by Mike Gayle
We sat down and slipped on our sunglasses but neither of us spoke. It had been my idea to come out here while Tom and Lisa went for a walk. I felt I’d done some of my best thinking during this holiday while looking out across our perfect sea view and hoped that the power of the balcony would assist Andy and me in the seemingly impossible task ahead.
Lowering my sunglasses on to the bridge of my nose I stared down at the swimming pool. A new batch of twenty-something girls had taken up residency on the prime spot of sun-loungers opposite our balcony and were gently grilling themselves in the sun.
‘New Arrivals,’ I said, in a bid to start us talking.
‘Looks that way,’ replied Andy. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered me one which I declined.
‘Given up?’
‘Never really started.’ I paused and then added, ‘It was just a holiday thing more than anything.’
There was a long silence as we both realised that once again one of us was using the holiday to excuse some form of anti-social behaviour. We both knew it was ridiculous. The holiday wasn’t to blame for anything. We were.
Looking out to sea, Andy lit his cigarette, took a long, deep drag and held his breath before sending a swirl of smoke into the morning sky.
‘Let’s get this straight,’ said Andy lowering his cigarette. ‘I’m out here because of Lisa not you.’
‘I know.’
‘If it was up to me I’d never say a word to you again.’
He meant it too. He meant every word.
‘So what do you want to do?’ I asked. ‘Sit here until Lisa comes back and then make out like we’ve sorted things out?’
‘Have you got a better plan?’
‘No.’
‘Well then that’s what we’ll do.’
There was a long silence. We both looked down at the pool as a couple of guys who could have been Andy and me in our younger days simultaneously dive-bombed into the water, making such a huge splash that all the girls lounging at the side of the pool looked at them.
‘So where do we go from here?’ I asked as, mission accomplished, the two young lads swam across to the steps on the other side, exiting the pool to the cheers of their friends.
‘I don’t know,’ said Andy. ‘I think the best we can do is try making it up as we go along. But one thing I know is we will never be friends again. It just won’t happen.’
Still hungry
Content to be amused by the antics of the young guys showing off below, Andy and I sat quietly on the balcony for some time. Eventually we both stood up and made our way back indoors; Andy continued packing while I finally had a shower. By roughly midday the four of us were all standing in the bedroom with suitcases packed ready to leave the apartment.
Although we had only been living in our apartment for just over a week, somehow during those seven days it had managed to transform itself into a home. As we checked all the rooms one last time in case we had forgotten anything, I knew that I would soon end up feeling nostalgic about the lukewarm/cold shower and the uncomfortable single bed, the overzealous air-conditioning unit and the TV with its three crappy stations. But the one thing I would miss most of all was the balcony – the few square metres of private outdoor space that had provided the backdrop for so much of the holiday. Grabbing my camera, I slid back the patio doors and stepped out on the balcony. Breathing in the outside air I tried to capture the view in my head: the perfect blue of the sky meeting the perfect blue-green of the sea and illuminating it all the perfect summer sun. I took the picture in my mind’s eye. Then I took the picture with my camera and although I was sure that there would be a discrepancy between the two, I was content to make do until the day when I could see it once again with my own eyes.
The photo taken, I returned to the others, who had been silently observing my eccentric behaviour from the kitchen doorway. No one made any comment and we made our way outside where Tom handed me the keys, allowing me the honour of locking the door one last time.
Downstairs there were already quite a few people waiting by the reception desk to check out. I recognised some of the people in the queue ahead of us: the young lads and the two girls who had arrived at the Apollo at the same time as us as well as a group of student-looking types who’d been lingering by the pool most days. Eventually the queue whittled down and we handed in our keys, settled our quite extensive bar tab, paid the extra we owed for the use of the air-conditioning unit and put our luggage in the hotel’s storage room.
‘So what are we going to do for the rest of the day?’ asked Tom as we all gravitated towards the steps at the front of the Apollo. ‘I could murder some breakfast.’
