Seascape

by Anne Weale

  As they made their way back to the car, Kate wondered if he knew how complete her surrender had been. Perhaps not.

  Or it might be that he did know and had every intention of carrying on from where they had left off as soon as a more appropriate setting offered itself.

  ‘I’m hoping we can return to Chaniá without back-tracking,’ he said when, back at the car, he opened a map of the region borrowed from Kyria Drakakis. ‘Yes, there’s a road which winds round through several small villages. If one of them has a likely-looking bar, we’ll stop for refreshments. On a day as hot as this, the more cold liquid we can pour down our throats the better. Would you like to take over the driving?’

  ‘Not unless you’ve had enough of it,’ said Kate. ‘You’re a better driver on these rough, twisty roads than I should be.’

  ‘That statement would be vigorously repudiated by the politically correct lobby,’ he said, switching on the engine.

  ‘Oh, sucks to them,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I think “anything you can do, I can do better”, or even equally well, is a silly attitude. I’m not an experienced rough-country driver. I assume you must be or you wouldn’t run a Range Rover. I know some people have them more as status symbols than for practical reasons, but I wouldn’t include you in that group.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am ... no, I’m not. I have it because I often paint in places where I need a four-wheel drive. Judging by your general efficiency I should think you’re an excellent driver. I wonder how long these hire cars stand up to being hammered over country roads by tourists who are rotten drivers?’

  The first small village they came to seemed not to have a bar. But a few kilometres further on there was a larger village where the bar had a vine-shaped plateía outside it. At present all the tables and chairs were occupied because a party was in progress.

  As Xan slowed the car to see what was going on, Kate caught sight of a bridal couple. ‘It’s a wedding party.’

  As she spoke, a young man stepped into the roadway, grinning at them.

  ‘Are you lost?’ he asked, in English.

  Kate smiled and shook her head, but Xan put on the hand brake and swung himself out of the car. Speaking across the roof of it, he said something in Greek.

  The young Cretan responded in Greek. While they were talking, an older man came to the fence surrounding the plateía and shouted something.

  Reverting to English, the young man said, ‘My uncle says as you speak Greek, you are welcome to join us.’ Taking their acceptance for granted, he opened the passenger door for Kate to climb out.

  Kyria Drakakis had told them that away from the coastal areas there was still a warm welcome for ksénos, the term used to mean stranger, traveller or guest, as distinct from toursta with its somewhat unflattering connotations.

  The truth of her statement was demonstrated by the way they were drawn into the happy throng and pressed to eat, drink and share the general enjoyment.

  Yorgo, as the young man was called, was not the only one there who spoke good English. There was also Yannis, who had gone to America to make his fortune and now, in his sixties, was back in his native village. But he hadn’t resumed the Cretan dress worn by most of the older men present: the baggy vraches tucked into long black boots, the black cummerbund and the piratical black mandilli wrapped round the forehead.

  ‘She asks if you are also newly-weds?’ Yorgo translated, when an old lady in black came to peer at the foreigners, one of her eyes showing the opacity of a cataract.

  Xan bent to speak to her in Greek and whatever he said made her give a cackle of laughter. But Kate had no chance to ask him before she was taken under the wing of the bride’s proud mother.

  The nyphítsa herself was a sturdy, cheery-faced girl with eyebrows that joined in the middle and several large moles on her face. But her burly bridegroom in his cheap city suit looked delighted with his choice.

  The only beauty present was one of the bridesmaids who, presently, sang a traditional wedding song which Yorgo translated for Kate in a loud whisper.

  I beg you, Fate,

  Send me a rich husband.

  Let him have flocks and shepherds and cheesemakers,

  A garden full of bees, with beekeepers,

  Twenty yoke of oxen, grain both old and new.

  But cotton plants, my Fate—not those.

  I want to have soft hands.

  Her performance was received with applause and approving comments, punctuated by more of the shots they had heard earlier while they were driving towards the village.

