Seascape

by Anne Weale

  Xan drained his glass and stood up. ‘You’re out of line, Kate. I appreciate you mean well but, to put it bluntly, your views are neither relevant nor welcome. So be a good girl and drop the subject. I’ll see you later.’

  He returned the glass to the tray and walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Kate stayed where she was for some minutes, then swung her legs off the ledge and slid to the floor. Putting her drink aside, she went to take a shower.

  She was unable to fathom his attitude and perhaps never would find out what had caused this implacable hostility towards the woman he called Nerina, pronouncing her name as if it derived from a poisonous plant instead of from the Latin for sea-nymph.

  Five minutes before she went up to the roof terrace where they were to assemble at seven, Kate had another quick skim through photocopies of all the group members’ application forms to refresh her memory of everyone’s details.

  In a fortnight’s time she would know a great deal about them—their dispositions and digestions, their best qualities and their foibles. But tonight they were strangers and it was her job to make things jell and establish a convivial mood. How much help would she get from Xan? Would he exert himself to be pleasant to them all, or would his predatory eye single out Juliet as the only one worth his attention?

  Juliet Craig—who had crossed out Mrs and Miss, preferring the title Ms—was travelling alone. She had left the space for her date of birth blank but looked to be in her late thirties or possibly early forties. In the section of the questionnaire where applicants were asked to rate their abilities she had ticked ‘experienced’. The alternative ratings were ‘beginner’ and ‘intermediate’.

  She was tall, slim and self-possessed. Kate had admired the casual chic of her appearance at Gatwick and was looking forward to seeing what she would wear for the initial get-together.

  Juliet’s manner was rather aloof. She might be shy. She might be unhappy. It wouldn’t come as a surprise if there was a divorce in her background.

  In the hotel dining-room, a long table had been laid for the Palette group. Kate had written ‘Alexander Walcott’ on a card to reserve the place at the head of the table for him. She would sit wherever there was a spare chair when everyone else was seated.

  As she hung back while they chose their places, she had to admit that Xan had done everything she could have expected of him during the rooftop reception. He had circulated. He had chatted. He had not paid undue attention to Juliet and she had seemed equally indifferent to the fact that the replacement tutor was as personable as he was gifted.

  The last seat left vacant was next to Colonel McCormick, one of Miss Walcott’s regulars. This pleased Kate because she knew he had used to come with his wife but was now a widower. This was his first painting holiday on his own and she meant to keep a special eye on him.

  She had only just sat down when a waitress placed a bowl of green soup in front of her. It looked delicious and Kate was hungry and impatient to try it. But the woman on the other side of her turned round in her chair to shake her finger at the waitress.

  ‘Not... for... me,’ she said slowly and distinctly.

  ‘I...will...wait...for... the...main... course.’

  ‘You not like?’ The Cretan girl looked surprised. Then, with a shrug, she moved the bowl to the next person’s place.

  Further along the table a man was signalling for attention. ‘May I see the wine list, please?’

  Having looked through it, he said in a loud cross voice, ‘These prices are outrageous! They’re asking the equivalent of a fiver for a bottle of year-old plonk.’

  In the hush that followed, Xan, who must have seen the list before him, said, ‘The retsina’s not expensive.’

  ‘But it doesn’t taste nice,’ said a woman sitting near him. ‘I’ve only tried it once but I couldn’t drink it. A horrible taste, if you ask me.’

  ‘An acquired taste perhaps ... like that of many good things,’ Xan replied.

  There was nothing discourteous in his tone or expression, but Kate’s intuition told her he thought the woman a fool and was unlikely to suffer her gladly once this first evening was over.

  He rose from the table, passing along the side where she was sitting. To her surprise he stopped behind her chair. Stooping over her, on Colonel McCormick’s side, he said quietly, ‘Have you tried retsina, Kate? Would you like to share my bottle?’

  It had been her intention not to drink while on duty, and tomorrow to buy a bottle of wine from the nearest supermarket and keep it in her room to enjoy in peace and privacy while reading in bed at the end of the day.

