Pieces of Justice

by Margaret Yorke

  Occasionally the bossy woman Bob had met in Bergen wondered how the man with the red face had enjoyed the mountains. Then she forgot about him.

  The Wrath Of Zeus

  The gods indeed were angry, Mr Dunn thought as he sat on the hotel balcony, a towel wrapped ruglike round his bare, skinny shanks, for it was chilly in the storm. He still wore his blue cotton holiday shorts, though the warm weather had been replaced by a day that would have seemed normal in an English September. Beyond the oleanders and orange trees that edged the hotel garden and bordered the swimming-pool, the Ionian Sea raged grey, dotted with whitecaps, and the beach, once fringed with golden sand, was now drab-brown, riven where torrents of rainwater had poured down from the hills and into the sea. The water, once so clear, was muddied with stirred-up sand.

  Poseidon, Mr Dunn decided as he observed the scene through his binoculars, was demonstrating his power to goad the sea into a wild warning to mere humans.

  Earlier, before the storm, the air had been still, heavy with humidity, the sky full of dense purple clouds massing over the mountains across the bay. Then the sky had been rent by bright bars of vivid forked lightning, followed instantly by deafening thunder. Zeus, in his majesty, was displaying his authority beneath which mortal man must quail.

  Henry and Mavis Dunn were spending a fortnight on this Greek island, which could be reached only by ferry from a larger one with an airport – though the term ‘airport’ seemed a grandiloquent description for the minimal hutted buildings serving the runway. Each summer the Dunns went abroad, always to somewhere new, and the choice was usually made by Mavis. This year, however, Henri’s wishes had prevailed. For years he’d longed to visit this island, steeped in myth and legend. Now it had a large hotel and he had pointed out to his wife that soon it would be fashionable. By visiting it now, they could boast they’d been there before it became part of the regular tourist run. The argument had persuaded Mavis.

  Henry woke early each morning and went out on to the balcony of their hotel room to watch the sky grow light under the beneficence of Aurora. As the sky grew brighter, gradually, in all his glory, Apollo would preside over the heavens while the sun shone burningly down. And in the evening the sunsets were magnificent. Even Mavis, drinking duty-free gin on the balcony before dinner, marvelled as the huge, fiery orb dropped rapidly behind the distant mountain, taking only just over two minutes from the time its rim touched the mountaintop. For a few more minutes, streaks of orange and gold would light the sky – then it was dark. There was no dusk in those waters.

  When the sun went down, Mavis would go into the bedroom and begin her evening toilet, which even on holiday included much grimacing in the mirror as she examined her wrinkles; the patting of cream into her thin cheeks; then the painting of brows on the pale ridge of skin over her small, button-brown eyes. It took time to select which dress to wear before she was ready to go down to the bar to meet their new holiday friends, Eileen and Bill, with whom they now dined each night, to Henry’s relief. It helped with conversation.

  Mavis had been a pretty girl when Henry first met her, long ago. She’d worked as a typist for a firm for which he was a traveller – representatives, they were all called these days. His nymph, he had christened her then. Even as a young man, Henry had enjoyed reading about ancient times – a schoolmaster had caught his imagination with tales of Mycenae and that had begun it all. ‘Your silly old books,’ Mavis would say, referring to the rows of volumes he had acquired from second-hand booksellers over the years.

  The first time he took her out they went to a concert, but during the interval he discovered that the music bored her so they left. Their next date, and those that followed, had been at the cinema; he’d held her hand in the conspiring darkness, and she’d giggled and squirmed.

  They married quickly when war was declared, for Henry was in the Territorial Army and was called up at once. Their brief honeymoon was a disappointment to both, but for the next six years they met rarely. Things would improve after the war, Henry told himself, clasping her resisting body on the station platform before he left for service abroad.

  When he returned after four years, Mavis was no longer the plump, curly-haired girl whose photograph he had carried through the western desert and up the leg of Italy and whose rare, stiff letters he knew by heart. But she’d had a tough time, he reminded himself then. Food had been scarce at home; there had been bombs and doodlebugs – though, to be truthful, few had fallen near Mavis, who had found a job in a government department whose offices were moved, for safety, to Wales. It had been dull for her there, though, Henry allowed, and he was grateful that she’d stayed faithful, for so many of his comrades had returned to find that their wives had failed them.

