She realised unhappily that she was feeling jealous and scolded herself for her selfishness. Just because she had always had this idea that Uncle Jim and she would be on their own, she had not bargained for a third party, especially one who could claim a closer relationship than she could.
And there was another strange thing. She was sure Uncle Jim’s letter had said she was his only relative. Had the failure of his marriage embittered him against his son, so that he refused to acknowledge the relationship? With a sinking heart, it occurred to her that the haven she had envisaged might in fact contain stormier waters than she had ever encountered before.
They were out of the town by now, and driving along a narrow rather twisting road flanked by small neat houses whose pristine paintwork gleamed in the sun. There seemed to be sand everywhere—banked at the side of the road, and covering what earth there was in the gardens which seemed to be assiduously cultivated in spite of this. She could see a number of women, some of them wearing attractive sun-bonnets, working with hoes between neat rows of plants.
Beyond the houses she could see the deep brooding green of the pine forests, and it was not long before the houses became more scattered and gave way to the trees.
Jean-Paul glanced sideways at her rapt face and grinned. ‘It would have been a long, hot walk for you,’ he commented, and she was forced to agree. On each side of the narrow road, the banks rose steeply, the grass giving way to what seemed to be gorse bushes. Beyond this rose the trunks of the pine trees, dark and mysterious. But even here in the forest there were signs of habitation. Plots of land had been cleared and smart white houses had been erected. Jean-Paul explained that these were mainly occupied by holidaymakers on a seasonal basis.
‘In some of them the arrangements are fairly primitive,’ he said. ‘But don’t be nervous. Your uncle’s house is not like that. In fact, according to Madame Guisard, your uncle’s housekeeper, it is the last word in luxury.’ He smiled at her. ‘Madame Guisard is the aunt of Madame Benedict, who has the restaurant where you had lunch. That is why I am so well informed.’
Marty had to laugh. ‘Thank you, Jean-Paul. I’m sure that to be forewarned is forearmed.’
‘Comment?’ He wrinkled his brow, and she realised that she had not made her meaning clear. She was casting around for another way of expressing herself, when he began to slow down. They had passed a number of tracks leading into the forest—some leading to houses, others to nature trails and picnic areas, but the track Jean-Paul was turning into was guarded by a high white gate. Marty’s eyes ran over the notice on a stark white board standing beside it. ‘Défense d’entrer, sous peine d’amende. Chien méchant.’ She swallowed. So trespassers on the Villa Solitaire land would be prosecuted and also had to beware of the dog. It wasn’t the most welcoming of prospects. But she wasn’t trespassing, she protested inwardly, she had been invited there, and she only hoped that the dog would appreciate the subtle difference. She wished very much that she had taken the precaution to telephone Uncle Jim before leaving Les Sables, but now they were here she could hardly request Jean-Paul to drive her to the nearest callbox.
Suppressing a little sigh, she prepared to climb out of the car. Jean-Paul was also out, retrieving her case which he carried over to the gate. He stood waiting for her to join him.
‘You wish me to accompany you?’ he asked.
Marty shook her head. In spite of her misgivings, she had a strong feeling that her reunion with Uncle Jim was likely to be an emotional one, and she did not particularly want any witnesses.
‘No, thank you, Jean-Paul.’ She held out her hand for him to shake. ‘You’ve been very kind.’
He shrugged. ‘Pas de quoi.’ He held on to her hand and she felt her cheeks grow warm under his intent gaze. ‘You realise that I don’t even know your name, although you know mine. That is hardly fair.’
‘I suppose not. My name is Martina—I suppose you would say Martine.’
‘Martine.’ He smiled. ‘It’s a pretty name. And are you going to let me see you again, Martine? You cannot intend to devote the whole of your vacation to your uncle.’
Her flush deepened. ‘Er—thank you, Jean-Paul. I’d like that.’
‘I’ll telephone you, then,’ he promised. ‘Au revoir, Martine.’ He walked back to the car and got in. With a hesitant hand set on the latch of the gate, Marty turned to watch him go. He swung the car round with an expert flick, and then leaned out of the window to shout back to her.
‘Don’t be afraid, chérie. The dog won’t bite you—although the owner might!’ And he drove off laughing.
‘Thank you for nothing,’ Marty muttered half under her breath. She pushed tentatively at the gate and it gave way, opening with a protesting squeal of hinges. She began to walk up the sloping sandy track, littered with pine needles and fir cones. Above her the trees seemed to close over her head, so that she appeared to be in a dim green tunnel. She stumbled slightly as her foot caught against a hidden obstacle, and paused to transfer her case to the other hand. The track had curved slightly and she could no longer see the road. A solitary house was right, she thought.
She was disturbed at the apparent change in the Uncle Jim she remembered. Yet his letter had seemed full of the old warmth and affection. Why then did he erect a high gate and warning notices at the entrance to his property? Was he afraid of thieves and vandals, or had age simply made him eccentric? The genial burly figure she remembered from childhood would have dismissed such precautions with contempt, she thought with a sigh.
She walked forward once again over the rutted path. It was very quiet in the forest. She supposed the beach must be quite close at hand, yet she could hear no sound of the sea. There was a faint whisper of a breeze in the branches above her head, and an incessant chirping of insects in the undergrowth, but as far as other human beings were concerned, she could have been alone in the world.
The track curved again, and suddenly the house was in front of her, standing in a large clearing on top of a rise, looking as inviting as it had done in the photograph. Marty paused and set the case down, wiping damp palms down the denim jeans which clung to her hips and thighs, and twitching the cheesecloth smock she wore with them into place. Her mouth felt dry and she passed her tongue nervously over her lips.
‘Oh, please be glad to see me,’ she whispered as she moved forward again up the rise towards the front door. ‘Oh, please . . .’
She never even heard the dog come. One moment she seemed quite alone, and the next the animal was in front of her, its front legs splayed menacingly, its lip curling back in an unmistakable snarl.
Without the slightest conviction in her voice Marty said, ‘Good dog. Good boy, lie down.’ She wondered if she ought to extend her hand in friendship, but decided against it. The dog might misunderstand, and she might need that hand again one day.
She took another step forward and froze as the dog snarled again, then lifted its voice in a full-throated bark that held a clear warning that she was to keep her distance.
Marty glanced round nervously. Why didn’t someone come? Uncle Jim, for preference, but even this Madame Guisard would do at a pinch. She tried calling out, ‘Is anyone there?’ first in English and then in French, but no one answered, and she felt a cold prickle of fear at the nape of her neck. Was the house deserted then except for this dog, only too aware of his role as guardian and protector? She had a feeling that any movement, even one of retreat, would be fatal. All she could do was stand there, and hope that the big