Looking for the Durrells

by Melanie Hewitt

  He would have preferred to stay on the boat, as small talk wasn’t his forte, but something about this Englishwoman’s confidence reminded him of Sally, and for the first time in ages that felt like something he could deal with.

  Alicia’s friends seemed like a nice bunch of people, all old school friends, and their holiday was a kind of reunion. As they’d left Antiopi that evening Dimitris had been sorry to see them go, and then Alicia had turned back and handed him a piece of paper on which she’d hastily written her mobile number.

  ‘We’re having dinner tomorrow night at the Rex in town. Come along. As you know, we don’t bite, even when we’ve had a few glasses of wine.’ She’d kissed him very lightly on the cheek, touched his hand as she turned, then left.

  A few hours later on the harbourside in the first light of a Monday morning, he remained undecided about whether to join Alicia and her friends. She was a very attractive girl, full of fun, and her friends were pleasant and good company, but he’d avoided socializing, staying away from gatherings, even within his wider group of childhood friends, and had forgotten how it felt to be with people. In a conscious attempt to remove himself in every possible way from any connection with the lifestyle he’d had in London, Dimitris had turned keeping himself to himself into an art form.

  Apart from his father, Nic, Tess, Theo, Spiro and an old school friend, Niko, and his family in Corfu Town, Dimitris inhabited a very small circle, expanded only by casual acquaintances, who knew him by sight or had known him since he was a boy.

  It was almost as though he considered any deeper connections, let alone relationships, an unwelcome intrusion. In some ways it came down to simple maths: the fewer people he knew or welcomed into his world, the less chance there was of being hurt, or hurting others – or being distracted, unless it was clear from the start that the connection was only temporary, had no chance of developing into something deeper.

  Old friends from Italy and London appeared for the occasional holiday, the most recent being Pamela, the woman Penny had seen him with in Corfu Town and the Athena. Catching up with her had been an easy and pleasurable encounter, but had also convinced him that although he was pleased to keep in touch, he didn’t miss his previous life.

  The second woman occupying his attention was the English girl, Penny, who always seemed to be in the Athena, painting or chatting to Tess. He found it unusual for someone of her age to be on her own: women her age often came in pairs, as part of a group, or with a boyfriend.

  Surely, he thought, she hadn’t chosen to be on her own for this trip? For someone who was en route to perfecting the art of solitude, Dimitris ironically couldn’t understand why someone else would choose to be alone.

  He paused, deep in thought. There was something about her that was . . . He stepped onto the boat, holding the heavy oil-stained rope that secured the boat to the harbourside ironwork, and struggled to think of the word. Then it came: different. She was unusual. Not alluring or sexy in a way that hit you when she walked into a room, but he had still noticed her the moment he saw her. She was a pretty girl – prettier than she probably acknowledged herself – and she dressed in an interesting way. Tess had said she was an artist, which maybe explained the floaty dresses and quirky hat. Whatever it was, he felt drawn towards her.

  He’d already begun to notice that he looked for her when he arrived at the Athena, which had surprised him. Where had that come from? Why was he even thinking about her? Giving anyone space in his head, allowing himself to let life in all its glorious, random messiness back in, was not part of his plan.

  The Dora wasn’t in the harbour when Penny wandered past. Shielding her eyes, she looked across at the horizon towards the island of Paxos, shimmering, elusive, inviting. The sea looked calm, set fair for another day of uninterrupted sunshine.

  Removing her sandals as she reached the beach, she carried on walking towards the sea, lifting her face towards the sun, her skin glowing and the gentlest of breezes lifting strands of hair from her forehead.

  ‘If you’re out there, dear gods, and you’re not feeling vengeful or mardy today, give me a sign,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Tell me what I should do about Bruce. Why is he calling me? If I ignore him, will it make it worse? What do you think?’

  Her gut instinct the night before had been to let the mobile ring until silence was restored, with the reassuring chirp of the cicadas dominating the soundscape. Then as she’d reached the apartment the buzz from her phone told her she had another voicemail.

