Tess paused for a moment, her own thoughts stopping her in her tracks: yes, whoever she was, she was a lucky woman. This was a normal reaction to a crisis for Nic; he’d want to be there, to help. So, why did this trip make her uneasy?
As she lifted a glass from the bar, Nic turned away, distracted by something Theo was shouting. How many times had she looked up to find him there for her? Tess wondered. He was never intrusive, just always quietly there. She knew his presence wasn’t just for her – Theo, Spiro, anyone who needed a listening ear would always find it in Nic – but his flying to Athens to see a woman . . . that felt like new territory.
If Nic had turned around at that moment, he would have seen Tess frowning and preoccupied.
Chapter 27
Penny sat contentedly, as Theo, lost in deep concentration, carefully coloured in the stripes of a ‘tiger’ that bore a more than passing resemblance to the ginger cat at their feet.
Now they were out of the glare of the sun, her body had cooled down and her mind had followed. Bruce’s voicemails had retreated in importance to mimic white noise, like the whining hum of a night-time mosquito.
Someone had once said to her that emails weren’t a ‘todo’ list and so, she reasoned, nor were voicemails.
‘I did the right thing,’ she muttered to herself under her breath.
‘What did you say?’ Theo asked.
‘Nothing, Theo. I was just thinking out loud.’
‘Mama does that too,’ he said.
‘Does she? I’m glad it’s not just me then,’ Penny replied. ‘I love your tiger.’
Theo stopped and looked intently at his work. ‘I’m hungry now. Are you hungry?’ he said.
‘A little bit. We can eat anytime you like.’ Penny finished her glass of water.
‘I’ll tell Mama.’
He ran off and Penny sat back in her chair, looking around and realizing the restaurant had quietly filled up. Theo was soon back with Tess in tow.
‘Apparently the artists are hungry.’ She sat down at the table, and picked up Theo’s work as he snuggled into her side. ‘This is smashing.’
‘And can I see what you’ve been drawing, Penny?’ Tess raised her eyebrows, looking directly at Penny and then pointedly at her sketchbook.
‘Well, there’s not much to see yet. It’s a work in progress.’ She winked at Theo.
Penny turned her sketchbook so that Tess could see her work, holding the page down so she was unable to turn onto the next page.
‘The Dora,’ Tess exclaimed. ‘That’s lovely. Does Dimitris know you’ve painted this?’ Tess asked, genuinely impressed by the simple lines and jewel-like colours of the painting. Penny’s style was loose and free, but the way she captured the essence of her subject was charming and subtle.
‘No. I didn’t start painting until after he and his father had left.’
‘You should show them. It’s really good. Aris loves the Dora. It’s more than a boat to him. He would love this.’ Tess knew if he saw it, Aris would be moved and touched that someone had drawn his boat.
‘Perhaps I will when I see them.’
Penny covered the painting up. There was something about Tess’s response that had made her feel as though she’d intruded somehow, that she should have asked permission to paint the Dora – that the boat was like a person.
Don’t be silly, Penny, she scolded herself. It’s a boat in a harbour, not the scene of an accident. The only sensitivity here is yours and as usual you’ve gone into overdrive with the empathy and imagined sensibilities.
‘So, any idea what you’d like to eat?’ Tess asked, with Theo immediately responding with ‘Pasta!’
‘You’d think he was half-Italian, not half-Greek,’ Tess sighed. ‘Penny?’
‘Just a little bread, olives, and hummus would be lovely. I’m going into town later, so I’m going to read by the pool for a bit before I go.’
‘Lunch is on its way.’ Tess walked off and Theo ran to see Spiro, who’d just emerged from the kitchen.
Penny poured herself another glass of water and began to pack away her paints to make space on the table.
Nic, finishing his coffee at the bar, managed to look as though he couldn’t stay but very much wanted to, as he glanced at his watch and tapped the top of the bar absentmindedly. Penny watched as his concern at missing the plane won the day and he stood up and made his farewells, which included a light kiss on the cheek for Tess, a handshake for Spiro, and a tousle of the hair for Theo. To her surprise Nic turned, found Penny, and waved.
