My Greek Island Summer

by Mandy Baggot

  ‘I cannot wait to finally get to Corfu,’ Becky breathed. No whiff of having enjoyed the memories they had made. It was time to move on to what she had come on this trip to do – housesit, indulge in sunbathing and sea-swimming, luxuriating in more space than she had in her flat in Wiltshire. She whipped the safety procedures card from her seat pocket and tried to look engrossed.

  *

  Elias watched Becky reading instructions on how to vacate the plane should an emergency occur and knew she was doing this to avoid talking to him any further. It was entirely his fault. He had felt such a pull towards her it had terrified him. He should not have suggested they danced. It hadn’t exorcised any ghosts, it had just made him yearn for a feeling he had told himself he could live without. He did not want to admit the possibility that it might not be true. Instead of telling Becky some kind of truth – maybe without the finer details – he had fled. And then there’d been Petra. That young, silly, fickle girl who had no real life experience. She had pounced on him, a full-on kiss he hadn’t been able to avoid, but just for a millisecond he had responded. A millisecond where he acted out the emotions that Becky had pulled from him. And now conversation was stilted between them. He had done that. He had hurt her. And that was what feeling something did. It hurt people.

  ‘Becky…’ he began. He wanted to say something. But ‘sorry’ wasn’t the right word. How could he explain that he had wanted to kiss her and that had scared him so he had run away and lingered a very brief moment too long on the lips of someone he had absolutely no care for? Perhaps it was better to say nothing. Nothing had really happened on that dancefloor, nothing other than the reactions inside of him.

  ‘The weather is nice over Corfu right now,’ he told her. ‘There should be no turbulence and… we should arrive on time.’

  ‘Good,’ Becky replied quickly. And, just as quickly, the conversation was over.

  Twenty-Six

  Ioannis Kapodistrias Airport, Corfu

  All the members of the original flight from London Heathrow cheered when the plane touched down on the tarmac of Corfu. It seemed to unnerve some of the other travellers until Petra took it upon herself to make an announcement that it had taken them almost three days to get here. With no elaboration on the tale, it didn’t really seem to help.

  Becky was planning to get through passport control and jump at the first taxi-driver she found. Hazel had suggested she got verbal quotes before she settled on one driver, but Becky wanted ‘away’ and now she knew the Greek word for ‘no’, she was sure she could manage not to be ripped off. Besides, surely not everyone was out to fleece her.

  ‘So,’ Petra said, sheening her cheekbones with ChapStick. ‘Where are we headed?’

  The girl had somehow ended up right next to her on the super-short-almost-unnecessary bus jaunt from the plane to the arrivals hall and hadn’t really stopped talking since. Agelos is probably going to ask me to marry him the next time we meet. Who’s hotter? Agelos, Elias, Panos or Marathon. You didn’t see Marathon, did you? Elias had got himself on Petra’s list. Marvellous work. Becky had hidden her annoyance, but instead taken it out on Hazel’s giant bag instead, zipping and unzipping the too-stiff zip. Really, she’d wanted to take a pair of scissors to the too-long handles. Perhaps she would, later, maybe turn them into a voodoo doll of the whole world.

  ‘Well,’ Becky said, ‘I’m getting a taxi to where I’m going to be staying.’

  ‘And where is that?’ Petra asked, kicking her case along as the queue to have their passports checked moved a little.

  ‘In the north,’ Becky said, giving nothing away.

  ‘Cool,’ Petra replied. ‘I want to see the north too.’

  ‘But where are you staying?’ Becky asked her. An uneasy feeling was suddenly hugging her shoulders.

  ‘Wherever I end up,’ Petra answered with a grin.

  ‘But haven’t you booked somewhere?’ Becky inquired. Who went away without booking any accommodation?! It was July! There were no direct flights to Corfu left, it stood to reason that accommodation was likely hard to come by too. Wasn’t the holiday industry still reeling from the demise of Thomas Cook? Petra didn’t have a room. And as Becky processed that thought she realised what was going to come next.

  ‘I could stay with you, couldn’t I?’

