on to her money.’ He held out his open palm.

  Sighing, Conceptua counted out a few coins. ‘There.’

  Catherine watched, only barely holding back a whole earthquake of feelings.

  After paying the boy, Conceptua turned swiftly away, not saying goodbye, not meeting Catherine’s frightened eyes.

  For her part, Catherine felt as though she were on the edge of a precipice; the safe ground, the place she knew was behind her. An unknown chasm stretched before her, and it wasn’t a case of jumping off. She was being pushed.

  Catherine let out a sharp gasp. For the first time since her mother’s death, for the first and only time in her life, her courage deserted her. ‘No. Don’t leave me.’

  Conceptua waved but did not look back.

  ‘I have to go,’ she shouted over her shoulder. ‘Be a good girl. I’m sure your aunt will love you very much.’ Head bent and her backside fluid, she waddled back to the station with short, swift steps.

  Catherine wasn’t sure of any such thing. Her bottom lip trembled and she suddenly wanted to pee. She’d been sent away from everything and everyone she had ever known. Conceptua might not be the most beautiful or loving of women, but she’d been a fixed point in her life, part of a daily routine like breakfast, lunch and dinner. Now she was entering a different world far away from Porto and the luxurious surroundings of the Castile Villanova. Oh, how she wished she were back there.

  Conceptua disappeared from view. Catherine stared at the curved and empty archway of the station entrance. She was now alone.

  Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the bar running along the front of the seat. Her eyes remained fixed on the station. She would remember this day. She would remember this time and, at some point, she would return to the Castile Villanova.

  Logic far beyond her years convinced her that her father would never allow her to return. But she wouldn’t go back there on his terms. She would go back on her own. Regaining the place she loved would be up to her. Gritting her teeth, she stared straight ahead. The boy turned the horse away from the station and the town. Adults ran the world. The past was dead and no matter how hurt she felt she had to be brave and face whatever came next.

  Thoughts of home filled her mind as she fixed her gaze somewhere between the horse’s ears. Her father had married someone else.

  Catherine was helpless to do anything about it, at least, not yet. The sun was bright. The road shone and the bells on the horse’s harness glittered like stars and made her blink. She sat stiffly, weighed down by her thoughts. Tired from the journey and hot in the turquoise hat and coat, her head fell on to the boy’s shoulder and she slept.

  In her dreams she was home again and her parents were watching her play whilst they sipped rosé in the shade of a lemon tree.

  A sharp dig in her ribs roused her from a warm, pink-faced sleep. She blinked as she looked into his face. In a single instant, and quite unconsciously, she stored his features in her memory. The colour of his eyes was like liquid chocolate. His nose was straight and his mouth was w
ide and he was smiling again. Did he always smile? Although at first his hair appeared dark, sunlight picked out streaks of fiery red.

  ‘Come on. Wake up. My arm has gone numb.’ Although he spoke brusquely, the smile remained.

  Catherine blinked herself awake and straightened, rolling her head from side to side to alleviate the crick in her neck.

  ‘Take off your coat. It is too thick for here,’ he said. ‘Do you think you are in England?’

  Catherine looked around her. Despite being conversant in the language, she’d never been to England but couldn’t imagine it looking like this.

  The town was left far behind in the valley, yet she could still see it, a patchwork of tiled roofs between heaped green terraces and the sparkling river.

  They’d climbed very high, the road dusty and winding between tiered terraces of vines sloping from the peak down to the valley floor. There was suddenly a huge noise, like thunder but louder and soon over.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said the boy, grinning into her worried face. ‘It is just a blast.’

  She didn’t ask what he meant. Asking questions was a waste of time. No one ever answered her.

  The boy misinterpreted her silence. He presumed she was too frightened to ask questions so went out of his way to explain.

  ‘The rock is being blasted to make new terraces for new vines. They use dynamite,’ he said and looked proud that he knew so much.

  Catherine looked at the brown hands that so deftly handled the reins. Her gaze wandered up his arms and perceived the adolescent contours slowly growing into muscles.

  ‘My name is Francisco,’ he said, his voice crackling with the first signs of manhood. ‘What’s yours? It’s best you tell me now. We are going to know each other a great deal. I do a lot of work for your aunt.’

  She was taken aback. When was the last time anyone had asked her a question? For a moment she considered being petulant, but something about his open smile made her change her mind.

  ‘Catherine. Catherine Shellard – Rodriguez,’ she corrected, vowing never to use the Shellard name again.

  ‘Right,’ he said, his chest expanding as he pulled the tired horse to a standstill, ‘now we know each other’s names, we can become friends and perhaps I can tell you with no fear of rebuke that you have a very red face. I think you should take your coat off.’

  Catherine raised her fingers to her buttons, then stopped and stared at him blankly.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’ve never unbuttoned my own coat before.’

  Francisco’s jaw dropped. He stared at her as though she were a creature from another world.

  Catherine felt her face getting redder, not just from the heat, but because she was embarrassed.

  Francisco’s look was full of pity. ‘Do you want me to unfasten them for you?’

  As Catherine considered his offer the reality of her situation began to make itself clear. In the past she had relied on Conceptua to dress her. Now Conceptua was gone it didn’t make sense to rely on anyone else to do things for her. She had to learn how to do things for herself if she was ever to achieve her dream.

  ‘I don’t need anyone to unfasten them. I will unfasten them myself.’ She began doing so, sliding the velvet-covered buttons out from the holes.

  ‘All right,’ he said, pulled on the brake at a level spot on the uphill climb, and leapt on to the road. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

  He ran off behind a pile of rocks that hid him from view. By the time he came back, her coat was off.

  ‘Do you need to go?’ he asked her.