Waving back, she felt glad and touched that she’d been singled out for this salute. It felt good to be part of something, to be thought of, included.
She pulled The Corfu Trilogy out of her rucksack, planning to read for a few minutes until her food arrived.
The sun was now working its way around the restaurant, long fingers of light stretching across tables, illuminating wine glasses, faces, and cutlery. It shone directly onto the page of Penny’s book, bleaching the paper, and making the words leap out like random, dancing shapes. There was a comfort in rereading familiar and much-loved words. Almost like a mantra, they soothed and transported her away.
A wave of homesickness swept over Penny as she thought of the bookshelves she had at home, containing volume after volume of well-thumbed, often-reached-for books. Each one a part of the jigsaw of her personality and history. Each treasured.
At the heart of these were the books written by the Durrells, particularly Gerry and Larry, but also a jewel of a book by Margo that chronicled her adventures as the landlady of a boarding house. What richness existed in their writing: lived experience, lyrical reflection and, at times, visceral poignancy.
‘Hello.’ Penny knew the voice before she looked up. It was Dimitris.
‘Hi,’ she responded, pleased but a little surprised to see him, even though he’d said he would see both her and Theo.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
How different he seems; not ready to walk away like he was when we first met, Penny thought. Then, he’d thrown a casual remark back at her over his shoulder, as though dismissing her as just another tourist, a woman on her own to be humoured – or perhaps to flirt with.
This offer of a drink now, the way he was standing almost tentatively, perhaps half-expecting a ‘no’, felt like a new page being turned.
‘Thank you. Water would be great.’
She watched him walk to the bar, taking in every inch of his form, and knew in that instant that if Dimitris had been dancing with her and she’d looked up, he wouldn’t have been looking away.
She still knew so very little about him, as they’d exchanged very few words. As she waited for him to return, she felt a shiver of uncertainty and asked herself once again if she was right to ignore Bruce’s voicemail. Bruce had never liked being ignored – he had to be the centre and catalyst, the hub of anything that mattered to him. Everything else he just ignored.
Penny looked across the sea for an answer, but it wasn’t giving anything away.
When he returned, Dimitris was followed by Theo who, now Nic had gone, seemed to need the reassurance of another male presence. Dimitris’s face gave nothing away, as he placed the drinks on the table and the boy settled himself at their feet with the ginger cat that had appeared from nowhere.
‘What do you call him?’ Penny asked Theo.
‘Tom,’ said Theo, stroking the animal, who purred quietly.
‘He’s very handsome,’ Penny said, bending down to stroke the relaxed cat, which now stretched languorously like a Greek god.
‘He needs to rest,’ said Dimitris sotto voce. ‘He’s fathered more children than we can count. Also, he doesn’t know it yet, but he’s off to the vet next week, so that the feline population doesn’t go up any more.’
She nodded conspiratorially at Dimitris, caught for a moment in his gaze, which she noticed rarely left her face.
He was about to say something else when their attention was
diverted by a couple approaching their table, asking if Dimitris was the person they needed to speak to about a boat trip.
Penny sat back patiently, enjoying the breeze from the sea and listening to Theo’s background chatter, as she reminded herself that Dimitris was working, whereas she was on holiday. She had time to watch Dimitris as he spoke, clearly anxious to finish the conversation, but not wanting to lose a customer.
She noticed for the first time how he used his hands to speak, how expressive his face was, the meaning and weight of his words passing through and over it. She could have watched him for hours.
Chapter 28
By the beginning of July, the Corfu sun approached its zenith, settled into a routine of seeming ever-present, and kept its part of the centuries-old agreement to greet every traveller to its shores with warmth and light.