  ‘Petra…’

  ‘I mean you told me you were housesitting a big house with three bedrooms and no one’s there but you, is there? Three bedrooms for one person doesn’t really make any sense at all. Three bedrooms is basically a guest house and I’m a guest. I could… buy all the ouzo and the gyros when we go out and I could help you clean… get leaves out of the pool and stuff. I’m good at getting stuff out of the pool. This one time, in Bali, I fished out a gold chain, a pair of Vans and a blow-up doll. A female one if you want to know.’

  Becky tried to interrupt. This was her adventure. Hers. She wanted solitude and being at one with Greek nature and all the customs, drinking in all the differences between the two cultures with maybe a little more of that sirtaki dancing she had performed last night. Definitely with a different partner…

  ‘I can be really quiet if I need to be. Honestly, I can,’ Petra continued. ‘Once, when I was seven, I did a twenty-four-hour silence and then after that twenty-four hours I wrote a sign that told everyone if they doubled their sponsorship money I was going to do a second twenty-four hours concurrently. I made shitloads. For charity obvs.’

  ‘Petra, it isn’t my house. I don’t make the rules.’ And Ms O’Neill had said ‘no couples’. That meant she wanted one person, not two, didn’t it?

  ‘But you do, don’t you?’ Petra asked, kicking her case again, the two Greek men in the light blue shirts of the police uniform ever closer. ‘Because no one else is going to be there, are they?’ Then Petra gasped and put her hands to her cheeks. ‘Unless… someone else is going to be there. Unless you’ve invited Elias.’

  ‘I’m housesitting,’ Becky said, checking the passport in her hand still contained a photo of her. Another one of Hazel’s scare stories had involved arriving at the terminal and finding out she had turned into Malcolm Greengage. ‘I haven’t and won’t be inviting anyone because I am there to do a job.’

  ‘An unpaid job,’ Petra reminded.

  ‘Well, I’m getting to stay in a luxury villa with a pool that’s only steps away from the beach. Who wouldn’t want to do that for free?’

  ‘Well,’ Petra started again. ‘I could be your… security. This one time, in Japan, I absolutely floored this supposed expert in karate with one decisive move.’

  That did sound impressive. ‘Do you know karate?’ Becky asked her.

  ‘No,’ Petra replied. ‘I headbutted him.’

  ‘Petra,’ Becky said with a sigh. It was almost their turn to be checked. ‘I really don’t think—’

  ‘Please,’ Petra begged.

  There was a change in her voice now, a real cutting emotion to it and when Becky focused on her properly, she could see there were tears forming in the girl’s light blue eyes.

  ‘Petra…’

  ‘Please, Becky,’ Petra said again, more emotion evident. ‘I really like you. I do. And I… I’ve been completely on my own for so long I just feel like… I don’t know… I feel like company… maybe.’ She cleared her throat suddenly, as if she wanted to clear the emotion she had just let seep out. ‘And we haven’t even talked about the greatest chick flick of all time yet… Legally Blonde.’

  Becky took in the young girl anew. She was so young. Eighteen? Not much older surely. And despite all the bravado, outlandish remarks and acting-out behaviour there was something vulnerable about her right now.

  ‘I promise I won’t bring anyone back. I will be completely on my best behaviour. Guide’s honour. I wasn’t in the guides, but I’ve heard they are honourable girls like… Little Mix. I’ll be like Little Mix. But quieter. No singing or dance routines.’

  This was when Becky should have said a final and defini
te ‘ochi’. Except she was thinking about this too-good-looking girl who would be using her feminine wiles to get herself a room in Corfu. If Becky said no to her staying at the house in Kerasia, then where would she end up? And if where she ended up wasn’t safe how would Becky feel then?

  ‘Pool duty,’ Petra continued. ‘Every day. Twice a day if there’s a nearby tree dropping leaves in it. All the ouzo on me.’

  ‘Petra…’

  ‘The poo bin!’ Petra interrupted. ‘I’ll do the bin the bog roll goes into. Every day.’

  Becky was a decent human being who had been brought up well. She cared. It was a good trait, but also her ultimate downfall. There was only one thing she could say.

