by George Sims
Cupid and my Campaspe play’d
At cards for kisses—Cupid paid.
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows…
Beatrice Selver shook her head as if that physical act would help in shaking off pleasant memories that had turned sour. She put on her lilac-coloured cotton frock and the matching sandals, flicked her short black hair with a comb, made up her lips, and left the room and memories of happier bygone years.
Descending the narrow stairs she felt remote and detached from all that was happening in the streets and on the beaches of Brighton; she did not feel at all as if she was on holiday, but like an observer sent to spy on life, picking up odd snatches of conversation, mentally snapping the tall old man in the hall who was sucking his teeth and staring morosely at the poster which showed the entertainments available in the town.
There was no one at the small reception-desk and she put down her room key, obsessed with what a queer, solitary business life was. Everyone was always alone and only made contact with others to a certain extent, so that you could spend a quarter of a century living with someone and yet not know what was really going on in his head.
Walking down Oriental Place to King’s Road, she could see that the dark clouds which had brought the shower at lunchtime were being blown away to the south-east towards France. Some raindrops were still poised on the windscreens of cars, in perfect half-balls, but the pavements were practically dry. Lots of young families were making for the beach. For a moment Beatrice felt lost and indecisive, on the edge of tears; then a stout man went past her, belching discreetly, and she felt saved by that common touch of humanity. Her mood of depression was probably due partly to feeling empty: she had eaten only one small piece of toast for breakfast. The unimaginative menus at the West Hotel made it relatively easy to keep on a diet. Suddenly she remembered that twenty years before there had been a large goldfish bowl in the hotel dining-room and Leo had often pretended to shake pepper and salt over the bowl, much to the amusement and consternation of Eddy Buchanan and little Billy respectively.
Beatrice Selver stood at the edge of the promenade just in front of the empty bandstand. The tide was in and there seemed to be an expression on the face of the gently lapping sea, one of peace and contentment such as she now only experienced occasionally in dreams. She hated growing old but Leo’s behaviour made the experience worse than it need be: if only they could share everything together. Instead, he seemed to be getting continually more secretive. No doubt, he was having another affair but she was no longer anxious to know what was going on in that way; she did not try to catch him out in lies as she had done. But now there was an additional area of secrecy, all this intimacy and curious feigned friendship with Sidney Chard, a man whom Leo used to criticize bitterly. She had often puzzled her brains over his new relationship with Chard, but she could not understand it.
She looked over at the Hotel Metropole with a fleeting ironic memory of how very grand it had seemed to her in 1953. She sniffed the sea air appreciatively; she admitted to herself that she was hungry and was going to depart from her regimen of no lunch to the extent of just one sandwich and a cup of coffee. There was a small café in Air Street, up by the Clock Tower, where they served delicious simple sandwiches made with wholemeal bread. At first she thought she would stick to classic cucumber, but the idea of one containing crabmeat, lettuce and mayonnaise became more and more enticing, with a cappuccino, and perhaps one slice of cake.
Beatrice’s step became quicker as she walked up West Street. The idea of this trip had fascinated her, but now she could admit that it had been a mistake: she would cut it short and go home. Having decided this she felt as though a weight had been removed from her. She laughed at the absurdity of her position in practically regarding this holiday as a short term of imprisonment. The cats would be delighted to see her return. There was a lot to do in the garden. She had made up her mind that next year she would have the bed nearest to the cottage full of old-fashioned scented flowers: stocks, mignonette, alyssum, tobacco plants, lilies. Her mind became full of plans for changing her life, doing all the decorating she had put off for so long, undertaking more voluntary work in the village. One thing she was quite definite about now: never to make another nostalgic expedition into the past.
