‘Nan, what’s wrong?’ Her happy smile has been replaced with a frown. ‘Are you ill?’
I can only shake my head and try to smile. She holds me at arm’s length.
‘Are you sure? Did you have your nap?’
Swallowing hard, I murmur, ‘You look beautiful.’
‘Do you like it?’ She pirouettes.
‘More of a blouse than a skirt, perhaps?’
‘Oh, Nan, it’s not that short ! All the Greek girls are wearing them.’
‘Only teasing. Let’s go and have some dinner and see the sunset.’
She tucks my arm in hers and chatters about which of the many restaurants we should patronise.
Christos, I wish you could see your granddaughter tonight. She has your eyes, your hair, your skin. She is stunning.
The shopkeepers and restaurateurs, standing on their doorsteps ready to welcome customers, eye her appreciatively before they catch my eye and lower theirs, respectfully.
If she were alone she would be besieged with offers of wonderful jewels, the finest silks, the best food in Santorini, if only she would step inside.
‘Most of what you see here is modern’, I tell her. ‘Rebuilt after the 1956 earthquake. Just occasionally you will see an untouched ruin, or a properly restored traditional house, but Oia was much less sophisticated when I first saw it. It was largely a fishing community, although it had attracted some artists even then.’
‘But it’s beautiful, Nan. And it looks so old.’
Of course it is beautiful, and picturesque. The blue of the caldera behind the whitewashed houses with their pretty courtyard gardens tumbling down the cliffside, the white marble walkway shining in the evening sun, the gorgeous merchandise artfully arranged in the boutique windows and the dazzled tourists laden with cameras, all create a picture-perfect Greek island in the sun. But it is a construction in both senses of the word, and it is not the Oia I know.
‘When I first came, there were hardly any tourists, nor any vehicles other than donkey carts. People lived very simply, by fishing or cultivating tomatoes and grapes. Most of the houses were dug-ins – facades built in front of hollowed out caves. You might have to pass through someone else’s yard to reach your house, and another person’s yard might have been built above your dug-in. Only the few rich families, descended from the Captains who’d made a fortune from sea trading in the nineteenth century, could afford a fine, stand-alone house built of stone.’
There is a small harbour below Oia, called Armeni, and it was from there that I waved Christos off on his fishing trips and welcomed him home again. I will show Alexa Armeni, but not tonight.
‘Nan? Where shall we eat? There are so many places.’
Brought back to the present by Alexa’s healthy young appetite, I decide to find a compromise between the quiet, traditional taverna set back from the main thoroughfare, which I’d prefer, and the modern, chic restaurants lining the main street, full of beautiful young people, which I know my grand-daughter will enjoy.
‘Please can it be by the sea? I can’t get enough of the view.’
And we shall have to pay for it, I think cynically, and the food will not be so good, but I can’t blame Alexa. To sit on a balcony built out over the caldera and absorb that unique view isn’t something I’ve ever tired of, and I have seen it many times.
She waits very patiently until we’ve ordered, and our bread and wine have appeared, before she broaches the subject.
‘Please tell me the rest of the story, Nan, I’m so amazed by it. Why didn’t I know about Christos?’
‘Your father was illegitimate, Alexa. People didn’t talk about such things.’
‘But, Nan, no-one minds about that these days. Lots of kids don’t have fathers, or they have two fathers, or their mother’s a lesbian.’
‘Not when I was young, Alexa. And neither your father nor my parents ever met Christos, so there was no-one to talk about him. I did think your father might have told you the facts, though. I told him those as soon as he was old enough to understand.’
‘Have you got any photos? I’d like to know what he looked like.’
‘All you have to do is look in the mirror, Alexa. You are, quite literally, the image
of him. Especially tonight, with your hair that way and your Grecian tunic.’
‘Woah, Nan! Don’t tell me he was a cross-dresser!’
‘You know very well what I mean. Why don’t we enjoy our dinner, and watch the sunset, and then perhaps I’ll tell you more.’
