by Anne Hampson
It was very difficult to be natural with Adam when he arrived at the flat at five-thirty that afternoon. He had tried to get back earlier, so as to spend the afternoon with her, but had phoned to say it was impossible.
Jill was glad; it gave her more time for considering her problem and making her decision.
If she left, then undoubtedly Mrs. Doxaros would be heartbroken; if she stayed, her faith in her son and daughter-in-law would be shattered.
After a nightmare period of mind-searching, of making decisions and then almost immediately breaking them, Jill felt drained and mentally weakened by the time Adam arrived, but she did somehow manage to appear happy. At any rate, he obviously did not notice anything, because he asked no questions of her, except, of course, about what she had been doing with her day.
'Looking around the city,' she lied. 'Athens is a place to linger and poke about and explore. I never ever get tired of it.' His gaze was strange, unfathomable. 'There's no doubt that you are really taken with the city.'
She nodded. 'Yes, Adam. I certainly am. It was a wonderful experience. I was lucky.'
'You talk as if it were all in the past.' Again that strange look in his eyes, that unreadable expression.
Jill said nothing, but she was thinking that it very soon would be in the past, for her decision was made: she would leave, choosing what she believed was the lesser of two evils. At least Mrs. Doxaros would have nothing against her son. That she would be thoroughly disillusioned with her daughter-in-law was excruciatingly painful to Jill, but there was no alternative. She had her plan made already: she would go from the flat tomorrow, while Adam was out, -leaving a note to say that she wanted to be with Gilbert and so she was going back on her word. That was all, until the divorce. She marvelled at the calm way in which the decision had come to her, only moments ago, and now as she chatted to Adam while they sat over a cup of tea brought to them on the balcony by Charon, she was in a state of mental lethargy in which nothing mattered anymore, and nothing hurt. It was a sort of sensation akin to delayed shock, she thought, fully prepared for the reaction which must inevitably follow later.
But for the present her manner was natural, and when later they were ready to go in the car to pick up his mother, she was strangely insensible to anything but the prospect of the drive, and the actual meeting with her mother-in-law could not be visualised, no matter how hard she tried.
It was just as they were about to leave the flat that the phone rang. Adam answered it, returning to the sitting room with the information that his mother had been persuaded to stay another night.
'Is she all right?' asked Jill anxiously.
'Yes, she's fine. She just wanted to have another night with them, and all day tomorrow. We leave the following morning for home.'
The following morning she would not be here.... 'So I won't see your mother tonight, then?' Only as the question was being voiced did Jill realise how absurd it was. Adam was staring at her in some puzzlement, and she went slightly red.
'Of course I won't,' she murmured, feeling exceedingly foolish. But that was nothing compared to the weight of misery she carried within her. To have everything ended already was something she had never quite foreseen, not so soon. At one time she had wished her mother-in-law would live for many years yet, just so that she and Adam could be together. Well, Mrs. Doxaros might live for years, but she, Jill, would not be here. Tears were tight and painful behind her eyes, but she contrived to prevent them from falling. She heard her husband say, 'I think we'll dine out this evening, then. I'll tell Rita not to continue with the meal she's preparing.' They dined at a taverna in the Plaka, the oldest quarter of modern Athens, nestling beneath the ramparts of the Acropolis, its narrow streets and lanes lined with quaint single-or double-storied houses, many of which had small gardens or courtyards, but almost all of which had been turned into tavernas, nightclubs or bars. Bouzouki music drifted out from almost every one of them to entertain the passersby, both local and foreign. High above the carnival of nightlife rose the sacred temples of the Acropolis, magnificent against the dark dome of a Grecian sky.
