Mortal Remains

by Margaret Yorke

  He told the girl he wanted a present for his sister. She put her work down and came to help him. They looked through the crocheted garments. The waistcoats were rather nice. Patrick asked the girl to put one on so that he could see how it looked. She obeyed, and stood before him quite without coquetry, for her work to be appraised.

  ‘My sister is bigger than you,’ said Patrick.

  The girl showed him one of a different pattern in a larger size. It looked all right to Patrick, and if Jane didn’t like it, she could give it away. He bought it; it was surprisingly cheap. Before wrapping it up the girl and her mother conferred together, measuring it and noting down details of the pattern. At Patrick’s interested query, the girl explained, ‘Now I make another the same.’

  ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘Four days.’

  As she tied up the parcel he enquired if her name was Aphrodite, like the shop, and she said no, she was called Sophia. He wished he could talk to her mother. Her face was calm as she knitted placidly on. He must tell Ursula Norris about this shop; she would like it. It lacked the sophistication of the more expensive establishments nearer the harbour.

  Yannis’s mother, Ilena, must be like this woman, so patiently sitting here all day. But she would be older; Yannis was over thirty now.

  He felt cheered by this encounter and walked back to the centre of the town with a lighter step. Many of the tables outside the tavemas and the kafenia were occupied now. The babble of voices was muted by the open air. The breeze had dropped and the sea was still. Patrick reached a taverna on the quay which he had noticed earlier, and found a table by the water’s edge where he could look at the boats moored below. He asked for mullet.

  There was none. The boats had brought no mullet in today.

  The waiter, apologetic, offered sardines and said they were very good.

  Patrick kept calm. Greek sardines could hardly be identical with those at home found in tins. He agreed to try them, with avrolemono soup first, salad, and a bottle of Demestica.

  ‘You are English, sir?’ the waiter said.

  ‘Yes.’

  The waiter looked pleased, and made a ceremony of setting the table and polishing the wine glass. Patrick understood the subtlety of this when he heard a couple at another table give their order in English and then begin talking German together.

  His soup came, and a crisp roll. Why crisp rolls now and none at breakfast? Yet what did it matter. He looked around him; everyone seemed content, even the waiters, though some frowned deeply with concentration as they served the various dishes. The warm air was like a balm; for the first time for weeks Patrick’s nerves felt eased. Why fret? It achieved nothing. The tortoise often got as good results as any hare, with far less personal strain. He had laid his book on the table, but he did not open it.

  The wine was light and pleasant. As he topped up his glass, someone sat down at the next table. It was the elderly American whom he had noticed earlier in the travel bureau and again with his wife outside the kafenion. He saw Patrick and nodded, somewhat curtly. Then his gaze fell on Patrick’s book.

  ‘Ah—English?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Uh-huh. I’m from New Jersey.’

  The waiter came to take the American’s order, and Patrick was astonished to hear it given in Greek. Quite an exchange then took place, the waiter all smiles. When he had gone the man from New Jersey said, ‘My name’s George Loukas. My father was Greek. All my life I’ve promised myself that I’d come home and now I’ve done it. It’s a wonderful experience. A man doesn’t always realise his life’s ambition.’

  Very rarely, Patrick thought.

  ‘I’ve just retired,’ George Loukas continued. ‘I’ve waited years for this trip. It was no good coming just on a three weeks’ vacation. We have to see everything. We’re going on to your London in the fall.’

  ‘You’re doing Europe, are you?’

  ‘Some. We’ve been to Paris, Rome and Venice,’ said Loukas.

  Patrick wondered why he had spoken no Greek in the travel office that morning. Perhaps at such times it was better to stress one’s American aspect, to be recognised as a free spender.

  ‘My wife’s not well, that’s the pity of it,’ Loukas gloomed now. ‘She’s not been herself since we got to Crete last week. The food, I guess. She has to watch her diet.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Patrick politely.

  His sardines came. They looked like whitebait and tasted very similar. They were excellent, and so was the salad, liberally garnished with cheese and olives.

