‘This is village wine, Miss Carter. Not the very best, but typical of the wine drunk here by the locals, and so perfectly appropriate for our meal tonight.’
‘Please, call me Olivia,’ I said weakly, hoping I would be able to cope.
From the corner of my eye I could see that Sarah, Melissa, Maureen, and each of the American girls was seated between a young man, and Maureen was signalling panic with her eyes. I gave her a little shrug. Chin up. Think of England.
‘I am studying in Athens, Oleevia, at the School of Archaeology. Where are you studying?’
‘I’m at Cambridge, studying ancient History under Professor Margerison.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Under your Professor? I do not know this expression. What does it mean?’
I reflected that his English was a great deal more advanced than my Greek, and tried to explain. In the background musicians were tuning bazoukis. Waiters appeared with bowls of salad.
‘And your first impressions of Crete?’
He was such a skilled and courteous conversationalist that I began to relax. He told me about his family in Athens and I told him about mine in Basingstoke. The simple salad was delicious and the wine, at first metallic in taste, began to appeal to me. The noise of conversation grew louder. I began to be brave enough to look into Christos’s eyes as we conversed. Poor Hank on my other side was totally ignored.
After dark, sweet coffee and a short formal speech by one of the Greek professors welcoming the foreign students to Knossus, Christos excused himself, as did five other young men.
The musicians stirred, the Greek boys formed a line and placed their arms on each other’s shoulders and began to dance. I was startled. British men only danced with women, unless they were in the ballet. But these young men danced with grace and dignity, slowly at first, step, step, kick, kick, bending their shoulders in time with the music. The tempo increased and, effortlessly, so did their steps. The professors at their table were clapping rhythmically and the Americans joined in, calling out and cheering. Eventually, we British felt brave enough to take part too, and joined in the clapping. The dance ended frantically, everyone worn out with the speed and the rhythm. There was applause, and another dance began. I could not take my eyes off Christos, so slender and lithe, so dignified and handsome. His grace and his obvious pride in what he was doing brought a lump to my throat. These men were proud of their skill, proud to be dancing for us.
Then, suddenly, they swooped down upon their audience, ignoring our protests as they dragged us all into the line. Nothing less than total commitment would do. I was concentrating really hard, counting under my breath one, two, kick and kick and kick, fiercely determined not to make a total fool of myself in his eyes, and praying it would not go on too long. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the Professor, trying not to look at us as we embarrassed ourselves.
But when the dance was over, and everyone was laughing, panting, clapping, I wanted more. I craved another opportunity to master the steps and show Christos the respect I felt for his culture. But the musicians had been paid off, and were wandering away. One of the Americans produced a guitar, and began to play the sort of music which appalled my mother. The American girls got up and gave a demonstration of the jive. The audience clapped enthusiastically. It became apparent that there was now an expectation that the British contingent should make a contribution. I lowered my gaze to avoid making eye contact with anyone but, to my amazement, Maureen stood up and sang two folk songs from her native Northumbria, in a pure clear voice which raised the hairs on my neck.
When the professors collectively stood and thanked the waiters it was clear that the evening was over. The American boys said they would escort the American girls back to their rooms, leaving the Greeks to make the same offer to us. Somehow Christos contrived to walk along beside me.
There was no moon, and the sky was a dense black sprinkled with stars whose position in the sky seemed unfamiliar. I remarked upon this, and the density of the darkness, because it seemed a safe topic of conversation.
‘Perhaps you have street lights in Basingstoke? We have in Athens. It makes the sky look lighter, and it is harder to see the stars. But you are also seeing them from a different place on the globe.’
We craned our necks backwards until we felt dizzy, and Christos had to catch hold of my arm to steady me. That made me catch my breath, and our eyes met for a moment before he released me.
