Mortal Remains

by Margaret Yorke

  ‘Will you be dreadfully bored, waiting?’ she asked.

  ‘Not a bit. We’ve all night before us,’ said Patrick. ‘Take your time.’

  He started to look at postcards, and watched her covertly. She had a confident manner that was quite without arrogance; she clearly knew her own value and a lot about life. She hasn’t just moved between her father’s house and the Gallery, thought Patrick, and wondered about her elastic plan to stay in Greece indefinitely.

  Little Sophia was struggling hard with the couple she was serving. They were carrying out their transaction in English but there was some difficulty about it, and it soon became obvious that they were German. The woman seemed to speak only a few words of English, but the man spoke more; his accent, though, was thick. Sophia’s mother kept her eye on them, her needles for ever clicking but her glance was sharp.

  While they were negotiating, George and Elsie Loukas came into the shop. George was delighted to see Patrick.

  ‘Elsie would come here. Said it’s cheaper than some of those shops down by the harbour,’ he said. ‘She wants one of those embroidered dresses. Look honey,’ he addressed his wife, ‘there’s a whole rail of them here.’

  Elsie began to look through a rack of long caftan-type dresses, and George, who had seen Sophia’s mother at the back of the shop, started a conversation with her. She looked surprised at first, and then delighted. Still keeping an eye on her daughter, she actually laid down her knitting and joined in a busy dialogue.

  The German woman had now decided she must add an embroidered caftan to her pile of purchases. She crossed to the rail where Elsie was looking through them. Neither took the least notice of the other but grimly pursued their quest. Elsie snatched out a black dress and held it against her body; the German woman looked annoyed and rattled the hangers as she hunted on. Sophia came anxiously across.

  ‘You like what colour?’ she asked the German woman.

  ‘I want a black dress and this woman’s taken the only one there is,’ said the woman to her husband, speaking in German.

  ‘I’ll try this on,’ Elsie said to Sophia. ‘I found it first. If it doesn’t fit, she can have it.’

  ‘Of course. But I have more,’ said Sophia. She bundled Elsie behind a curtain at the back of the shop with her booty, and then returned to the German woman. ‘You would like a black one, please?’ she said, and went to a shelf where more dresses, neatly folded, were stacked.

  ‘Do you make these too?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘No. My sister makes them,’ Sophia said.

  ‘They’re lovely. If I hadn’t already got one, I’d buy one,’ said Ursula. She turned and spoke to Sophia in Greek, and then added to Patrick, ‘I said we’d come back when they’re not so busy. She’s got her hands full at the moment.’

  It was true. Elsie had emerged from the curtained corner in her dress; her broad shoulders and impressive chest displayed the elaborate gold embroidery to perfection. The German woman now went behind the curtain to put hers on, while George told Elsie she looked magnificent.

  ‘Doesn’t she?’ he appealed to Ursula and Patrick.

  They agreed that she did.

  ‘Like Brunhilde,’ said Ursula.

  The two walked back down the steep steps to the harbour and wandered on past the tables of the various tavernas and the kafenia. Patrick looked at the boats tied up below the wall.

  ‘There’s an interesting set-up,’ he said, and pointed out the Psyche at her berth. ‘A sweet young Canadian girl seems to be helping a Greek lad with that boat on its trips.’

  ‘What fun for her,’ said Ursula, mildly.

  ‘I thought it would be pleasant to have a day with them exploring the coast. But I’m not sure if there will be time now.’

  ‘You’re going after Yannis?’

  ‘Yes. That, and other things.’ Patrick stared at the Psyche. ‘Come on, let’s find a table.’

  Though it was still warm, the air was fresh now, and everyone seemed to have woken up. From Zito’s came the sound of bouzoukis.

  ‘It’s curiously haunting music, isn’t it?’ said Ursula. ‘Lilting and gay, yet with a melancholy undertone.’

  ‘Like the Greek character.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I suppose all this tourism is a good thing. Brings prosperity.’

