Looking for the Durrells

by Melanie Hewitt

  The ‘shyness’ was in truth more about self-protection and self-preservation. He had fallen in love with Tess in a heartbeat and although the feeling had been new and vital, it had to be immediately crushed. He’d channelled it all, then and now, into a slightly detached, but nonetheless caring demeanour, outwardly courteous and solicitous, but ready in a heartbeat to protect the two people he cared for most in the world.

  As young Theo’s godfather, he had been around through the years, with the understandable lacuna of the months away in Athens. His support for his late friend’s little family continued, but he never acknowledged what it had cost him. The colleagues who found gentle sport in trying to fix him up with a date had no idea that his reticence was rooted in something so complex and real.

  This morning had dawned as every other in summer, with the almost blasé expectation of a cloudless sky and whitewashed brightness. Nic was meeting Tess for lunch and then taking Theo to the lake to birdwatch. Before that, though, he had to drive into Corfu Town.

  Chapter 8

  The hire car smelt of pine air freshener and warm upholstery and was immaculately clean, something Penny had noticed in the airport and on the bus that had brought her to St George – a visible sense of pride in the way everything was presented, the food served, the tables cleaned, the polite and warm greetings.

  Taking the winding road out of the village, where the tavernas became more infrequent and the small, single-storey villas petered out, Penny soon found herself on the main road to Corfu Town.

  The bright light of noon made her squint a little, even with her sunglasses on. Dark, cloistered shadows under intertwining trees were sought out by the donkeys, chickens, and cats: veterans of how to escape the heat in the haphazard, obstacle course of a landscape. Supermarkets, some with sophisticated neon signs, others with boxes of golden fruit and vegetables behind a handwritten sign, jostled with small balconied flats and dancing washing.

  A wooden arrow-shaped sign nailed to an old fence bore the legend ‘To the Beach’, the once-navy lettering faded to the palest azure. Everywhere glorious blooms climbed up walls or tangled prettily around an ugly, rusting iron window grille; pink, deep red, dazzling white, their vibrancy unabashed even in the heavy heat of a Corfu summer.

  With Corfu Town only a few kilometres away, the roundabouts and traffic lights of the world of home began to make an appearance, feeling odd and out of place in this place of four million olive trees and monasteries teetering on mountainsides.

  The pine and cypress aromas of the interior were replaced with a heady mix of sea air, petrol fumes, and the smell of fresh bread and cooking.

  Soon she passed the New Port with the Venetian fortress that dominated the old town ahead. Finding a parking space near the harbour involved considerable luck – Spiro at the car-hire place had told her that. As she slowed down to look for somewhere to park, a small Fiat pulled out. Penny indicated quickly and parked in a breathless and triumphant hurry. She sat for a second or two to enjoy the moment. She had found her way, parked; all was good.

  Garitsa Bay lay like something out of a fantasy film set in a mysterious, foreign land. Turquoise and lilac waters lapped gently at the foot of the great fortress, as millionaires’ yachts lay like sharks in its shadow.

  The old town created a backdrop of Venetian elegance and fading grandeur to the entrance to the bay. From afar it looked fresh, smooth, serene; close up the stucco peeled gently on some buildings; their shutters sealed. The impact was overwhelmingly beautiful. The life and heart of Corfu Town oozed from every street, meandering through picture-perfect archways, its maze of streets and lanes evoking a bazaar-like atmosphere.

  Penny walked slowly, in an almost dreamlike state. Shop canopies protected her from the direct glare of the sun, while beneath them handbags, icons, perfume, and herbs vied for her attention, filling the air with their heady smells of leather, dust, almond blossom, and thyme.

  Climbing up towards the heart of the Old Town, the intoxicating bustle of bars and the inviting shade of the restaurants and tavernas tempted Penny. The menus, colourful, elegant, or garish, displaying laminated practicality or vellum and tassel-embossed grandeur – it was all there. The palette and textures of each street complemented each other with a miraculous and happy accident of long-forgotten design, necessity, and heritage.