We walked on in silence for a while. The night air was scented with wild herbs and warm in a way it never is in an English summer. Crickets were chirruping, and the beauty of the night, the romance of being abroad, and the nearness of this handsome young Greek was intoxicating. The gauche young men who’d partnered me at tennis or waltzed me round the Golf Club floor at the request of their parents now seemed like children compared to Christos.
To cover my shyness I talked about the Minotaur legend. ‘Do you think there really was a monstrous bull in the labyrinth?’
‘It must have suited the king to have people believe it. And we know there was bull worship. But bulls have never been carnivores, I think.’
‘But it had the head of a man. Most legends have some basis in facts, don’t they? Which get exaggerated and mutated over time?’
‘I don’t know this word exag…’
As I tried to explain, I realised how few were the words he had not understood, and marvelled at his grasp of English. It would have been impossible for me to conduct such a conversation in Greek. I felt in awe of him, as well as physically attracted. Why on earth was he interested in me? That he was, seemed clear when he said, ‘At the site I am kept busy supervising some of the digging, but in the evenings we eat at the local tavernas. There are not many, so I think it will be easy to find each other.’
And that was all that was said, but it was a declaration and we both knew it. There was never any doubt in my mind. I, who had never had a real boyfriend, never been properly kissed, put my trust in Christos then, and he put his in me. I still find it astounding to this day.
Outside our lodging he thanked me politely for my company, hoped I’d had a pleasant evening and wished me a good night. The other girls were having similar exchanges with their escorts, who all had very respectful manners.
Like me, Maureen was both relieved and disappointed. ‘That’s just the sort of boyfriend my mother would like me to bring home,’ she said glumly. ‘Pity he’s Greek.’
The next morning at the site we were assigned simple tasks. Greek labourers did the heavy digging, supervised by Christos and some of the other Greek boys. They watched carefully as the ground was broken and called a sharp halt if they saw something that looked significant. We were asked to write labels for the shards of pottery which were brought over to our bench. It was usually Christos who brought them over and dictated what should be written on the labels. Professor Margerison spent most of her time talking to the other supervisors. It seemed to me that we were quite unnecessary and that we were merely being given something to do to make us feel included.
It was not hard work, and we were always dismissed after lunch because of the heat, and then left to our own devices. We were expected to spend our free time studying or visiting the museum in Heraklion where many of the artefacts found at the site were on display. In reality, we usually went off to the beach to sunbathe and gossip. The men, however, were required to continue working until five. I would rather have stayed on, too, because at least then I could see Christos in the distance, and time went faster when I was at the site. The hours between two and seven seemed endless.
We were usually ready for our evening meal by seven. It became our habit to meet up with the other girls and walk along the main (and only) street, looking at each taverna in turn and trying to decide which menu we preferred. In reality, since the menus were almost identical every evening, we were looking to see which taverna the men had chosen. Sometimes we had to make a choice because the men had yet to appear, and then we woul
d all be on tenterhooks in case they chose another eating place. But it was surprising how often our choices coincided. Then there would be a polite conversation about our willingness to accept their company before tables and chairs were reorganised to fit the larger group and each English girl was seated next to a Greek boy.
My two dresses had to do service time and time again. After several evenings of this I surveyed them both with disgust. Maureen saw me frowning and gave me a sympathetic smile. I threw the dresses down in despair.
‘Do you know, I’m getting fed up with this situation. The clothes I brought with me are all unsuitable for this climate. And I’m sick of looking so dowdy compared to the Americans. There must be some shops in Heraklion. What about a shopping trip?’
‘I haven’t noticed any clothes shops,’ Maureen said, doubtfully.
‘The Greek women must get their clothes from somewhere. Sophia is about our age. I’ll ask her.’
Sophia, our landlord’s daughter, served breakfast and changed our beds. She spoke little English but she smiled a lot. The following morning I went looking for her, armed with pencil and paper. She was hanging washing on a line at the back of the house. With much use of mime, I explained what we wanted. Sophia obligingly drew a sketch of roads in Heraklion where we would find some clothes shops, and added the times of the local bus.
