by Hilary Green
Stephen felt the same tingle down his spine that he had experienced when meeting Warrender. Could this be a set-up? Or was it just a genuine coincidence?
‘Business not good, then?’ he hazarded.
‘Oh, business is fine. No, it’s not that. Our daughter’s expecting her first kid and she’s on her own. Her fella went off and left her as soon as he knew she was pregnant, the bastard! So she needs some help with the baby so she can go back to work. We don’t want to leave here but it looks as if we shall have to.’
Outside, while they sipped their drinks and waited for the Greek salads he had ordered, Stephen said, ‘This is good, isn’t it?’
‘Mm!’ Laura agreed. ‘Bliss!’
‘How would you fancy living here permanently?’
She laughed. ‘Join the lotus eaters? Chance’d be a fine thing.’
‘We could do it.’
‘Oh yes? And live on thin air, I suppose.’
‘No, I’m serious. The people who recruited me, they’re a sort of agency for several papers and they want someone out here on a semi-permanent basis. The job’s mine if I want it.’
She frowned at him. ‘Is that what all this has been about? Bring me here, get me hooked on the place, before you come out with the full story?’
‘Not exactly,’ he mumbled. ‘I told them I couldn’t take the job unless you agreed, so they suggested we came on holiday to see how you like it.’
‘And they are offering you the job on the strength of work you did six, seven or more years ago?’
‘Partly. But mainly because I know the place and speak the language. Anyway, what do you think?’
‘Well, I can see the attraction for you, but what am I supposed to do all day?’
‘Ah, well, I was coming to that. The writing job probably won’t pay enough to keep us on its own, so I was thinking we might buy a small business of some kind. We could run it together.’ He leaned forward. ‘Think about it, Laura. You know things weren’t going well for us back in England. You hated being at home with no one but Cressida but you find it too much of a strain working and looking after her. This way, we’d both be around, and she wouldn’t have to go to a childminder. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?’ He knew he was being duplicitous but he told himself that, whatever his motives, there was truth in what he was saying.
Laura gazed out at the Mediterranean glittering in the distance. Then she turned back to him. ‘And what sort of business did you have in mind?’
He could not suppress a grin. ‘Ah, well, that’s the point. The couple who own this place are English. I got chatting while I was ordering the lunch. They want to go home to be with their daughter, who is expecting a baby, so they want to sell up.’
She stared at him. ‘You’re not serious, are you? My God! You are serious! Stephen, you are a recovering alcoholic – and you are thinking of buying a pub!’
He was momentarily taken aback. The contradiction had not even occurred to him. ‘But I’m past all that. You know I haven’t touched a drop for five years. Look, if I can watch you working your way through a bottle of wine without feeling the slightest temptation, doesn’t that prove it? If anyone has a problem with the amount of alcohol they consume, it isn’t me!’
Their eyes met and he realized he had shocked them both. He was suddenly aware that Laura’s drinking had been worrying him at a subconscious level but he had refused to acknowledge it.
After a pause Laura said briskly, ‘Don’t be silly! That was just a way of relaxing after a hard day. I haven’t had more than the odd glass with my dinner since we’ve been out here.’
‘Exactly!’ he said. ‘That’s just the point I’m trying to make.’
‘And if we were to buy this place, how are we supposed to pay for it?’
‘That wouldn’t be a problem. Our house in Croydon would fetch more than enough to cover it. Think what we would be going back to. Strikes, rampant inflation – and winter’s on its way.’ He waved a hand in the direction of the view. ‘Just imagine waking up to this every morning, picking your own oranges and lemons and figs, no more rush-hour traffic, no more struggling to keep order with 4C. And Cressida’s happier here, too. Now you are so much more relaxed, so is she. Look at her now.’
Cressida was sitting on the steps leading down from the terrace, absorbed in the activities of a small colony of ants.
‘But that’s another thing,’ Laura said. ‘What about her education?’
