Aphrodite's Hat

by Salley Vickers

  Simon flushed suddenly and looked angry. ‘Why d’you want to know about her all of a sudden?’

  ‘Just wondered,’ said Laura lightly. She was amused, and for some reason rather relieved, that her intuitions about Simon were accurate.

  Although it is surely barmy to be feeling this over a man you are about to marry, she said to herself later as, Simon downstairs watching TV, she settled down in bed to read.

  Laura and Simon were to spend their honeymoon in Greece. It was a country they had visited often, a place where they had had happy times. Simon was at his best talking about the anthropology of ancient cultures and Laura liked the bareness of the landscape and the ancient sites.

  It was at Epidaurus, staying in a modest little hotel, that the call came. A knocking at the bedroom door and Laura, summoned from sleep, found the proprietor outside.

  ‘Forgive,’ he said, twisting his hands. ‘I do not wish to wake you but there is a telephone.’ He gestured down the dimly lighted stairs.

  ‘For me, or my husband?’ asked Laura, also making explanatory gestures.

  ‘For lady called Ken – er, please?’

  Kennedy was Terence’s name. ‘What is it, darling?’ Simon called from the bed.

  ‘It’s OK – it’s for me, I think – he wants me to go to the phone downstairs.’

  ‘Oh, Christ! Get him to put it through.’

  ‘Please?’ said the fat proprietor, gesturing again.

  ‘No, look, it’s easier if I go with him.’

  She knew already who it would be.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Nell? Whatever time of night is it?’

  ‘Sorry. Did I get you up?’

  ‘Nell, what time is it? Where are you calling from?’

  ‘Dunno the time – ‘bout one o’clockish?’

  ‘What’s happened? Are you OK?’ But of course she wasn’t. Nell of all people would not phone unless she was in trouble. Big trouble.

  ‘Look, don’t get excited, but it’s the police.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m in a police station.’

  ‘Oh, Nell!’ Nellie, my little girl, my Nellie. ‘Darling, what’s happened?’

  ‘They let me call you.’

  And Nell had had the number. Laura put away for later contemplation the knowledge that her daughter had kept about her the means of finding her mother. ‘Darling, shall I call you back?’

  ‘No,’ said Nell. ‘You might not get through. I’m scared I mightn’t get you again.’

  (v)

  As from an infinitely distant land,

  Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey

  A melancholy into all our day

  It was getting light when she returned to the bedroom. Simon was snoring and she had to shake him.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Terence, I have to go home.’

  Simon sat up in bed rubbing his forehead. ‘You called me Terence!’

  ‘Sorry. I’m a bit frantic.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Laura, you called me Terence!’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s Nell.’ The blue Greek bedspread was an ocean between them in the hardening light. I hate you, she thought. I actually hate you, God forgive me!

  ‘Of course it’s Nell.’ As if reading her thoughts his voice had taken on a hateful sneer. ‘Ickle Nellsiewellsie calling her mumsy-wumsy home.’

  Laura stared at him. His face looked peevish and infantile. Men are like wine: the best mature, the rest turn to vinegar. Who was it said that?

  ‘Nevertheless, I’m afraid I have to go.’ There was something in the ‘Nevertheless’ which gave her courage. ‘She’s been detained by the police on drugs charges. Her father is out of the country and there’s no one to help her. I’m afraid I must go back.’

  ‘You’re out of the country too! In fact, you’re out of your fucking mind.’ There was nothing to say to a man who needed such a thing explained to him. Her daughter, in trouble, had called on her; it was as simple as that. She stood there, looking at him, noting the receding hairline with a kind of satisfaction. ‘Well, you’ll have to go without me, I’m afraid.’

  Poor Simon. His veiled threat was pathetic. She didn’t really hate him. ‘I know that.’

  Downstairs, the proprietor’s wife gave her bitter coffee and a dry-as-dust roll. The woman placed a bowl of honey carefully on the table, as if to communicate her awareness of a trouble fallen on her guest. ‘Excuse me – a car – could you tell me how to hire a car?’ The car they had hired was in Simon’s name.

  The woman looked concerned. ‘Here was cars but now …’ She shrugged, indicating some incommunicable local calamity. ‘No cars.’

  ‘But the nearest one? I need to get to Athens urgently.’ She nearly said, It’s my daughter. The woman gave every sign that she would understand.

  The proprietor’s wife said something in Greek and then went and fetched her husband with the black and mournful moustache.

  ‘There is no car here for hire, but if it is an emergency I give you the number of Mr Acton. He is an English gentleman, very nice. He live up there.’ He pointed to a stone house set back a little way up the hillside.

  An Englishman. Well he would understand her need at least. He might help her get to Athens.

  ‘Would he mind if I called?’

  The proprietor nodded as if he was in the habit of setting his more problematic guests off on Mr Acton.

  Hurrying along the road, Laura wondered what she was going to say. The door of the house had the appearance of being locked and she had to steel herself to bang loudly. But there was Nell waiting for her, in a cell in Camden Town.