  ‘Did your father come from Crete?’ Patrick asked Loukas.

  ‘He did, originally, but he went across to the mainland as a child. He grew up near Nauplia. I haven’t been there yet – that’s to come. Have you been to Nauplia?’

  Patrick had not.

  The American’s soup arrived. He too was having avrole-mono.

  ‘Do you like Greek food?’ he asked.

  ‘Well—’ Patrick began, guardedly. ‘It varies,’ he said. ‘This fish is very good.’

  ‘They serve everything lukewarm at our hotel,’ confided Loukas. ‘Makes Elsie mad. Where are you staying?’

  Patrick told him. He and his wife were staying at the Apollo, a hotel nearer the town. He said there were representatives from every nation staying there, a number of Swedes and Danes, in particular.

  ‘I guess their own countries are just so damned cold they need to soak up the sun,’ he said.

  A boat was chugging gently into the harbour; the soft putter of its engine came drifting towards them across the water. It was a cabin cruiser; Patrick recognised it as the Psyche, the vessel he had noticed tied up near the quay-side that morning. As he watched, it nosed gently in and picked up the same mooring. Some minutes later, two dark young men and a blonde girl disembarked from it and walked off towards the town.

  ‘Kids have a great time these days,’ said Loukas. ‘That girl’s no Greek.’ He shook his head, but tolerantly. ‘Still, I guess if you have everything all at once you don’t always appreciate it.’ He looked across at Patrick, still munching tiny fish. ‘Of course, you’re a young man yet,’ he added. ‘You wouldn’t know.’

  ‘I’m not as young as all that,’ Patrick protested. Some of his pupils thought he verged on senility.

  ‘You remember the war, anyway.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Patrick, with asperity. And afterwards he had done National Service, serving with the army in Germany and emerging with a good knowledge of the language that he had found useful many times since. ‘Were you in the army?’

  ‘No, sir. I’d flat feet, would you believe it? I went for the navy, but no joy. So I went into a factory and in the end, I got to own it. I made shoes.’

  ‘Success story,’ Patrick said. ‘And ironic. Which part of Crete did your father come from?’

  ‘Further west. It was a village that suffered a lot in the war,’ said Loukas. ‘Most of the men were shot. I’d hoped I might find some kin there.’

  ‘You’ve been to it?’

  ‘Yes. All my folks were in the cemetery.’

  Two old men wearing the traditional baggy trousers and high brown boots walked past. Their hair was grizzled and their faces crinkled with lines.

  ‘Those two could tell you a few things, I imagine,’ said Patrick.

  ‘My wife’s first husband was killed in Crete early in the war,’ the other man confided. ‘She’s English. I guess it’s been too much for her, coming here. I thought she’d appreciate it – a kind of sentimental pilgrimage. I didn’t tell her I’d booked in here after Italy – kept it as a surprise. But she’s soft-hearted. She’ll be all right when we get to Athens. We’re off there on Thursday. Look us up at the Hilton if you’re in town.’

  Patrick promised he would, and invited Loukas to call on him at St. Mark’s if he were ever in Oxford.

  There was no baclava. Patrick made do with the ubiquitous cream caramel.

  As he walked back
to collect the Fiat he saw Inspector Manolakis drive away from the police station in his large, official car. The man certainly worked late.

  PART TWO

  Wednesday and Thursday

  Crete

  I

  Early the next morning Patrick set off for Ai Saranda. As he left, he saw a group of people outside the hotel entrance waiting for the tourist buses that would collect them for their day’s excursions. They were hung about with cameras and string bags. New arrivals were shrimp pink or lobster red, according to their degree of exposure to the sun; a few were deeply bronzed. Apart from the group, looking elegant and pale, stood Ursula Norris.

  Patrick greeted her and asked where she was going.

  ‘It’s Phaestos today,’ she said. ‘Knossos on Thursdays. The tour companies do certain trips on certain days.’

  ‘I may see you there,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m going to look up someone for a friend of mine near there.’

  ‘I’ll look out for you,’ said Ursula.