  ‘Oh, undoubtedly. But the young people find it pays better to work in the hotels rather than on the land. That seems a pity.’

  A couple whom Patrick recognised as being a youthful pair from the hotel went past.

  ‘The place is packed with honeymooners,’ he said, tartly.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s an ideal spot for romance?’ Ursula suggested.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Patrick, in a surly tone.

  ‘Sunlight and tranquillity. What more can you want when you’re young and in love?’ said Ursula, watching the pair walk slowly along, hand in hand. ‘Penzance in the rain wouldn’t be quite the same.’

  ‘I suppose not. Look, there’s the Canadian girl I told you about,’ said Patrick, seizing the chance to change the subject.

  Jill McLeod had emerged from Zito’s and was walking along the quay towards the boat. She wore a long skirt in some purple flowered material, and a tight black top. Her hair, freed from its pony-tail, was loose and flowing.

  ‘Is that the boat owner with her?’

  A young man was following Jill. He was small and dark, but he was older than Spiro and had a moustache.

  ‘No.’

  He could have been the man who was with Jill and Spiro the night Patrick first saw them, but he was not sure. They both went down the steps and aboard the Psyche, and disappeared into the cabin.

  ‘I wonder if she’s living on board that boat with those two young men,’ Ursula said. She sounded interested.

  ‘Probably, said Patrick. He was not sure that the second young man was a permanent part of the crew.

  ‘Well, she’s got it the right way round – two men and a girl,’ said Ursula.

  A few minutes later Spiro appeared on the quayside and hurried aboard after the other two. Ten minutes afterwards the boat cast off her moorings and chugged out of the harbour towards the open sea.

  VI

  The next day Patrick and Ursula went to Knossos, calling at the museum in Heraklion on the way. They started early ahead of the coach, and had one of the few perfect days of a lifetime, reaching the museum before the main crowds so that they had time to enjoy the vivid frescoes. They stayed there till it closed at one o’clock and both said they would return if they had the chance another time.

  ‘Lunch now. I’m very hungry,’ said Ursula, and taught Patrick how to say it in Greek.

  They sought about for a good spot and eventually found a tavema in a street leading down to the harbour. There was a shady garden with tables arranged under a vine.

  They chose tarasamalata followed by dolmades.

  ‘A very Greek meal, so it should be good. Sometimes Greek food is disappointing,’ Ursula remarked.

  ‘I’ve discovered that,’ said Patrick.

  ‘Never mind. Love the Greeks and love their food, even when it’s tough and tepid,’ said Ursula. ‘I am enjoying myself.’

  They finished their meal with fruit and coffee, then, before going back to the car, they walked along the road past the harbour. Two cruise liners were in, their upperworks gleaming white against the skyline. The shops were closed now and would not re-open until four o’clock, or even later. The whole town rested in the heat. Patrick saw a female figure in a pair of brief, frayed cotton shorts walking along the road in front of them.

  ‘There’s Jill. The Canadian girl from the Psyche,’ he said.

  ‘Is it? Are you sure?’

  Patrick would have recognised her shape anywhere.

  ‘Yes. I’m sure.’

  The girl took a turning to the right and walked off towards the centre of the town. She had a long, loping stride that was very graceful.

  ‘The boat wa
sn’t in the harbour when we left this morning. We saw them put out last night, if you remember.’

  ‘Do you think they came here all the way by sea?’ asked Ursula.

  ‘Why not? I suppose it’s the obvious way, when you think about it,’ Patrick said.

  PART THREE

  Friday and Saturday

  Athens and the island

  I

  Patrick flew to Athens in the morning. Before he left Crete, Ursula Norris gave him the telephone number of a villa near Vouliagmeni where she would be the following week, and he promised to ring her.

  ‘We’ll probably meet by chance in the museum or somewhere, anyway,’ she said. ‘I hope we do.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Patrick, and meant it.

