by Polly Samson
‘I don’t suppose your digs has much of anything. I’m sorry it’s rather more basic than Kyria Pepika led me to believe,’ she says, and when she stands I see her face tilt towards him, as it might for a kiss.
His grin strikes me as lupine. His charisma relentless. ‘You know, I find the simple life voluptuous,’ he says. ‘I like a good table and a good chair—’
‘And a good bed, obviously,’ Janey butts in.
Charmian shoots her a look and carries on. ‘I’m sure I can sort you out a few bits and pieces and you should be able to work on that little balcony when it gets really hot later on,’ she says and there’s a great collective sigh at the thought of days and months that would grow even longer and sunnier and Jimmy pops a sweet segment of orange into my mouth.
The conversation turns to work. Charmian and Leonard agree that the morning is best, though Charmian complains that George’s book remains a painful extraction at any time of day or night. ‘Really, if we didn’t need the cash, I’m not sure I’d be making him go on with it,’ she says. ‘It feels sadistic to force him to revisit the horrors of famine.’ Leonard sympathises, says he’s disappointed that George hasn’t joined us.
Charmian fiddles with the fringe of the tartan blanket. ‘That’s good of you, considering the last time you saw him we were having that awful brawl.’ She lowers her eyes and pulls the blanket in front of her mouth, speaks through it. ‘I’m afraid our marital spats have got quite out of hand. I do especially apologise for the bloody rotten things he said to you.’
Leonard chuckles, touches her hair. ‘It is bewildering to me, quite seriously, the relationship between a man and a woman. It’s such a bitch. I mean, nobody can figure it out right. We all have trouble on that one.’ He pushes the blanket aside and she smiles at him in a way that could be grateful or it could be coquettish, it’s hard to tell. The island is silent but for the braying of a distant donkey and those few goat bells; the black sky is spattered with stars.
‘This is the water we shall offer to our great god Apollo as he rises from the sea,’ Charmian says, tearing herself from his gaze and lifting her flask in veneration to the impossibly distant jagged black lines of Mount Eros. ‘And if we’re climbing all that way we must take our rites seriously,’ she adds. ‘So, try not to spill it. We don’t want the gods to think us stingy.’
Leonard stoops to fill his tin pot, stands and makes some sort of incantation – in Hebrew, I think – before inserting the cork stopper. We are solemn, Leonard a bit baggy and stooping beside Charmian who stands tall, her wide leather belt and the tartan rug giving her the air of a Scottish queen.
There’s a shout. Her face lights up. But when she turns, around the corner comes a wheezing Patrick Greer. ‘Oh, bloody hell. Dreary,’ she says, beneath her breath. ‘Last thing we need is a Greer-shaped black cloud to obscure the sun.’
We wait while panting Patrick draws his water. Jimmy and Leonard lean against a wall smoking and talking about the poetry scene in London. ‘Whenever I hear that a guy writes poetry I feel close to him. You know, I understand the folly,’ Leonard says, and though I’ve heard him use those exact words before, it gives me pleasure to hear Jimmy purr.
Patrick stands so close to Charmian he might be trying to breathe her in. A button hangs from a thread of his jacket, its tweed giving off a scent of old bonfires and disappointment. ‘George told me you’d be here. I reckon he didn’t want you clambering about with only the charming Canadian for company,’ he says, his voice even more brandied than usual. ‘But now I see you’ve already gathered extra disciples of your own.’
Charmian tries to ignore his innuendo and checks again that we each have our offering of water, reminds us not to drink it on the way up the mountain. Edie and Janey don’t have torches of their own so they skip ahead with Jimmy and Leonard who both have new batteries in theirs while I wait with Charmian and the inconvenient Patrick.
‘I’m surprised Jean-Claude Maurice isn’t tearing up here in hot pursuit,’ Patrick says. ‘I mean,’ and he gazes pointedly from Charmian to me, ‘with one notable exception he relishes his filet pleasantly mignon.’
Charmian springs away from him. ‘Really, that’s too spiteful.’
Patrick is rambling. He sounds neither sober nor sorry.
‘Oh Jesus, has Jean-Claude got an inkling of the nasty surprise George has got coming for him in that despicable book of his?’ he says and she gives him an exasperated shove.
