The Santorini Summer

by Christine Shaw

  ‘But our surname? Carter is hardly Greek.’

  ‘Greek?’

  ‘Good heavens, you know nothing. I’m surprised your father hasn’t told you about this. It’s a long story.’

  She looks mystified, but the bread and wine arrive, and we begin our meal.

  Chapter Two

  My poor father was made to feel that his selfish actions would ruin my life. In fact, the opposite was true. I owe everything, everything that matters to me, to my father’s mid-life crisis. Had he not borrowed Susan Ferris from the typing pool when Mrs Gardner had flu, had he not suffered his coup de foudre with the lovely Susan beside the filing cabinets, I should probably have lived the same sort of life my mother was living before she suddenly found herself abandoned. A small, respectable, matronly, middle-class life, with a husband in the city and a pair of Anglo-Saxon children.

  Divorce in my mother’s circle being a great scandal, she was only too relieved when I made my request to visit Greece. Packing me off to Crete for the summer meant I would be protected, so she thought, from all the gossip and unsavoury detail; otherwise she would never have let me go so far away without her. A phone call to Professor Margerison reassured her that the party would be properly chaperoned, the purpose respectable and the outcome would be a socially polished daughter who had undergone a modern version of The Grand Tour. Possibly she recalled, from my Induction Day, the Professor’s whiskery chin and nascent moustache, and assumed that no such woman could be anything less than responsible and serious.

  The matter of clothing was dealt with briskly: ‘A pair of stout Clarks sandals, some Aertex blouses and two pairs of culottes, Mrs Carter. I find culottes the perfect answer for archaeology. They are both comfortable and decent,’ the Professor assured her.

  So my wardrobe was purchased. The culottes had to be made for me by my mother’s “handy woman” since they were not readily available in Dickens and Jones or John Lewis.

  My father was given to understand that he would be financing my trip.

  ‘The least he can do,’ sniffed my mother. Although to be fair, he was perfectly willing to pay for me and actually added an extra sum, privately, ‘so you can buy…things’ he told me, when he met me to say bon voyage. I was not sure whether he meant books, cosmetics or lingerie, but I was delighted to be given some financial freedom.

  My parents had given me an allowance to see me through my first year at Cambridge, but it was doled out to me on a monthly basis, and I was expected to keep accounts of my spending. My father’s “extra” meant I could make whatever purchases I liked without having to justify them and after nineteen years of my mother’s scrutiny, I relished the lack of restraint.

  I was nervous about the journey, particularly about my first flight, but pretended not to be, wanting my mother to feel that I was perfectly competent of making a journey abroad without her.

  We all met up at the airport, Professor Margerison in an old straw hat and large canvas coat, her luggage well-battered, while we students carried conspicuously new bags and macs (how ridiculous!) over our arms. There was no-one in the group I considered a good friend, but I knew them all slightly. Maureen Jarvis was in my tutor group; Melissa and Sarah were doing Ancient History too, and there were two second year Archaeology specialists, Tony Smith and Peter Goodwin. Tony and Peter had been to Knossus before, and now wore bored expressions to show us first-timers what experienced travellers they were.

  ‘Right, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the Professor. ‘I shall pay you the compliment of assuming you all to be intelligent beings. Ensure you locate the sickness bags in the seat pocket in front of you. If you must be sick, please do so quietly and without fuss.’

  “Fuss” being one of Professor Margerison’s bêtes noires – we knew what was expected of us.

  The journey was long but uneventful, except for Maureen’s muffled hysteria on take-off. She grabbed my hand and squeezed it so tightly that I was sure I would bruise, whilst keeping her other hand clamped firmly over her mouth.

  I was too enthralled by the adventure to be scared. A family holiday in Normandy, where my mother perpetually complained about the taste and quality of the tea, was my only previous experience of going abroad and I was ready for something a little more exotic.