  Realizing what he meant, she stared at him. Was he really meaning that she had to relieve herself here? Behind a rock?

  He seemed to catch the drift of her thoughts. ‘There is no privy nor bathroom out here and we have a long way to go. Likely we will not reach our destination until sunset and it’s a fair climb still. Do you want to go or not?’

  The thought of waiting until sunset was out of the question.

  The urgency of her need overrode modesty. He attempted to lift her down.

  She hit his hands away. ‘No, I want to get down by myself.’

  Adjusting might not be easy, but Catherine was determined to do things without a servant to do it for her.

  Hidden behind the rock, she found the buttons on her drawers and did what she had to do. After that, she cried, her arm bent against the rock, her head resting on her arm. By the time she emerged from behind the rock, she’d wiped the wetness from her face.

  The boy was at the horse’s head allowing it to tear at a patch of grass. He glanced up at her then lowered his eyes to what the horse was doing – as though it were more compelling. ‘Do you also wish to climb up by yourself?’ he asked her.

  ‘Of course.’

  Unencumbered by her coat and hat, she tucked up her skirt and counted to three in her mind. One good push and she was back on board.

  The boy climbed up beside her. He didn’t immediately urge the horse forward, but sat gazing around him, almost as though he were seeing this scene for the very first time.

  He let out a deep sigh. ‘You know, I am always glad when I get back up here away from the valley. It’s cooler, greener and,’ he said, pausing to take a deep breath, ‘breathing is like drinking water from a mountain stream; cool, fresh and totally free of the dust and dirt of the city.’

  Catherine took in the same scene he was seeing. The road curved up ahead of them where the branches of almond trees threw speckled shade on to the road. To their right fruit trees and vineyards fell to the valley and the river below.

  The countryside was breathtaking, so wouldn’t the house also be imposing? The image of Castile Villanova was clear and crisp in her mind; she could almost hear its tinkling fountains, smell the rich earth of its flower beds and hear her footsteps echoing amongst its ancient tapestries and marble floors. Nothing could be as wonderful as that particular house. All the same, she was mildly curious.

  ‘Is my aunt’s house very big?’

  Francisco shrugged. ‘Big enough.’

  What did he mean by that? She wanted to ask him, but did not want to appear unduly frightened or stupid. She wanted to ask him about servants. Her mother had had servants. Did her great-aunt have servants?

  She decided not to ask. In a way she’d allowed him to know too much about her. She didn’t want to expose her fears in case he asked more about her mother, about her death. He might also have heard gossip and might mention the word ‘bastard’. And this great-aunt that she would hate; perhaps if she displayed her hatred very much, she would be sent back to her father. As the horse trotted amiably onwards, she planned how she would behave.

  Her reticence to declare more of herself to Francisco paid off. The boy – ‘the boy’ was how she would forever think of him – seemed refreshed by their stop. His tongue was especially refreshed. By the time they reached her great-aunt’s house, she knew everything there was to know about Francisco Nicklau. His father owned one of the best vineyards in the region, one famous for declaring more good vintages than any other. He was the only son, had four sisters and his love for the Douro Valley glowed in his face.

  ‘Your great-aunt has a farmhouse on our land. It too used to be a quinta, but was bought by my grandfather many years ago and rented to your aunt. Your aunt has no interest in wine. She makes a living in some other way.’ He shrugged. ‘I do not know. No one does, but she goes travelling a lot. Perhaps that is when she makes her money, though I wouldn’t dare ask her. No one would dare.’

  Catherine turned pale at the thought of this unseen dragon and made him laugh.

  ‘She is not that bad,’ he said, still amused by her expression. ‘Not everyone thinks she is a giant ogre. I don’t.’

  Catherine’s determination to be less than convivial was melting away. She wondered what sort of woman her great-aunt was that no one dared asked her a question, not because they wouldn’t get an answer, but because they were terrified of her.
>
  As the sun began to dip behind the highest granite hilltop, Catherine grew colder. She put her coat and hat back on, but no matter how tightly she buttoned it, she couldn’t stop shivering. The thought of meeting her mother’s aunt filled her with dread.

  One more bend in the road, one more sway of the cart, and she saw her new home. The farmhouse had a red tiled roof, was long and low and, because of the colour of the stone that formed its walls, seemed to be part of the landscape. The air around it smelled of things growing, breathing gently in the night air, spicing the darkness with sweetness.

  Aunt Lopa heard the horse’s neigh and the clop of hooves. The rough wooden door flew open and crashed against the wall. A blaze of light fell out from within, then was gone, blocked by a giant of a woman who took just three strides across the yard before swooping Catherine from the cart and into her arms.

  ‘Child,’ she cried.

  Catherine found herself suffocating beneath a shower of kisses, tightly clasped to Aunt Lopa’s wide but flat chest. Her feet were swept a foot from the ground.

  ‘Did the boy look after you?’ asked her mother’s aunt in a loud, booming voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  Catherine kept her voice small. All thoughts of being difficult had totally dissolved into thin air. She tried to take in as much as she could about Aunt Lopa; she even dared look up into the square, bluff face. The brown eyes were hooded, her skin was ruddy and healthy, the complexion of someone used to an outdoor life. There was nothing about her looks to fear, but Francisco’s comments had found fertile ground. Aunt Lopa was of ogre proportions, but had a kind face.

  In a brief moment of panic, the thought of Francisco leaving was suddenly too much to bear.

  She managed to turn her head away from Aunt Lopa’s less than generous bosom in time to see the horse being turned away. ‘Francisco?’

  He stopped and turned. She savoured the last of his smile before he disappeared into the darkness.

  An arm as heavy as a sack of corn was thrown across her back. ‘You must be tired. Starving. Thirsty too. Come. Into the house.’