  Further along the road, another group of tourists waited outside the Apollo hotel. Patrick saw George and Elsie among them. In Challika, he stopped at the travel agent’s office to see if the clerk had been able to discover the movements of the Persephone.

  An atmosphere of controlled panic prevailed here. Several people were trying to buy last-minute tickets for the day’s excursions and some refused to accept that there were no vacancies on certain tours. Others had different problems. All craved instant attention. Patrick decided to wait till the coaches had gone before adding to the confusion. He walked across the road and looked at the boats in the harbour, wondering if there was much illicit trading. Any strange craft would soon be noticed, he supposed. The Psyche was still at her mooring. One of the young men was on the deck, doing something to a length of rope, splicing it, perhaps. As he watched, the girl walked along the quay towards the boat. Her long, curly blonde hair was secured in a pony-tail; she wore brief cotton shorts, and her legs were tanned to a rich golden shade. Patrick moved nearer and saw her go lightly down the steps and aboard the boat. The boy looked up from what he was doing and spoke to her, but continued with his task.

  ‘Good morning,’ Patrick called down to them. ‘Lovely day.’

  ‘Yes,’ answered the girl. She shaded her eyes from the sun to inspect the speaker. All she could see was a bulky shape against the brilliant light.

  ‘Are you going out today?’

  ‘Yes. We’re taking some tourists round the islands.’

  ‘Oh, you hire your boat out, do you?’

  ‘Yes. By the day, or half-day. Whatever you like. It’s Spiro’s boat – this is Spiro,’ she introduced the young man. ‘I’m just helping for the season.’

  She had a transatlantic accent.

  ‘What part of Canada do you come from?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘Well now – so you didn’t take me for an American,’ the girl said, laughing.

  Patrick seldom made that mistake.

  ‘You don’t sound a bit American,’ he told her, truthfully, and went down the steps to see her more clearly. She was a sturdy girl, golden brown all over, it appeared, now that he saw her better. Very blue eyes grinned in a friendly way; her nose was sprinkled with freckles.

  ‘I’m from Montreal,’ she said. ‘I’m Jill McLeod.’

  Patrick soon learned that she had been in Europe for six months, bumming around, as she put it. Since reaching Crete she had not wanted to move on. Patrick wondered what her parents imagined her to be doing. She certainly looked happy and healthy with her Greek young man, and was probably learning the language in the most intimate way.

  ‘I’d like to come out with you one day,’ he said.

  ‘That’d be great. You can always find us here about this time, or in the evening. We go to Zito’s most nights around nine,’ she said.

  Spiro had not contributed to this conversation, though he had listened to them, smiling, while he worked on his rope. Perhaps his English was not fluent. Patrick said goodbye to them both and went back to the travel office. The bus for Phaestos was just leaving; he saw Ursula Norris gazing from one of the windows. They waved to one another with enthusiasm: two acquaintances amid a sea of strangers.

  Patrick felt quite brisk as he stepped into the office, which was now miraculously cleared. The clerk remembered him at once, and produced a sheet of paper on which was written the itinerary of the Persephone throughout her current cruise. She was in the Black Sea, and was not due back in Greece until Monday of the next week, when she would call at Itea for Delphi. Then she was due to sail straight for Syracuse. She had not called at Heraklion for over a month.

  II

  The village of Ai Saranda, when Patrick reached it after a long drive over mountain roads that twisted and turned, and then across a fertile plain planted with vines, was beginning to expand. In addition to the original old whitewashed cottages there were several square new concrete houses with flat roofs, and a grocer’s shop which displayed detergents in the window.

  In the centre of the cluster of buildings a huge eucalyptus tree cast a shade under which were arranged some tables and chairs, and across the road was the kafenion which owned them. Patrick parked further up the road and walked back towards the kafenion. He took a seat at one of the rickety tables. A few old men, some in baggy trousers and all wearing boots, were already sitting at another table. They looked at Patrick curiously. He said ‘kalimera’ and felt rage at being rendered inarticulate.