  She glanced at her Greektime map. First, she needed to find St Spyridon’s church and then the Liston, the cosmopolitan hub of the town. The Durrells had taken tea there and watched the world go by, just across from the famous cricket ground – the legacy of a period of British rule.

  The terracotta pinnacle of St Spyridon’s caught her eye and she walked towards it. She’d picked a slightly old-fashioned-looking, mid-length tea dress to wear that morning. It seemed the right fit in every sense; a nod of respect to the place and not a million miles away from what Margo Durrell, Gerry’s sister, might have worn all those years before. She wanted to sit for a moment, the smell of incense all-encompassing, and think.

  Sitting in an old carved wooden seat, head bowed, Penny closed her eyes and listened. Gentle hushed voices, footsteps, even the cool interior of the church . . . all had a sound of their own.

  Fifteen minutes later she stepped out into the bright, watercolour world of the street and felt a sudden urge to sit in a gorgeously located café, drink coffee, and eat cake.

  On the way back to the car Nic decided to stop for a coffee at the Liston. He’d just picked up his mother’s African Grey parrot, Ulysses. Nic had promised to look after him when she went to the mainland to visit his brother. The parrot in its ornate travelling cage sat in the shade at his feet. He ordered an espresso, sat on a cushioned double seat on the elegant stone-floored terrace, and placed his Panama hat on the table.

  To his left he saw a small dark-haired young woman at the next table, wearing a delicately patterned floral dress that would probably have been knee-length if she hadn’t been so petite, but which almost reached her feet.

  The sound of a squeaky voice calling out ‘Behave!’ focused both Nic and the girl’s attention on the covered cage at his feet. She smiled and Nic felt he ought to explain. ‘My apologies. I am taking my small but very loud friend home as a guest. He has to be covered in this heat and can’t bear to be left out.’

  She laughed, then looked down at her coffee.

  Nic smiled and looked down at his feet, but before he could think of anything else to say, she asked him if he lived on the island. Was he local?

  Nic explained that his mother lived in the town and that most of the year he was based in Athens.

  ‘Are you here on holiday?’ he asked, picking his questions carefully, so he didn’t appear intrusive, just interested and courteous.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am. I’ve wanted to come here for a very long time and I now have a chance to make up for all the years I could have been here. It didn’t feel like the right moment before. I only arrived yesterday.’

  ‘What drew you here?’

  ‘Well, it’s a number of things, but I think I’d have to say the Durrells; that is, their books and their time here on the island. They’ve fascinated me since I was a teenager.’

  ‘You’re not alone. People come from all over the world to see if Corfu really is the Garden of the Gods. I was inspired by Theo Stephanides as a child: Gerry’s mentor and friend, as you know. I hope you find what you’re looking for. There’s certainly a lot to explore.’

  ‘Well, I have a month, but I’m already sensing that a lifetime might not be long enough.’ Penny picked up her hat and handbag and held out her hand.

  ‘Have a lovely day and a safe journey home with your friend.’ She smiled again as she stood up and walked away to pay her bill.

  As he said goodbye Nic looked down again at his feet and the first thing that came into his mind was that if ever someone had a story to tell it was this delicate but charming English girl who was, he felt, quite alone.

  Wandering away from the Liston
, Penny, map in hand, travelled back in time, to the moment when the Durrells had first set eyes on Spiro Halikiopoulos and his Dodge motor car at the taxi rank which once stood by the Liston. The natural crossroads still existed all these years later. Penny paused for a moment and closed her eyes, imagining that the noise and bustle around her were echoes of 1935. As her mind travelled further down the time tunnel, she heard the slightly raised English voices of the Durrell family as they stumbled their way, blinking against the light, into a new life: their mother with her now quite squashed hat and sensible mac; Gerry, just 10 years old, looking as lost as Roger the dog, who was always seeking out the next lamp post; Margo with a mischievous curiosity, ready to embrace new things; and Leslie sizing up the opportunities this new place and people might bring.