  Then it was time for more feasting which Kate gathered had begun soon after the wedding and would continue for the rest of the day. Most of the men had a handmade knife, the handle shaped like a goat’s leg. With these they cut slices from a lamb cooked with lemon, oregano and thyme.

  Watching Xan standing with a group of men while she did her best to converse with some of the women, Kate thought how well the traditional costume would become his tall, long-legged figure.

  If Fate bad ordained that his life should be spent in a village in Crete, he would be a pallikári, the name given to a brave man. He might even be a kapetánios or captain, the title of a man of power and, fifty years ago, of the guerrilla leaders who had held out against the last occupation of the island.

  As she watched him, he looked towards her and, excusing himself to his companions, came over to where she was standing.

  ‘No wine for you, Kate?’ he asked, looking at the glass of some sugary cordial she was holding.

  ‘I thought it would be easier for me to stay on the wagon than for you,’ she explained. ‘It would probably be seen as very unmacho for you to decline the hard stuff, but it’s all right for me ... and from here on the road should improve.’

  ‘That’s very thoughtful of you. Don’t worry. I shan’t get smashed. I’m sticking to wine and resisting the lethal doses of tsíkoudia all these old boys are knocking back. That stuff’s real firewater. There’ll be some sore heads tomorrow.’

  Presently one of the men sang a song. At the end, Yannis stepped forward and made a brief announcement. He then turned to Xan and Kate. ‘I have told them I am going to sing it again ... for you two. This song is called “Kalopérasi”, meaning “The Good Life”.’ He signalled to the musicians that he was ready to begin.

  Little by little the Lord sends the rain,

  Then comes the quiet snow,

  Cold in the mountains,

  Snow on the hills.

  But the man who has a well-roofed house,

  Fruit in his storerooms,

  Oil in his jars,

  Wine in his barrels,

  Wood in his yard,

  A girl to kiss as he sits by the fire,

  He doesn’t care what the north wind brings,

  Rain or snow.

  Kate thought it a beautiful song. She wondered what Xan was thinking as he joined in the applause.

  Then the musicians struck up for dancing. The man with the pear-shaped lýra propped on his thigh, had his bow strung with hawk’s bells to accentuate the rhythm.

  ‘This village has fine musicians. They make their own instruments and keep them on pegs in the bar to make music together,’ explained Yorgo.

  One old man was playing an áskavlos, a double flute with a bag made from an animal’s skin. It sounded like bagpipes.

  Kate would have preferred only to watch the dancing but found herself forced to participate in some of the simpler measures. A glass or two of wine would have helped her to feel less self-conscious, but she doubted if wine had much to do with Xan’s relaxed performance.

  He was revealing himself as one of those fortunate people who were at ease in any company. That he spoke more Greek than she did was a help, but it wasn’t only his superior vocabulary that made him at home among these simple, hospitable country people. It was something in the man himself, something she had failed to register at the beginning of their association. Every day, one more of her preconceptions abo
ut him was proved false. The only thing left to dislike was his attitude to his grandmother. How was it that he could strike up an immediate rapport with all these black-clad Cretan grannies and not feel the slightest affection for his own?

  It was dark when they left the celebrations.

  As they were saying their goodbyes, Kate had wondered if, in spite of the many glasses of wine he had drunk, Xan would insist on driving. But although he seemed perfectly sober, he handed over the car keys and opened the driver’s door for her.

  Their departure was marked by another fusillade of shots from pistols and rifles.

  ‘Trigger-happy lot, aren’t they? But nice people. That was fun,’ he said as the car moved off. ‘Did you enjoy it, Kate?’

  ‘Very much. I wonder what the others have been up to?’

  ‘Oliver was going to paint a Turkish house in the old quarter. As soon as we get back, I want to do some sketches of the wedding party while it’s fresh in my mind. I’d have liked to do them on the spot, but that would have been impossible. Fortunately I have pretty good visual recall.’

