by Anne Weale
CHAPTER FIVE
AT FOUR o’clock, the group gathered in the hall. Two members wanted to visit an art shop to replace equipment accidentally left behind. Kate said she would go with them, partly to make herself known to the proprietor of the shop with whom Miss Walcott was friendly, and partly to make sure the shoppers didn’t lose their way.
‘We’ll be here,’ said Xan, marking a street on her map of the town. ‘It’s a quiet cul-de-sac with some interesting old doors and windows.’
The next time she saw him, an hour later, he was deep in discussion with Juliet about the work on her easel.
Kate strolled about looking at the paintings in progress but not standing close behind people in a way they might find unnerving. Predictably, several of the least talented people had the most elaborate equipment.
Oliver was sitting on a camp stool with a board on his lap, holding the type of small paintbox called a pochade with only a few pans of colour in it. His palette was a white-enamelled tin plate from a camping shop or ship’s chandler. But the accurate drawing of. a door to which he was applying washes of colour was far better than many of the garish local views she had seen on sale in souvenir shops on the way back from the art shop.
When he glanced up and smiled, she asked, ‘Do you sell your work?’
‘I’ve sold a few things, yes. But it was Sophie, my wife, who could paint well. I’m merely a competent draughtsman.’
‘An excellent thing to be,’ said Xan, overhearing this. ‘Come on, Kate. Get cracking. Here’s a pad and a pen you can borrow, and you can sit on my stool. I paint standing up and only sit down to snack.’
After fetching his stool and placing it not far from Oliver’s, he said, ‘Your efforts this morning were better than some of the others’. I can’t stand tight, niggly drawing. Yours were admirably loose and free. You’d be surprised what psychological insights one can draw from the way people handle a pencil or brush.’
As she opened her mouth, he added, ‘No arguments. See what you can make of that door.’
He walked away, leaving her thinking he had to be the most dictatorial man she had ever or would ever meet. Still, what else did she have to do? The arrangements for tomorrow’s outing to a monastery had been checked. She had been in touch with the rep who was coming round after dinner to suggest some excursions for the non-painting partners and for the painters as well, on their days off.
Settling herself on the stool he had lent her, she saw Xan drop to his haunches beside the woman who had objected to early starts. No doubt by the end of the week he would have her eating out of his hand.
Applying herself to the task he had set her, Kate wondered if the door was a remnant of the Venetian occupation of Chaniá. Set in a high whitewashed wall, it had an elaborate architrave worthy of the entrance to an important mansion.
The Venetians had bought the island to expand their maritime empire. They had installed strong and sometimes cruel rulers who during the next four centuries had crushed the numerous uprisings. But they had also reformed and expanded the island’s economy. Chaniá had become known as the Venice of the East, and two of the bastions, the shipyards and part of the sea wall built by the Venetians were still in existence. Some of the hotels and guest-houses had once been rich merchants’ palaces. This door, now leading into what appeared to be a garden, was a part of that heritage.
As she attempted to draw it, Kate was reminded of a book she had read as a child; a book called The Secret Garden about two lonely children with whom, though not lonely herself, or not in the obvious way of lacking companionship, she had strongly identified.
‘Do you think it’s true that people’s drawings reveal their characters?’ she asked Oliver.
‘Where did you read that?’ he asked.
‘Xan said it.’
Oliver rinsed his brush in his water container. ‘Yes, I think it is,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘But not until people have developed a personal style, and they only do that when they’ve been painting or drawing for some time.’
Which must mean that Xan’s paintings would be more indicative of his character than those of the amateurs he was teaching, thought Kate. Miss Walcott had catalogues of all his one-man shows, but looking at small reproductions of paintings was never the same as seeing the originals. Kate was curious to see the work he produced while he was here.
An hour before dinner, they assembled in Kyria Drakakis’s drawing-room for what was to be a nightly ritual: the assessment of the day’s work.
Xan set up his easel and, in alphabetical order, each member of the group submitted a drawing or painting to the comments of their peers before he passed a professional opinion on it.