‘She’s not due to start school for a year yet. And she’ll soon pick up Greek. It’s supposed to be good for children’s general intelligence to learn to speak another language.’ He reached across and took Laura’s hand. ‘I’m only suggesting we try it. Why don’t we give it a year, and see how it goes.’
He was not sure, even as he spoke, why it was so important to him that she should agree. It had to do with saving their marriage, certainly, and with re-starting his own career. But there was something else; a visceral urgency that he felt but could not fully explain. The island had him in its thrall and he knew he must stay.
A plump, grey-haired woman, who looked like the feminine equivalent of the man behind the bar, came out of the house with the salads.
Laura said, ‘My husband tells me you want to sell up.’
The woman sighed. ‘Yes, sadly. It’ll break our hearts to leave. We’ve really loved it here. But we’re needed at home, so that’s that.’
They chatted for a while about life on the island, and the business of running the bar. When the woman had left them to eat their lunch, Laura looked up at the name on the board above the central arch.
‘What’s this place called? You know I can’t read Greek.’
He looked at the sign for the first time and laughed. ‘It’s called the Café Anonymou – the nameless café.’
Laura wrinkled her nose. ‘That’s rather sad. It sounds as though someone ought to adopt it and give it a name.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘OK, I agree. Provided the business checks out and is as good as they say, and they don’t want a silly price for it. I’m probably mad but let’s give it a go.’
PART THREE
THE TURKISH REPUBLIC OF NORTHERN CYPRUS, 1998
CHAPTER 7
‘Miss Allenby?’
I look up from my guidebook and my breakfast coffee, prepared to be irritated by the interruption. As I focus on the speaker, annoyance is replaced by a visceral twinge of appreciation. He is young – well, youngish – a few years older than me. Mid-thirties perhaps. He is taller than most of the local men, but dark haired and olive skinned like them, with a lean, athletic figure. It is the eyes that hold my attention: heavy lidded, with a direct, brooding gaze, under arched brows.
He smiles. ‘Forgive me for interrupting your breakfast. My name is Karim Mezeli. The hotel employs me to take parties to visit some of the ancient sites on the island. We’re about to leave for the temple of Aphrodite. Would you care to join us?’
My initial irritation returns. So that’s it. Just another local touting for business. I shake my head. ‘Thank you, no. I have other plans for today.’
He bends his head in a gesture that is almost courtly. ‘A pity. Another time, perhaps? The island has a fascinating history.’
‘Yes, I know.’ For a moment I am tempted to pursue the conversation, but I restrain the impulse. ‘Yes, another time, perhaps.’ It was not what I intended to say.
He nods again. ‘I shall look forward to it.’
I watch him move away towards the foyer, where he is immediately surrounded by a gaggle of enthusiastic tourists. I have a general impression of men with beards and baggy shorts and women in floral dresses that expose too much sagging flesh. With his dark eyes and strong, aquiline nose, he looks like a bird of prey among pigeons.
I feel a chill of dismay. Perhaps this whole holiday is going to turn out to be a mistake. ‘It was your choice,’ I remind myself. ‘You could have gone to Corfu with the rest of the girls.’
It is true. I remember Sue insi
sting, in her usual bossy I-know-what’s-best-for-you voice, ‘You’ve had a rough time lately, what with your mother’s illness and the funeral and everything. What you need is a break, a chance to get away from it all and have fun.’
The trouble was, Sue’s idea of fun was the last thing I felt I needed at that moment. Baking on the beach all day and plunging into the stifling cacophony of a nightclub each evening has lost its appeal. I’ve had enough of the effort to repel the attentions of sweaty-handed men looking for a one-night stand and of waking in the morning to the bitter flavour of solitude and too much alcohol. Perhaps I’ve grown out of it. Perhaps I’m growing up. Perhaps I’m getting old!
But the doctor who had looked after Mother told me I ought to take a holiday. ‘You look worn out,’ he said. ‘You need a rest.’ Yes, that’s it. Above all else I wanted a rest. I can’t remember ever before feeling so completely exhausted. And when I found the photographs, hidden at the bottom of a drawer when I was going through Mother’s things, that decided me.