  The first years after the war were not easy. Henry had to make up for lost time. He wanted to succeed in the world, and he knew that he must be able to give Mavis the good things of life to preserve their marriage – possessions were important to her.

  ‘I have certain standards, Henry,’ she’d said, turning down the first flat he’d found – a dark basement one, but cheap.

  It would be better when babies arrived, he’d felt. She’d alter then – be warmer, fulfilled. But no babies came, and he seemed to lack the secret of making her content. Her mouth grew thin and hard. She never laughed. He often thought of her girlish giggle, now gone, and sighed.

  In time they had a small house, and later a larger one. Since there were no children, Mavis had kept on her job, transferring from one department to another as time went on, and only recently she had retired from a senior position. Henry had done well himself – he’d had to, to keep up with her. He became a keen gardener, thus keeping out of Mavis’s way on summer evenings and weekends, and in winter he read a great deal. His little library steadily grew and his interest in Greek mythology revived.

  Now he realised Mavis was not a nymph and never had been. Watching her as she painted her face, her hair tinted dark brown and permed into frizzy corkscrew curls, he thought she was more like Medusa, with her hard expression and with snakes for hair. He was a frightened man, for he himself would retire at Christmas and after that there would be no escape from Mavis. Now she devoted to the house the energy that had been channelled into her work. She’d always been neat and house-proud, but now she was fanatical. How would he manage at home all day, Henry wondered bleakly, and what would he do for company without the daily colleagues he had spent more time with than with Mavis?

  Years ago, Mavis had turned the small guest bedroom in their house into what she called his den. There he kept his books and his record player and a transistor radio – she didn’t want that sort of rubbish cluttering up her living-room, she had said. Henry knew he would be spending much of his time in his den in future. All these years, by avoiding each other during the day, they’d managed to maintain brief conversations over the evening meal and even Sunday lunch, but holidays had been difficult until they learned to diffuse their intimacy by making friends with another couple. (It was Henry who always found the holiday friends. He’d get talking in the bar the first evening to someone he’d already picked out on the plane as looking likely. He was aware they weren’t the only pair with a problem.)

  He’d take up bowling, he thought. It was a pity he’d never played golf, but perhaps it wasn’t too late to learn – then he could spend every day at the club. Still, he preferred the idea of adult education classes. He might learn to paint, or even to speak Greek. But, inevitably there would still be hours at home and when he thought about the future, Henry panicked.

  Among the holiday visitors on the island, there were some happy couples. Henry looked wistfully at a pair, not young at all, strolling arm-in-arm down the road to the little town past orchards of pomegranates and swathes of lush bougainvillea, bright hibiscus, and trails of brilliant morning glory. Nature approved of passion, he sighed, knowing little about it. There were nymphs to be seen, too: lovely young girls who lay, almost naked, stretched out on the be
ach, their oiled limbs surrendering to the sun. When he went into the sea for his swim he met others emerging, long hair wet against small, neat skulls, curving bodies full of promise. He would watch them covertly, like a schoolboy, for he knew he had missed something wonderful in the arid years of his marriage.

  Zeus had had his way with any maiden he fancied, Henry thought enviously. Age was no handicap to a God. Henry’s own chest bore a light tufting of grey hair and his legs were still pale despite several days in the sun. Zeus – older than time – would simply transform himself into some irresistible figure before conquering the maiden of his choice. Henry picked out a maiden – well, a damsel – for himself and dreamed of appearing before her in the guise of a Greek hero, with golden curls and muscled torso, to carry her off to a cave, where he would ravish her to their mutual delight. His choice was a fair girl who toasted herself on a sunbed close to the spot where, early every morning, Henry laid out his own and Mavis’s towels under a plaited straw shelter on the beach. Here, between the swims which punctuated his day, he could watch the girl from behind the cover of his book.