‘Patrick, if you don’t mind, I am not in the mood to discuss this.’ She storms up the winding steps, pulling me behind her.
The path narrows. I keep my grasp on her hand. ‘What does he mean by George’s despicable book?’ I say and she calls a halt.
She shines her torch from face to face. ‘Shhhh, all of you,’ she says. ‘Remember, if we are to do this properly, this is a silent pilgrimage.’
I stomp as I climb, become careless with my feet. The path zigzags unrelentingly past tumbledown cottages and upwards towards dense-shadowed pine. The only sound is our footfalls on the shale and our breathing, the only light our torches. I hadn’t for a moment taken on board the silent nature of Charmian’s ceremony. I see again a flicker of laughter passing between her and George.
Charmian leads the way, the silence dark between us. She’s always ahead of me, I’m always in pursuit. I know she’s keeping secrets from me, I see them jumping behind her eyes whenever I get close. Why won’t she tell me what she knows? I’ve told her I’ll only think worse things of my mother than she can possibly reveal. I’ve told her the mystery of it all is what’s killing. And this hill is just getting steeper, there are insects that rise up in the halos of our torches and Edie shrieks at the scaly tail of something that skitters.
And no wonder George was so keen, and the way she gets all flirtatious around Leonard I can’t say I blame old George for his jealousy. And what is it about that one that’s making everyone go weak at the knees anyway? Leonard’s not even tall, but Charmian’s like a kitten and it seems every woman, every girl, even surly Kyria Soula at the fish stall in the market, has fallen under his spell.
I am caught in the beam of Charmian’s torch. She lifts the tartan blanket, gestures for me to come inside and we walk for a while arm in arm through the velvet night and my bitter thoughts become swamped with the scent of juniper and pine and blanket and longing.
There was a time when we were lost in the woods. I have just the briefest vision of our mother, an ash-white panic on her face as we stand in a clearing. The foliage is thick and the earth beneath our feet is gnarly with roots, the day darkening and scented with danger. It’s just the three of us, Bobby and me ready to protect her with our stick guns, and Mum’s face is very stark above the fox fur of her collar. I guess it was one of the times when our father was in hospital, there were some woods in the grounds, but I don’t know what had happened to make her so frightened, only a sense that something hung on the brink. When we found the path it led to an unknown cobbled street with warm lamplight and we stopped at a tea shop and I started crying and hid in the folds of Mum’s coat because I’d sensed that my twig of a gun wouldn’t be enough to save us and her hand shook as she poured the tea from the pot.
Charmian pushes me ahead as we start to climb the steeper rock, feeling our way beneath low branches as pine turns to scrub and the scree becomes treacherous with loose footings. We stop to rest and, wetting our mouths, gaze across the starlit gulf.
I’m missing Bobby, though even in the dark I can tell that Edie couldn’t care less that he’s chosen not to join us. I can see her smile as Leonard so gallantly lends her a hand. Now he’s waiting while she rewinds and reties her dramatic black scarf. Edie always seems to dress as though for a part; I’m surprised she hasn’t gone the full wimple. I just don’t have a gift for it. I’ve had to put a twist in my belt to stop my trousers falling down. My puppy fat has dropped away, and when I lie flat I’m surprised at the triangular bones at the peaks of my hips and the hard round
balls of muscle at my calves. I’ve become slim enough for Mum’s clothes, a thought that brings with it an unpleasant memory of my father, in what feels like another lifetime, and still I flinch. He dismisses my figure with a glance as we pack her fine things for the poor box.
I regret letting go of the rose silk slip. For as long as I can remember I’ve an image of her wearing it, or at least one very like it, with a frill of darker lace along the straps and where it plunges at the front. She’s sitting at her dressing table pressing loose powder along her collarbones and between her breasts with one of those amazingly pink and fluffy powder puffs that bring to mind boudoirs and courtesans. She hasn’t noticed me come into the room. The talc glitters in the soft beam of her dressing-table lamp. She sees me in the mirror and swivels in her seat, her mouth a lipsticked ‘O’. Some of the powder has dusted the dark lace, the straps hang in loops over her shoulders. She swoops down and wraps her arms around me, covers my eyes with her hands, sweeps me from her room. At the door she gathers me into her arms and carries me across the hall to my bed, soothing me for a bad dream. I fall asleep, snug as a nut in the sweet-scented folds of her body.
