by Anne Hampson
‘I was your favourite man until that dashing husband of yours came along.’
‘And you gave up the good life for marriage,’ laughed Colin, his eyes straying to Shara. She responded to his laugh, reflecting that until her marriage Audrey had been her father’s secretary, and that had she not met Humphrey then she, Shara, would not now be holding down such an enviable post.
‘Tell us about this lovely house you’re going to live in?’ Daphne flashed her white teeth in a smile which was directed at Colin, even though she spoke to Gilbert.
‘I haven’t seen it myself, Daphne. All I know is that it has wonderful views and it’s quite palatial.’
‘Can we all come for a holiday?’ Audrey looked rather doubtfully at her father. She knew how he hated distractions when he was engaged on a book.
‘Perhaps.’
The brevity of his answer seemed to forbid any pursuance of the matter and the conversation proceeded on casual lines until, some twenty minutes later, they all returned to the hall.
The plane circled the airport at Nicosia before touching down to make a smooth landing.
The friend whose house Gilbert had rented had left his car at the airport on his departure from the island and it had been arranged that Gilbert would pick it up and put it safely into one of the garages at the house. And as the Customs’ examination was brief and simple they were soon on their way, driving into the beautiful city of Nicosia, with its weathered Venetian walls
and tree-lined roads. It was a city of sharp contrasts, an Eastern city into which the West had determinedly intruded. Smart white buildings cut into a brilliant blue sky — and so did the domes of the mosques, and their minarets. Shining limousines glided past the peasant with his donkey-cart; slender girls in mini-skirts tripped gracefully past the black-robed women of an older generation, women whose bodies were completely covered except for their sun-wrinkled faces.
Taking the Kyrenia Gate out of the city, Gilbert and Shara had their passports checked by a smiling Turkish Cypriot officer who stopped them at the gate.
‘You’ve come for a holiday?’ he asked, handing back the passports.
‘We’re here for about a year.’
‘Not a holiday then.’ The officer flashed them another brilliant smile. ‘You work here?’
‘We’re going to write a book about your beautiful island,’ replied Gilbert affably.
‘A book? That is good. Welcome to our island; we’re pleased for you to be here.’
‘Thank you,’ said Gilbert and Shara in unison. The officer stepped back, saluting as they drove off.
‘Well, if they’re all like him we’re certainly going to have a memorable year,’ declared Gilbert, slipping into top gear and increasing his speed.
‘Indeed, yes. He was perfectly charming.’
‘Spoke marvellous English too. You know, Shara, it makes me feel darned lazy when I come abroad like this and discover they’ve all taken the trouble to learn our language.’
‘I know; I feel the same. Maybe I’ll learn a little Turkish while I’m here.’
‘And a little Greek too,’ he advised her.
‘I already know a little Greek,’ she reminded him with a hint of pride. ‘And that’s an achievement, because the Greeks themselves admit that their language is much more difficult than ours.’
Gilbert made no comment, his attention being on his driving, and on the surroundings. They were soon passing through the Turkish village of Geunyeli, where dark-skinned men sat round tables at the pavement cafe and black-robed women walked about, carrying heavy bundles on their backs. Other scattered settlements were seen as they crossed the great Mesaoria Plain, slender minarets rising above the mud-brick houses. At this time of the year the plain was arrayed in all its transient springtime glory. What would very soon be a featureless tract of scorched brown earth was now a soft landscape of emerald green streaked with colour - the brilliant magenta of sword lilies contrasting with the vivid gold of the crown daisies and the dazzling scarlet of thousands of poppies, nodding gently in the breeze. Away in the distance the vast open fields were rich with corn or ablaze with wild anemones growing so compactly that to take a single step without crushing them would be an impossibility.
‘I should be taking notes,’ Shara murmured, although not with any marked enthusiasm. She was too enthralled to think of such mundane things as pencils and notebooks - and work.
Taking his eyes off the road for a second, Gilbert glanced at her, a smile touching his lip.
‘You should, but the idea doesn’t seem to have much appeal.’
‘It’s so lovely, I just want to look,’ she admitted ruefully.