  Their afternoon at Knossos had been an enchantment to them both. Aided by Sir Arthur Evans’s reconstructions and the paintings they had seen in the museum, they were able to imagine the palace as it was. They had wandered about the site for over two hours and pitied the visitors from the cruise liners who spent only fifteen minutes there. In the evening they dined in Challika, and this time there was mullet.

  The Psyche was not yet back at her mooring.

  ‘I suppose it would take her some time,’ said Ursula.

  ‘An hour. More, perhaps. I don’t know how many knots she’d do,’ said Patrick. ‘As long as the sea was calm it should be an easy trip – no winding about like the road.’

  ‘There’s the little girl from the shop – Sophia, did you say her name was? We’ve never been back there,’ said Ursula.

  She was looking across the road, and Patrick followed her gaze. Sophia had come down the steps between the buildings. She crossed the road and stood on the quayside looking at the boats. Then she stared out to sea. Finally she walked right round the harbour to the very end of the jetty, from where she could look beyond the confines of the bay to the open sea. She stayed there for some time, and then walked back slowly, dejection in every line of her body.

  ‘Mama must be in charge of the shop tonight,’ said Patrick. ‘I wonder if Sophia’s looking for the Psyche?’

  ‘Maybe. But I expect there are other boats, and other young men besides Spiro and his friend,’ said Ursula.

  The next morning, as he drove past on his way to the airport where he had arranged to surrender the car, Patrick paused at the harbour and looked towards the Psyche’s mooring-place. She was still away.

  Athens was hot, dusty, and very noisy.

  In the plane Patrick had felt a mild nostalgia for Crete and his utilitarian room at the Hermes; he had grown used to the town of Challika, and the whole tempo of the place. But he was no closer to finding Yannis, and more days spent idling would diminish his resolution. However, all feelings of regret fled when he saw the Parthenon again. It must, he thought, be the most beautiful building in the world. He had booked a room at a hotel just off Constitution Square, which was central and convenient. From it he could discover how to get to the island of Mikronisos, and he could go to Delphi to intercept the Persephone when she called at Itea on Monday. It was this, much more than the search for Yannis, which was driving him now. He must try to discover why Felix left the ship; someone from among her crew or passengers might know.

  He checked in at the hotel and was shown to a small cell with a tiny balcony overlooking a well between the inner walls of the building. More balconies were ranged in tiers all round. The city was full of tourists; he was lucky to find a room in such a central hotel at such short notice, and one that was away from the street, where the noise was unabating all round the clock.

  Half an hour after his arrival he was sitting under a mulberry tree in the Plaka, at a taverna just below the great bulk of the Acropolis, with an iced beer and a salad lunch.

  This was more like it.

  Though it was the hottest part of the day now when life, in theory, came to a halt, there were still people about. A flow of tourists eddied up and down the wide flight of steps past the taverna. The buildings baked in the heat but it was cool under the big, spreading tree. Patrick felt his whole system shifting into faster gear after the torpor of the last few days in Crete.

  There would be a ferry boat from the Piraeus to Mikronisos, he supposed. He wondered how best to pursue his enquiries when he got there. The unforthcoming attitude of the old men in Ai Saranda made him favour a furtive approach; it might not be prudent to ask for Yannis Pavlou outright. Anyway, there would be time to go there before he need be in Delphi to meet the Persephone. He would spend at least one night on Parnassus. The people from the ship would have a mere five hours up there, and Patrick knew from an earlier visit that this was not enough; but no doubt it was convenient to take your hotel with you wherever you went, with experts like Felix to bring the famous places to life in their lectures. He wished he knew more about ancient stones himself.

  He finished his meal, and, profiting from Ursula’s tuition, asked for the bill in Greek. Then he went down Diaskouron and through the streets of the old town towards Ermou. The heat was scorching, but he strode out briskly, his head protected by his Cretan straw hat. Every now and then he turned around to look for the Acropolis; the bulk of it loomed perpetually above the city, drawing the eye to the white temple there that was sometimes tinged with gold. He turned right and lost it behind the tall buildings of the modem city. Cars sped past with horns tooting and tyres squealing. In spite of the heat, there were still crowds in the centre; tourist buses went by, and yellow trolley buses, and he saw the blue local buses too. The city seemed well served by public transport. He knew that every incoming bus converged upon Constitution Square but he had made no forays by bus in an outward direction from there when he was in Athens before.