Mezeli shepherds the group out towards a waiting bus and as the last of them pass him he looks across the room and for a moment his eyes meet mine and I feel an electric tingle at the pit of my stomach. He turns away and goes out, the doors closing behind him.
I finish my coffee and go up to my room. The envelope containing the photographs is in the drawer of the dressing table. I take it out and the feel of it, the smell of old, slightly mouldy paper, transports me back through the days to another place altogether. Sunlight slanted through gaps in the curtains that covered the grimy windows, illuminating firefly hordes of dust motes. The bedstead stood naked, its stained mattress consigned to the dump. The empty wardrobe gaped like a hungry mouth. There was a lingering, musty odour, a mixture of stale alcohol and Je Reviens, my mother’s favourite perfume. I took the photographs from their hiding place and went downstairs. Then I closed the front door for the last time and walked to the garden gate. The house watched me expressionlessly from its blank windows. Along the path Grandmother’s once-prized roses had grown leggy for want of pruning, but still flaunted their blooms above the encroaching dandelions and buttercups. Close by, on the verge, the dustbin awaited collection, its lid bulging open to reveal its cargo of empty sherry bottles.
I twitch my shoulders, physically shaking off the memory, telling myself it’s too late now to have regrets, too late to feel guilty. I did my best, after all. All those interminable weekends, trying to persuade my mother to go for a walk, visit friends, take an interest in current affairs – anything to distract her from the lure of the bottle. It was useless but I did try. And it cost me more than my time. In the end it cost me Paul. What more could have been expected of me? But there is a further memory that I cannot suppress. ‘Sorry, Mum, not this weekend … No, it’s work – well sort of … Paul’s got to entertain some important clients. He wants me to be with him … I’ll be down next weekend, without fail …’ The hospital telephoned on the Monday morning. ‘I’m sorry, your mother passed away during the night …’
I open the envelope and slide the contents onto the polished surface of the table, spreading them out, my eyes flicking from one image to the next, until I find the one I am looking for - a couple with a small child. The man is tall and very fair, his face and arms deeply tanned; the woman is less striking, her hair in the picture neither dark nor blonde, her face rounded and without make-up. He wears flared jeans, she a loose caftan of some light material. Between them a child of three or four with a mop of silver-blonde hair screws up her face at the photographer. I pick up the picture and study it more closely. In the background there is a house; white walls supporting a riot of purple bougainvillea, a terrace with tables and umbrellas, beyond that three pointed Moorish arches leading into the dark interior; above the door a painted sign. Café Anonymou. On the back Mother has written: Stephen, me and Cressida outside the bar – Lapithos, 1974. Was that child really me? Why is it that I have no recollection of that time or that place? Café Anonymou – the nameless café! Why did they call it that? Looking back, it almost seems a sign of impermanence, as if they had felt it was not worthwhile giving the place a name; like a child not expected to live. And why did Mother keep these pictures hidden away? Why have I never seen them before?
I put the photograph down and pick up another. The same fair-haired man, much younger, in army uniform, with two others. They are laughing, leaning on each other’s shoulders, their eyes screwed up against the light. On the back, in a handwriting I do not recognize, are the words: Self, Jonno and Dempsey – Famagusta, 1955. So, my father served here as a young man, doing his National Service, presumably. Was that why he came back, with his wife and child? What was it that drew him back? And why did he wait nineteen years?
I half close my eyes, struggling to fix a distant memory. Surely I must have a mental picture of some sort! But all I can recall is a tall presence and a hand holding mine as we walk along a leafy English lane. I shuffle the photographs back into the envelope, except for the one showing the three of us in front of the café. That I put into my handbag. Then I pick up my hat and head for the lift.