  Eileen and Bill shared the shade of their shelter. Occasionally the two women splashed in the shallows. Mavis was a poor swimmer and Eileen could manage only a gasping breast-stroke. Bill would coast up and down with some style but short breath. But Henry swam across the wide sweep of the bay each morning to the headland opposite, almost half a mile. There he would haul himself on to a rock, wary of sea urchins hiding under the seaweed, rest for a while, and swim back, escaping from his companions and occupying time in a manner that was not only good for him but pleasant. Some of the way he would power himself on with a vigorous crawl, but for much of the distance he would swim slowly on his side, gazing at the scenery. Above the rocky hilltops was the vivid blue sky and below were the olive trees on which much of the island’s prosperity was founded, silvery grey in the sunlight.

  The day before the storm, Eileen and Mavis had spent some hours poking about in the little town while Henry and Bill took a taxi out to a ruined monastery. Eileen, who kept a dress shop in Sussex, didn’t care for ruins, and neither did Mavis. The women had enjoyed their day, returning with several parcels. The men had had an agreeable time, too.

  Eileen and Bill had an airbed on which Eileen would paddle herself for some distance on the calm blue water. Mavis, encouraged to take her turn on the bed, paddled too, and found it was easy enough to move the light mattress and guide it with the movement of her hands. Henry supposed it was safe enough out here where the sea was so calm, though he knew such beds were dangerous in British waters.

  Each afternoon, however, no matter how calm and still the sea was in the morning, a sharp breeze blew up and the sailboard riders would come out, their little craft dancing like ballerinas on the small waves. And now there was a storm.

  It would pass, Henry thought as he watched the lightning stab the sky and heard the thunder overhead. Calm would return when the gods were appeased. Did they demand a sacrifice, he wondered?

  The next day, the storm had died down and the sky was washed clear of cloud. The swimming-pool, filled with twigs and sand swept down by the rain, was drained and cleaned. The tourists went down to the beach again to resume their sybaritic routine.

  For three more days it was calm and sunny, but then the air grew still and humid once more. The sea was like glass and Henry went off for his morning swim while the good weather held. He struck out strongly across the bay towards his landmark at the tip of the headland and scrambled out for his rest. But he stayed a shorter time than usual when he saw the sky grow darker. As he swam back, a slight swell caught him half-way across the bay. It was like the wash from a boat. He glanced round, expecting to see a water-skier, though he had heard no motor boat. He saw no craft near enough to have caused the movement of the water, which was odd.

  He swam on towards the straw-topped shades on the distant beach, putting his head down and going into a powerful crawl that moved him fast through the water, looking up from time to time to make sure his direction was correct. Some way ahead, a good distance from the shore, he saw an airbed, and just as he noticed it a big wave came up behind him, wrapping itself around him. Henry, a good and confident swimmer, rode the wave safely, but he saw it sweep on towards the airbed. The mattress bobbed up with the wave and Henry wondered who was on it and if it was Eileen’s bed. He swam on and made out the bright colour of Mavis’s cerise two-piece swimsuit.

  Then another wave caught him, a much bigger one than its forerunner. It engulfed him totally, and when he had swum through it he saw it roll towards the airbed.

  Poseidon he pleaded, Poseidon – great God of the sea – free me of her. And, as he willed the elements, he saw the airbed, caught by the wave, tip up and throw the woman on it into the water.

  As he swam towards the spot, Henry understood what had caused the waves. An earthquake had struck this island years ago, and the area was subject to earth tremors. A tremor somewhere out at sea had made the wave. Drawing nearer, Henry could see a head bobbing in the water. Mavis would panic. She wouldn’t be able to swim to the shore and he thought it unlikely that she’d be able to clamber back on to the mattress. He swam powerfully on, and as he drew near another wave came. There was no time to reflect. Poseidon had answered his prayer. Henry took a deep breath and dived into the wave as it bore down on the bobbing head. He grabbed the woman and dragged her beneath the wave with him, forcing her head down and holding it submerged, fighting the natural buoyancy of the salt water to keep her under long enough to make of her the sacrificial offering demanded by the gods, his own lungs bursting with the effort. She struggled and kicked, then finally went limp. At last he surfaced, still holding her. Then he felt Zeus, in vengeance, send a shaft of agony through his own chest.