Knowing that if she tried to exclude herself from the proceedings he was capable of insisting on her participation, Kate had decided that, if her name was on his list, she would take the line of least resistance. No one was going to sneer if the courier couldn’t draw.
Her name was on the list and she could tell by his expression that he thought being called would embarrass her. Instead she stepped forward and returned the borrowed sketch-pad, the cover folded back to show her attempt to copy the lines of the door.
‘I asked Kate to do this,’ he said, ‘to support my theory that very few people are totally lacking in artistic ability and too many go through life unaware they’re neglecting a skill that could give them a great deal of pleasure. What do you think of this as a first attempt at a fairly difficult subject?’
‘Quite good.’
‘Not bad.’
Most of the comments were kind until someone said, ‘She hasn’t got the perspective right, has she?’
‘Perspective is a problem for several of you,’ said Xan. ‘It’s one of the subjects I’m going to discuss and demonstrate. In my view this drawing shows considerable promise.’ He made some deft alterations to show where it went wrong. “Thank you for being a good sport and having a go, Kate. I hope you’ll have another try tomorrow.’
As her sketch was removed and replaced, Kate knew it was absurd to feel a glow at his praise. Life within Xan’s orbit was like being on a seesaw. She teetered between being exasperated and charmed by him.
After everyone’s work had been discussed, he produced a large sheet of what she recognised as the heaviest and most expensive type of water-colour paper, almost as thick and stiff as cardboard. When he turned it round and placed it on the easel there was a concerted murmur of admiration.
‘I did this the day before you arrived,’ he said. ‘It was so hot out of doors at noon, the washes were drying in seconds. I was trying to catch the heat and the somnolent atmosphere.’
And had succeeded, thought Kate. The focal point of the picture was a three-masted sailing vessel moored stern-on to the quay with several others beyond it and, behind them, a line of buildings. But all these were merely suggested and even the largest vessel, her deck shaded by awnings, her white hull reflected in the still water, was not painted in detail.
‘How long did it take you?’ someone asked.
‘About twenty-five years,’ said Xan. ‘I started my apprenticeship when I was so high——’ with an illustrative gesture. Smiling, he added, ‘But that’s not what you meant, is it? Let’s say about ten minutes looking and thinking, and forty minutes painting. Slightly less than an hour altogether.’
His painting was the topic of conversation around Kate at dinner. Nine months ago she wouldn’t have known what was meant by ‘negative spaces’ and ‘wet-into-wet’. Now she did, and her understanding of the technicalities was good enough for her to grasp that the apparently simple picture was in fact a very fine example of the difficult art of watercolour.
Tonight’s meal began with aubergines fried in olive oil. When one of the group declined them, Xan said, ‘You’re going to find the garlic fumes from the rest of us rather overpowering if you don’t at least try a few mouthfuls.’
Later, for pudding, they each had a large bunch of sweet white grapes. But even t
hese were not to everyone’s liking. One person was worried in case they had not been properly washed and another painstakingly peeled and de-pipped the few she did eat.
After dinner, the whole group went out to have coffee in one of the many kafeneions along the waterfront.
At this time of day the foreign visitors were outnumbered by Chaniotes taking the air as had been their custom for centuries. It was dark now, with a large moon floating in the sky like a pale Chinese lantern and making the sea outside the harbour glitter.
Kate ordered kafé skéto, Turkish coffee without sugar. The group was occupying several adjoining tables and she and Xan were not at the same one. Like him, several others including Oliver and Juliet had brought small sketching-pads with them and were drawing the lively scene around them.
Juliet was sitting next to Xan, wearing the same black top and white skirt as last night but with a wide yellow belt, long amber earrings and half a dozen amber-coloured bracelets sliding up and down her slender forearm as she talked and gestured. It was she who held the floor, and with considerable wit, judging by the frequent laughter at their table. Xan didn’t stop drawing to listen to Juliet, nor did he glance at her. But not all his attention was on what he was doing. Kate saw the flash of his teeth whenever what she said amused him.