‘Me too.’ I tried to read Andy’s face but he wasn’t giving anything away, nor was Lisa. ‘What do you guys reckon?’
‘Actually,’ said Andy coolly, ‘Lisa and I have got a few things to do. How about we meet you guys back here later this afternoon, around three? The coach to the airport isn’t coming until about nine so we’ll still have time to do some stuff later.’
‘Okay,’ I replied. ‘We’ll see you in a few hours then.’
Andy and Lisa turned left out of the hotel and headed in the direction of the strip.
‘What do you think that was all about?’ asked Tom.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘Maybe they just need some more time on their own to sort stuff out.’
‘So what are we going to do until three?’
I looked at Tom and smiled. ‘Still hungry?’
‘Ravenous.’
‘How does a “Killer” English breakfast followed by a litre of lager chaser sound?’
‘Perfect. Stars and Bars?’
‘Of course.’ We descended the steps to the street. ‘And after that . . . well who knows? We’re still on holiday so we might as well make the most of it.’
A great plan
At three-thirty in the afternoon, Tom and I were sitting in the hotel lounge drinking beer and watching the sports channel on the big screen TV. Since our final breakfast at Stars and Bars all we had done was wander around Malia hunting for souvenirs that might be appropriate for Tom’s kids. It was a harder task than we’d assumed as most shops seemed to specialise in little more than glow-in-the-dark-condoms, T-shirts with slogans even students would be embarrassed to wear and statuettes of Priapus, the ridiculously over-endowed Greek god and symbol of fertility. In the end we managed to find a One-Euro shop and bought two packs of felt-tip pens and two T-shirts emblazoned with a map of Crete.
‘Do you want another beer?’ said Tom looking at his watch. ‘Or should we hang on until they arrive?’
‘We might as well have another,’ I replied. ‘Who knows how long they’ll—’ I stopped mid-sentence as I spotted Andy and Lisa entering the lobby.
‘I’m really sorry, guys,’ said Lisa. ‘We sort of lost track of time.’
‘No worries.’ I could tell straight away that there was something different about Andy even without him speaking. His black mood from this morning seemed to have completely disappeared. He almost looked as though he was happy. As though he had made some sort of life-changing decision.
‘What have you guys been up to?’ asked Tom.
‘It’s a long story,’ said Andy, ‘which we’ll explain later.’ He paused and looked at me. ‘Look, Charlie, I think we should both put everything that’s happened in the past now. Agreed?’ He held out his hand for me to shake.
‘Agreed,’ I replied shaking his hand even though I knew this charade was for Lisa’s sake, not mine.
‘And the same goes for you, Tom,’ continued Andy, offering his hand to Tom. ‘I know I’ve been a bit of an arsehole in the past and I’m sorry.’
Tom looked at me perplexed. ‘Yeah, okay,’ said Tom shaking Andy’s hand warily. ‘Who are you again?’
‘He’s still the Andy we know and love,’ said Lisa rolling her eyes, ‘believe me.’
‘And now that you’ve finished dissecti
ng my personality,’ said Andy, ‘do any of you mind if we actually get on with the rest of the day?’
‘What have you got in mind?’ asked Tom cautiously.
‘Nothing that you need worry about,’ replied Andy. ‘It’s just that Lisa has come up with a great way to kill the afternoon: we all choose one thing we really want to do and then we do it.’
‘Sounds like a great idea,’ said Tom. ‘Where’s the catch?’
‘There is no catch,’ replied Andy. ‘And just to show that there isn’t, I think you should go first.’
‘You mean I get to choose somewhere to go and we’ll all go without any arguments or moaning?’
Andy nodded. ‘Anywhere at all.’
Tom thought for a moment. ‘Well, there is somewhere I actually do want to go but I guarantee you’ll hate it.’
‘We’ll enjoy it, okay, Tom?’ grinned Andy. ‘But whatever it is just spit it out because time’s running out.’
‘Okay,’ said Tom, ‘I want to go and see a tree.’
‘A tree?’ said Andy, incredulously.