As Beatrice Selver crossed the traffic from West Street going towards the café in Air Street, she felt more positive and optimistic than she had done for some months. She thought that perhaps the few days by the sea had done her some good after all. Going past the Clock Tower towards the café her mind just registered a sensational newspaper placard:
Sex Murder Of Quiet Girl
Two Dead in Condemned House Horror
Chapter IX
After five months in the Greek Islands when Ed Buchanan returned to London his total loot amounted to three hundred drachma notes, a silver coin, skin practically blackened by working long hours in the sun, stringy bleached hair, a pack of cards he had bought at a tobacco kiosk in Athens and a vicious-looking German cut-throat razor.
The ivory-handled razor, together with an enormous loaf, a jar of fresh olives and a bottle of sickly sweet banana cordial, had been given to him as a reward for pulling a drowning child out of the sea at Konstantinos. The razor had probably been one of the most valued possessions of the small boy’s peasant father and Buchanan had accepted it only after it had been pressed on him persistently; now he had added it to the handful of things he intended to hang on to in his travels.
Shaving with the cut-throat was a pleasant experience, a less finicky business than with an ordinary razor and much more efficient. He could have done with it during his first week on Santorini when he had got sunburnt rather badly. He finished off the shave with a flick under the chin, then washed his face and the razor. After drying the ivory handle with a towel he used a tissue on the blade. It was difficult to estimate the age of such a piece of craftsmanship. The motto ‘Gott mit uns’ had been neatly carved on the handle, but that was obviously the work of one of its owners; the maker’s name ‘Ebner’ and the place ‘München’ were engraved in tiny letters on the blade.
Buchanan considered the razor an interesting relic and thought it probable that it had a dramatic history. It had been given to him during a long retsina session, with olives and various fried titbits, while his clothes were being dried in the peasant’s tiny cottage. Buchanan’s Greek was fragmentary but he had understood the boy’s father to say it had once belonged to a German soldier, the statement being accompanied by a throat-slitting gesture. He could not remember at what stage in the Second World War Greece had been invaded or whether the German occupation had extended to all the islands, including those like Samos, which was within sight of the Turkish mainland. There had been a fascinating faded photograph on the wall of the cottage showing a group of soldiers in a motley of uniforms. For the hundredth time he had wished that his Greek had been good enough to ask a few questions.
Buchanan opened a door in the luxurious bathroom and was confronted by the biggest airing-cupboard he had ever seen, containing a large collection of sheets and blankets and piles of freshly laundered shirts. Buchanan owned three denim shirts that needed washing and one made of checked cotton which was practically worn out but clean. He pulled it on, and the dark blue trousers and heavy brown boots he had bought in a tiny shop at Karlovasi on the island of Samos.
The flight back from Athens to London had been bang on time and it had been nice to arrive early enough to collect his mail and do a little shopping for basic provisions. He walked into the splendid large kitchen that opened on to a balcony facing east with an oblique view of the Thames up to Chelsea Bridge. He put on a kettle to make some instant coffee and opened the larder. There were brown paper bags containing tomatoes, bananas, mushrooms and figs, with a malt loaf that looked soggy with goodness. Two bottles of milk and a packet of Normandy butter in the fridge had completed his purchases. It had been some time sin
ce he had had to provide his own meals but he did not think he had made any mistakes.
Standing in the sun on the balcony, nibbling a banana and drinking coffee, Buchanan was aware of how good it was to be alive, and was grateful for his blessings. He knew that he had never been fitter in his life. He could heartily recommend four months of hard labour in the sun, with plenty of swimming and a simple diet planned by a Californian hippy health food fanatic. It was on Samos that Buchanan had come his closest to prayer, on one of his rare days off from building a guest-house and taverna, accompanying his young bosses Stella and Niko Messisklis on a picnic. After the midday snack of paximadia and goat’s cheese with some tsikoudia, a raki flavoured with mulberries, he had left the young married couple to enjoy their siesta and walked off in the direction of a remote mountain village. The area to the east of Karlovasi was one of the most beautiful he had seen, patterned with streams and lush meadows, dotted with cypresses, olive groves and vallonia oaks. There was a handful of white-washed cottages with great pitchers and ribbed amphorae standing by the doorways, and he had seen one small white chapel made splendid with blue and gold paint. The sights all around him, the delicious scents of herbs and flowers, the warmth of the sun, had seemed so good that at one point he had felt like throwing himself on the ground with some vague prayer of thanks to whatever gods might be.