Whenever the path is wide enough Charmian lets me under her blanket. But now we are leaving the scrublands behind us and in some places the path has become tricky. We stop at a plateau, squat on our haunches. Across the familiar gulf the charcoal burners cluster like glow-worms. There is nothing but this rock between the stars and the tide and it’s in this bath of silence that the picture starts to develop. Mum is at her dressing table, the straps of her petticoat fallen. I smell her perfume, stumble towards her warm skin. For the first time I see him, the man in the room. I make a run for her. He spots me before she does and it’s his panic she catches in the mirror. The powder puff flies from her hand. It’s the last thing I see before she covers my eyes.
The stars are fading as we reach the peak. Somewhere below us a dog barks. The monastery at Profitis Elias glows sugar-white beyond the rocky silhouettes of land that falls away in ripples and humps and herb-filled ravines. We are as close to the heavens as anyone tonight. There’s a small iron bell mounted on rock which we long to ring though daren’t before Apollo has made his grand entrance.
My hair is damp to the touch; a fine skein of mist is caught in the nap of the blanket that Jimmy and I share. Charmian has found us a fold of rocks that is carpeted by plants with soft downy leaves and clusters of tiny white and baby-pink flowers. ‘Dolls’ flowers’, she calls them. We’re in a row facing east, all except Leonard who stands, stretches his arms, finds a rocky perch and stares out alone. Bands of aubergine and plum seep from the horizon, herald the first streaks of amber fire. We’ve gathered flowers for our benedictions. Charmian brought a knife for the asphodels and, as well as all the ones I don’t know the names for, there are poppies and irises and tiny snake’s-head fritillaries. We stand along the ridge with our water and flowers until the great ball of the sun emblazons the sea by unfurling its bolt of orange satin.
The cocks are crowing, there’s birdsong, more barking dogs. We follow Charmian’s lead and splash our faces with well water. Leonard pours his tin jug over his head and, grinning, shakes the drops from his hair like a dog. Edie and Janey sit cross-legged weaving flowers into their hair and Jimmy is limbering up to the morning, leaping from boulder to boulder, his arms gracefully handling an invisible tightrope-walker’s pole.
Leonard squats on his haunches breaking the bread. We dunk it in sweet Lipsian wine as the island gently steams in the first rays of the sun and Charmian is first to free us from silence by ringing the iron bell.
Nine
Marianne has joined us above the cave at Spilia. Her folded arms rest on modestly arranged knees so that as much of her pale slim body is obscured from prying eyes as possible. Her tan is yet to catch up with her return to Hydra, though the tip of her nose and the apples of her cheeks have already turned pink. She perches neat as a little white bird, from her pearly-painted toenails to her golden hair, which is pinned into a roll at her nape. It’s the first time I’ve had an opportunity to study her and she possesses a curious stillness. She’s chosen one of the concrete steps just below Charmian, who holds sway from her usual stony cradle. Charmian looks broad and brown and muscular beside her, and rather shabby. Her once-black swimsuit gapes unflatteringly where the elastic has gone. Her face is animated while she talks but the sploshing of waves against the rocks makes it hard to catch what she’s saying. The gist seems to be that Marianne should worry less about Axel and concentrate on simply enjoying her baby. Marianne wears a small smile and listens with her cheek pressed to her shoulder. Her bikini has a halter tie and is blue with white dots which makes me instantly wish for one just like it.
The summer invasion is not yet in full swing so we all lay claim to our favourite sprawling spots on the sun-baked rocks. Ours is a flat platform between two boulders that’s been filled with concrete and I think poor Marianne can’t help but feel our curious eyes. A broad stripe of light catches the carefully arranged angles of her body, zigzags the origami folds of her limbs. She has the smile of a sphinx and is so strikingly pretty I can’t really feel too cross that Jimmy’s put down his book and rolled on to his front to study her.