Coming out of the hotel I draw a deep breath and my mood lightens. Later it will be very hot but at this hour the air is pleasantly fresh. A breeze sets the fringes of the sun umbrellas on the terrace fluttering and whips the waters of the harbour into a thousand small waves that reflect the sunshine in brilliant shards of light. A few dozen brightly painted fishing boats dance on the water and beyond them the honey-coloured bulk of Kyrenia Castle glows in the sunshine. I stroll along the harbour front until I come to the office of a car-hire firm. I arrange a car for the day and when the formalities have been completed I say, ‘Do you have a map of the island? I want to find a place called Lapithos.’
The man behind the desk frowns. ‘You mean Lapta. All the places are called by their Turkish names now.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Can you show me where it is?’
He produces a map and prods a finger on a spot about fifteen kilometres to the west. ‘Here. You take the coast road. You will see the signs.’
I collect the car keys and drive out of the town, relieved that in this erstwhile British colony traffic still drives on the left. Soon I am heading west on the coast road. To my right the land drops away to a sea patterned in sapphire and turquoise. To my left the narrow coastal plain is bounded by a range of mountains that rise almost sheer to a rampart of jagged peaks, like the broken teeth of a saw. In between the landscape is patched with the silver of olive groves and the umber of dry pastures and punctuated with the dark exclamation marks of cypresses.
As I drive, I feel myself relax. The tension goes out of my shoulders and my hands cease to grip the steering wheel as if the car were some unruly animal. I have thought a lot about Cyprus recently but I never imagined this beauty. Was this what drew my father back, this brilliant light, this glowing landscape? Since finding the photograph of him in his army uniform I have tried to imagine why the island had such a lasting hold on him. Once, before she died, my grandmother let slip the fact that I had lived there as a small child but when I tried to get Mother to talk about it she always put the questions aside with a brusque ‘I really don’t remember’ and then changed the subject. Eventually I learned not to bring it up.
Now, looking around as I drive, I begin for the first time to sense the magic that might draw a man back after twenty years. I find myself recalling the story of Odysseus and the land of the lotus eaters, the island where the lotus grew and any man who tasted it immediately forgot home and family and wanted only to lie and rest and listen to the music of the place. Isn’t there a poem by Tennyson? ‘There is sweet music here that softer falls, Than petals from blown roses on the grass …’ Or was that Shakespeare in The Tempest? ‘The isle is full of music, sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not …’ Oh, to be able to write like that! It has been my dream since childhood but so far my only successes have been a short story pub
lished in Writers’ News and a couple of poems in obscure magazines.
The blare of a horn brings me back to reality and I realize that I have allowed the car to drift perilously close to the centre of the narrow road. ‘Watch out,’ I tell myself, ‘Looks like the lotus has got you in its grip already!’
I pass through a village or two of dusty-fronted shops, their wares crowding the pavements, and houses where small children study my passing with vast dark eyes. There are some hotels, closer to the sea, but not the solid wall of concrete that ruins so many other Mediterranean resorts, and in the spaces between them the waves break in creamy foam on a rocky shore. I pass an army barracks where a sentry sits drowsily behind a table, then more hotels, and finally come to the turning signposted Lapta.
The road climbs and twists past white villas enclosed behind high walls. The village is spread out along several narrow lanes and for a while I drive around without any clear sense of direction. Eventually, at the highest point, where the escarpment of the mountains rises so steeply that any further building is impossible, I come to a place where a spring spouts from the rock face below a building which proclaims itself a bar and restaurant. A glance at the photograph is enough to be sure that this is not the Café Anonymou, even by another name, but I am thirsty by now, so I park the car and find a table on a terrace overlooking the village and the steep drop to the sea.
I order a Coca-Cola from the owner, a dark, wiry man with a drooping moustache, and when he brings it I ask, ‘Is there another bar in the village, called the Café Anonymou?’
He frowns and answers in heavily accented English, ‘No places with Greek names here.’
‘No, of course not,’ I correct myself hastily. ‘It used to be called that, a long time ago. Perhaps the name has been changed.’
‘I come here twelve years ago, from Turkey,’ he says. ‘No place like that here then. No Greeks here – not no more.’