Gradually the Palette group thinned out as people paid their bills and bade the others goodnight. Sipping the glass of water which had come with her coffee, Kate thought it wouldn’t be long before she went back. She still hadn’t written her postcards. If they weren’t posted soon, they might not arrive before her own return.
Next morning, instead of going to the beach for her early swim, she went up to the pool on the top floor and swam thirty lengths. Then, having the pool deck to herself, she did some stretching exercises, knowing that if anyone joined her it wouldn’t be Xan.
When she finished exercising, she went to lean on the parapet surrounding the pool deck. A movement caught her eye. Three people had come into view. Xan with Oliver on one side and Juliet on the other. All on their way to the beach.
Kate watched them walking away. Juliet was wearing a long indigo robe and carrying her towel and other necessities in a drawstring bag slung over her shoulder.
As she watched them, they all turned to look back towards the hotel, Xan making gestures which suggested he was talking about the play of early morning sunlight on the rooftops and the White Mountains visible behind the town.
Then he spotted Kate leaning on the parapet and waved. Waving back, she wondered if he would signal her to join them. But he didn’t. Perhaps because it was obvious from her swimsuit and her wet hair that she had already been in the pool, or because he preferred Juliet’s company.
In spite of his telling Kate he found her more attractive, she knew Juliet had more claims to his interest. She was a gifted artist, nearer his height, more elegant than Kate and undoubtedly more experienced in her relations with men. None of the many unusual rings adorning her expressive hands was a wedding ring, but that didn’t mean she had never been married.
To a man looking for some uncomplicated dalliance Juliet was a more likely partner than she was, thought Kate, on her way downstairs. Xan’s instinct would probably tell him she was looking for love and permanence. If not actually looking for it, hoping for it.
The main entrance to the hotel was at the junction of several narrow streets in the old quarter and the presence of an excursion coach would temporarily block the passage of all other traffic. Manolis, their driver, had asked Kate to make sure they were ready to board with a minimum of delay.
Five minutes before he was due to arrive, Kelly was not down. She and her mother had breakfast in their room. Her mother had come down in good time, but Kelly’s elaborate make-up might be delaying her. The lift being in use, Kate raced upstairs to the top floor and knocked on the girl’s door.
‘Time to go, Kelly,’ she called.
‘OK...shan’t be a tick.’
Kate ran down to the first floor where Loretta, one of the older members of the group, was locking her bedroom door.
‘Let me take your trolley,’ Kate offered. ‘The lift’s being used by people with heavy luggage coming down from the top floor.’
If Loretta attempted the stairs with her trolley-cumstool, she might have an accident. Her sandals were dressy rather than serviceable and she looked as if her bones might be brittle.
When the coach arrived, Kelly was still missing. Oliver, who had sprung to Kate’s assistance as soon as he saw her bringing the laden trolley down the staircase, would, she knew, see it safely stowed in the luggage compartment. Although the coach wouldn’t be full, the trolley was too bulky to be taken on board.
Kate was ringing Kelly’s room from the reception desk and hoping she wasn’t answering because she was on her way down when hooting broke out in the street and Manolis appeared looking impatient.
‘Two are missing. You and another. Why is she not here?’
‘I’m coming. Why all the panic?’ Kelly asked, running down the last flight, her full breasts bouncing, her white mini-skirt barely decent.
‘We’re blocking the street,’ said Manolis, his hands in the air.
‘Oh... sorry. I didn’t know.’ She gave him her most melting smile.
‘You knew we were going to a monastery,’ said Kate. ‘You can’t turn up dressed like that.’
‘What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?’
‘Nothing...at Miami Beach or St Tropez. This is Crete and——’ Kate broke off as Xan strode in.
‘All hell’s breaking out. What’s the hold-up?’
‘Kate thinks I’ll shock the monks.’ Kelly gave him the look which had mellowed Manolis’s scowl to an indulgent grin.