‘Are you sure you want me along?’ asked Maureen. ‘I’m not likely to be much help where clothes are concerned.’
I wanted company, not fashion advice, and I thought Maureen could only benefit from this expedition.
After lunch, we took the bus, got off at the terminus, and followed the map. We found ourselves in a district of narrow cobbled streets full of doorways which were adorned with various garments hanging, rather forlornly, from coat hangers. The interiors of the shops were dark and unwelcoming.
‘It’s not Oxford Street, is it?’ said Maureen doubtfully.
‘We’ll look for one with a youngish assistant,’ I said, sounding more confident than I felt.
So we walked along, trying to peer beyond the garment-draped doorways to judge the ages of the serving staff. When we’d exhausted all the possibilities we were back to where we’d started.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Let’s just walk into the next shop we pass.’
This proved to be a good strategy. Once inside, face to face with an assistant, we were forced to overcome our diffidence, and it became apparent that goods were available, just not displayed as we were used to. Our sizes were expertly judged, drawers and cupboards opened, and we were ushered into primitive fitting rooms. The clothes on offer were made of a fine, light cotton, sometimes beautifully embroidered, usually sleeveless, and altogether more wearable than our English clothes. They were also remarkably cheap. I became quite intoxicated with the freedom they promised, and made many more purchases than I’d intended. Even Maureen was won over by the Cretan fashions. Our return journey saw us both smiling with satisfaction and laden with parcels.
Naturally, that evening I wore one of my new dresses. It was white, with delicate embroidery each side of the V-shaped neckline and along the hem. The cotton was very fine and felt silky as it brushed against my bare legs. My body felt free and I felt womanly for the first time in my life.
The Greek boys peered in the window of our favourite taverna, established that we were inside, and very politely asked if they might join us. We agreed graciously, and shuffled about to make room for them, as though it were not all pre-planned. Somehow, Christos was seated beside me as he always was.
‘I think you are going native, Olivia,’ he began, mischievously, indicating my new dress. ‘You are becoming a Cretan.’
I wished I did not blush so easily. ‘I needed some cooler clothes.’
‘And it is most becoming. But I rather miss your other dresses. They seemed to pay respect to Greece.’
My lack of comprehension was written on my face.
‘Your blue and white clothes. Our national flag.’
The penny dropped and I blushed again. But I liked him teasing me. To my astonishment, he took my hand under cover of the tablecloth.
‘Forgive me, but I like to see you blushing. Oh, my Olivia, you are named after the tree of Crete – the olive tree. I think it was your destiny to come here and meet me, as it was mine to meet you.’
I was not yet used to my new status as Christos’ girlfriend, and found flirting thrilling but equally embarrassing. To cover my gaucheness I changed the subject.
‘How is the dig going, do you think? Will it ever be proved that Sir Arthur was definitely wrong?’
If he was disappointed at my choice of topic he gave no sign of it. ‘The deciphering of the Linear B tablet seems to prove that the Minoans had a civilisation separate from that of the Mycenians, so he was right about that. But I’m afraid he jumped to conclusions in declaring Knossus to be the site of Minos’ palace. And I do wish he had not reconstructed so much from his own imagination. He should have left what he found as it was, for future study.’
‘But I can understand the temptation. He so wanted others to see what he imagined.’
‘But that is not archaeology, Olivia. It is whimsical romance. And it was desecration to use modern materials. Concrete has no place here.’
‘But concrete was all he had. And if he hadn’t rebuilt where he did, many of the buildings would have collapsed. So he was only doing the best he could at the time, wasn’t he?’
This dig was just a field trip for me, a student of Ancient History, but for Christos, who was studying archaeology, it was a passion.
‘Do you know the legend of Atlantis, Olivia? A once highly civilised state which was destroyed in a great flood? Plato writes of it.’
I had to confess that my knowledge of Plato was sketchy.