  ‘Forgive me. You don’t know me from Adam. I’m Laura Kennedy.’

  He was a big man with a shabby-looking face and bedroom slippers. ‘You need help?’

  She nearly kissed his hand. ‘I need to get to Athens urgently.’

  ‘And there is no car. So, is it a particular flight you need?’

  ‘Any flight to London – but as soon as possible.’

  The man indicated she should come inside and she entered, behind him, into a stone-flagged room. He picked up a phone and spoke into it in Greek.

  Finishing the conversation, he said, ‘There are no cars to hire here at present but mine will be available in thirty minutes. It will take six to eight hours to reach Athens, which means you may catch today’s three o’clock flight to Heathrow. I cannot promise, but I will do my best.’

  ‘Is it the only flight? I’m sorry, that sounds churlish …’

  She was shaking and perhaps observing this he said, ‘Won’t you sit down? I’m afraid it’s the last, until the following morning, that is. Please, sit. Unless you have baggage to fetch …?’

  That would mean seeing Simon again. She had her bag, her passport. ‘I have all I need.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said the man calmly. He had the slight old-fashioned tinge to his English which comes from living many years abroad. ‘May I offer you coffee? Some ouzo?’

  ‘Coffee would be marvellous.’

  He moved about the kitchen filling a kettle. His movements, Laura noticed, were slow. ‘Excuse my discourtesy – I have failed to introduce myself. I am Matthew Acton – Matt to my friends. I have lived here thirty years.’

  ‘The travel writer?’ She had heard of him.

  ‘Indeed. Although nowadays I don’t travel so much. These days I spin yarns.’

  ‘About the travel?’

  ‘About whatever comes to mind. I sell old memories – or rather my agent sells them for me. It keeps body and soul together and life here is, or has been, anyway, still fairly cheap.’

  She sensed he was deliberately keeping from anything which might seem like an enquiry. ‘Look, I’m so grateful …’

  ‘Please.’ He looked at her and she saw something.

  ‘Your eyes,’ she cried. His eyes were of quite different colours, one blue, one brown.

  ‘Yes. My mother, who was foremost among yarn-spinners,
claimed it was because I was conceived under a hazel-bush. She liked to pretend it bestowed occult powers. A good ploy, I found, for getting girls into bed. Here, would you like brandy in it?’

  ‘Please.’ He poured a large measure into the green cup. Sipping it and feeling the hot coffee and alcohol begin to warm her, she said, ‘My daughter’s being held by the police. That’s why I have to get to London.’

  ‘Naturally. Don’t worry, I’m a fast driver.’

  Somehow she hadn’t taken in that he proposed driving her himself. ‘Oh, but isn’t that an awful nuisance?’

  ‘What is more important – the nuisance you cause me or your debt to your daughter?’

  Debt. It was a funny word to choose. ‘Do you have children?’ she asked.

  ‘None I’ve been introduced to.’

  ‘I have two,’ she said. ‘A daughter and a son.’

  ‘So?’ he said. ‘Two. I envy you. Listen, that noise like a Jabberwock you hear is Michaelis returning my car!’

  (vi)

  Only – but this is rare –

  It was ten past two when they reached Athens Airport.

  Laura, before she left the car, said, ‘I’ll never be able to thank you.’

  ‘Then don’t try – I’ve enjoyed it. I’ve already turned it, in my head, into a yarn. Beautiful damsel in distress at my door at dawn.’

  ‘Hardly a damsel!’

  ‘Still beautiful though.’ One blue-grey eye, one conker-brown looked at her. ‘Married?’ In six hours he hadn’t asked a single personal question.

  Relentless Time was speeding past. ‘I was here on my honeymoon. Look, would you write your address for me?’

  ‘Here,’ he said, and she noticed, taking the scrap of paper from his hand, he was still wearing his slippers. ‘If you hurry you will be with your daughter by this evening. One night in the cells will be no more than a yarn for her to dine out on later. She might be able to spin it into gold, you never know.’

  ‘A yarn?’ There was no time to explain about Simon.

  ‘You can’t start too early with yarns.’

  After she had bought the ticket she went back out to the forecourt to see if he were still there, but he had gone. So she was unable to tell him he shared a first name – indeed the initials – of her favourite poet.

  (vii)

  And what we mean, we say …

  Dear Matthew Acton,

  Thank you so much. The enclosed is a copy of my favourite poem.

  Yours,

  Laura Kennedy

  The Buried Life

  Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,

  Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!

  I feel a nameless sadness o’er me roll.

  Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,

  We know, we know that we can smile!

  But there’s a something in this breast,

  To which thy light words bring no rest,

  And thy gay smiles no anodyne;

  Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,

  And turn those limpid eyes on mine,

  And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul.

  Alas! is even love too weak

  To unlock the heart, and let it speak?

  Are even lovers powerless to reveal

  To one another what indeed they feel?

  I knew the mass of men conceal’d

  Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal’d

  They would by other men be met

  With blank indifference, or with blame reprov’d;

  I knew they liv’d and mov’d

  Trick’d in disguises, alien to the rest

  Of men, and alien to themselves – and yet

  The same heart beats in every human breast!