  A motorbike roared past and interrupted the impressive voice of Spiro about to offer his services as a taxi driver and make his debut in the Durrells’ story. Penny clutched the map, her rucksack resting comfortably on her back, and looked over to where she thought the noise from the bike had come from. ‘They are here,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘They might be just a shimmer of a past life in the corner of my eye, colouring the air, but they’re here.’

  A familiar-looking figure stood by a motorbike. It looked like Dimitris, the man she’d seen in the Athena the night before – the restless one. Could it be him? Her eyes went straight to the back of his neck to search for the same curl of the hair. It looked the same and he moved in the same way, but before she had the chance to see him in profile, he raised his hand and began to walk. A tall, tanned, blonde woman, wearing sunglasses, shorts, and a loose linen shirt, returned the greeting and when they met, they kissed on both cheeks.

  Penny turned away, distracted by the sound and feel of her phone vibrating in the pocket of her bag. She turned back as she began to check her mobile to see the person, who she was now convinced was Dimitris, put his arm around the woman. Both of them were laughing.

  As she watched them, she tried to work out if the woman was local or a tourist, a summer conquest or a partner. It was impossible to tell, but Penny surprised herself with how much she wanted to know the answer.

  Her phone pinged to tell her that a voicemail had arrived and, moving the screen out of the glare of the sun, she saw that she’d missed a call from Bruce.

  Driving south back along the coast road, Penny still, in spite of the blistering sun, felt the goosebumps on her skin. The air conditioning was fierce, but it was more than the chill inside the car.

  Her first footsteps into Corfu Town had been exactly as she hoped. The place had vibrancy, heart, and history. Writer, poet, or painter, who could fail to be inspired? She had not, however, expected the trip to include a sighting of the intriguing Dimitris, chatting to a man with a parrot, or a message from Bruce. Meeting the man with the parrot had been a slightly eccentric encounter, in line with the image of the Corfu she had created in her head.

  On her left, the sea rose and fell in glinting peaks and troughs. Above, another plane edged towards the runway that stretched out into the sea to catch the incoming aircraft. The signs for Gastouri and Perama reappeared, but they were for another day.

  The day had already delivered riches and surprises enough and the month felt as though it was slipping away before it had really started.

  Before she’d listened to the message from Bruce when she got back to the car, she’d wound the windows down and felt a small but welcome breeze. In her rear-view mirror, the reassuring bulk of a blue and white ferry passed by, almost plodding through the channel. The holiday scene in all its clichéd glory made Bruce’s words feel all the more disembodied.

  ‘Hi, Penny, or should I say salve! What can I say? I hope you’re well. I’m guessing from your dial tone that you’re abroad. Good for you! Getting away to the sun is something I can heartily recommend, all year round. I know it’s been a while, but well, you were always a good listener, Penny, and I’d love to share some of what’s been happening over the last six months. Has it been that long? We must remedy that. Give me a call when you can, when you’re back. It’d be good to catch up. Ciao!’

  Now, as she turned off the main road onto the narrower and cosier lanes into St George, she realized that she’d dissected Bruce’s message a hundred times. Why get in touch now, after all these months? Her heart was curious, but her head was suspicious.

  Chapter 9

  The Mediterranean Bar was in two halves, one on each side of the main road in St George: a traditional bar with a large-screen TV and chatter; and across the dusty quiet road, a small enclosed garden, with unrivalled views of the harbour and sunset.

  As well as the usual lagers and spirits, the owner was proud to serve a particular red wine sourced every year from the same local vintner, forming one of life’s real pleasures – to sit and sip a glass, when contemplating dinner and dancing, chatting, or enjoying a companionable silence.

  Penny chose a table at the farthest end of the garden, where she could see the Athena and the harbour, and sat with a glass of the much-heralded red wine – a departure from her usual rosé, but a nod to her promise to herself to experience the new, whether a glass of wine or a Greek island.