  Descending from the aircraft steps at Athens, I was almost knocked backwards when the oppressive force of the Greek summer heat hit me square in the face. The air was hazy, and we seemed to be walking through hot soup. Numbly, we followed the Professor as she made her way through the terminal like a ship in full sail to where a coach was waiting to take us to the port of Piraeus, where we would catch the ferry to Crete. Maureen and I gasped at the colour of the sea, which was the most mesmerising shades of blue that I had ever seen. ‘I thought the sea was grey,’ she said in wonder. ‘It always is in Whitby.’

  ‘If you feel queasy, stay up on deck. Do not, on any account, drink wine if it is offered to you. Greek wine is filthy,’ was the advice handed out for this stage of the journey.

  The Professor found a seat, took out a biography of Sir Arthur Evans, and dismissed us.

  Tony and Peter wandered off and Maureen, having taken an anti-sickness pill, went to find somewhere she could lie down, leaving the three of us to speculate about our accommodation, the food, the climate and the archaeology itself. We all had some experience of a dig, having spent a week with Professor Margerison in Bath in our first term, but Knossus was something else entirely. We knew we would be the lowest of the low, assigned only the most basic tasks; we knew the greatest crime we could commit would be to damage an artefact or its location. We also knew there would be other students from Greece and America at the camp, and we wanted the Professor to be proud of us.

  When I think back to the girl that I was then, really still a schoolgirl, I am amazed at how quickly and readily I left behind my traditional English upbringing and my mother’s exacting standards.

  We docked at Heraklion, where a dusty old bus was waiting to take us to the archaeology camp at Knossus. The “ladies”, we were told, had been found village rooms; the men were to sleep under canvas at the edge of the site.

  We four girls were deposited outside a small, white-painted house with vivid blue shutters. The Professor had rooms elsewhere. No doubt she was to be given a deluxe version of our accommodation, which was clean but very basic. But we didn’t care; we were glad not to have the Professor breathing down our necks. She left us with an admonition to get some rest, and to remember to adjust our watches to local time; our first lecture was scheduled for 9:30 the next morning.

  Despite being exhausted, I lay awake for a long time, not being accustomed to Maureen’s snoring and the amazing volume of sounds produced by the cicadas. I felt strangely free; I had left behind my mother’s anxiety and distress, which should have made me feel guilty, yet I felt the complete opposite.

  After a breakfast of yoghurt and honey, warm, fresh bread, over-sweet orange squash and strong coffee, we gathered outside our lodgings to await the Professor’s arrival. It was already sweltering. I was wearing, as instructed, an Aertex shirt, my unflattering culottes and a pair of sensible sandals. I had tied a headscarf around my hair, peasant-style, because I had no hat and my mother had insisted that I must cover my head. We were all dressed much the same; pale, delicate-looking English girls who stuck out like a sore thumb.

  So there was a collective drawing-in of breath as the Professor appeared with a trio of tall blonde girls in her wake, all dressed like cowgirls in denim jeans and gingham shirts.

  ‘Good morning, ladies. Here are some of your American colleagues, Cindy-Lou, Mary-Jane and Carlotta. This is Maureen, Sarah, Melissa and Olivia. Now, if you’re all ready? It’s a ten minute walk.’

  ‘Hi, there,’ acknowledged the Americans, more or less in unison, gaping at our clothes as we gaped at theirs.

  The Professor set off, oblivious of our reactions. We fell in behind, rolling our eyes at each other as the three shapely, blue der
rieres swayed before us. We must have entered camp like ugly ducklings trailing after three glamorous swans. Sarah was determined not to be outfaced, however, and as we took our places in the stuffy tent which served as the Lecture Hall. She managed a murmured aside to Carlotta: ‘Didn’t your mother get the letter about the clothes to wear in camp?’

  I forgot my embarrassment as one of the Greek professors introduced the first slides, and the history of Sir Arthur Evans’ discoveries unfolded. We had been given the revisionist version of events by the Professor, of course, who held Sir Arthur’s methods in some contempt. But on hearing the story while in situ, seeing pictures of objects which had been found only yards away from our chairs, I was filled with excitement and perfectly willing to take a romantic view of it all. There was, perhaps, no proof of his theories, but there was also no proof that he was wrong. Suppose he really had found the palace of King Minos? Suppose the legend of Theseus and Ariadne was based on fact? Bull-worship was certainly part of Minoan life; that was obvious from the decorations on the jars and frescoes, and someone had designed a labyrinth of corridors. I liked to think of the crafty Daedalus and his unheeding son Icarus, building the maze and then planning their escape.