  Looking up at him, she said, ‘Thank you. One glass perhaps.’

  Xan nodded and moved on to have a word with Kyria Drakakis, who was keeping one eye on the girls serving the group and the other on the rest of her guests at the smaller tables.

  ‘How long have you been working for Palette, Kate?’ the colonel asked.

  ‘Only this summer. I hope you’ll tell me if I’m falling down on the job in any way,’ she replied.

  ‘You’ve been most efficient so far. If Nerina had engaged someone to assist her sooner, she might not have succumbed to this illness. She refused to acknowledge her age and overtaxed herself.’

  As soon as everyone had been served, Kate sampled the soup. To her taste, it was delicious and, having emptied her bowl, she accepted a second helping. So did Xan, she noticed, and the elderly man beside him. But there were several who didn’t finish their first helping.

  In a confidential undertone, Colonel McCormick said, ‘There are always a few faddy people. I don’t know why they come abroad if they’re frightened by anything different from whatever they eat at home.’

  The main course was tender lamb with a strongly herbal flavour served with mashed potatoes and a side salad of tomato and cucumber. Kate had already begun to eat when a waitress filled her glass with pale golden wine from the bottle ordered by Xan.

  She found the flavour different from anything she had drunk before but certainly not unpleasant and perhaps, given time, as palatable as good ordinary wine. She looked at the head of the table, found Xan’s eyes on her and smiled and mouthed ‘thank you’. His response was to nod and make a toasting movement with his own glass.

  After the lamb came honey-soaked fritters. When everyone had finished eating, Kate rose, tapping her glass with her spoon to attract their attention.

  ‘For tonight’s discussion about tomorrow’s programme, Kyria Drakakis has very kindly put her private sitting-room at our disposal for an hour. It’s at the end of the corridor on the second floor. Xan will open the discussion at half-past nine.’

  On her way down the stairs, from behind her a cool drawling voice said, ‘The ten-minute interval being for the benefit of the old and incontinent, I presume?’ As Kate looked over her shoulder, Juliet Craig added, ‘Of whom we seem to have a rather tedious preponderence.’

  Fortunately there was no one to overhear and be hurt by her remark. Kate said, with a touch of crispness, ‘At this time of year it’s only to be expected that most of the group will be retired people. Younger people tend to come in the main holiday period.’

  ‘I suppose so. Are you and our leader “close friends”, as the columnists put it?’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE question took Kate aback. ‘We hardly know each other.’

  ‘But you shared a bottle of wine at dinner.’

  ‘That was merely a courtesy on Xan’s part.’

  ‘Is he married?’

  Kate shook her head, wondering if, even though she was an experienced painter, the other woman’s main reason for being here was to have a holiday affair or find a husband.

  They moved on down the serpentine coils of the polished wood staircase, its gleaming patina a tribute to generations of good housewifery. The hotel was furnished in the style of a private house and had indeed belonged to Kyria Drakakis’s forebears for several centuries.

&n
bsp; Her drawing-room—far too grand to be called a sitting-room—was a large, lofty apartment with rugs laid on a stone floor, antique furniture and ancestral portraits hanging on the walls. The sofas and chairs were covered with deep red material, hand-embroidered, and pieces of old embroidery in shades of red and pink covered the many loose cushions.

  ‘These are divine,’ said Juliet, picking one up. ‘Are embroideries the things to buy here?’

  ‘I believe so. I have a list of the best shops for souvenirs. I’ll give you a copy at breakfast.’

  Kate watched Juliet sink gracefully on to a sofa to examine the design worked on the upholstery. She looked as if she might be a designer herself. Tonight she was wearing a black jersey halter top with a flowing white linen skirt and high-wedged black espadrilles tied with tapes round her elegant ankles. Her nails and her lips, which she had re-lipsticked at table after declining the sweet, were painted a deep subtle red to match a choker of large red beads at the base of her long neck. Sitting there on the red and pink sofa, she looked as if she were posing for a Vogue fashion photograph.