For Penny, as the sun glided elegantly towards the sea, locked as she was at that moment into the Corfu of 1930s, it matched her languid, relaxed senses and her mood. It was the perfect day to explore Corfu Town and experience its evening colours.
She had set aside this evening to wander, think, and read. And dine.
Unlocking the hire-car door, she felt the escape of hot air as a tingling sensation across her slightly sunburned face. She looked across at the Athena before she got into the car and saw Spiro at the entrance, with Theo sitting by his side. Human connection, however brief – with Tess, Guy, Rich, Lily, Nic, Theo, Spiro, now even the enigmatic Dimitris – was, she acknowledged, the glue that held her together. She needed people.
As she drove out of the village, the road twisting and turning as it led her out onto the main route to Corfu Town, Penny switched on the radio.
Sitting with Dimitris earlier she had realized that hearing from Bruce again was a double blow. The last time they’d spoken, her dad had been alive and she had never been more sure at that moment that breaking away was the right thing to do. Now, it felt as though he was forcing her to turn back time, reopen a chapter that had been closed. She didn’t really want to think about why, but knowing Bruce, there had to be an angle.
Although there was no harm in being a healthy sceptic, she had never been a cynic, although Bruce brought out in her an uncharacteristic and unwelcome cynicism.
It had even coloured her time with Dimitris, such as it had been so far. The drink they’d shared earlier in the Athena had been interrupted by Theo showing Dimitris his drawing of the Dora. Then the English couple had asked about the next Antiopi chartered trip up the coast.
He had been pleasant, but she’d sensed something in him; almost as though he was trying too hard to be relaxed and friendly; asking her questions about her trip so far in a staccato way. The conversation hadn’t flowed.
She didn’t know whether this was because she didn’t want to encourage Dimitris, or was afraid of whatever it was she might be feeling for him. Perhaps it was just simply too soon. This holiday was about healing, space, and connecting with the Durrells and the beauty of Corfu. Exploring their world.
As she approached town she began to think about where to park. The Old Port would be perfect for her walk around the esplanade and Arseniou, the two locations she wanted to visit. But would the god of parking be with her for a second time? Penny remembered that Mother Cabrini was the saint to pray to for a space – something an American friend had told her.
Half-closing her eyes for a second in silent prayer, she slowed down as the glory of Garitsa Bay revealed itself on her left, hoping that this might help the request along. And suddenly there was a space.
‘Thank you, Mother Cabrini,’ said Penny, wondering if there was a patron saint of ex-fiancés she could have a quick word with about the voicemails and what she felt – or didn’t feel – for Dimitris . . . and he for her.
Arseniou was part of the miraculous road that wound from Garitsa Bay along the coastline into the heart of Corfu Town. The pale biscuit-coloured Venetian buildings led graciously to the cricket ground and the Liston.
Having listened to Spiro’s story of Gerry and Larry Durrell visiting in the 1960s, Penny wanted to try and guess which house might have been the place where they had stayed. The view from any of these houses captured a portal to paradise.
Now as the light mellowed, the Greek mainland loomed in the distance. A large ferry chugged through the channel like a child’s toy, pulled by an invisible chord to Igoumenitsa.
Penny leaned on the weathered iron railings that were the only barrier between her and the pink-and-turquoise-tinged sea below. She wore one of her favourite vintage-style cotton dresses. With its dropped waist, partnered with little flat shoes and floppy sun hat, she looked like an extra from a 1930s tableau. Only the rucksack brought her outfit back into the twenty-first century.
How the world turned. She thought back to her and Bruce’s early days together when she’d watched her mobile like a hawk, almost tripping over her own feet one day as she’d scrambled to grab the phone from her bag. Every call had felt like another building block in their relationship, a new discovery about each other revealed with every conversation.
Every classic romantic novel she’d read in her teenage years had had at its heart a Byronic hero: Rochester, Heathcliff, Maxim de Winter. When they’d first met, Bruce had seemed like a marvellous conflation of all the fascinating and complicated men she’d ever read about. The fact that Heathcliff or others of his ilk would have been impossible to live with had, at the time, barely touched her consciousness.