The food is, as I’d suspected it would be, mediocre, but they do have a very good (and expensive) Assyrtico. I drink more than I eat, but Alexa makes up for my lack of appetite. She very politely engages me in conversation about the conference I’m attending, although I know she is consumed with curiosity about Christos. Say what you like about my daughter-in-law, she has brought her children up very well.
By the time we’ve paid the bill, there is a discernible hum of activity outside as tourists begin to make their way to the ruined castle which is said to be the best place to view the sunset. I know a better spot, which the tourists don’t find, on the pathway that leads to Armeni. I say as much to Alexa, but she looks longingly at all the well-dressed, camera-laden tourists, and I know she wants to experience the sunset as part of them. So we join the throng, and Alexa finds me an almost comfortable rock to sit on, while she stands protectively behind me.
‘I think we may be lucky tonight,’ I say. ‘The sky is clear and there’s very little wind.’
‘How many times have you seen the sunset here, Nan?’
‘Dozens’.
‘Excuse me,’ comes a voice at my side. ‘Does the sun always set here?’
I turn to see an exquisitely well-dressed woman, with olive-hued skin. From her accent I can tell she is European – Italian perhaps – although her English is perfect.
‘Well, this is due west,’ I reply. ‘Of course, you need good weather. I’ve known evenings when you see nothing except clouds.’
‘And will the sun rise here tomorrow morning?’
I goggle at the woman, and I can hear Alexa stifling giggles.
‘The sun rises in the east, over there’, I say, as politely as I can.
The woman thanks me and turns to translate to her companion.
‘I’ll never criticise the English education system again’, I whisper to Alexa, who has her handkerchief over her mouth.
A hush descends as the red orb begins to paint bands of colour across the skies behind the isle of Thirassia. Gold fading to pink, pink to scarlet, and Thirassia growing ever blacker by contrast, until the sky is a striped banner of gold, red and blue and the isle has become nothing more than a silhouette. Cameras are clicking all around us. At the moment when the last discernible arc of sun finally descends behind the horizon, applause breaks out. Alexa stares around her, giggling again.
‘Why are they clapping, Nan? It’s only what the sun does every day, isn’t it?’
‘The sun isn’t doing anything at all, ’ I reply drily. ‘It’s the earth that’s turning. You know that.’
‘Come on, let’s go back. I want to hear more about your romance.’
So we begin the slow walk back to our hotel. Slow, because hundreds of tourists are all trying to make their way back to the central area along one narrow pathway.
‘Let’s sit here a while’, I say when we came to a low wall, ‘and let them all go by. And I’ll try to explain what happened next.’
*
We promised to write to each other. If I also wrote to the American girls, Christos’s letters would simply be another reply from another pen friend from another part of the world. My mother would allow pen friends, surely?
‘And you must learn more Greek, my Olivia, whilst we are apart. Then when you come to visit me in Athens my parents will see that you will make me a fine wife.’
Athens? Wife ? This from the man who had not even kissed me yet?
‘You will be m
y wife, won’t you? ’
He took my hand in both of his, and kissed it. ‘You know that we are meant to be together, don’t you? We must be married and we shall become important archaeologists and have beautiful children.’
The enormity of what he was saying overwhelmed me. I had arrived in Crete a naïve schoolgirl. Was I going home to prepare to be married to a Greek and live in Athens? The contrast between this picture and my home life was a gulf which I did not know how to explain to him. But when I thought of leaving him and never seeing him again, that too was unthinkable.
The remaining days were unbearable. The evenings we spent together were full of mixed emotions – the inexplicable happiness of being together, coupled with the bitter realisation that such meetings would soon be over. Our taverna evenings were over much too soon. Our polite goodnights were prolonged as much as decorum allowed. Sleep was impossible. Maureen never asked, but hearing me toss and turn and sigh in bed every night, she knew that I had fallen in love. All the girls were tender with me, those last few evenings, offering to lend me perfume, do my hair or paint my nails, seeing a need to keep me occupied until it was time to go out for dinner and be with Christos again.