  She had listened to the message sitting quietly on the balcony, staring up at the stars. ‘You have one new message.’ She put the phone on the table as though it was too hot to hold, as Bruce’s message filled the air:

  ‘Penny, it’s me. I hope you got my last message.’ There was a moment’s pause. ‘I really wanted to talk to you. How are you? I’m coming back to the UK next week and I wondered if we could meet up. It’d be good to see you, but call me, please. Take care, Penny.’

  The tone of his voice as he said ‘Take care, Penny’ was soft and, for Bruce, usually so confident and assured, a little uncertain.

  As she relived the call, weighing each word, and reading many meanings into each sentence, she felt her natural curiosity kick in. Why had he rung? Why now? Why did he want to see her? Why call from Italy . . . again? Couldn’t it have waited? He could have rung her once he got back to the UK. If he was talking about them meeting in England next week then he clearly expected her to be at home by then.

  The elephant in the room was whether or not she responded to the message – and how.

  As she sat on the sands, elbows resting on her knees, her head naturally fell into her hands. Whether it was in her own head or from beyond, a voice told her, ‘This can wait. You don’t have to do anything right now. The answer will come. All is well.’

  Chapter 22

  Guy and Rich had arrived early that morning at the airport, ready to greet passengers from two flights that had landed five minutes apart. They were both a little weary, having stretched their day into the early hours in Corfu Town. Once the new arrivals found their way onto the coaches, Rich and Guy separated: one headed to Kavos; the other to St George South.

  Rich grinned to himself. They’d tossed a coin to see which bus each would take, and he’d won St George South. He wanted to see Lily, catch a glimpse of her as he helped the passengers disembark and settled them into their accommodation.

  He realized that Lily hadn’t shared something with them the day before – namely, why she wasn’t going back to university – and he wanted to know. Lily had clearly shared something with Penny, and it was fine if she didn’t want to say anything else; but genuine concern filled his mind. He didn’t like to think that she was unhappy. It unsettled him more than he would have expected.

  As the passengers adjusted to the heat, with the usual postflight relief of landing and excitement about their holiday beginning to start, Rich handed out the Greektime maps and leaflets. After the welcome chat, including the itinerary for hotel stops, he nodded to Aeneas, the driver, and they set off along the southbound coastal road.

  Guy couldn’t wait to get to Kavos. The bus was full and the chatter loud. Most of those on their way to the southern tip of the island were Guy’s age or a few years older.

  They had a week – or if lucky, two – to eat, drink, sunbathe, swim, read, sleep . . . or not . . . and repeat each day. Feeling fragile after a late night, Guy couldn’t shake off his tiredness that morning. The banter and bustle of the new arrivals normally energized him as the life and soul of the party, the rep with all the answers, who knew where everything was, including where to go and where not to go.

  If he thought about it – he didn’t want to, but it kept coming back like an ear worm – the trip to Kanoni and Penny’s story about why she was here had strangely disturbed him.

  The fact that there was also something up with Lily had made him think: she seemed so bright and upbeat, but everything wasn’t as
it seemed. She wasn’t going back to uni for her final year and that was a big decision to make. Concern, as well as curiosity, made him want to know why she’d made that choice.

  Yesterday’s trip had also reminded him in some ways of what family felt like: a day out with people you liked and wanted to be with; a day when he’d had the chance to be the organizer, to share his local knowledge, such as the baklava at Benitses.

  That sharing, collective enjoyment of a moment was something he realized he missed at home, or at least with his father and Lucy. The word ‘home’ had so many connotations and attachments.

  He missed the time before, when his parents had been together. The after formed a void, and those few hours – an excursion in a car, a shared meal, the baklava, the boat trip to Mouse Island – had brought back a wave of what had been.

  There was no point in reminding himself. He needed to grow up and crack on.

  Finally, at Kavos, he helped the driver pull the luggage from the side of the coach. Guy grabbed hold of a large cream-coloured holdall with a bright yellow ribbon tied around the handle.