The sound of a phone summoned Buchanan back from his idyllic memories. He picked up the white receiver in the kitchen with a wary approach. A young woman said, ‘This is Bathwick Mews Performance Cars. Can I speak to Mr Buchanan?’
‘Buchanan speaking.’
‘Oh, good, will you hold on please. Mr Hughes calling.’
‘Ed, is that you?’
‘Yes, Ken. How are you mate? Thriving as usual?’
‘Just fair, Ed, fair. Moving along. How come? I mean how about this posh Chelsea address. Swan Walk? Did you rob a Greek bank?’
‘Much easier than that. No sweat at all. A bloke I met at the last address I sent you, at the Kalamaki Beach Hotel, he offered to lend me this place rent-free for up to a month, I was just having a chat with him and a couple of girls over drinks, and voilà.’
‘What’s the catch?’
‘Beats me. Nothing I can see so far. This guy said that with the robbery rate round here being what it is he preferred to have someone sleeping in the place. He’s got a lot of expensive junk, statues, that kind of thing. Truth is, now I see the place I think this chap, this Philip Tureck, well maybe he’s a little AC-DC.’
Ken Hughes laughed. ‘Well, you’re away then, deary. You don’t have to do any little chores, like take the peke out for walkies, that kind of thing?’
‘Funny you should say that. Tureck did mention a cat called Jake, but I got the impression it was a ginger tom who just looked in for the odd meal on the balcony.’
‘That doesn’t sound too arduous. Well, tell me, how do these gay surroundings suit you?’
‘They don’t worry me. Fact is, I could get used to all this luxury. I must say though, I didn’t get a gay impression of Tureck at Kalamaki. He fooled me by making such a strong play for a blonde fräulein I rather fancied myself. But this place! There’s a fountain in the hall with a bronze statue that pees into it at the drop of a switch. It’s the only time I’ve ever slept in lavender linen sheets. The bathroom’s pale green with matching towels. And if he lives to be a hundred Tureck’s never going to run out of bath salts and after-shave.’
‘Sounds like, play your cards right, you’ll never want for anything again. But, seriously, how would the offer of a job appeal at the moment?’
‘What job?’
‘Same old job here, but better prospects.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Fact is, I’m getting tired of all this hacking about. If you shaped up perhaps you could take over from me in a year or so.’
‘That’s a nice offer, Ken. Thanks. I’ll give it serious thought. The thing is, you see, I enjoyed what I was doing in Samos so much I rather hanker after finding something else like that. Not that there’s much chance.’
‘What exactly were you doing there? Your cards were very vague.’
‘First off I visited five islands in two weeks, just bumming around. Then I happened to meet this nice young couple in their early twenties, Stella and Nick. She’s a hippy-type refugee from California who craves the simple life. He’s a Greek, born in Samos. They’re building a little guest-house and taverna right on the beach a couple of miles west of Karlovasi. A beautiful spot where a small river flows down the mountain. Their site is bang on the river where there was a fisherman’s cottage. For four months I helped them, nine hours a day, a real slog. I turned up hundreds of barrowloads of cement by hand. Funny thing was, I’ve never been happier.’
‘You lived with them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just you and a couple of kids. Didn’t you feel at all de trop at times? Is that what happened finally?’
‘No. What happened was they ran out of money. So they had to stop temporarily. He’s working in a leather-tanning factory. She’s taken a job in the town. Next year, with what they save, they’ll finish the place. Wish I could be there, but I don’t know. My plans are vague at the moment. But I’ll be in one day, Ken, and we’ll have a chat. Don’t think I’m not grateful.’
‘Okay, old lad. No rush. Just give me a ring and we’ll have lunch. By the way, do you owe any money? We’ve had some punters in here inquiring about you.’