On our day of departure we were to leave early in the morning, and I knew I could not say goodbye to Christos in front of the Professor and everyone else. So I asked him to stay away, to go to the site and stay there until we’d gone. He looked hurt.
‘Are you ashamed of knowing me?’ he asked.
‘No, no, not at all. I just don’t want everyone watching …’
‘Ah, you might cry, perhaps? Will you cry to leave me, Olivia? ’
How could I stand it? How could I go back to England and carry on as if my life had not been changed forever? I leaned towards him and placed my lips on his, uncertain how to proceed, but desperate to show him how I felt. His mouth softened, moulding itself perfectly to mine, and my first kiss was the sweetest I ever knew. Then he kissed me again. And again.
He gave me a parting gift, a child’s story book. ‘You must learn to read Greek as well as speak it,’ he said.
I had no gift for him so I undid my locket, which had my grandmother’s photo inside, and gave him that.
‘When you come to Athens next year I will return this to you,’ he said. ‘And one
day you will wear it with our son’s photograph inside.’
Each part of the journey that took me further away from him – the bus to Heraklion, the ferry to Piraeus, the flight to London – was even more painful than the last. Oh, the pain of love! I pretended to be studying Greek so that I would not have to speak to the others, and Maureen engaged the Professor in discussions about the dig to keep her away from me. My misery felt physical, an actual pain in my chest.
England was covered in a thick layer of grey cloud as we landed – a perfect reflection of my current mood. My mother was waiting for me at the airport, clutching her handbag nervously as if she expected to be set upon by thieves. She hugged me, then held me away to scrutinise my appearance.
‘You look well, darling. So brown. Did you enjoy it? Was the food awful? I expect you’re longing for a cup of tea.’
I was longing for something, but it definitely wasn’t tea.
*
I had plenty of work to do to fill up the remainder of the summer vacation. There was a paper to be written about Knossus and books to be read for next term, but still the days dragged. I was impatient for the new term to begin, to get back to Cambridge and away from my mother’s suburban bubble. I needed my days filled with lectures and my evenings filled with study if I was going to cope with this crippling sadness.
The Professor was very impressed by my determination to learn Greek properly. She found me the name of a woman in town who gave lessons, and when I wasn’t attending lectures or writing papers I was learning to speak, read and write Christos’ language. When his letters arrived I would write at least one paragraph of my reply in Greek, to show him how hard I was trying.
He was anxious that I explain to my mother that I would be spending part of the next summer in Athens. I did not know how to deal with this. I had not told her about Christos, because I knew she would disapprove. Foreigners, like foreign food, were to be tolerated only when abroad. Just as the medieval world believed that the sun revolved around the Earth, so she believed that the world revolved around England and the English.
Christmas came and went. My mother and I tried to enjoy Christmas lunch together, but I knew she was missing my father and it was all a horrible strain. I spent Boxing Day at Daddy’s new flat, Susan tactfully absenting herself by visiting her parents. I was grateful for this because I really did not know how to conduct myself with her and felt conflicted in my loyalties. Daddy gave me some lovely pearl earrings but, far more importantly, a cheque. Ever since I returned to England, I had begun saving earnestly –I had to finance my trip to Athens somehow.
Then, with the arrival of Sping came the letter that changed everything.
‘Olivia, my love, such a thing has happened! I have an invitation from Syridon Marinatos himself to work on the dig at Akrotiri! Professor Saridakis has arranged everything for me. I will work there in August. There will be no pay, so I must fund myself, but what an opportunity! A friend of mine at university has a cousin who is a fisherman in Oia on Santorini. I will work for him some weeks to earn money, and then I will go down to Akrotiri. But, my darling, you are not to suppose that this will spoil our time together. I have worked out a plan for us. You must come to Santorini and we will spend all the summer together. First at Oia, and then at Acrotiri, and when Marinatos sees what a knowledgeable archaeologist you are, perhaps you can be my assistant. What do you think of this plan? Santorini is truly beautiful, you will love it, I promise.’