By common consent they later made their way to the point through which, if one were familiar with the area, access to the ancient site could be made without entering through the turnstile. It was a region of gardens and rough ground, with wild vegetation growing on the hard, rain-thirsty land. As they wandered through it, the clouds parted to let the brilliant ball of the moon through, its light positive, intense, and to Jill, caught in a web of magic as she invariably was in this incredible city-and much more so now that she had Adam with her-the light was deeply disturbing; she was physically sensible to its mystic glow upon the sacred precincts, highlighting their beauty, seeming to dissolve all the centuries between. She was suddenly living in the Golden Age of Athens, when, every fourth year, there was held the great Panathenaic Procession, when, in a magnificent model ship, there would be carried the goddess Athena's new robe, which would be borne aloft in the mighty procession as the ship's sail. Kores would carry offerings of flowers to the goddess, and athletes the olive branches they had won in the Panathenaic Games. Then these maidens and men would stand aside while shepherds led in garlanded animals to be offered as sacrifices to Athena, whose forty-foot- high statue, fashioned by Phidias in gold and ivory, stood in the stately Parthenon, the most famous and beautiful building in the whole of the Western world. 'Where are your thoughts, Jill?'
Adam's voice recalled her to the present, but for a moment she did not answer him, because she was half-wishing he had not disturbed her fanciful visions, her return to the city's glorious past. But eventually she said, 'I was dreaming, Adam, of the past, and imagining I was there at the Panathenaic Procession, watching it all. What a glorious history your country has!'
'Pagan history?'
'Oh, I have read much more than the mythology,' she returned, with a promptness that made him smile.
'You love this city-most certainly you do.' There was something arresting in his voice, and his footsteps were slowing down. 'Yes,' she quivered, 'I do love it. I'm sure there is no city in the world to compare with it for beauty and the fascination of its past.'
He paused a moment, thoughtfully. 'It all depends on your particular likes and dislikes. There are many beautiful cities in the world, Jill. You have not travelled much, remember.'
'I shall love Athens best, no matter how much I travel.' Adam made no comment on that; and in any case he had stopped and his arms were spanning her waist, his dark eyes fixed on her upturned face.
She forced a smile to eyes that were ready to cry, for she was carrying the heavy weight of utter despair in her heart.
Little did he know that she was treasuring every moment of this interlude with him, storing up memories to help her through the lonely years ahead, for she now knew not only that she would never marry Gilbert, but that she would never marry any other man. Adam had all the love in her heart, and so she had little to give to anyone else.
He bent his head, taking her softly parted lips beneath his own, his manner carrying all the familiar male arrogance and mastery she knew so well, and yet, somehow, he seemed almost tender with her as his hands caressed her lovely body, his fingers moving slowly as if he would prolong the exploration, savouring every delightful moment. She quivered against him, her arms curling around his neck. If only this night could go on forever, she thought, the terrible weight of misery coiled completely round her heart. But tomorrow would be another day ... and a new life beginning for her.... Jill broke a window in order to get into the villa, then she went straight out and bought a new lock, which she had no difficulty in attaching herself. Although the villa had been -well taken care of, Jill found it bleak and depressing the moment she entered it, and it seemed impossible that she had been so thrilled with it when she bought it and started to furnish it, partly with things she had shipped over from England, and partly with things she bought in Athens.
It seemed dark and bleak and unfriend
ly, yet she knew that the impression was only the result of the way she was feeling-lost and lonely and desperately unhappy. What would Adam think of her, breaking her word like that? He had broken his word, too, but, strangely, that appeared of minor importance compared to what she had done.
If only she could have explained, given him a reason other than the one she had, which was not only untrue but also weak in the extreme.
She had tried to find some better way of wording her letter to him, but in the end had given up, feeling that it could not matter anyway.
She and Adam would never meet again, so it did not really matter what he thought of her. Theirs had been a business deal, a contract which she had broken. That his mother would suffer was certain, and Jill shirked the added misery of thinking about it, determinedly putting it from her mind. Now and then, though, it filtered into her thoughts, and she would sit down and weep because it was all wrong that, after being made so happy, Mrs. Doxaros should then have that happiness taken from her so soon. Inevitably, Gilbert entered her thoughts, and she decided to phone the cafeneion where they had first met. The proprietor would convey a message to him, asking him to phone her here at the villa. She would then be frank with him and say that she wanted to put an end to their affair. But after she tried several times to get through and failed, she eventually gave up, deciding to try again the following day, which she did, with the same result.