  The group had assembled and most were discussing the meal they had just eaten when Xan’s entrance quietened the buzz of conversation.

  He had an innate air of authority, Kate realised. Perhaps it was an inherited attribute. His grandfather had died while commanding a fighter squadron at Anzio. He had been only twenty-four. At the same age, Xan’s father had been the leader of a group of pot-holing enthusiasts and had drowned while attempting to rescue someone trapped by underground flooding.

  Standing in front of the drawing-room’s massive chimney breast, Xan scanned the faces of his audience before he said, ‘Palette Holidays, founded and run by my grandmother, has established an excellent repu tation. It’s bad luck for you that, instead of enjoying two weeks of her tuition, you’re going to have me as your mentor. I’m not used to teaching and, like most practising artists, I haven’t much time for the dilettante approach.

  ‘During our working sessions, I’ll expect you to work hard. The dining-room opens at seven-thirty which gives us all plenty of time to have breakfast, pack our gear and be in the hall, raring to go, sharp at nine.’

  Someone put up a hand. ‘If I may interrupt, Mr Walcott, we usually start at nine-thirty. Nine is rather early, don’t you think? Especially on the first morning when we’ve had to adjust to sleeping in a strange bed.’

  ‘Does anyone else feel nine is too early?’

  His question brought no response.

  ‘Sorry...I’m afraid you’re outnumbered by early risers,’ he said, with a charming smile at a woman whose face wasn’t visible from where Kate was sitting. ‘If you drink a small glass of Metaxa brandy before turning out your light,’ he added, ‘you’ll find yourself sleeping so soundly that, unless you’ve brought an alarm dock, you’d better arrange for the desk to call you.’

  The rest of the group smiled or chuckled, but the objector said primly, ‘I always bring my alarm clock, but I have more respect for my liver than to drink alcohol last thing at night. However if everyone else is prepared to set out at nine, then I must bow to the majority.’

  ‘We’ll start with a walk along the waterfront,’ Xan went on. ‘Then we’ll go to the market to buy the makings of our picnic lunches. After that we’ll take a break in one of the cafés and I’ll ask you to do some sketches so that I can gauge your capabilities and tailor the course to suit everyone’s needs. Tomorrow all you need to bring is your sketchbook and a pencil or drawing pen. Any comments or questions?’

  Again no one spoke. Xan turned to Kate. ‘Anything you want to add, Kate?’

  ‘Only that we shall be having a Cretan breakfast. If anyone wants something different, would they please have a word with the receptionist tonight?’

  ‘What’s a Cretan breakfast?’ Juliet asked, re-crossing her legs and slanting them both to one side, model-fashion.

  Kate had anticipated this question. ‘It’s fruit with mizithra, a white cheese made from sheep’s milk, and yogurt and honey and olives. As well as very good bread, the Cretans eat a lot of rusks. To drink, there’s mountain tea made from a blend of ten herbs.’

  There being no other questions, about half the group rose to retire to their rooms, leaving the rest drinking coffee and chatting.

  ‘I’m going for a stroll round the town,’ said Xan. ‘Will you join me, Kate? I might also punish my liver with another glass of wine,’ he added, with a glint of amusement.

  She would have liked to go out but felt it was wiser to say, ‘No, thanks. I want to write a letter.’

  She didn’t add that it was a letter to Miss Walcott. The hotel had a machine for transmitting facsimiles, as did the nursing home. It would ease her employer’s mind to receive a daily report, with the emphasis on the positive side of the trip and no mention of any difficulties which might arise.

  Juliet joined them. ‘Is it all right for women to wander around here, or is one going to be pestered by Cretan beach boys?’ she asked Kate.

  ‘According to Manolis, our bus driver, women are safe here. It’s probably wiser to keep to the main part of town and streets with good lighting. Cretan men may not be a hazard, but male tourists might be.’