  ‘A few days,’ Becky told her. ‘Only a few days and there will be rules. Strict rules that you will have to promise to abide by and—’

  She was unable to get the rest of the sentence out because Petra had slammed into her, body hitting hard, long arms wrapping around her and crushing hard like an over-zealous boa constrictor. She could feel the girl trembling and breathing softly in and out.

  ‘Thank you so much!’ Petra exclaimed. ‘I mean it. Thank you!’

  Becky was still being fiercely hugged and it was only a command in Greek she had no understanding of that prompted her to disengage from Petra’s grip. Then Becky saw who had shouted the instruction. One of the policemen. They were next in line to have their passports inspected and unless they wanted an irate queue of people behind them they needed to step forward.

  ‘So,’ Petra began, grabbing Becky’s arm before she could move towards the desk. ‘What are these rules I need to abide by?’

  *

  He was back. Back on the island he was born on. Here at the place he vowed he would visit only when absolutely necessary. Elias took a breath as he waited in the queue to rent a hire car. It was necessary. Or, instead, had he made it necessary? It was too late for second thoughts now though. He was here and he was going to make the most of it. He was going to collect all the evidence he needed to ensure Chad came out of his divorce on top and he was going to assure his parents that his life without Corfu – without Hestia – was good. It was good. He had an expensive apartment. He had a health club membership. When he wasn’t working he had friends he vaguely socialised with. It was enough. It had to be. What was the alternative? Open himself up to being let down again?

  He swallowed, seeing Becky and Petra emerge from the arrivals hall. Whatever ‘good’ was, it wasn’t ‘great’ and those feelings on the dancefloor in Kefalonia had reminded him of what it felt like to be part of something else. To be in tune with someone else. But he wasn’t ready for it, was he? He should just let them walk out of the airport. They were travelling companions, people he had shared a couple of evenings with simply because they were in the same sticky situation.

  Petra was taking Becky’s bag off her and looking like she was going to try and tie a knot in the too long straps. Perhaps they were sharing a taxi together. He didn’t even know where they were heading. Becky had said ‘the north’ but that didn’t narrow it down enough. Enough for what? What was the matter with him? Mere minutes back on Corfu and he was weakening…

  They were still there. If he wanted to get a number or say goodbye there was still time. Except if he moved now he might lose his place in the queue. Damn it. His feet were already moving of their own accord and he found himself heading over towards the women.

  ‘Where did you buy this bag? It’s not practical at all, it’s practically useless,’ Elias heard Petra say, one of the bag straps between her teeth.

  ‘It’s not mine so please don’t bite anything off it!’

  ‘Hi,’ Elias greeted. He felt like a teenager, not knowing what to do with his hands, feeling the need to put one of them through his hair and the other onto the handle of his case.

  ‘Oh, hello!’ Petra greeted. ‘You got a knife at all?’

  ‘A knife?’

  ‘Ignore her,’ Becky ordered. ‘She’s trying to help me with my bag but I’ve just told her it isn’t mine so she can’t maim it.’

  ‘Are you getting a taxi?’ Petra asked, tying a tight knot in the bag straps then shoving it back at Becky. ‘You could share with us.’

  ‘I am getting a car,’ he replied. What did he want to say? That he could take them wherever they were going? That it was nice to meet them and goodbye?

  ‘We could share with you!’ Petra announced. ‘Well, by share I mean you could give us a lift. What’s the name of the village you’re going to live in, Becks?’

  ‘It’s fine, thank you,’ Becky replied. ‘We’re getting a taxi. We don’t want to impose. I’m sure you’re very busy with your estate agency work.’

  Why had he expected anything else? He had blown it. He had run away. He had engaged with Petra for a meaningless millisecond. He was a malaka.

  ‘It was so nice to meet you!’ Petra said, throwing her arms around him. There was nothing he could do to avoid it but he platonically patted her back and kept his face well away from any contact whatsoever. It was a shame he hadn’t done that the night before.

  ‘You too,’ Elias replied. ‘Both of you.’

  Becky wasn’t even looking at him. Her gaze was inside the giant bag, as if searching for something… or nothing at all.

  ‘Maybe we can meet up,’ Petra suggested. ‘You know! Have a reunion of the travellers who got stuck together in Athens and Kefalonia. I’ve got the numbers of Greg and Mark.’