  We were to visit the site immediately after the lecture so as to avoid the midday heat. My mother was always telling me that impatience was my greatest fault, and I had great difficulty in waiting politely for Professor Makropolous to switch off the projector and gather up his notes. Maureen irritated me by asking him another question about the reconstructions, and the American girls caused yet more delay by asking to visit the bathroom. This confused everyone. Most of us thought they were enquiring about King Minos’ plumbing arrangements about which there was much controversy amongst archaeologists, and it was some time before Professor Margerison said, ‘Oh, the lavatory. Why didn’t you say so?’

  We had been given maps of the layout of the site which were confusing because of the complexity of the Palace – if Palace was indeed the correct terminology and not a giant necropolis as some theories had it, or a huge town hall as others thought. With at least four storeys, some of which had collapsed, there was a lot to see.

  We were given a guided tour by Professor Makropolous, who managed to convey his great enthusiasm for the site despite it being the umpteenth time he had shown students around it. It was hard to keep all the many theories in mind; I preferred Sir Arthur’s interpretation of what we were seeing and let my mind wander. I couldn’t keep all the details of which ceiling had collapsed into which lower room and which frescoes had been found in situ and which had been restored and placed wherever Sir Arthur fancied. It was enough for me that we were seeing artefacts that had been used so long ago by a civilisation we still did not know much about, and were possibly walking in the footsteps of servants of the great King Minos.

  We left the excavations feeling dizzy with facts and theories. Maureen caught up with me on the way back to ask about my favourite sights. ‘I loved the Cup Bearer Sanctuary,’ she said, ‘but the Snake Goddesses gave me the creeps. Are there snakes on Crete, do you know? I’d die if we saw one.’

  I replied that I had no idea and perhaps we should ask the Professor. But my head was inundated with images of strange rituals, curly-headed youths and the man-headed bull called the Minotaur.

  After the excitement of the visit we were advised to rest. The sun was at its hottest and the locals would be taking a siesta. A special dinner had been arranged for us in the evening to welcome us, and Professor Margerison felt it advisable that we take to our beds in preparation. But young people of eighteen and nineteen find it hard to lie down and sleep in the middle of the day. We tried, but we were quite relieved when we heard the American girls calling to us from the street.

  ‘We’re going to the beach. Are you coming?’

  It seemed a better proposition than lying down listening to the mosquitoes diving in for the kill. We found our swimsuits and grabbed towels.

  Cindy-Lou, Mary-Jane and Carlotta were standing beside an alarmingly old car which had “Taxi” painted rather amateurishly on its doors.

  ‘It will be a bit of a squash, and somebody’s gotta sit on somebody’s knee, but it’s gotta be better than waiting around for that old bus,’ grinned Carlotta.

  The driver was beaming at us, obviously delighted to have our business, and perfectly amenable to the idea of taking us to the nearest beach and picking us up again later.

  My previous experience of trips to the beach involved rugs, windbreaks, folding chairs and primus stoves. Now I watched in amazement as the Americans simply laid their towels on the sand, nonchalantly stripped off their jeans to reveal miniscule two-piece swimsuits, and lay down. I wrapped my towel around me and, awkwardly, wriggled into my regulation navy-blue Speedo. Maureen, Sarah and Melissa were making similar manoeuvres.

  ‘Want some suntan lotion?’ asked Carlotta. ‘You’re very pale.’

  She had just finished smoothing an oily brown liquid over her exposed body parts, and handed me the bottle. I read the label. It was lotion designed both to protect you from the sun and allow you to gain a tan, apparently. I could not see how it could do both, but we were undeniably pale, and the Americans all glowed with health, so I took her up on her offer. I had never met any Americans before but, as a student of history, had always believed they were closely related to the English. I was beginning to realise that the similarities between us might be fewer than I’d thought.