Neither do I think I’m imagining how Göran and Albin and Ivar have started behaving since Marianne’s been here. There isn’t a moment one of them isn’t striding to the edge of the cliff and performing various daring and athletic entries into the sea. Now Göran’s crouching down beside her, dripping on to the rocks. He’s reminding her that last summer she made him hot cocoa every night. He’s been dreaming of it ever since he got back here. You might think there was something between them, the way she’s blushing and laughing, but then we’re all crowding around at the head of the cave as Jimmy balances with his toes curled over the lip. Jimmy’s beauty almost hurts my eyes as he spins and springs high to the sky with cruciate arms and into a backwards arc that seems to hover at its apex before entering the water with barely a splash.
There’s a squeal. Charmian is pulling Marianne behind her, ‘Come, make the most of it while Axel’s got the baby,’ and they race past and leap and without letting go of each other bomb the water around Jimmy with a wild whoop. After that we’re all diving and pushing each other back in, treading water, bobbing and chatting in a ring.
Charmian seems almost dangerous with energy; she’s always much livelier when George and the children aren’t around. In the glitter of the ocean something wild fights to be free. ‘There’s at least an hour until sundown – who wants a race to Avlaki and back?’ Charmian is built to win. Her long legs and broad shoulders provide a powerful crawl that even Bobby can’t match. Marianne and I can only wave them off.
Marianne stretches out beside me to dry. She has a scar like a small pink centipede running along her bikini line, otherwise she is perfect and smooth as an empty page. Her belly is so flat it is hard to believe it recently contained a baby and she looks at me a little startled when I tell her.
‘Pfft, in Norway the women are not encouraged to take bed-rest. Momo, my grandmother, was rigorous about staying fit. Besides, on an island of steps, there’s no other way; if you didn’t stay strong you’d starve to death.’ Her accent is charming and there’s something compelling and breathy in her voice that suggests secrets and confessions. We cup our hands across our eyes to check on the progress of the swimmers. Charmian’s nothing but a dot, the others ranged like splashy goslings in her wake. ‘Charm’s a strong woman,’ Marianne says.
She turns on to her front, propping her elbows. She seems to be avoiding eye contact. I agree, tell her I think Charmian is amazing.
‘Axel’s about the only man on Hydra who can swim as fast as her,’ Marianne says, though I hadn’t meant swimming in particular. She has one of those faces that falls naturally to a pleasant smile. Her teeth sparkle; her eyes do too, in a ready-to-be-amused way. I’ve never seen skin this flawless. She speaks without looking at me: ‘Charm
ian says you’ve been here since Easter. So I guess you’ve run across my crazy husband?’ The mild smile remains fixed and I feel myself flush, though I have nothing to feel guilty about.
She raises her eyes to meet mine. She is squinting, poised for pain.
‘I’ve seen him come down for his mail but I don’t think we’ve been introduced.’ My heart races as I change the subject. ‘Do you know anything about this book George has coming out? I’m dying to know what it is. Patrick Greer was hinting that he’s written something indiscreet. He said it was “despicable” and Charmian seems upset by it.’
Marianne shakes her head. ‘Yes, yes. I think this must be the thing he wrote in a great rage last year when he was in Athens with his TB. He wasn’t thrilled about Charm’s lover and kind of vented it, I guess …’ She stops and bites her lip.
‘How did he find out that she was having an affair …?’
‘George was impotent, that’s what she told me. Side effects of his drugs. She always tries to be careful but on an island like this one all the birds have to do is chatter all day.’
I glance across the bay. The swimmers are out of sight around the headland. ‘No wonder she’s embarrassed. Who was her lover?’
Marianne reaches into her basket for a bottle of orange juice. ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter who. It was a very bad time but really he drove her to it. There was much breaking of china; everyone here thought they’d split up over it,’ she says, offering me the bottle.
The juice is sweet and warm. I try not to be greedy. She gestures for me to take more. ‘This is the problem with these highly strung people,’ she says. ‘And when we’re all bored and thrown together like this it becomes everybody’s business. Now, why don’t you tell me about your Jimmy? How did you two come to be here?’
I explain about Jimmy dropping out of law school, about my mum and the savings book and the car, and about how I’m sure Charmian knows more about my mysterious mother than she’s letting on.
