Footprints in the Sand (Back-2-Back, Book 1)

by Chloe Rayban

  ‘What you do now?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘You got no money. You got nothing. Nowhere to stay.’

  ‘I dunno. Maybe I’ll go home like the others. Maybe I’ll stay – look for work…’

  He stared into the dregs in his cup. ‘You want work here?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘For you?’

  He nodded.

  Suddenly, there it was – the answer to everything. To stay at the taverna – work for my keep – it was such a tempting thought. But the idea was lousy. I couldn’t do that – and live with myself.

  ‘You mean… do the Albanian boy’s job? No, I’m not taking his job from him.’

  ‘I no take that boy back anyway,’ he said.

  I paused and took another sip of milk. ‘What will happen to him?’

  Stavros shrugged. ‘He find something. Albanians – they find work. Albanians do anything.’

  ‘Yeah, but it doesn’t seem right. He lost his job because of me.’

  Stavros leaned forward. ‘Listen, my friend. Ten, twenty years ago – Greek men, no work in farming, no work in fishing – we go everywhere. Everywhere in the world you find Greek men, wait at tables, wash dishes, clean floors. In America, Australia, England – every country. Then, when tourists come – Greeks have plenty money. All change. Now it’s the Albanians – their turn, go work for everyone – everywhere…’

  Those last words were delivered with some satisfaction. After Stavros’ little lecture on world economics I felt worse, if anything. But I had the sense to realise there was no way he was going to take that boy back. If I didn’t take the job, someone else would get it.

  ‘What would I have to do?’ I asked. I couldn’t help my eyes sliding round to the windsurfers, piled up there, idle on the beach.

  ‘First thing, make brekfuss, clean tables, change beds, maybe. Then morning, sit on beach, take money for windsurfers – watch surfers not drown and lose boards. Evening, serve drinks, more clean tables. No cooking. I do cooking. Nice job, free food, free bed.’

  ‘In there?’ I asked, indicating the broom cupboard where the boy had slept.

  ‘Is good room,’ said Stavros. ‘Warm, clean, dry.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said with a grin. ‘Well equipped.’ Still, my standards had gone down somewhat since the accommodation of the night before.

  ‘Good room! Better than beach,’ protested Stavros.

  ‘I can’t stay long. I have to get back by September.’

  ‘Fine. Now is August – is now I need help – in high season.’

  I had to suppress a smile at this. Some ‘high season’ – Paradiso wasn’t exactly teeming with tourists.

  ‘So how much will you pay me?’ I asked, leaning forward and looking him in the eye.

  ‘Four thousand drachmas a day.’

  According to my lightning calculations that was less than ten pounds. ‘That’s slave labour!’ I said.

  ‘Is what?’

  ‘Not enough.’

  ‘My friend – take it, or leave it.’ Stavros sat back in his chair and stared into the distance.

  My eyes slid back to the stacked windsurfers. ‘What about using the boards?’

  ‘Windsurfers? I seen you, I watch. You good sailor. In afternoon, when cabin is closed, you surf – all you like.’

  ‘For free?’

  ‘My friend… who will be there to take the money?’

  ‘It’s a deal!’

  I couldn’t believe it! I couldn’t believe my luck. A job and a roof over my head and food and FREE WINDSURFING!

  Oh boy wait till the others heard about this!

  Chapter Five

  Stavros let me use his phone to call my parents. They’d already heard the news of the theft through the parental bush telegraph. Dad sounded pretty fed up with me.

  ‘What did I tell you about sticking to travellers’ cheques?’

  ‘Yeah, we did to start with. But we kept missing the bank…’

  ‘Well, it’s your money, Ben…’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’

  I could hear Mum trying to grab the phone from him.

  ‘He’s fine…’ Dad’s voice was reassuring her.

  ‘When’s he coming back?’ I heard her ask.

  Stavros was frowning at me.

  ‘Listen, Dad. I can’t talk for long. It’s someone’s phone. I’ve got a job. I can earn enough to pay my way. And I’m sorting out a refund on my air ticket.’

  ‘A what?’