Wondering if the telephone-directory people had given her the wrong number, she phoned them again and received the information that the telephone at the cafe had recently been removed. So that was that. Gilbert would never know what had happened, simply because she did not have his address and, therefore, was unable to write to him.
A week went by, and then another two days, with Jill's misery increasing all the time. She felt that if only she had all her possessions with her she would feel better, but she could hardly tell Adam where to send them. To add to her misery was her state of indecision, for she could not make up her mind what to do.
Much as she adored Athens, she felt that she could not stay either here or anywhere else in Greece. Yet if she returned to England, she would have to begin all over again, looking for a place to live-and she knew that, inflation being what it was, she would have to settle for a flat rather than a house. She detested flats and having to tolerate other people's noise and often unwanted neighbourliness. In a house she would have complete privacy, as she had here, in her little villa. She went out to see an estate agent, asking how much it would fetch; it was too small for a family, he said, and had no need to add that most Greeks had large families.
'There are very few other people who want such a small place,' he added finally, and was so indifferent that Jill left his office immediately, resigned to getting very little for the villa if she did decide to sell it.
She bought all the newspapers, scanning the appropriate columns, seeking a job, but there was nothing, and she even went back to the travel agency to see if they were in need of an assistant, but they had no vacancies.
What must she do? There seemed to be no substance in her thoughts or ideas; she was like a ship without a rudder, floundering in strange waters, fearful of the future. She thought of her sister and the possibility of asking to be temporarily accommodated in the flat she shared with her friend. But this was soon rejected, for Susie would be bound to jeer and say it served Jill right for marrying Adam. At last Jill went out to the shops to get herself something to eat; it was a physical diversion, but not a mental one, as she had hoped, for she carried her problems with her, and when at last she was coming back and was in sight of the pretty little villa, with its bougainvillaea and poinsettia, its flaring hibiscus bush, and the exotic flowers she had planted when she took possession of the house, she was actually crying, the hot tears rolling unchecked down her cheeks. Several cars were, as usual, parked along the road, their owners having gone into the taverna for a drink or a snack of kebabs or other Greek food.
It was the sight of one particular car that held her attention, for although it was not the same make as the one used in her abduction, it somehow reminded her of that terrifying experience, and automatically her pace slowed, and she proceeded very cautiously, wondering if she would see someone sitting in the car. But there was no one, and she didn't really know why she should have been so apprehensive, since history wasn't likely to repeat itself. As she drew closer to the car, she saw the name of a hire company in the rear window and concluded that a tourist had parked the car there.
She opened the gate and went in, closing it behind her. The narrow path to the villa required weeding, she thought; and decided to do it after she had had a bit of lunch. On reaching the front door, she suddenly froze, nerves prickling, icy fingers running along her spine.
Someone had been in the house, for the door was not quite closed. A burglar! ... And he might still be inside. Turning, she dropped the shopping bag and started to run back along the path.
'Jill!' The imperious, accented voice halted her with the efficiency of a lasso looped around her body.
'Adam ...' She scarcely heard herself utter the name, yet she added, in the same whispered tone, 'What ... what is ... is he d-doing here?' He was on the step, too tall for the roof of the tiny porch, too overpowering for the house itself. Jill, her legs nerveless and weak, her heart pounding against her ribs, was quite unable to move, and she just stood there, every vestige of colour leaving her face. Would he murder her? she thought, trying vainly to drag her eyes from the dark fury of his face. It was rigidly set, but his mouth was twisted, and Jill felt she would never witness such pagan wrath again in the whole of her life.