‘Yeah, a tree,’ replied Tom. ‘It’s two thousand years old. Apparently its circumference is so wide that it would take sixteen adults linking hands to span it. I’d really like to see it. Charlie’s still got his hire car until tonight. And it shouldn’t take longer than a hour to get there.’
‘Well, if Tom wants to see a two-thousand-year-old tree,’ said Andy, shaking his head in mock despair, ‘let’s take him to see a two-thousand-year-old tree.’
It’s not an olive tree
It took just under an hour for us to reach the village of Krassi. We pulled up in a dusty car park on the outskirts that was all but empty apart from us and one other car.
‘Are you sure you’ve got the right place?’ asked Andy leaning out of the rear passenger window. ‘Or could it be that there’s not exactly a huge demand amongst tourists to see some knackered old olive tree?’
‘It’s not an olive tree,’ said Tom.
‘So what kind of tree is it?’
‘How am I supposed to know?’
‘It could be an arse tree for all I care,’ replied Andy. ‘How interesting can any kind of tree be?’
‘Give it a rest, Andy,’ said Lisa calmly. ‘Think about it, how often do you get to see something that’s as old as this tree’s supposed to be and still be alive?’
‘Nice try,’ said Andy. ‘But I guarantee you that this tree is just going to be a tree, no matter how old it is.’
We climbed out of the car into the searing sun and began making our way up the steep hill to the village. On the way up we were all on constant tree alert but other than the occasional gnarled-looking oak we didn’t see anything at all that fitted our expectations. As we reached the top of the hill with no sign of it, however, we began to wonder if we had somehow missed it.
‘Do you think it was the pine tree by that house on the hill?’ asked Tom. ‘That was pretty tall, after all?’
‘It can’t have been,’ I replied. ‘Surely a two-thousand-year-old tree is going to be more substantial than that?’
‘Well, how about that chestnut tree by that gate?’ suggested Tom.
‘That can’t have been it either,’ said Andy. ‘Two of us linking arms could’ve spanned that easily.’
‘I give up then,’ said Tom. ‘I have no idea where this thing is.’
‘Maybe we should ask someone,’ suggested Lisa.
Andy, Tom and I looked at her blankly. It was clear that none of us wanted to do anything as potentially embarrassing as asking people for directions to a two-thousand-year-old tree.
‘Okay,’ said Lisa pointing across the road at a shady terrace the size of a small football pitch. It was surrounded by a line of trees (none of which looked to be over thirty years old let alone two thousand) and had tables and chairs set out as if it were some sort of outdoor café. ‘Why don’t we go over there, get a drink and cool down a bit and work out what to do next?’
Following Lisa’s lead we all crossed the road and made our way to a table at the edge of the terrace. A waitress came over to us and handed out menus and we were in the process of deciding what to order when Andy froze and pointed across the way. And there it was, right in front of us: a two-thousand-year-old tree looking exactly like you’d expect a two-thousand-year-old tree to look – tall, stately, ancient and wise.
‘If you’d told me this morning that I’d be impressed by a tree I’d have called you a nutter,’ said Andy quietly. ‘But I have to admit, Tom, you were right, mate, because that . . . really is one amazing fucking tree.’
The small thumb
‘So come on then,’ said Andy on our return to the hire car. ‘It’s your choice next, Charlie, what’s it going to be?’
‘How come it’s me next?’
‘Well, we could do mine if you like,’ conceded Andy. ‘But I think it’d be more fitting if we did it last.’
‘It isn’t dangerous is it?’ asked Tom.
‘I wouldn’t say it was dangerous,’ said Andy, revelling in the mystery. ‘At least not if it’s done properly. But there’ll be no backing out of it okay? I’ve seen your tree, we’ll do Charlie’s thing next and finish up with mine.’ Andy turned to me. ‘So come on then, hurry up.’
‘What I really want to do,’ I said having now rejected over a dozen different ideas in my head, ‘is sit on a beach where there aren’t massive speakers blasting out music, people trying to flog you loyalty cards to use sun-loungers, hot girls in bikinis or cool boys with six-packs. That’s what I want. Just us and a beach and as much peace and quiet as we can manage.’