  A girl came forward, and held out her right hand tentatively. ‘That’s mine. Thank you.’ As he handed her the bag Guy felt the weight of it and was conscious of the small hands and stature of the red-haired girl. It was almost as big as her, he thought.

  She swung it stoically to one side, her small frame lopsided now, her hair like a golden red curtain falling on one shoulder. She looked strong and determined, even in the execution of this mundane task. She rejoined her friend, who was as tall as she was short. The tall girl bent down to her short Titian-haired pal and whispered something. The red girl shook her head, then looked back at Guy.

  Suddenly she reappeared. ‘Are all the details about the excursions and buses and places to visit in the leaflets?’ She looked up at him and before he could answer, asked, ‘Will you be at the welcome meeting this afternoon? Is that part of what you do?’

  She sounded earnest and a little gauche, as though she’d never been abroad before. Maybe it was her first time abroad without her parents.

  ‘Yes, for my sins, it’s part of what I do,’ Guy responded, disarmed by the sincerity and tone of her question, so different from the self-confident and frequently cheeky, flirtatious approach he was used to.

  ‘Thank you.’ The grey eyes that met his had an almost melancholy look that was offset by a wide and generous smile.

  ‘You’re welcome. What did you say your name was?’

  ‘I didn’t, but I’m Faith.’

  She extended her hand for Guy to shake.

  Chapter 23

  In times of doubt, anxiety or sadness there were two things that Penny had always turned to: books and painting. Never in her thirty-three years had they let her down, even during the heaviest of days when she couldn’t focus on the words or the work in front of her, when tears had dropped onto the pages, blurring her vision or the paint.

  So, as she left the beach, her mind quietened by the answer she felt she’d just had from the gods, as well as her paints, she also had her copy of Gerry Durrell’s Corfu Trilogy, well-thumbed and slightly grubby now. She hoped the powerful combination of these items would lift her today and give her some perspective on Bruce’s voicemail.

  She almost felt sorry for him. Even his faults, unkindness, and inherent selfishness did not exclude him from her instinctive goodwill to all things.

  First things first though. Breakfast.

  Greek yogurt in all its creamy glory was never more glorious than when accompanied by dark, Greek pine honey, not as rare as the lighter-coloured thyme variety, but a deep amber colour with a taste that delighted time and time again. Penny was resisting the temptation to lift the bowl and lick the sticky residue from the glass bowl, when Spiro appeared at her side with a small dish of strawberries.

  ‘For you, from me and Anna.’ He placed the bowl on the table and then to Penny’s surprise and delight, sat down. ‘It’s good, isn’t it? The honey?’

  Penny smiled, wondering for just a microsecond if he’d guessed she was thinking about licking the bowl. ‘Everything’s good.’

  ‘Tess tells me you’re here because of the Durrell family and their story on Corfu.’

  ‘Yes. They sort of pulled me here. I’ve wanted to come for a long time.’

  ‘So, was it the book? The family and animals’ book? Did you read it and think, that island sounds amazing, I must go there?’ he teased her kindly.

  ‘I did.’ She smiled back.

  ‘My home, the Corfu I know, lives in those pages,’ Spiro said. ‘It’s changed in some places, but Corfu is still here, still beautiful.’

  ‘It is very beautiful,’ Penny agreed. ‘I thought I knew what it would be like before I came here, but I couldn’t have imagined this.’ Penny looked at Paxos on the far horizon across the sea.

  ‘Tess said that you met Gerald Durrell.’ Penny hoped Spiro wouldn’t mind her bringing it up.

  ‘I did, a long time ago. I was very young, about 18, I think, and I saw the two brothers, Gerald and Lawrence in the 1960s.’

  Penny couldn’t conceal her excitement. This was a connection, however small, she hadn’t expected – meeting someone who had seen and met members of the family.

  ‘I was working in a small bar in town, in the old town just around the corner from Arseniou. I think they were staying in a house there. I’m not sure.’