  We spent an agreeable afternoon on the beach, exchanging details of families and colleges and making trips into the sea when we got too hot. We also speculated about the sort of evening we could expect, which brought us round to the topic of needing to allow plenty of time to get ready because of the limited facilities at our respective lodgings.

  ‘It’s very primitive here, isn’t it?’ complained Mary-Jane. ‘We’ve got to share the tiniest bathroom, and the water supply is totally unreliable.’

  I wondered what Mary-Jane would think of the bathroom we had in Basingstoke, with its linoleum flooring and a gas boiler in the corner to heat the water. There was no shower and in winter, taking a bath was an act of great bravery because there was no central heating either. This conversation concluded with the realisation that our taxi would be waiting, so we put our clothes on and shook the sand free from our towels.

  Back at our lodgings, we were politely taking turns in the bathroom, when we heard the American girls calling us again from the street. This time they had their hair wrapped up in towels hiding rollers, and they were armed with an assortment of hairdryers.

  ‘Have you guys got sockets in your rooms?’ they demanded. ‘We’ve got nowhere to dry our hair.’

  I had come prepared with a European plug converter, so in they came, filling up our two tiny rooms with their elaborate hair preparations, nail polish and endless make-up. Cindy-Lou was a talented hairdresser, it seemed, and Carlotta was an experienced manicurist.

  When they took their leave to dress, we fell silent, reflecting glumly on our wardrobes. I had packed two cotton dresses, one blue with tiny white flowers and one white with thin blue stripes. Both had three-quarter sleeves and buttons down to the waist. They were the dresses I wore for Church at home, and they were undeniably prim. They were also designed for an English summer. I held them both up.

  ‘Which do you think, Maureen? The flowers or the stripes?’

  ‘Search me, I’m hopeless with clothes. Um…the flowers, I think.’

  I could see that Maureen was indeed in a worse situation than me. She was donning a green pleated skirt in a shiny, man-made fabric and a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar. What had seemed quite suitable in England, as we packed our suitcases, now seemed, in the clear, bright Cretan sunlight, totally unsuitable. But we didn’t have anything else, so we dressed and wandered down to the designated taverna with the rest of the girls.

  Inside, three tables had been pushed together to seat a large party. Earthenware jugs were placed at intervals al
ong the table, together with baskets of bread and cutlery wrapped in paper napkins. A smaller table had been laid at the back of the room.

  ‘Probably for the oldies. Our chaperones,’ observed Sarah.

  We English girls made for the farthest end of the table, but before we could sit I heard a voice at my elbow.

  ‘In the interests of international friendship we must mingle, I think.’

  My arm was taken gently but firmly and I was led away to the other side of the table. I turned to face the speaker and something strange happened in the pit of my stomach.

  Like the youths on the frescoes I had seen, he was slender and brown-skinned, with an abundance of thick, dark curls. Eyes, so brown they were almost black, were framed by long, curling eyelashes. He was the most beautiful young man I had ever seen.

  ‘Christos Christophedes,’ he said, holding out his hand formally.

  Somewhere to my right another voice was saying, ‘Hi, I’m Hank from Cincinatti,’

  but I’m afraid I didn’t pay him any attention.

  ‘Olivia Carter.’

  I placed my hand in that of this gorgeous young man, and lowered my head to hide the blush that suffused my face. He pulled out a chair and I sat on it, not very gracefully.

  ‘We are having a traditional Greek meal, Miss Carter. We shall start with a salad of tomatoes, onions and feta cheese, followed by dolmades. Then there will be baklava and coffee. What do you think of Greek food?’

  I said something inane about not having had much experience of it yet.

  ‘Ah, then tonight will be very important. We shall see that you remember your first night here.’

  He was grave and dignified, despite being not much older than me, and somehow he made it clear that the Greek students were our hosts for the evening. He poured a liberal amount of liquid from a jug into my glass. Since it was a pale gold colour I assumed, with alarm, that it was wine. Remembering the Professor’s warning, I looked in vain for water.