  The line was lousy.

  ‘Look. I’m fine. I’m staying. I’ll call you again from a better phone, OK?’

  The line gave up entirely at that point and there was a deafening buzzing sound. I hung up.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  Stavros looked as though he thought I ought to pay him for the call. So I started work right away by doing my own washing up. Then I had to clean down the tables and hose the terrace. Stavros watched critically from a comfortable vantage point, on a chair in the shade. From time to time he made the odd comment.

  Once the terrace was spotless enough to eat off, he took me round the back and showed me how to sort through the empty bottles and stack them in crates for collection. The delivery lorry was coming that evening – a fact which might have helped him come to a speedy decision about employing me. It was OK carrying the crates of empties down the track to the square, but something told me the full ones would be a different matter. No wonder the Albanian boy had muscles – this job was going to do the world for my pecs.

  As soon as I’d finished, Stavros took me down to the beach. He unlocked the shack and showed me how to fill in the hire books for the windsurfers. A glance down the pages told me that it wasn’t exactly going to be a hectic job. I was the only person who’d hired a windsurfer in the past three days.

  Stavros saw me looking.

  ‘The surfers – they go round next bay. Big resort, Germans, plenty money – only want new windsurfers…’ he said with a grimace.

  ‘Really?’ I wondered if they had funboards.

  ‘These good boards – strong,’ said Stavros, catching my expression and slapping the top of the pile. ‘I buy the best.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ I said. I noticed the look of hurt pride in his eyes and didn’t have the heart to ask: ‘When?’. Things move so fast in board design, a small guy like Stavros wouldn’t have the cash to invest in the latest technology. Progress had simply passed him by.

  I spent the morning sitting on a decaying canvas chair beside the shack, waiting for the would-be windsurfers to show up. I knew no-one would. At one point, a group of bearded hippy-type backpackers ambled up and looked at the boards and said a few patronising things. One of them tried to beat me down on the price of a session. I had the impression he’d tried this before, because Stavros had drummed into my head that this just wasn’t on. So the guys told me to ‘get a life’ and went off, laughing and throwing the stubs of their roll-ups into the sea. I didn’t like the look of them. They reminded me only too vividly of how I’d got ripped off. Every time I glanced at where my watch had been, I felt a wave of futile anger.

  For the first couple of hours the wind was perfect. The pain of it! I sat tormented by the thought of how brilliant the windsurfing would be out there. Every muscle in my body ached to be on the board, feeling the water under my feet, moving, alive – like riding bareback on something wild. Harnessing the strength of the wind and taming it. Not forcing it – but going along with it – my whole body totally into it… Yeah well, I can get a bit carried away at times.

  The longing to sail was like a dull ache inside. How could I just sit here until the afternoon? What if the wind dropped? It was so frustrating. I tried to move my mind off the subject and started fantasising about how I would run the place if I were Stavros…

  The first thing I’d do is set up this workshop in one of those old fishing huts – the derelict ones I’d seen from the terrace. We’d make these custom boards whi
ch were epic – legendary – speedboards and needleboards or totally revolutionary waveboards, or maybe boards tunnelled out underneath like catamarans – something totally radical anyway – all made to my own unique designs. I could see the logo for the company now, Ben-B, embossed in a funky way. Yeah, it would be brilliant, we even had the next bay where those speed freaks could test them. We’d get TV coverage and everything. Maybe stage a Windsurfer Olympics here.

  Sure, I’d need a workforce. And that was best thing about it. I’d fill the workshop with Albanians and pay them really good wages. And all the Greeks would be dead jealous. That way I could make it up to the boy. I’d use him to recruit the workforce – he’d know where to get the guys, and he could interpret too. Man – the idea was foolproof!

  I was so carried away with the whole concept that I was even trying to work out how much profit I’d make and what I’d do with it…

  Slowly, I came to my senses and wondered what the time was. My stomach was suggesting it was around lunchtime. In the absence of a watch, it was going to be tricky knowing when to knock off. I searched the horizon for signs of surfers from the next bay. There wasn’t a sail to be seen. The sea had turned to a limpid turquoise, the kind of colour you see on tourist postcards and never believe possible. And I realised why, with a hollow feeling – the wind had dropped.

