The Portuguese Escape by Ann Bridge Page B

mouth; the only way to prevent this is to turn and dive backwards through each following wave till the water is so shallow that one can stand, and even then it is not easy to keep one’s feet. But all this the girl from the heart of Central Europe could not know. Even as the American shouted the watchers on the balcony saw Hetta picked up, thrown onto the sand, and tumbled over and over, helplessly, in the creamy surf—when the water dragged back again she did not rise, but was sucked back with it.
    â€˜She’s stunned!’ Atherley exclaimed. He was down the wooden steps in a flash, and raced across the beach, flinging off his jacket as he went; by the time the next wave threw Hetta forward again he had waded in waist deep, to snatch her up and carry her to the land. On the sand he set her down, for she was wriggling in his arms like a captive fish.
    â€˜Ow!’ the girl said, spitting out sand and sea-water, and rubbing at her eyes with her fingers. ‘This is horrible!’
    â€˜Are you all right?’ the young man asked.
    â€˜Yes, except for this sand!’ But she was in fact shaking slightly all over, with cold and shock. ‘I must wash my face,’ she said, starting back towards the sea.
    â€˜No, do that at the pub,’ he said, catching her by the arm—as they passed up the beach he picked up his jacket and threw it round her shoulders.
    â€˜Thank you—oh, now you are all wet!’ Hetta said,glancing at his soaked trousers. ‘I am so sorry. I do not know what happened; I—I was taken by surprise. These waves are so strong, when they come to the shore.’
    â€˜They are. There’s a trick about getting back through them—I’ll teach it you some day.’
    â€˜Will you? That I should like. But could you fetch my coat? It is up on those rocks.’ She waited while he brought it and then, modestly muffled, went up with him to the little inn.
    Julia’s dinner was rather late that evening. Hetta had to be sponged down, her hair dried, and dressed—minus her petticoat; a pair of the proprietor’s trousers had to be borrowed for Atherley while his own were hung up to dry in the kitchen. Torrens and Townsend Waller, left to themselves on the balcony while Julia ministered to Hetta, became hungry, and in Torrens’ case rather impatient.
    â€˜She’s a beautiful swimmer, our little Countess, but not very considerate,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘It’s nearly a quarter to nine.’
    â€˜We started late ourselves, anyway,’ said Townsend, still rather resentfully conscious of having waited in Atherley’s room at the Chancery for nearly half an hour for Torrens to appear; he had asked Richard why he didn’t call his friend up and tell him to come along, but Richard had been evasive, merely saying—‘No; he’ll be here presently.’ Anyhow he, Townsend, disliked any criticism of Hetta.
    â€˜Yes, I was late—I couldn’t help it,’ the Englishman said readily. ‘Sorry. Do you feel like a whisky?—I do. I wonder if they have it here?’
    But just as Townsend was explaining that rum or Pheysey gin were all that could be hoped for in the way of spirits at the Guincho, first Atherley, and a moment later the two girls, reappeared, followed by the proprietor’s wife with a second bottle of the local version of champagne. They had another glass, Hetta was dosed with hot rum-and-water, and then Julia hustled them indoors to dine. ‘Goodness, I do hope the soles aren’t ruined,’ she said.
    Nothing was ruined. The bisque was divine, the crab cold anyhow; and the resourceful proprietor—who was also the chef—on finding that the gentlemen were verylate and one of the ladies determined to swim had not started cooking his lovely soles till he saw how things were shaping—they, too, were perfect. They had the restaurant to themselves, always a