‘Then look, my dear. We’ll come again to take notes and photographs - when we’ve obtained permission for the taking of photographs,’ he added, remembering that the use of a camera was forbidden in this area.
‘This show won’t last long; it’s getting over now,’ Shara warned, flicking a hand to indicate the splendour around them.
The dry spell had already come; the sun’s heat was daily increasing and when the flowers and com had gone nothing would grow until the coming of the autumn rains about the end of October or the beginning of November.
‘It’ll last long enough for us to do what’s necessary. We’ll be here at the beginning of spring next year, remember.’ They were travelling along an avenue of trees, their shade providing a welcome change from the almost treeless region through which they had driven up till now. ‘Would you like a drink of something?’ he asked, slowing down as they reached a cafe set back amidst a rolling green lawn.
‘Please; I’m dying with thirst.’
‘Your lawn?’ Gilbert had to remark as they sat down and were instantly approached by the smiling proprietor of the cafe. ‘How come?’
‘It surprises you?’ The man chuckled with satisfaction. He spoke excellent English. ‘Everyone is always surprised because in Cyprus you rarely see a lawn. I just love grass, and as I happen to have water it is no trouble to keep a lawn.’
‘No trouble?’ Gilbert raised his thick grey brows.
‘How long does it take you to water it?’
‘One hour every day.’ The man shrugged. ‘It is worth the time spent on it. What can I get you?’
They drank lemonade, made from the fruit grown on the island and the best Shara had ever tasted.
‘Thank you,’ they said on rising from the table. ‘We’ll come again,’ Gilbert added, paying the man.
‘You come here for a holiday?’ The man eyed them curiously as Gilbert, with his customary gallantry, picked up Shara’s handbag from the table before she could do so and handed it to her.
‘No, we’re here to write a book.’
‘About Cyprus?’ The man was obviously pleased on seeing Gilbert nod in answer to his question. ‘Very good. You are
welcome to our island.’
‘It looks as if we’re to be welcomed by everyone we meet,’ Gilbert remarked as they walked over to the car. ‘You know, Shara, I’m enchanted with this place already.’
‘So am I.’ She spoke softly, aware of a strange feeling of excitement, a feeling she had never before experienced. Perhaps it was because this beginning, with people so friendly, augured well for a happy year...but Shara had the odd conviction that something more than the friendliness of the people was in store for her.
Within a few minutes of the resumption of their journey they were entering the pass through the foothills of the soft and graceful Kyrenia Range where high on its summits rose the romantic Crusader castles of Hilarion and Buffavento. As they climbed and snaked their way through the mountains the air became heady with the scent of the trees, and the aroma of wild lavender and thyme.
The pass was not extensive and soon they were descending. The northern slopes were lush and green with carob tress and cypresses; the spidery fronds of palms waved against the cloudless sky. And then, suddenly, Shara gave a gasp as the whole panorama of Kyrenia spread out in breathtaking splendour as they
began to drop steeply into the town itself. The castle dominated the harbour, while the brilliant turquoise sea stretched, motionless, toward the mountains of Turkey, whose summits gleamed and scintillated as the sun caught the snow-draped heights.
‘What a view!’ How did one describe it? Shara wondered, her mind on her work for a moment.
‘Magnificent.’ Gilbert swerved as, taking a bend, he came upon a man astride a donkey. His wife walked beside him carrying a heavy bag in one hand and a baby in the other.
‘There are some things common to all Eastern countries,’ remarked Shara in dry and faintly angry tones. Gilbert tilted
his head and laughed.
‘Man is all, woman nothing. Is that what you’re thinking?’
‘It makes me so mad!’
‘You should be used to it by now; you’ve seen enough of
it.’
‘Yes, I suppose I should be used to it.’ She fell silent, thinking of Carl. His parents were Greek Cypriots originally and Carl had been born in Cyprus. What was his attitude towards women? she wondered. He had lived in England a good many years, which were his formative years, so perhaps the inherent traits of mastery and superiority would in his case have been submerged by the Western way of life.
With the town of Kyrenia left behind they had only eight miles to go, travelling along the narrow coastal plain with the glorious sea on their right and the verdant foothills of the Kyrenia Range on their left. And then they were climbing steeply through the lush green lemon groves of Lapithos, where the scent of the blossom mingled with that of wild roses and oleanders to fill the air with a tender, heady fragrance.