‘I doubt if you’ll shock them,’ Xan said tersely. ‘No doubt they’re inured to foreigners dressed for the beach. But unless you’re prepared to spend the morning sitting in the coach, you’ll have to change into something more acceptable.’
‘But quickly, please,’ said Manolis, as the hooting became more insistent. He dashed outside, muttering what sounded like the Cretan equivalent of, ‘All right, all right...keep your hair on.’
Kelly was looking mutinous. ‘If there’s going to be all this fuss, I’ll stay behind,’ she said, pouting.
‘Right. In that case, we’ll see you this evening,’ Xan said briskly. ‘Come along, Kate.’
As he turned on his heel, there was a wail from behind him and Kelly burst into tears.
‘We can’t dump her,’ Kate muttered, out of the side of her mouth, before she hurried to Kelly and put an arm round her shoulders. ‘There’s no need to cry. Just hurry upstairs and put on something a bit more covered-up.’ To Xan she added, ‘The rest of you go ahead. We’ll follow by taxi.’
‘Good idea, but I’ll stay with Kelly. You go with the others.’
Grabbing the girl by the wrist, he hustled her towards the lift, just vacated by an American couple.
‘But Kelly’s not here,’ her mother exclaimed, when Kate climbed aboard and told Manolis to start.
Before leaving the hotel, she had asked the receptionist to call a taxi and to write down where they were going for the driver.
‘She’ll be coming by taxi,’ she explained. ‘What she was wearing wasn’t suitable for a monastery. Xan’s waiting while she changes.’
‘Who’s going to pay for the taxi?’ said her mother.
Kate would have liked to say, You are! You’re sharing a room. You must have known her get-up wasn’t the ‘appropriate’ outfit our guidelines advised for visits to churches and monasteries. What she actually said was, ‘It will come out of our contingency funds.’
Then she walked to the empty seats at the back of the coach and flopped down for a few minutes’ peace.
As Manolis manoeuvred his vehicle through streets and round corners designed for people on foot and muledrawn carts, she wondered if Xan was in Kelly’s room, going through her wardrobe with her.
&
nbsp; She and her mother had each brought a massive suitcase and must have enough clothes to wear something different every day. Kate herself was in yesterday’s clothes, washed and dried overnight and pressed with her traveller’s steam iron on a towel spread over the side table.
She would have loved to be a fly on the wall in Kelly’s room at this moment, and in the taxi later. It seemed likely that during his chequered love-life Xan would have had to deal with tearful, temperamental scenes before. No doubt he would handle Kelly’s tantrum a lot more expertly than Kate herself could have done.
They had left the town behind, and the coach was picking up speed on a straight road when Juliet rose from her seat mid-way along the coach.
‘What happened to our leader?’ she asked, sitting down beside Kate.
‘Silly little bimbo,’ was her comment, when Kate had explained.
‘Don’t let her mother hear you. She might sue for defamation.’
Juliet shrugged. ‘You’d think her mother would realise what a tart Kelly makes of herself. She’s wasting her time if she thinks she can turn Xan on. She’s got a good body, if she knew how to dress, but there’s nothing between her ears.’
‘That’s rather brutal, isn’t it?’ said Kate. ‘She may not have had much chance to develop her intelligence.’
‘That’s her problem,’ said Juliet. ‘Mine has to do with painting and I wanted to discuss it with Xan before we get there. We’re here to paint, not to have our time wasted by nitwits like Kelly.’
The sound of a motorist putting his hand on his horn and keeping it there made most people in the coach crane to see what was happening. As Manolis decelerated, a taxi shot past and both vehicles slowed to a halt. A few moments after Manolis had pressed the button operating the door, Kelly climbed aboard, dressed now in a frilled and flounced dress and looking pleased with herself.
Slipping into the empty pair of seats in front of her mother, she must have been hoping Xan would join her there. But he took the single seat immediately behind Manolis where Kate would have sat had it been necessary to make any announcements or give a running commentary.