  It was totally unlikely that any would-be windsurfers would come now, so I locked up the shack and made my way up the steps to the taverna.

  Everything seemed to be closed up. I went towards Stavros’ door and was about to knock when I was greeted by the sound of deep and very impressive snores. Not a good idea to wake him. But he’d promised food – ‘bed and food’, that’s what he’d said. I went into the kitchen and found some bread, a cold meat ball, and a tomato. Then I took a Fanta from the fridge and carried everything back to a table.

  Sounds were coming from the room the women had taken, voices. I remembered the girl, the girl who I’d heard laughing the night before. I still hadn’t set eyes on her – well, not close up anyhow. She wasn’t laughing now. I could hear her voice rising and falling and another lower, older voice cutting in. They were having some sort of argument. Women, eh!

  I sliced the tomato and the meatball thinly and made a kind of sandwich. Greek country bread doesn’t take too kindly to this kind of treatment and it was a two-handed job eating it. And yeah – the tomato did spurt out right down my chin. Just as I was groping for something to mop up the damage, I heard footsteps coming from inside the women’s door. I shot into the kitchen – didn’t want my first introduction to this potential love-goddess with my face covered in tomato.

  But it wasn’t a girl who came out. It was an older woman. She had a sunhat on and a bag under her arm and a very determined look on her face. She strode across the terrace and headed off in the direction of the bus stop. I waited for the girl to follow, but nothing happened. Their door stayed closed.

  I glanced at my reflection in the spotted mirror Stavros kept above the sink, for the purpose of shaving by the look of it. I was unshaven and still salty from this morning’s swim – my salt-caked hair was standing on end the way it used to when I was a kid – the way I hated. I looked a joke. I turned on the tap and it made some half-hearted coughing noises. No water came out. Typical, just when I could do with a wash!

  I slunk back to the terrace, eyeing the girl’s door, hoping that she wouldn’t come out now. Not with me looking so wrecked. Then I went across to my broom cupboard. I ripped the sheet off the bed and noted the unsavoury nature of the mattress. But in my present state I didn’t have too much to boast about in that direction either. So I took a clean sheet off a pile on the shelf and wrapped it round the mattress with a silent prayer that nothing would leap out and bite me. Then I dossed down for an illicit afternoon snooze.

  I don’t think I could’ve slept for long. I was woken by a shutter rattling irritatingly back and forth. I sat bolt upright. The wind had got up again!

  No fireman could have rushed to the scene of a fire with the speed at which I hit that beach. I literally abseiled down the steps to the waiting boards. I held up a hand in the wind – yeah right, the direction was perfect. Brilliant! I could see the surfers from the neighbouring beach already heading out to sea. Ideal conditions, by the look of it.

  They were. I had an epic afternoon. Went out much further to the left of the bay this time – I wanted to investigate the harbour side. Came across this island. Well, you could hardly call it an island really, it was hardly more than a rock. I tacked past it a couple of times to get a better look. It had a chapel with a tree beside it for shade and a minute beach – it was a wicked place.

  Rounding the island once more, I glanced back towards the shore to check my direction. Hang on. There was someone there, on my beach, stretched out on the sand. A girl. I came to the end of a tack and gybed. Yeah, a girl in a bikini, long hair. Nice! Laid out on a towel, sunbathing not far from the shack.

  What was she doing on my beach? I gybed again. Yeah, as I grew closer I could see she was definitely a babe – very nice indeed. She wasn’t looking in my direction. At least, I didn’t think so. She had sunglasses on, so it was hard to tell. I gybed again and felt convinced she was looking my way this time, which made me lose my concentration for a moment. I nearly did the most humiliating thing that can possibly happen when you’re being watched – a catapult fall. I regained my balance with an awkward wobble.