  Kate felt a twinge of disappointment. Although they were not in need of any more food, she had hoped he would suggest ending the day with a stroll along the paralía and coffee at one of the quieter waterfront cafés.

  She said, ‘I want to write down the songs before I forget the words.’

  It took about an hour to get back to Chaniá. At the hotel, when they had collected their keys, she said, ‘It’s been a lovely day. Thank you.’

  He looked down at her with an expression she couldn’t interpret. For a few moments she thought he was going to change his mind about doing sketches of the wedding festivities.

  But then he said, ‘Yes, it’s been a day to remember, hasn’t it? Goodnight, Kate. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m a bit worried about Kelly. She’s been out with Manolis three nights running,’ her mother confided to Kate, a few days later. ‘I’ve warned her not to let him take her anywhere lonely, but she doesn’t listen. Her father could keep her in order, but she pays no regard to me. You can’t put an old head on young shoulders, can you? I wish you’d have a word with her, dear.’

  Kate felt the time to instil some sense into Kelly was long past. She suspected it might be a case of like mother, like daughter, with the mother conveniently forgetting the flightiness of her own youth.

  Later, Kate reported the conversation to Xan.

  ‘Could you have a tactful word with Kelly? She’d ignore me, as she does her mother. But advice from you might sink in.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ he said sardonically. ‘Kelly can handle Manolis. I’d guess that where sex is concerned she’s a lot less dumb than she looks.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Kate. ‘If she led him on and then panicked...’

  ‘Are you worried about Kelly’s welfare? Or the effect on Palette if a scandal blew up?’

  ‘Both,’ said Kate. ‘I don’t want anything unpleasant to happen. It would spoil everyone’s holiday.’

  Secretly she was counting the hours to their second free day, hoping it would resolve all the unanswered questions left by their day in the country.

  Since then they had had no more time alone together. Xan was spending his lunch-breaks painting the waterfront from the steps of the lighthouse. In the evenings the coffee and chat sessions in the waterfront cafés tended to go on later.

  He could, if he wished, have come to her room even later, but he hadn’t, and she was relieved. For in spite of the ardours under the carob tree, there was still a barrier between them. She had forgotten about it while she was in his arms, but it was still there and must remain there until he changed his unfeeling attitude to his grandmother.

  ‘All right: if it really worries you, I’ll put my oar in,’ Xan said, in a resigned tone. ‘But not by tackling Kelly. I’ll drop a hint to Manolis that she could spell trouble. My guess is he values his job with the coach company too much to put it at risk for a roll in the hay. But you can’t blame a guy for trying if he’s given a come-on.’

  Later, thinking over his comment, she wondered where he would set the parameters of a come-on. Surely he must have known that, when he was making love to her, she would not have stopped him from going a lot further than he had, might even have abandoned herself to him totally?

  Why had he failed to make the most of that opportunity?

  Because making love on a hillside like a lusty young shepherd and a willing village girl wasn’t his style?

  Because he had enough decency to resist making casual love to a girl who might take him seriously and be hurt by him?

  Or because he was beginning to feel seriously tender towards her and, having never loved before, was as unsure of his feelings as she was of hers?

  If only the last explanation could be the correct one, Kate thought wistfully. But she didn’t have much hope that it was.

  In the event the second free day wasn’t free in the usual sense because Kyria Drakakis invited Xan and Kate to accompany her on a visit to her bachelor brother’s house in the country. It turned out that her brother had been a famous musician, giving concerts all over the world until illness forced him to retire.

  It was an interesting excursion but, not surprisingly, their housebound host monopolised Xan. Kate was left chatting to his sister, which she enjoyed, but not as much as being on her own with Xan.

  Only at the very end of the visit did they have a few moments alone when, as she was starting her car, Kyria suddenly remembered something she had forgotten to tell her brother’s housekeeper.