  ‘I’m going for a stroll if you’d feel happier with an escort,’ said Xan. Juliet accepted the offer with no more visible enthusiasm than if it had come from Colonel McCormick. But Kate was almost sure the other woman had overheard her own refusal to join him and been quick to grab the opportunity to replace her.

  Early next morning., Kate left the hotel with her swimsuit under her shirt and shorts and her underwear wrapped in her towel.

  The beach where Miss Walcott had always swum before breakfast on her visits to Chaniá was some way from the hotel. There were very few people about. Kate enjoyed the walk and the feeling of having the world to herself.

  She had left her letter describing the group’s arrival on the desk in the hall with a note requesting it to be faxed to England when the receptionist came on duty. Kate hadn’t mentioned that the starting time of the morning painting session had been put forward, to one person’s displeasure. With luck there wouldn’t be any more objections to Xan’s innovations, but she knew from previous trips that suppressed grievances and personality clashes could simmer unnoticed during the first week and boil over during the second.

  On one of the trips to France, a seemingly quiet woman had erupted when a man was expounding political views to which she was strongly opposed. At the time, the rest of the group had rather enjoyed the slanging match, but it had led to embarrassment when they were expected to side with one or other of the opponents. Miss Walcott had blamed herself for not foreseeing and averting the row.

  However, at this lovely hour of the day, Kate was not going to worry about battles which might break out at a later stage of the trip. Today, provided they had slept well, everyone should be in a mood of happy anticipation.

  On reaching the beach, she left her clothes in a neat pile and ran into the sea. As she was by herself, she stayed within her depth and swam parallel to the water’s edge. Presently, treading water after an energetic hundred-yard crawl, she caught sight of a snorkel. It was out in the deeper water where the pale jade colour of the shallows changed to turquoise.

  As she was wondering what the wearer of the tube was looking at, he did a sudden duck-dive. For a second his wet brown skin and coral bathing slip flashed in the early sunlight and she caught a glimpse of black fins. Then he was gone.

  He was under the water so long she began to wonder if something had happened to him. Then, as suddenly as he had gone, he broke the surface, puffing water out of the tube. He was facing the beach now and waved. Turning to see who was there, Kate found it was still deserted. That he had been waving to her was confirmed when he began to swim directly towards her.

  She had been floating in a sitting position, but now she put her feet on the sea-bed and stood up. Was she about to be picked up by one of the Cretan beach b
oys Juliet had mentioned?

  Twenty feet away he stopped swimming. But when he stood up he was much taller than any of the islanders she had seen so far. Taller and somehow familiar. He ejected the mouthpiece and pushed up his mask. It was Xan.

  ‘Good morning. I didn’t expect to see you here at this hour,’ he said, moving closer.

  ‘Good morning.’ It was on the tip of her tongue to say, ‘I’m emulating your grandmother,’ but she changed her mind. Any reference to Miss Walcott always brought on that arctic expression. There was no point in starting the day by annoying him. Instead she said, ‘Is the snorkelling good?’

  His reply went in one ear and out the other because, as he came closer, she was bowled over by the strength of her reaction to seeing him without his clothes. He was built like the younger gods in classical paintings, every muscle dearly defined under the sleek tanned skin. The breadth of his shoulders was obvious when he was dressed, but now they looked even more formidable. But the latent power of his torso had nothing to do with the overdeveloped beefiness of male strippers. Xan’s physique was lithe and graceful. In a word, beautiful.

  Kate was aware that it wasn’t only aesthetically that his body pleased her. She was also excited at a more primitive level. She did not want to be, but she was. The sensations he aroused were beyond her control. She could only hope no hint of them showed in her face.

  ‘Did you get your letter written?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘What was the nightlife like?’

  ‘We didn’t stay out late. The cafés were doing good business with locals as well as tourists. Is your bed comfortable?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘So is mine, but last night an insect disappeared under it which might have caused some agitation had I been a maiden lady of delicate sensibilities.’

  ‘What sort of insect? A cockroach?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But I was reading and didn’t get a proper look at it. It had disappeared down a crack in the floorboards by the time I leaned over and flashed my torch around.’