Stopping at the village post office to enquire the way, they caused quite a stir among the men sitting at the tables outside, drinking Turkish coffee from minute cups and playing cards. All activity and conversation ceased; the car was eyed curiously, although it was a familiar sight to them. Gilbert came in for stares, but it was on Shara that the main interest was centred. Her legs and her hips and in fact every single line and curve of her body was examined by about two dozen pairs of eyes at once. She smiled faintly; the East was the East, and no variation appeared in the male sex. Shara would never understand what pleasure or benefit they derived from this thorough and clinical examination of the female anatomy. No doubt they were already drawing their own conclusions regarding the relationship between Gilbert and his secretary....
The postmaster was young, educated and charming. He was a Greek Cypriot but, like the Turkish Cypriots whom they had met, he spoke excellent English. Boys had been learning the language in the schools for some time, Shara later learned; now, the girls were also learning English. The postmaster directed them to the white villa on the hill and within minutes they were being received by Kyria and Davos Christou, the couple employed by Gilbert’s friend.
The house, constructed on stilts, was truly magnificent, with arched verandahs supported by columns up which grew the exotic bougainvilleas in dazzling colours of red and violet and orange. Inside, the house was provided with every modern comfort, including air-conditioning.
‘You are welcome to our island.’ Davos smiled as he greeted them. He was short and plump with swarthy skin and a low brow from which his dark hair was swept back. He was about forty years of age while his wife, who was regarding Shara with expressionless dark eyes, looked to be about ten years his junior.
‘Efprosdektos,’ she murmured, her brown countenance grave and unmoving. ‘Herome poo sas sinanto.’
‘My wife - she speaks only few English words,’ Davos apologized. ‘She bids you welcome, and says she is pleased to meet you.’ He flashed Shara a smile as he spoke. ‘She is ready to take you to your room.’
Shara followed Kyria up the wide curving staircase and into a charming blue and white bedroom with its largest window facing north. The side window looked out on to the grounds of the villa, and to the perivoli with its numerous fruit trees -lemons and oranges, figs and pomegranates and several others.
‘Thank you very much,’ murmured Shara absently as Kyria turned to go. ‘Er - efharisto para poli,’ she added hastily, and brought a smile at last to the Greek woman’s lips.
Moving over to the window, Shara stepped out on to the flower-bedecked balcony and stood looking down over the
lemon groves to the shore and the sea beyond.
The gong for lunch was just sounding when she came downstairs after taking a shower and changing into a loose-fitting cotton dress. Her arms and legs were uncovered, and already brown, not yet having lost their tan from a previous visit to a sun-drenched part of the world.
‘We’ve time for a quick sherry.’ Gilbert was on the patio and he beckoned to her. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said as he poured her a drink, ‘I propose to have a couple of weeks’ relaxation before we start work. We’ll have a look round and get our bearings. Also, I’ve to buy a car, so that’ll take a week, probably.’
‘You’ll go into Nicosia for that, of course?’
He nodded, handing her the drink.
“To the success of our visit to Cyprus,’ he said, raising his glass.
‘All our visits are a success,’ she reminded him. ‘Wherever we go we’re never disappointed in the place.’
He was silent for a time, pursing his lips thoughtfully.
‘I want this to be rather more than a travel book,’ he told her at length. ‘Already I feel this island deserves something - well, intimate.’
She stared. Gilbert worked for money, and perhaps for fame. Sentimentality had never even remotely entered into anything he wrote. Why, then, should he be feeling this way about Cyprus?
‘I don’t quite know what you have in mind?’
‘Nor do I,’ he admitted with a shake of his head. ‘But something will present itself.’ Draining his glass, he placed it on the table. ‘That’s why I want to wait a while; I feel I must get right into the atmosphere of this island before I begin to write about it, otherwise I shan’t do it justice.’
Shara’s surprise remained, but the idea of a week or two in which to explore the island, leisurely and without having to take notes or tape recordings all the time, greatly appealed to her, so she naturally accepted her employer’s proposal with keen anticipation.