  A middle-aged man wearing an apron came out to attend to him.

  ‘Ouzo, parakalo,’ he said, and asked the other if he spoke English.

  ‘Two—three words,’ said the Greek, with a shrug.

  ‘Ime Anglos. Den katalaveno Ellinika,’ recited Patrick in a carefully learned phrase.

  ‘Ah—Eengleesh—how are you?’ said the Greek, smiling warmly. He shook Patrick’s hand with vigour. ‘Anglos,’ he told his other customers.

  It seemed to be a magic word. The older men all started smiling, and one levered himself to his feet, came across, and announced that he spoke English very good.

  Patrick, who had begun to wish that he had asked Ursula Norris to accompany him on this mission as interpreter, took fresh heart. Someone would be able to find Ilena for him.

  ‘What is your town in England?’ he was asked, and there were cries of ‘nai, nai,’ over Oxfordi.

  He was mercilessly cross-examined.

  ‘You are married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? Ah—you have a sister—po, po, po,’ Much head-shaking, and commiserating murmurs all round.

  ‘Yes, I have a sister.’ Patrick was puzzled, and then light dawned. They would be expecting him to look about for a husband for Jane before finding a wife for himself, in the Greek fashion.

  ‘She is married – two children. Yes, she has a son,’ he told them.

  This went on for some time. When they had dragged out of him every detail of his family circumstances, he felt it was time to make an effort of his own.

  ‘A friend of mine was in Crete during the war. Alec Mudie. He came to Ai Saranda. Do you remember him?’

  Yes, of course – they all remembered Alexis. So strong, he had been, so brave, so gay. He had been back to visit them several times since then, but not for some years now. How was he?

  At the news of his death, all fell silent. Patrick explained about Alec’s wife and her long illness and that this was the reason he had not come. He spoke simply, for Petros, his translator, clearly had linguistic limitations. It all took time, and much ouzo was consumed during the discussion.

  At last Patrick asked to be directed to Ilena Pavlou’s house.

  At this there was sudden silence.

  ‘She has gone away,’ said Petros, at last.

  Patrick looked round the group. No one met his eye.

  ‘Where to? She is not dead?’

  No, she was not dead. But no one wanted to say where she was. Perhaps they did not know.
Well, what about Yannis?

  ‘Ah, Yannis. That one.’ Heads were shaken. He had been a headstrong, ambitious youth, Patrick was told.

  These were valiant old men. If Yannis had rebelled against the current regime they would not disapprove; Alec had implied that this was what must have happened.

  ‘Yannis had been in prison?’ Patrick tried. Perhaps he could force them into disclosing something.

  There was a silence. Pride was involved. A mutter of ‘po, po, po,’ came from one man, then Patrick heard ‘nai, nai.’ He found it hard to remember that this meant ‘yes’ in Greek, since it sounded so negative.

  A short staccato conference took place, and finally Petros spoke.

  ‘Kirie Grant, we tell you what we know. Yannis is coming here one year ago. He is very—’ Petros searched for the word he wanted. ‘His clothes. Very new. Very expensive. He is in a big car from Iraklion. He take his mother away. She cry. She do not want to go, but he say come, I have money, you help me.’

  ‘Where did they go?’ asked Patrick, after a pause in which all the men looked away from him. They clearly feared that Yannis was engaged in a dubious enterprise and had involved his mother. ‘Athens?’

  No one answered. Then more excited talk broke out and what seemed to be further argument, though most Greek conversation was carried on at this pitch. Petros and one old man seemed to be urging one course against the rest, and in the end they prevailed. Petros spoke.

  ‘The wife of Manouli—’ a nod towards the oldest man ‘—she is the friend of Ilena. She has a letter.’ Pause. Patrick waited. ‘She is on an island, doing work, but it is not hard. She has much comfort. Yannis is working for a shipping firm. He is well paid and can support her.’

  ‘That’s good, then.’ But it was not, that was plain. The men did not approve of Yannis’s new prosperity. Anyway, if he was thriving, there was no need to seek him out.