Her driver deposited her cases in the cottage and she paid him with some of the local currency from the allowance the ambassador had arranged for her. Inside on the kitchen table was a loaf of bread, some tins of sardines in tomato sauce, more in salt water and yet more in light garlic oil. Her bedroom was at the side of the house. From the window, she could see her nearest neighbours’ cottage some four hundred yards away. She wondered how long it would be before she made their acquaintance.
There was a radio on the sideboard. She tuned in, searching for a British frequency. Eventually she found London’s Home Service and learned that the country was preparing for war. She had missed most of the broadcast, so she searched for the Light Programme instead and found Henry Hall’s music once more. Much as she enjoyed the music, she instinctively lowered the volume, but raised it again almost immediately. After all, what would mark her as being more quintessentially British than to be found listening to Henry Hall? She turned the volume down a little, all the same, in case someone came to complain. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than her very first Portuguese visitor arrived, with a plaintive meow. The dark glossy black cat with four white socks slowly walked towards her and circled around her legs. ‘Come here, come here to Hilda,’ she said, wondering where it had come from.
‘Well, have you come to visit me, or are you staying? Will you catch mice for me, perhaps?’
She opened a tin of sardines. If he was a stray he was welcome to stay, she thought. He would not leave in a hurry now he had a bowl of fish to enjoy.
It took almost the rest of the day to unpack and get a feel for the house and its surroundings. The cat followed her every movement as if it was trying to trip her up. For as long as it stayed with her, no matter how long that might be, she decided she had better give it a name. It should describe its dark coat rather than its white socks, she thought; and so the name Inka became part of her new life in Portugal.
As the sun sank into the azure sea before her she heard a bicycle bell approach, its bell ringing. She looked out of the window to see the local priest arrive, bouncing over the rough ground.
‘Good evening,’ he said in Portuguese.
She hesitated before replying in English. ‘Pardon me, I don’t speak Portuguese yet. Come in, please,’ she said ushering him in with a wave of her arm.
‘So you are English. You are very welcome here.’
She smiled, unable to stop herself from correcting him. ‘I’m Scottish actually, but you were not to know.’
‘Ah, then we still speak English too. There are not many British people living here on the coast. Not as many as those who have made their homes further south.’
‘I am not sure how long I’ll be here. I plan to stay for at least a year, maybe longer. You see, it will take that time for me to write a novel.’
‘Ah, so you are an author?’
‘No, this is my first book. I thought I would write it in the sun, by the sea, away from the rush of the town. That’s why I chose to come here to Peniche.’
The priest cast his eyes around the room. ‘You have chosen well. You could have gone to France or Spain, but we are delighted to have you with us.’
‘Then perhaps you will be able to tell your parishioners why I have come to live with them?’
‘My parishioners? I was hoping you might join them, and then you can tell them yourself. You might even pick up the language. Of course, the Eucharist is in Latin. You’d be familiar with the hymns, I am sure.’
He clearly did not realise she was not Catholic, and she wondered how, or whether, she should inform him. She folded her arms and began to rub her elbows. ‘I… er… come from a different Christian tradition.’
‘Yes, I would have thought so. The Tridentate Mass might surprise you, however.’
He was persistent; she decided not to discourage him. ‘Do all your worshippers understand Latin?’ she asked, a little mischievously.
‘No, very few. It’s the tradition they like,’ he replied.
‘I see,’ she said. She realised the church played a significant part in local life.
Inka jumped up on her lap and she stroked him. The priest smiled.
‘I see you have a friend already.’
‘Yes, a stray who has settled with me. At least, I think it’s a stray.’
‘It will be. There are many stray cats. They find the homes that suit them. Perhaps you’ll find a home that suits you, here at St Peter’s?’
It would not endear her to the people if she stayed aloof and did not make any attempt to learn their language. She thought she might consider his suggestion.
‘You would be made most welcome.’
‘I am sure I would. Let me think about it.’
‘Certainly. There will always be a welcome,’ he said, standing up.
Hilda settled Inka on the floor. ‘Thank you for being my first human visitor.’
The priest smiled. ‘I hope I won’t be the last,’ he said, making for the door.
He was kind, Hilda thought, but she would not be attending his church just yet.
As evening fell she took a short walk outside. Lights dimmed in cottage windows as the light faded. Occasionally a dog barked, followed by shouting and the closing of a door. Over the sea the moon cast an eerie light and gradually disappeared among the rocks on the shoreline. She stood for a moment, mesmerized by the constant motion of the waves. Perhaps waves from the west started out near New York. Ah. Waves; New York. It was time to make contact.
She returned to the cottage and wedged a stone by the front door to keep it open, facing the sea. She unpacked her radio and looked around outside again. No one was about. She fetched a blanket and placed it on the floor by her feet. If someone approached unexpectedly, she could cover the radio immediately. As she prepared for her first transmission, her stomach lurched like the crashing waves below.
She secured the aerial, placed her earphones in position and dialled her code. She sent her message to Nancy, with the mixed feelings of success and doubt accompanying her transmission. She kept the message brief; she simply said she was now in position on the Portuguese coast and was ready to receive.
A response came a few minutes later. Great. Also in post… no news today… will keep you informed…
She tried to work out whether America’s east coast was five or four or even six hours behind as she closed the box and took down the aerial, packed away the earphones and hid the radio under her bed behind a pottery bedpan. She chuckled for a moment; it was known as a gazunder in her youth. She brought it out so that it was just visible under to the edge of the bed; if any visitors noticed it, they would quickly avert their eyes. She checked from all angles to ensure the radio was well back out of sight, then sank into the only armchair in the room and gave a long sigh.
She had made her first overseas contact. So far so good. Her hand was still shaking. How many more times would she have to do it? Would she become over-confident as time went by? Inka gave her a penetrating look, which did nothing to dissipate her unease.
After letting the cat out for the night, she sat down again and began to reflect on the whirlpool of events, which had brought her to this cottage on the Portuguese coast. Inka reappeared, startling her a little. She took the small creature up on to her lap, and as she stroked her velvety neck and back, it began to purr gently like a distant motorbike. The cat had made her feel welcome in Peniche.
Chapter 15
Meeting Villagers – Sending Co-ordinates
She did not sleep well, tossing and turning in the bed. This eventually forced Inka to jump off and search of somewhere more restful to sleep. Nancy’s rather mundane message went round and round her head. It was hardly news, so what should she do with it? Did Berlin require reassurance that they were in position and that clear communication across the Atlantic was established? Moreover, who would receive her messages in the German capital? It made her uneasy that she did not know.