Unsurprisingly the criteria for my beach excursion proved difficult to fulfil given that all the decent beaches were next to densely populated resorts and therefore packed with people. Any stretch of water that had sand next to it seemed to be either too grim for words (broken bottles in the sand, plastic bottles washing up on the surf, chockful of sinister-looking seaweed) or right next to some smoke-belching industrial plant. Just as we were about to give up and return to Malia, Tom spotted a sign for a stretch of beach that wasn’t visible from the road and suggested that we give it a try.
In front of us was a small lagoon that was empty apart from a mum and dad watching their young son skimming stones across the surface of the still water. There was no sand, only large, perfectly smooth pebbles.
‘Is this good enough for you, Charlie?’ asked Lisa as she slipped off her sandals.
‘I think this is what I’ve been looking for all holiday,’ I replied. ‘A bit of peace and quiet and a nice view.’
Andy laughed. ‘Are you sure you’re actually a bloke, Charlie? Because you do a brilliant impression of a girl sometimes.’
‘Don’t listen to him,’ said Lisa, ‘this place is fantastic.’
I turned to Tom. ‘What do you think, mate?’
‘I think we need to get our shoes off and get in that water,’ said Tom.
Barefooted, all four of us walked down to the water’s edge and then in unison waded into the cool shallows right up to our knees.
‘You don’t get pebbles like these on Brighton beach,’ said Lisa dipping her hand into the water and picking up a large smooth grey stone with a long white swirl in it. ‘This one looks like a bar of soap,’ she said, offering to me. As I took it, my fingers grazed her warm skin, sending a shiver down my spine. ‘You keep it,’ said Lisa. ‘It’ll be something to remember the holiday by.’
‘Have you got your camera on you?’ called Andy as he skimmed a handful of stones across the water. ‘We should take a picture.’
I pulled out the camera from my bag and handed it to Andy who walked over to the small boy and asked him to take a picture of us all.
Knee deep in the water we lined up in a row with our arms around each other – Tom, me, Lisa, Andy – and then in his best English the boy yelled: ‘Cheese’ and took the picture. He handed the camera back to Andy before running off to rejoin his parents and we all grou
ped around to get a better look at the camera’s display. Though it might not have been the most brilliantly composed picture of all time – a small thumb was clearly visible in the corner of the picture – it still managed to capture the essence of what we were about: four people who were connected with one another more closely than any of us might like to admit.
Dragons aren’t really me
It was just after six o’clock by the time we made our way back to Malia. And even as we parked the car a few doors down from Stars and Bars, Andy still wasn’t giving much away about our final task.
‘So where is it we’re going next?’ asked Lisa, yawning.
‘I’m afraid there’s no “we” in this next bit,’ replied Andy. ‘This one’s strictly for the boys.’
‘It’s not a strip club is it?’ asked Tom.
‘Of course it isn’t,’ said Andy rolling his eyes. ‘It’s better than that.’
‘So what then?’
‘It’s over there,’ said Andy, pointing to the Angel tattoo parlour across the road. ‘And it’s the perfect way to commemorate this holiday.’
I’d never given much thought to the idea of paying to have my skin permanently scarred in order to make some sort of indelible fashion statement, but if I had I would’ve definitely have been one of those people who rejected it on the grounds that: ‘It might look great now but what about when you’re eighty-five, and about to take residency in a nursing home?’
This was the argument that I attempted to present to Andy and Tom as we crossed the road to check out various pictures of the proprietor’s (a Mr Rodney Cross, originally from Dulwich, East London) handiwork. There were full colour 6"x4" pictures of arms, legs, calves, backs, faces and full bodies covered with everything from animals and Celtic symbols right through to sportswear logos and film stars.
‘Look, Charlie,’ said Andy, ‘if you do end up in a nursing home with a tattoo on your arm it’ll be a fantastic reminder as you freefall into dementia that once upon a time you actually had a life worth living.’