Once again, with a little shudder of embarrassment at her slightly younger but naive and impressionable self, Penny replayed in her head the edited highlights of her time with Bruce and saw clearly the downward trajectory of their relationship. Was it distance, of geography or time, that gave her this new clarity? She didn’t know.
Had he always been so self-centred, so manipulative? Why had it taken her dad’s illness to give her enough courage and insight to walk away? Why did she still wonder if she could have changed him . . . that some of the blame for the way he was lay at her door?
Bruce knew she was abroad somewhere, was clearly keen to speak to her; and right now she had no one to share that information with. It helped to think of the bigger picture when faced with personal problems.
She looked behind her at the crescent of sea-facing houses. What had they seen over the years, across the bay, or in the heart of the old town? The bustle and trauma of life across the centuries was written on the features she could see. The old Venetian fortress formed a craggy, stone-carved lookout post, watching, waiting, guarding. The Venetians who had triggered the cultivation of olive trees on an industrial scale across the island, shaping its contours and character, had brought their craftsmen with them. The curves, triangles, and elegance of the pastel-hued houses offered a sense of permanence and solidity. They remained the same, despite a little softening and ageing of their edges, observing centuries of comings and goings. Trade, bombardment, and invasion were imprinted on every building and vista that had been worn smooth by feet, carts, hooves, and now cars. All the while olive trees had kept growing, many for over 500 years, with some approaching their 1,000th birthday.
She also walked in the footsteps of her favourite family, who had packed into Spiro’s large American car and been driven along this airy promenade on their way to town.
Rucksack firmly back on her shoulders, she strolled on as the softening sun caught her hair and the swirl of her dress; a serene meeting of movement and light.
Chapter 29
Arseniou soon ran into Kapodistriou and then the cricket field, around which was some optimistically arranged parking. Penny smiled at the thought of a ball flying through the air, accompanied by the shout of ‘Six!’ followed by the comedically timed sound of breaking glass.
On the right was the Liston, lamps lit in anticipation of the twilight. As inviting as it looked, with golden pools of light and cosy seating, she turned right before she reached the covered walkway that echoed its Parisian counterpart
.
She looked for a restaurant she knew must have been there when the Durrells visited. She’d read about it online. Established in the 1930s, it was called the Rex, and located two minutes’ walk from the Liston.
The sun was now very low as she turned right again into a smaller street, part of which lay in shade, and there on the left, in mellow antique-gold colours, stood the Rex.
White-clothed tables were arranged outside in two rows and were almost full. Glancing over Penny noticed one free table, against a warm wall that carried a plaque with the legend, ‘Established 1932’.
She was greeted warmly as she stopped by the lectern that held the menus.
‘Kalispera. A table for one, parakalo,’ said Penny, carrying her rucksack close to the floor as she wove her way through the tables behind the restaurant manager.
‘Is this okay for you?’ said the restaurant manager.
It was the small table snuggled against the wall that she’d spotted. ‘Perfect. Efcharistó.’ With her bag on the spare chair and facing the other diners, Penny studied the menu.
As she looked across the ancient street and up at the high windows, some open to catch the last rays of the sun, the vibrant scene boasted an eclectic crowd: glamorous couples, wearing casual clothes with the confidence of being catwalk-ready; families and children with ice creams; the middle-aged cruise fraternity in port for a day; and younger individuals, looking forward to a night exploring the bars and tavernas.
As they passed, she heard many different accents and languages, which made the people-watching more exciting and entrancing.
What a place. What a gift to be here. I shall never forget this moment, she thought to herself. A woman framed in a small attic window across the street called down to a girl below. The two exchanged a few words, the woman in the clouds laughing and signalling she would come down to the street. The air smelled of garlic and lemons as the heat of the day receded, and herbs and the fragrance of a thousand flowers released their scent.
Looking for the Durrells Page 13