  Elias had no idea who Greg and Mark were. ‘I don’t…’

  ‘The lads with the biggest backpacks in the world. Seriously, Mark’s was the size of a small house. You could fit a family of refugees in there. This one time, in Algeria—’

  ‘We ought to go and get a taxi arranged,’ Becky broke in. She obviously wasn’t struck on the idea of a reunion meet-up. It didn’t sound like she wanted to see him again, ever.

  ‘Sure,’ Petra answered. ‘Rule Number One, you’re the boss.’

  ‘Bye, Elias,’ Becky said. She was looking at him now, with the faintest of smiles. He had ruined things. They had shared a closeness that his bad experience with Hestia had put paid to. And there was nothing he could do about it now. But perhaps it was for the best…

  ‘Bye, Elias!’ Petra said. ‘Thanks for one of the best travelling stories ever. It’s not every day you get saved from a cave-lake by a real-life Adonis!’

  Becky had already turned away and Petra scuttled off after her. There was nothing left to say.

  ‘Yassas, Captain Rebecca,’ he said to thin air.

  Twenty-Seven

  Kerasia

  ‘Aww! This place is all the cute!’ Petra gabbled as the taxi drove them down a rather winding and steep descent Becky wasn’t sure any vehicle should attempt unless it was a tractor. The landscape on their journey from the airport had changed from town to port, then to cypress trees and roadside tavernas, to real rural, the edges of the roads now lined with vegetation, restaurants in shaded nooks, trailing vines over their pergola-rooftops.

  ‘How far is it?’ Petra asked Becky.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she answered. She only knew the vague directions she had been given, on a printed-out email she was holding, but the driver seemed to be confidently heading around sharp bends and tight turns towards somewhere.

  ‘It is not far,’ the taxi driver replied.

  ‘Five minutes?’ Petra asked. ‘Ten? Do I have time to sing “Ten Mythos Bottles Hanging On A Wall”?’

  ‘Petra,’ Becky said. Why did Petra have to talk to everyone? Sometimes it was a bit much. And this was the person she had invited to stay with her…

  ‘We are here,’ the taxi driver informed. ‘No time for singing.’

  Becky gazed out of the window. Through green-painted iron gates, she was looking at the most beautiful rustic stone property. It appeared to be everything Becky had hoped for. It seemed warm and cosy and traditional. There were cream-coloured urns spilling bright blooms in red and violet either
side of a large wooden front door and pieces of driftwood art hanging from the eaves. She wanted to race out of the vehicle and dash in, dump her case in the hall – if there was a hall – and head out to explore the back garden and that promised pool.

  There was a thumping on the window from outside the car. ‘Are you getting out?’

  Petra, it seemed, had already left the vehicle. No money offered towards the cab fare. Becky got her purse out of her bag. ‘The fee we agreed?’ she asked, selecting a note.

  ‘Ne. Fisika,’ the driver replied.

  ‘What does that word mean? Fishy car,’ Becky repeated.

  ‘Fisika,’ he repeated. ‘It means “of course”.’

  ‘Fisika,’ Becky said again, trying to commit it to memory. She was determined to pick up a few words of Greek while she was here. It said in her guidebook that the Greeks really appreciated efforts to converse in their native tongue. She handed him the money. ‘Efharisto.’ That meant ‘thank you’.

  ‘Parakalo.’

  And that meant ‘please’ or ‘you’re welcome’. That was a handful of words already. She felt ridiculously pleased with herself.

  She got out and took her case. Petra had already popped the boot and hauled out her backpack and the girl was at the front of the building peering in through one of the windows.

  ‘It’s got a nice view!’ Petra yelled. ‘I can see bi-fold doors!’

  No quiet discovery like Becky had imagined it. Softly padding into each room, waiting to see what came next. Petra was going to shout a description for her.

  ‘Have you got the keys?’ Petra called again.

  ‘No, they’re going to be left in a plant pot.’ She had remembered thinking that was pretty lax in the security department but maybe that’s what they did in Greece. And would it have been any safer if Ms O’Neill had posted them to her?