  A man swimming with a snorkel mask and flippers fished the woman’s body from the water. Henry was pulled out later, hauled aboard the dinghy that shepherded the sailboard riders.

  His death was ruled a massive heart attack while attempting to save a friend – for the woman’s body was Eileen’s. She had been wearing a cerise swimsuit she had borrowed from the victim’s wife. Perhaps, it was conjectured, he had mistaken her for his wife, had been attempting to save his wife.

  Mavis received a good deal of sympathy, together with Henry’s insurances, which brought with them a very comfortable pension, so that she was able to continue to live up to the considerable standards she had set for them both.

  A Sort of Pride

  Mandy enjoyed her work as a representative for Gladways Holidays until the night Mrs Featherstone disappeared in the Aegean Sea.

  The Featherstones had given no trouble during their stay at the Korona Beach Hotel. They had not complained about the noise from the discotheque, unlike Miss Jeffs and Miss Dawes who had protested so vigorously that even Mr Salonides, the manager, agreed that they must be moved to a quiet room overlooking the oleander grove on the far side of the hotel; it was obvious that otherwise there would be telephone calls to London and perhaps the intervention of the Managing Director of Gladways Tours himself. Mr Salonides did not want to risk losing the company’s block booking for next season.

  The Featherstones had made friends with the Barkers, and met on the Barkers’ balcony each evening before dinner for drinks from everyone’s duty-free bottles. The Barkers’ room overlooked the sea but the Featherstones, in one above the hotel entrance, were disturbed not only by the disco, which was situated in a building higher up the hillside, but also by the arrival and departure of tour coaches, the bus which shuttled to and from the local town, and staff and guests coming and going on scooters.

  The two couples were by far the oldest guests in the hotel, and Mandy had been relieved to note that they seemed physically spry though all, as she knew from their passport details, were well into their seventies. Mrs Featherstone was conspicuous because of her bright orange hair, sparsely arranged over her pink skull and curled around her ears in which she always
wore large earrings, even in the sea. Her make-up was vivid, and she took care not to get sunburned, preserving a pink-and-white look accentuated with rouge, eye-liner—the lot. She carried a parasol, and, when forced to lay that down to swim, put on a shady straw hat.

  Denis Barker thought her a game old thing. In her day she must have been quite a girl and he wished that he had known her then. His own wife, Hazel, thought Dolly Featherstone looked ridiculous but then they were none of them getting any younger. Hazel, in the sea, wore a severe black one-piece costume and a blue rubber cap; she swam briskly several times a day while Dolly wallowed in the shallows or, with uneven breast-stroke, tried to match Tommy Featherstone’s steady progress parallel to the shore.

  Tommy had been on the island during the war. He had told Mandy this when she briefed her group of guests the morning after their arrival. He wanted to hire a car and visit the hill village where he had hidden in a cave, with a small band of men, until they were betrayed to the occupying troops and captured. He had spent the rest of the war in a prison camp while Dolly performed with ENSA, entertaining the forces with song and dance routines. With two other girls, none of them related, she formed a singing trio, The Glitter Sisters, and glitter they did, in sequinned dresses; men needed glamour then and they needed it still, so Dolly did her best to retain hers. During the war years, despite many propositions and even some temptation, Dolly had remained faithful to Tommy, writing to him regularly and knitting socks and sweaters for him.

  After the war she had given up show business to settle down and raise a family. Unspoken was the possibility that it might otherwise give her up, since though she had charm and vitality, her talent was not large. She soon acquired domestic skills, but motherhood eluded Dolly as the years went by. Tommy rose in the bank, to which he had returned as soon as he was demobilised, and their first flat was exchanged for a small house, then a larger one in a better neighbourhood, and so it went on. When he retired, Tommy took up bowls and Dolly became stage manager for the local dramatic society, but she never performed. She would not accept the dowager roles that would have been her lot.