  ‘Which bar?’ Penny asked as Lily placed two coffees on the table.

  ‘The bar? It was just around the corner from the Liston, but it’s not there any more. I think there’s a jewellery shop in the building now. It was small, a little dark inside, and so better to sit outside.

  ‘They came on a few nights. I didn’t know at first who they were, but Nico, my boss, did. He asked them to sign a piece of paper, which I think he framed. They didn’t look like brothers. The younger, Gerald, was very tall. Lawrence was small.’

  ‘Were they nice?’ Penny knew this was probably the blandest and most insipid question to ask, but it just came out. She needed to hear good things about the people she’d grown so fond of over two decades, while also acknowledging their likely human failings, faults, and frailties – the essence of their humanity. When people spoke about the Durrells, it felt as though they were speaking about her own family.

  Spiro continued. ‘I didn’t have much conversation with them. I was serving drinks. But one thing I did notice was that Gerald Durrell looked at his brother with affection and respect . . . looked up to him, I think. I observed this before I knew who they were. My friend Stavros told me they were famous writers. I learned later that both of them had written about Corfu and lived here before the war. They were here for a holiday, staying in a house on Arseniou that belonged to a relative of Mr Stephanides.’

  ‘Theo Stephanides?’

  ‘Yes, the famous Theo.’ Spiro smiled. ‘Please don’t tell him, but our Nic – you’ve met Nic, haven’t you?’ Penny nodded. ‘He reminds me of Mr Stephanides: his interest in the land, the plants, the sea, and all the creatures. It’s what he teaches in Athens too, at the university . . . marine biology.

  ‘There’s no more I can really tell you, Penny. There are still others here who knew them well, who might have bigger stories to tell.’ Spiro drained his coffee cup.

  ‘It’s enough to be sitting here listening to someone who met them,’ Penny said. ‘Believe me, this is a highlight of my stay so far, Spiro. I love hearing about them being here. It makes it all real somehow.’ Penny wasn’t sure why she felt so emotional. Perhaps because Spiro was older and reminded her of her father.

  ‘You are very welcome. One note of caution: if you come across a rogue called Yannis while you’re here, don’t believe a word he says. I’ve heard him tell everyone so many untrue tales about the Durrells, Roger Moore, the old king, even Empress Sisi. He means no harm, but gets carried away because his grandmother knew someone, who knew someone, who knew Spiro Halikiopoulos . . . you know, the g
reat friend of the Durrells, Spiro Americano. His family still lives here by the way. When they filmed the TV series here last year, Yannis was a menace.’

  Spiro stood up and patted Penny’s hand. ‘Tess tells me you’re planning a trip up the coast with Dimitris. Now, he knows many true stories. I know he seems quiet, distant sometimes, and that wasn’t always so, but when you’re on the boat to Kalami, ask him what he knows.’

  ‘I will,’ said Penny, wishing that she could ask him more about Dimitris and what he had been like before the distance and detachment.

  Chapter 24

  Spiro was wise, warm, full of careworn empathy. For a few minutes Penny stepped wholly and willingly into a new world that waited on the other side of her grief, her focus on what Spiro had related. Her stomach felt heavy, as thoughts of Bruce hovered once again, waiting to land, as the time they had discussed having children forced its way to the front of the queue.

  He had said, ‘Yes, at some point,’ rather than being enthusiastic, and had quickly changed the subject. At the time, she’d thought he was caught up in the moment of being newly engaged and their plans for living together, rather than it being any indicator of his feelings about parenthood.

  She couldn’t pin down the exact moment she’d stopped feeling warm or confident about the idea of Bruce being a dad, but there must have been one. His impatience had been a key factor, followed by the realization that his impatience was primarily with anything or anyone that stood between Bruce and what Bruce wanted to do.

  He could be charming and there had been friends who’d been bemused when she’d shared the news about their separation. ‘Bruce? The tall, Heathcliff-clone Bruce? The handsome one?’ She’d heard someone say once, ‘Handsome is as handsome does’, but she’d never really known what that meant.