But even when he advanced purposefully toward her, she was unable to move. Instead, she started to cry, so overwrought were her nerves. 'Why have you ... have you come?' she faltered as he drew closer to her. 'If it's—'
'I've come to take my wife home.' He thumbed toward the open door. 'Inside,' he ordered roughly. 'What the devil do you mean by trying to run away again?'
'I th-thought you were a ... burglar,' she quavered, lifting a trembling hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks. 'How did you get in?'
'You left the back door unlocked.' He paused, staring at her. 'I was standing by the window. I thought you'd seen me.' Feebly she shook her head. 'No,' was all she managed as she walked beside him along the path, her nerves really playing her up now, and no sooner had she entered the house and the door closed behind her than she put her face in, her hands and wept bitterly into them. But they were pulled away and held within the warm strength of his, and when at length she was sufficiently composed to look up, a little gasp of disbelief escaped her at the miraculous change in his expression.
'Adam,' she faltered, her body feeling drained and numbed by the relief that swept over her, for she had been sure he would do her a physical injury. 'Adam,' she whispered again, 'aren't you angry with me?' To her surprise, he made no answer, and she said, repeating the question she had already asked, 'Why have you come?'
'I've just told you, to take my wife home.'
You can't—you don't understand,' she cried frantically. 'Your mother-she's ill because of me, but—'
'Mother,' he broke in softly, 'is dead and buried.' The words came slowly, and the last remnants of his anger were erased by pain, his lips actually moving convulsively, out of control, as was the rapid pulsation of a nerve in his throat. Jill's eyes dilated.
'Dead....' She pulled her hands from his, then had to hold onto a chair for support. 'Oh, no, I killed her, and yet what could I do-?'
'Mother never knew you'd left me,' broke in her husband gently. 'She had a heart attack and died instantly, at the home of her friends.'
'She never knew ...?' Relief battled with several other emotions, and then suddenly her brain refused to function because she was over-taxing it with too many questions at once. But she did eventually manage to say, her tones husky with emotion and regret,
'I'm so sorry, Adam. She was such a wonderf
ul person, and I'm grateful that she liked me.' Her eyes were lifted to his, glistening with tears, all else forgotten except the sad fact that Mrs. Doxaros was dead.
'It was for the best, under the circumstances,' he returned, and now a harsh note had entered his voice. 'Had she lived, and known you had left me. ..' He broke off, frowning, as if impatient with himself for mentioning that which no longer mattered. 'Jill, why didn't you come to me, dear, instead of running away like that?'
'I couldn't-you don't understand. . . .' Her voice trailed off to a bewildered silence because it had suddenly occurred to her that there was something here that she did not understand. 'You j-just called me 'dear. .'' She stopped, feeling foolish. Faintly, he smiled, and reached for her hand. 'I love you, darling; that's the first and most important thing I have to say-No, dearest, please don't interrupt, even though a dozen questions are on your tongue. Let me go on, and you'll soon understand everything.'
For a silent moment he held her close to his heart, but then he led her to the sofa and they sat close together while he talked. Listening as carefully as her chaotic thoughts would allow, Jill learned that Adam had scarcely finished reading her note; when the phone rang and he was told that his mother was dead. She had collapsed and died within a few seconds, suffering no pain at all. Adam then said that if he had known Jill was at the villa he would certainly have come to retrieve her immediately, before anything, but as she had mentioned Gilbert in her note, his natural conclusion was that she had taken a ferry back to Corina. His mother had asked to be buried on the island, and while he dealt with the problems of transportation and the funeral, he also had men out looking for Jill, but none of them could find her. Then, almost immediately after the funeral, Gilbert had arrived at the villa asking for Jill.
'You can imagine my astonishment,' Adam went on, looking at his wife now as if he would like to give her a sound shaking. 'It was obvious that you weren't on the island, that Gilbert had nothing to do with your going away and that the note you left me was a lie to cover up something else altogether. I sent Gilbert off with the information that you were my wife and would stay my wife.'