If telling my mother I wanted to spend the summer in Athens with the family of a young man I had met on Crete was impossible, going off alone with him to Santorini, an island I knew she had never heard of, was inconceivable. But Christos was so excited about working with his hero Marinatos.
‘You will fly first to Athens, my Olivia, and take a taxi to Piraeus. There you must ask for the boat to Santorini. It will bring you to Fira, and I will meet you there and take you to Oia. Will you do this, my darling? Are you brave enough to travel alone? I must see you soon. I long for you.’
I knew my mother would never allow it. So there was absolutely no point in asking.
But I was definitely going. I was planning to be deceitful, to spin a whole web of lies if I had to, because I needed to see Christos. My trip to Crete with Professor Margerison had gone well, without any of the disasters my mother had imagined would happen. My paper on Knossus had gained top marks, thanks to Christos’ knowledge. If I were to say that I had been invited to spend the summer at Knossus again, surely my mother would think it worthwhile. And she would assume I was going with the Professor again, in a group, with all the arrangements as before. Could I get away with it?
I wrote to my mother that another trip to Knossus was planned for the summer holidays. (True) I wrote that the Professor handpicked the students she would take. (True) I said I had been asked. (Untrue – the Professor liked to give different students the chance each year.) I asked if I might go.
My mother replied that she thought it was an honour to be asked again. She said it had proved a very useful experience for me and highly educational. She herself had thought of going to Scotland for a few weeks, to spend time with my Aunt Audrey. I could tell the Professor yes.
So easy. I had a passport, I had my Cretan clothes, my mother paid for my return ticket to Athens, and I had saved enough to pay my way in Santorini. I wrote to tell Christos the date of my arrival in Athens. He replied that he would meet every boat from Piraeus after that date. I gave no thought to what the arrangements would be in Oia. I thought of nothing but seeing Christos again.
I had done my homework on Santorini. I knew about its ancient name, Thira. I knew its shape, a crescent, was form
ed by the collapse of the crater after the big eruption, when the sea rushed in through a breach. I researched everything in the library that related to the eruption.
But nothing prepares you for your first sight as you sail around the remains of the cone in the centre of the caldera, the high cliffs of multi-layered black, white and red volcanic rock that face you, the little town perched high up on the edge of the crater with its white, blue-domed churches, and the utter serenity of the caldera – a complete contradiction to the unimaginable violence which created it.
As the boat neared the tiny harbour I could see the steps climbing up to the town, I could see a string of donkeys patiently awaiting the new arrivals, and I could see a young man, slender and brown, waving a white handkerchief. As I stepped ashore, he put out his hand, and I placed mine in it, and he clutched it to his heart, murmuring, ‘Oh, my Olivia.’
We stood with our arms wrapped around each other, while all around us was a bustle of activity. Passengers disembarked, crates were unloaded, tourists began to haggle with the donkey man, but we stood in a bubble of silent happiness.
I had been struggling with doubt as the ferry drew into the harbour. What was I doing? Did I really love Christos enough to spend the whole summer on Santorini with him? Did I, in fact, remember him properly, or had my feelings been magnified and romanticised by the year apart? Did he truly love me? Or was I a trophy he had picked up in Crete? What if we now realised we were not soul mates?
But the second I saw his eager, happy face on the dockside, all my doubts just disappeared. It was strange, what had happened to us, but it was real and true.
‘Will you ride, sir, madam?’ asked the donkey man, impatiently.
Christos looked at me. ‘You cannot be allowed to climb 600 steps, Olivia, so we must take the donkeys.’
He lifted me up onto the saddle, which wobbled as the beast took sideways steps beneath me.
The Santorini Summer Page 4