  That reminded him.

  He had promised to put flowers on Miss Amelia Brinton’s grave in the main cemetery when next he came to Athens. Her life-long friend, to whom he had made the promise, was now dead too. It seemed to Patrick that he had become hung about with obligations to the dead, the others much less easy to discharge than this one, which was merely a question of time and drachmas.

  He hailed a taxi. It was too hot to walk to the cemetery.

  The driver, a huge man with enormous shoulders like the bull of Minos himself, was amiable, and understood Patrick’s diffident ‘Nekrotafaeion, parakalo,’ without any trouble. His cab was adorned with artificial flowers, charms, and religious emblems, and he drove with such verve that Patrick felt it was prudent of him to have thrown out a few spiritual anchors.

  There were flower stalls, Patrick knew, at the entrance to the cemetery. Beside the huge gates he saw gladioli, Michaelmas daisies and dahlias like those Miss Brinton had grown in her cottage garden. He bought an armful of white gladioli and blue daisies; they would die at once in the heat, but he would have fulfilled his promise.

  Carrying them, he walked through the wide gateway into the cemetery and along the main path. He had forgotten what an immense place this was, but in spots it was shady for it was thickly planted with trees. Right down the middle, he seemed to remember, past a central building that looked like a chapel, and then somewhere up a pathway to the left lay the protestant section. There was a choice of turnings, and he made several errors before he found the right one. Eventually he came to Miss Brinton’s last resting-place. A simple cross bearing her name and the dates of her birth and her death now marked the spot.

  He laid the flowers on the grave and stood there for a moment. It was well-tended; the whole place was curiously peaceful and not at all sad. He moved away at last, and saw nearby an open grave, freshly dug, the dry stony soil in a heap at the side of it. As Patrick turned to go, a very thin young man in a linen jacket and wearing a clerical collar appeared among the headstones and walked towards the empty grave, looking anxious. Patrick absently glanced at him, then looked more closely, and at the same time the young man saw him.

  ‘Good Lord! Dr Grant,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘That sounds like an invocation, Jeremy,’ said Pat
rick. ‘What are you doing here? You look troubled.’

  ‘I am. I’m walking the course, as it were,’ said Jeremy Vaughan. ‘I’ve got to take a funeral service here tomorrow.’

  Patrick stared at the hole in the ground.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Jeremy.

  He had started his undergraduate life as a pupil of Patrick’s, later switching subjects when he decided to go into the church. Patrick had lost track of his subsequent movements.

  ‘Are you working in Athens? Attached to the Embassy?’

  ‘No. I’m here with a group, actually, doing the sites, you know. A W.E.A. party. The regular chaplain’s away just now, so when this happened to one of our party it seemed obvious that I should step in. It’s a bit different from Croydon.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’ Patrick looked round at the pines and the dry, dusty ground. ‘I came to a funeral here once,’ he said. ‘That’s why I’m here today.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Jeremy looked across at the flowers on the other grave. ‘A sad affair, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes. But a nice funeral, if they ever are.’

  ‘There’s this lengthy procession,’ said Jeremy, doubtfully. ‘All the way from the gate. It’s miles.’

  ‘I think someone leads the way,’ said Patrick, helpfully. ‘You shouldn’t get lost. The undertakers must be used to it. It was all quite casual and friendly, that part of it, I remember. Whose funeral is it?’

  ‘A man called Dermott Murcott. He fell while climbing up a hill on Mikronisos.’

  ‘Mikronisos?’ Patrick looked up sharply. “The island?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know it?’

  ‘I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘It’s a pretty spot – rather bare – not much vegetation. He was clambering about looking at lava formations in the rocks or something – it’s full of volcanic traces – and he fell.’