  Once I’d got my equilibrium back, I tried to get a better view of her without being too obvious, by peering through the sail window. A water-spattered sail window is fine for checking your general direction, not so hot on assessing the potential of a female. I gybed again. Nice long legs, by the look of them, and reddish hair. I felt convinced now – it must be the girl from the taverna – the one who’d laughed. But where was the other one? The older woman – her mother maybe – she’d gone off on the bus somewhere. That’s why the girl was alone.

  I gybed again. I was getting really near the shore now. Still couldn’t be sure whether or not she’d seen me. I now could make out that she had a Walkman on – she might have her eyes closed – she might even be asleep, for all I knew. I wondered how long she’d been there. She looked pretty red actually. Maybe when I got to the shore I should warn her to get out of the sun.

  I did a last gybe – I had to be really, really careful not to make a fool of myself coming into the beach – always a tricky manoeuvre. Step off too far out and you can find yourself upside down, or up to your neck. Leave it too late and you can run aground – or even break the skeg.

  I made a dream landing, although I say it myself – straight out of the book – stepped off the board really professionally. I glanced casually over to the girl to see if she was impressed.

  She’d turned over. She hadn’t even been looking.

  I had to walk past her several times as I stacked the board and stowed the rig. She was lying sunbathing face down, so I got a good look at her. Really nice body. Fabulous legs, nice smooth back, kind of modelly look about her shoulderblades. Skin not so sunburnt this side. So I didn’t really have the excuse to start up a conversation – not without admitting I’d been staring at her from the sea at any rate.

  As I locked the shack, I sneaked another glance. Lovely shiny hair. Wonder if she was such good news on the front side. She’d looked fine from out at sea but that was a long way off. I kind of willed her to turn over. But no such luck.

  I spent more time than absolutely necessary securing the boards. But she seemed intent on whatever she was listening to on that Walkman – or perhaps she’d fallen asleep again. Maybe I should wake her? What would I say? Maybe I should warn her about getting burned? Not exactly the coolest introduction. Let’s face it – did she really want to get woken up by a guy saying something as pathetic as that?

  In the end, I just left it and set off up the steps to the taverna, telling myself in no uncertain terms: ‘Forget it, Ben Bernard. That girl is gorge
ous. You don’t stand a chance in hell. She wouldn’t even want to know.’

  Chapter Six

  Stavros was standing waiting for me at the top of the steps with his arms folded. ‘Where you been?’

  ‘Not late back, am I?’ I asked innocently.

  He pointed at his watch. ‘Six o’clock. Peoples come maybe for drinkses.’

  ‘Sorry I don’t have a watch. Anyway, I can’t see anyone.’

  ‘I say maybe,’ said Stavros. ‘And I want you to go, get bread.’

  ‘Look, there was no water at lunchtime. Can’t I at least have a shower first?’

  ‘Shower, OK. Good idea,’ said Stavros. ‘Get clean up before you serve guests.’ He leant into the kitchen and handed me a bar of soap and a clean but worn towel.

  ‘So where’s the bathroom?’ I asked.

  He beckoned to me to follow him and led me down a concrete path between the vines. At the end of the path there was a building that had the unmistakable architectural style of an outdoor khazi. It had some sort of tank on the roof, and a hose leading from it disappeared through the gap above the doorway.

  ‘In there,’ he said.

  I was dead right in my identification. It was a lavatory – one of those ingeniously economical Greek ones – a ceramic tray with two worn boot shapes indicating where your feet should go, and an evil smelling hole in between. The ‘shower’ was another masterpiece of economy. When you took the bung out of the end of the hose, water from the tank above shot out all over your body.

  It took a few minutes to master the intricacies of the plumbing. Bung out for water – which was scalding hot incidentally (the sun had been on the tank all day). Bung in: soap body and head. Bung out again: wash off soap. All this was done in a flash and the ‘bathroom’ was sluiced out – all at the same time.

  I emerged into the open again, towelling myself down. I could see plenty of advantages from Stavros’ point of view. As a staff cleansing system it was economical on time, too – showering was not something I was going to take long over.

  However, I did feel a lot happier once I was dry and clothed again. I decided to give shaving a miss for another day – in fact, in the absence of a razor I didn’t have much choice in the matter.