‘That’s funny. Some income tax perhaps. Did you get their names?’
‘Well, one said he was a friend of yours. Leo Selver. You know him? Nice bloke I thought.’
‘Oh yes, I know Leo. He was my father’s friend really, but I’ve known him all my life. Did he leave a message?’
‘No, just said he’d call again. I’ve been away on holiday myself since then, a humble kiddies’ bucket-and-spade job in Brittany, so I’m a bit vague about whether he has in fact called again. But another bloke called twice, a funny-looking chappy with glasses. He was very persistent about contacting you, and finally that young fool Alec Finzi showed him your postcard with the Hotel Kalamaki address. I was annoyed about that. Didn’t want you to have any follow-ups.’
‘No need to worry about that, Ken. I’m very grateful to you for letting me use your address and keeping those letters for me.’
‘Yes, you had quite a pile. You seem to be much in demand. Tell me, how is it no one offers me the loan of a luxurious flat?’
‘It’s all these capped teeth I’ve got. They have a hypnotizing effect after a bit. Well, thanks again about the mail. Haven’t read any of it yet. Perhaps my premium bonds have come up.’
‘Cheers then, Ed. Remember about the job. Could use you here. But the wages won’t pay for a Swan Walk flat and a cat called Jake.’
‘It’s tough on Jake but I shall be out of here the moment I find a cheap room. See you.’
Buchanan replaced the phone, puzzled by the news of the ‘funny-looking chappy with glasses’ and Leo Selver. The last time he had seen Leo had been at his parents’ funeral and then he had got a rather sour impression of him, of someone world-weary and cynical, standing around outside the crematorium at a loss for anything to say, with an expression of suppressed boredom; whereas good old Bee had found it so easy and natural to convey her sympathy. He could not imagine that Leo would take the trouble of going to Bathwick Mews just in order to seek advice about what new car he should buy.
Buchanan buttered a chunk of malt bread and sliced up the remains of the banana on it, then made some more coffee. He had a leisurely programme for the day that consisted of buying a couple of new shirts and possibly a pair of trousers and some kind of jacket. Then he must inquire about a paper that listed jobs in the country. Ken Hughes’s offer was a good one but Buchanan hated the thought of going back into car-dealing, hacking about all
over the country buying used sports cars. The world of car-dealing and the period when he had been a racing-driver now seemed equally remote and alien. Yet he could remember a time when driving a Formula One car, changing gears a thousand times in a race, with the excitement of surviving among the familiar stench of hot tarmac and high-octane fuel, had seemed uniquely absorbing. It was during his racing career that he had come across a comment from a high-wire artiste: ‘To be on the wire is life and the rest is waiting’, and then he had agreed about the excitement of backing your life on your own skill. Now he wanted something more positive and creative, no matter on how small a scale. Ideally he wanted the chance to build up a place as they had done in Karlovasi, perhaps a derelict farm, though he could not imagine the opportunity occurring in Britain. It was the pioneering aspect that particularly appealed to him, the struggle to improvise and do things with inadequate equipment, preferably with a girl who fancied the same kind of life. But if it came off, what would happen once the derelict place was brought into use? He could not see himself in the role of a farmer.
He took out the silver coin that Stella Messisklis had given him as a good-luck piece when they said good-bye: his desire for possessions was very slight but he liked the worn old coin showing the little owl of Pallas Athene, its body in profile and its head full face. He could not imagine being happier than he had been when he and Nick were practically overwhelmed with the tasks they had to tackle in temporarily damming the river and putting in foundations for the terrace on the river bank; a long swim when work was done and returning to the smell of fried onions, and finding Stella slicing tomatoes, garlic and green paprika pods; then after dinner the sessions of drinking ouzo, playing cards and puzzling over Greek letters, the triple loop of Xi, the bisected almond of Theta, while Nick confused matters by turning P’s into R’s, B’s into V’s and the H’s into E’s.