‘There is a theory…An archaeologist named Marinatos has a theory that Santorini and Crete together formed the great state of Atlantis. When the major eruption occurred on Santorini a tidal wave engulfed the area.’
My blank face betrayed my ignorance, so he continued: ‘Santorini is a small island to the north of Crete. It arose as the result of volcanic activity. It is a geological fact that there was a great volcanic eruption on Santorini around 1600BC which destroyed much of the island. It must have caused a huge wave that would have affected much of the Mediterranean. The Old Palace at Knossus was destroyed by some natural disaster around that time and the remains we see today were built on top. The Santorini volcano would explain that. There is even a theory that the strange happenings written about in the book of Exodus were the result of this eruption. You know the Bible, Olivia?’
I could hold my head up here, because Religious Studies had been compulsory at the girls’ grammar school I’d attended.
‘You know the story of the plagues of Egypt?’ he asked.
I nodded, comprehension dawning. ‘Do you mean the locusts and the thunder and all the other phenomena?’
‘That’s right. Such a huge explosion must have had devastating effects all over the Mediterranean. The crater of Santorini is the largest in the world. The explosion must have been even greater than that which destroyed Krakatoa, which was the largest in the known world. It is more than likely that Crete would have been affected by the tidal wave. So the legend of Atlantis may have been based on truth. I have an ambition to go to Santorini and pursue this theory.’
‘But won’t you be doing just what Sir Arthur is accused of? Making archaeological finds fit a legend?’
‘Oh no, Olivia. We shall look for facts, and report facts. Only when there is proof would Marinatos publish his findings. But it would be a great adventure.’
His enthusiasm and integrity made me admire him more than ever, and I resolved to find an atlas and look for Santorini.
I reflected that it was easier to talk about the distant future because we didn’t want to face the fact that eventually our field trip would end. I would return to England and Christos to Athens, and then what would ha
ppen to us?
Every minute that we were together was precious, and so every day I longed for the evening when we might sit next to each other in a taverna and, without incurring the Professor’s displeasure, talk and flirt a little. We tried not to draw attention to our burgeoning relationship so it always had to be low-key and decorous, but I longed for a moment when we might be alone. I began to yearn for Christos to kiss me, to feel his lips on mine. I had very little experience of the physical pleasures of loving, but I was undeniably in love and so the absence of any sort of physical contact between us began to tantalise me. I was aware of Christos’ good manners and sensitivity towards my reputation, and admired him for his restraint, but I was also frustrated by it, and began to wonder if there was something wrong with me, or him, that we behaved so well.
Chapter Three
‘Wow, Nan, this is so incredible! Why haven’t I heard this story before?’
‘Because I have never told it before – in its entirety that is,’ I explain.
And I find myself telling it now because here I am, back in Santorini, with Alexa who looks so like Christos that it breaks my heart all over again just to look at her.
‘So this Christos, he was the love of your life, the one you would have followed anywhere?’
‘He was the only man I ever loved.’
She stares at me. ‘You mean Dad…?’
‘Your father is Christos’s son. Sadly, they never met.’
‘Oh, wow, Nan. What happened?’
‘It’s a very long story, Alexa, and I will tell you the rest of it, but not now.’
I am far too emotional, reliving it again, here in this place. I don’t want to cry in this busy restaurant. Alexa has never seen me cry. I want to be alone.
Her eyes full of curiosity, Alexa finishes her lunch. I pay the bill and we head back to the safety of the car.
*
She is waiting for me now on the terrace, silhouetted against the still-azure sky. She hears my approach, turns, smiles, and I catch my breath. She is wearing the short white tunic she bought today, with Greek-style sandals laced up her bare ankles. Her long, luxuriously curly hair is kept off her face with a brown bandeau, almost as dark as her hair, and her skin is already tanned. She is a Minoan priestess. No, she is Christos, reincarnated.
The Santorini Summer Page 3