The following morning Shara was woken at five o’clock by the sun streaming into her room, and after lying there enfolded in peace and silence for a little while she decided to get up. To her surprise Gilbert was already on the patio when she came down, a book in her hand.
‘Couldn’t you sleep either?’ He smiled, turning his head as she came to stand beside him at the rail.
‘It was the sun; I suppose I should have closed the shutters.’ ‘I don’t agree. Lying in bed on a morning like this is a complete waste of time.’ He was gazing across the ageless green landscape to the disused church of Lambousa, standing amid the extensive ruins of a once-flourishing city which was the ancient kingdom of Lapithos. ‘In any case,’ Gilbert added, ‘when we do get down to work it’ll have to be done in the mornings. It will be far too hot in the afternoons.’
She nodded. Used as she was to the East, she knew that during the hot summer months all work stopped at noon and began again about four in the afternoon. But Gilbert never resumed work once he had stopped; his brain was stale, he always asserted.
Breakfast was served early and by seven o’clock Shara was out walking. She took the narrow lane along which they had travelled in the car, her gaze absorbing a scene that was familiar yet ever new - the cubic houses, white and blue as in Greece; the older type Cypriot house, built of brecciated limestone from the Kyrenia mountains and weathered through the years to a rich honey-ochre.
Whatever the type of dwelling they all had one thing in common: they were adorned with flowers of every colour and variety.
On the steps giving access to the older houses stood the inevitable conglomeration of cans - mainly paint or petrol cans
- used as flower tubs, and from them spilled a profusion of
exotic colour and perfume. In addition were all the flowers one would find in an English garden, but here they bloomed practically the whole year round.
To the right of the lane the lemon groves swept down over the narrow coastal plain towards the sea, while on the left rose the mountains, clothed in green. Few people were about because Shara was not in the village proper, but now and then a small group of schoolchildren would appear, dressed in blue and carrying their satchels on their backs. For in Cyprus morning school began much earlier than in England, as it was too hot for the children to work in the afternoons, and they finished at lunch time.
They stared, naturally, at the stranger, but when she smiled and said, ‘kalimera,’ there was an instant response. One or other would then ask,
‘What is your name?’ in precise accents and Shara guessed she must reply in a similar precise manner,
‘My name is Shara,’ and not use another word, as the children were obviously learning English at school and this was the only answer they would be able to understand at this stage.
‘Shara!’ they said in chorus, and all began to laugh. But they turned and waved with the same friendliness as the adults had shown, and they continued to wave until a bend in the lane was reached and they could no longer see her. A smile touched Shara’s lips as she continued to saunter along the lane; very soon the children’s teacher would be hearing about the young lady who was walking about their village at half past seven in the morning.
On reaching a fork in the lane Shara hesitated a moment before choosing the one on the right. Afterwards, when wondering what had attracted her, she felt it must have been the murmur of water spilling over rocks, or it could have been the attractive picture of Judas trees and bougainvilleas flaunting their enchanting shades of violet-rose and crimson and orange. Or perhaps it was the house itself which had inspired a closer look. Standing in the midst of extensive grounds, its walls so sturdy that they might have been part of the natural rock setting which rose majestically to the south of the house, it wore the dignity and nobility of a true patrician. On the front was a great pillared porch, Turkish style, and all along both sides of this were massive arches, filled with shadow now, but later, when the sun came round to the southwest, they would receive its golden slanting rays. Drawing closer, Shara presently stopped outside the high wrought-iron gate, and uttered a little gasp at the sight of wide spreading lawns. Water would be on a meter, she knew, and was just beginning to wonder what this luxury was costing the owner when she realized he was fortunate indeed, for a natural spring issued from the rocks bordering his garden to the south. This water meandered through some part of the grounds hidden from Shara’s view, but a sparkling fountain just discernible between the trees gave evidence of its being used artistically as well as practically. In the gardens flowers bloomed everywhere - the scarlet trumpets of the hibiscus contrasting with the delicate pinks of the bougainvilleas, while beyond one of the lawns the misty blue petals shed by the jacaranda trees floated like butterflies on to the sunken swimming-pool.