  But we, my love! – doth a like spell benumb

  Our hearts, our voices? – must we too be dumb?

  Ah, well for us, if even we,

  Even for a moment, can get free

  Our heart, and have our lips unchain’d;

  For that which seals them hath been deepordain’d!

  Fate, which foresaw

  How frivolous a baby man would be –

  By what distractions he would be possess’d,

  How he would pour himself in every strife,

  And well-nigh change his own identity –

  That it might keep from his capricious play

  His genuine self, and force him to obey

  Even in his own despite his being’s law,

  Bade through the deep recesses of our breast

  The unregarded river of our life

  Pursue with indiscernible flow its way;

  And that we should not see

  The buried stream, and seem to be

  Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,

  Though driving on with it eternally.

  But often, in the world’s most crowded streets,

  But often, in the din of strife,

  There rises an unspeakable desire

  After the knowledge of our buried life;

  A thirst to spend our fire and restless force

  In tracking out our true, original course;

  A longing to enquire

  Into the mystery of this heart which beats

  So wild, so deep in us – to know

  Whence our lives come and where they go.

  And many a man in his own breast then delves,

  But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.

  And we have been on many, thousand lines.

  And we have shown, on each, spirit and power;

  But hardly have we, for one little hour,

  Been on our own line, have we been ourselves

  Hardly had skill to utter one of all

  The nameless feelings that course through our breast,

  But they course on for ever unexpress’d.

  And long we try in vain to speak and act

  Our hidden self, and what we say and do

  Is eloquent, is well – but ‘tis not true!

  And then we will no more be rack’d

  With inward striving, and demand

  Of all the thousand nothings of the hour

  Their stupefying power;

  Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call!

  Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn,

  From the soul’s subterranean depth upborne

  As from an infinitely distant land,

  Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey

  A melancholy into all our day.

  Only – but this is rare –

  When a beloved hand is laid in ours,

  When, jaded with the rush and glare

  Of the interminable hours,

  Our eyes can in another’s eyes read clear,

  When our world-deafen’d ear

  Is by the tones of a lov’d voice caress’d –

  A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,

  And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.

  The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,

  And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.

  A man becomes aware of his life’s flow,

  And hears its winding murmur; and he sees

  The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.

  And there arrives a lull in the hot race

  Wherein he doth forever chase

  The flying and elusive shadow, rest.

  An air of coolness plays upon his face,

  And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.

  And then he thinks he knows

  The hills where his life rose,

  And the sea where it goes.

  Matthew Arnold

  MOVING

  They had been packing for hours. Cardboard boxes, bandaged with brown sticky tape and marked with cryptic messages as to their content, stood as a bulwark against chaos among the litter of tin openers, screwdrivers, weather-blackened clothes pegs, dish cloths, unravelled hanks of garden twine, a nest of withered daffodil bulb
s and the singular cherubic head of a doll which looked hard at no one with dead blue eyes.

  Beneath the head with its dainty rosebud lips, Jacob, as if avoiding the remorseless blue stare, lay on a floor bare of its Turkish rugs upon a stack of folded blankets destined for any charity shop that would unbend enough to accept them. The local Oxfam shop, they had discovered, had been transformed into a chic designer emporium. What, Selina wondered, would happen now to all the bits and bobs and sharp bits, as her godmother would have called them, that until lately had so usefully been passed on for further use. The need to do good, she thought, also required some cherishing. Nowadays, charity required of its aspirants standards which they were increasingly likely to fail.

  Selina looked at her friend. His body stretched out upon the stack of blankets was a medieval knight or princeling’s, made marmoreal for eternity on his own tomb. ‘You look like something Damien Hirst might pickle in formaldehyde,’ she said, guessing that this comparison would please him more.

  ‘I wish he would.’ Jacob couldn’t see Selina, who was sitting with her back straight against the wall, but he could smell that she was smoking. He wished she wouldn’t. But she would know quite well what he was feeling and was presumably overriding politeness. And the house by tomorrow lunchtime would no longer be his, so what did it matter if it stank of smoke?

  Aware of what was passing through her friend’s mind, Selina pushed herself up, groaning a little at the stiffness, and went out into the small enclosed garden. A passionflower of deepest purple, its dark stamens forming the cross which gave it its name, was swinging one of its fronds over the lime-washed garden wall. Flowers didn’t have to bother about feeling intrusive, she thought. She had helped Jacob paint that wall. This little house of peace and charm was perhaps the only place in the world where she did not feel like an intruder on God’s earth, and tomorrow it would be gone. Or gone, at least, for her.

  She would no longer have the use of the white upper room, full of weather because years ago the blinds had stuck and Jacob had never fixed them. When he had once tried, she had said, ‘No, you can leave it. I like to see the light break.’ His discretion was such that he had not made the obvious connection aloud: that she was so often awake long before dawn that to see the sun rise at last was a comfort and a release, a sign that she would not have to remain alone much longer in the dark.