  In her absence, Xan, who was in the front passenger seat because of its greater leg room, turned round and said, ‘Will you have dinner with me?’

  Kate’s heart gave a leap of excitement and pleasure. But she tried not to show those feelings as she said pleasantly, ‘Yes, I’d like to... thank you.’

  ‘There’s a place I’ve read about, overlooking the sea, which sounds rather nice. Let’s meet in the lobby at seven.’

  He turned to face forwards, giving her a quarter-profile view of his cheekbone and jawline.

  When they were back in Chaniá, she asked Kyria Drakakis to drop her off near the shop where she had some photographs to collect.

  ‘Thank you for including me in a most interesting visit, Kyria,’ she said, before she got out.

  ‘It was a pleasure to have you with us,’ the hotelier said kindly. As she prepared to drive on, Kate heard her say, ‘What a nice girl she is.’

  But whatever reply Xan made was lost as the car moved forward.

  He was waiting for her in the lobby when she stepped out of the lift. The others would still be changing. Only the receptionist saw them leave the hotel together.

  ‘We’ll walk there and take a taxi back, if that’s all right with you?’ He glanced down at her shoes.

  She was wearing low-heeled white loafers with a white cotton skirt and a pale blue chambray shirt. Not a glamorous outfit, but cool and fresh-looking, with a skein of small silver beads and a matching bracelet to add a touch of pizazz. She had bought the beads after collecting her photos. They were not as dramatic as Juliet’s silver necklace but they appealed to Kate’s less flamboyant sense of style. She wondered if Xan would notice them.

  He did, but not until later when they were drinking their first glasses of retsina in as romantic a setting as she could have wished for.

  ‘Did you buy that here?’ he asked, reaching out to slip his finger between her wrist and the bracelet.

  His touch revived all the feelings she had felt when he started to kiss her under the carob.

  ‘Yes, it’s my souvenir of Chaniá.’

  ‘I was going to give you the water-colour sketch I did of you as a souvenir. If you’d like to have it?’

  ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘When I get back to London I’ll frame it for you. I learnt to do my own frames as an economy when I was young and broke. I still do the mounts and frames for pictures I’m giving as prese
nts.’ His finger was sliding back and forth round her wrist in a subtly intimate caress which was tying her insides in knots.

  Just then the waiter came back to ask if they were ready to order. Xan withdrew his hand and replied with a smile that they would now give their full attention to the menu and have their decisions made in a few minutes’ time.

  He didn’t touch Kate again while they were in the restaurant, but at times his eyes conveyed messages which sent frissons of excitement down her spine as she wondered what he had in mind for later.

  It was her suggestion that they should walk back, partly to prolong the delicious agony of waiting to feel his mouth take command of hers, as surely it would before the evening ended. Partly because she loved walking by moonlight and lamplight along the winding esplanades skirting the sea and the harbour.

  ‘I’ve always hankered to live by the sea,’ she told him, as they were strolling back. ‘I sometimes think my father was a sailor and that’s why I’m drawn to the sea. I used to wonder if he had been lost at sea and my mother couldn’t cope on her own and left me in Harrods hoping somebody rich would find me and want to adopt me. But I expect the real explanation is far more prosaic.’

  ‘There’s a town called Poole on the south coast of England. You don’t think your surname might be a clue to your origins?’

  ‘Maybe? Who knows? I don’t really care any more. The here and now is what matters.’ She looked up at the sky. ‘Those stars. The smell of the sea...’

  ‘You and the night and the music...’

  As she turned her face up to his, Xan swept an arm round her waist and began to dance her along the esplanade in time to some Forties music being played in a bar they were passing.

  She knew that the words he had spoken were not his own, but the title of a long-ago love song on an old-fashioned wax record in a dusty box in the loft at the cottage. There was also an ancient gramophone up there, on which once, when Miss Walcott was out, Kate had played the scratchy-sounding music of her employer’s youth.