  She had tied her hair up for the evening, to allow the gentle cooling effect of the sea air to reach the back of her neck, and wore her favourite dress in pale sage cotton, reminiscent of the 1920s with its simple split short sleeves. Flat tan leather sandals, well-worn and loved, completed the outfit. She mused whether Margo Durrell would have liked her dress; perhaps held it up against herself if she’d found it in a friend’s wardrobe, and dreamed of romance and adventure, as she paraded in front of the mirror, just 18 years old, at the beginning of an extraordinary life.

  Penny no longer bore the spots that had plagued her through her teens and twenties, but at 13, when My Family and Other Animals had first become a part of her world, it was one of the things that had drawn her to Margo – her never-ending, optimistic crusade against acne, just like her own.

  The main road suddenly bustled with visitors emerging from their afternoon naps, their holiday outfits showing off newly tanned legs or reddening shoulders and upper arms. Waves of relaxation glowed from every pore as families, couples, and excited groups wandered up and down, glancing at menus, and chatting with the owners of each taverna.

  Penny glanced back towards the sea and saw the small blue and white boat she had noticed the evening before, now entering the harbour. The same two figures were on deck, the ease of their familiarity and companionship as they worked relaxing to watch. It looked like a well-honed, regular routine: a day’s fishing, then mooring for the night.

  Only a day into her month-long odyssey and she was already intrigued by the people she had met, seen, or heard about. She had always been fascinated by other people, their lives and stories, whether at home or when people-watching on holiday. She began to wonder about the wider stories of the Corfiots she’d already met and the Athena family’, as she’d already named them in her head.

  Tess had already shared a snapshot of her life. Guy and Rich were amusing and full of exuberance. The man she had met that morning at the Liston possessed a quiet charm and quaintness about him, his conversation easy and perfectly natural.

  Then there was Dimitris: what was his story? She had only seen him from a distance, or in profile. Would he be the captain she’d trust to take her along the coast to Kalami? Was charisma a listed requirement for good captains? If so, he passed the test. She smiled wryly at this, mocking her own pretended indifference to his presence. She’d only seen him four times after all, every encounter from some distance away.

  Tess seemed, even on short acquaintance, to be a woman of sense, who surely wouldn’t recommend anyone untrustworthy or irresponsible. There’d be others on the boat too, she imagined. She stopped herself catastrophizing, realizing in a moment of clarity that she was – as her grandmother might have put it – giving up the race before she’d even got her gym shoes o
n. This was part of her Bruce legacy: a tendency to always look for a catch; expecting to be let down, to be disappointed.

  She made up her mind not to respond to the voicemail. What could he do? What could he say that would make her want to speak or even see him? She was naturally curious about why he’d called, but not enough to risk all the good work and determined aloneness of the previous few months, as she’d tried to make the world normal without him – without, it sometimes seemed, anyone.

  Penny stood up and almost as though she was seeking sanctuary, walked swiftly up the hill to the Athena. The gentle hum of chatter and the occasional greeting of ‘Yasou’ or ‘Kalispera’ formed the background music that greeted Penny as she stepped from the footpath into the Athena’s bar.

  A small boy, Tess’s son she assumed, sat on the steps with the kitten she’d seen him with the day before, drawing a lizard with a bright green crayon in a sketchbook, concentrating so hard he barely noticed Penny.

  Tess saw her first and was by her side in a heartbeat, asking her about her day.

  Before Penny could answer, another voice broke the silence: ‘Hello again.’

  Penny and Tess turned together to see a smiling Nic. Penny at once recognized the man with the parrot at the Liston.

  ‘Hello. Where’s your feathered friend?’ Penny grinned at the tall, bespectacled man.

  Nic explained to Tess that they had met briefly at the Liston when he’d been to fetch Ulysses from his mother’s house.

  ‘Nic, this is Penny. Penny, this is my dear friend Nic.’