Beneath the Cypress Tree

by Margaret Pemberton

  London.’

  As a love duet between Tristan and Isolde moved towards an emotional climax, she thought how odd it was that she was still so happily faithful to Sholto. It wasn’t as if he slavishly adored her. There were times, such as their recent telephone call, when he was almost offhand. She didn’t even seriously mind that, as a career diplomat, his time wasn’t his own in the way that the time of her previous boyfriends had been. It meant that although he enjoyed weekend house parties and polo, and everything else that went with being a member of a privileged class of society, he also had interesting and serious issues on his mind, something that couldn’t have been said for her discarded exes.

  The list of the discarded was, even by her estimation, a long one. However cataclysmic the initial attraction might have been, within weeks, and sometimes days, she had always been too bored to want to continue with the relationship.

  Sholto was unique in that he had never yet bored her – and she doubted that he ever would. In Kate’s last letter to her, which she’d received just before coming to Berlin, Kate had written:

  Has Sholto popped the question yet? In a roundabout way Sam has popped to Ella, by telling her he’ll never accept a position abroad without first asking her to marry him. She didn’t give him any indication of what, if such a situation arose, her response would be. It wasn’t a very romantic way of going about things on his part, was it? But then he’s a Yorkshireman and allowances have to be made!

  The curtain came down on the second act and Daphne rose to her feet to accompany her father to the champagne bar. There were times when she found keeping in contact with Kate and Ella by letter so unsatisfactory that it hurt. What she wanted was for the three of them to be able to have a good chat over a boozy lunch. That way she would, within minutes, have been able to understand the truth between their often very different accounts of things. For instance, in Ella’s last letter to her, Ella had written:

  Kate’s tension whenever she is working with Lewis Sinclair is so palpable you can almost hear it crackle. It’s obviously a huge sexual attraction on her part (he’s criminally good-looking), but she won’t admit to it, even to me. Apart from one member of the team who is from mainland Greece, the rest are all from Crete and though they obviously find it bizarre having women working on a dig with them, are scrupulously polite about it.

  In her letter, Kate had written:

  Everything is going wonderfully well out here. That Ella’s Greek is pronounced with flat Yorkshire vowels is a source of great amusement to Christos, our site foreman. He vows he’s never seen hair her colour of red before and teases her endlessly about it.

  In Ella’s letter there was no mention of Christos and his teasing, only of the Greek team’s ‘scrupulous politeness’, and in Kate’s letter there was no mention whatsoever of Lewis Sinclair.

  As she sipped champagne in the crowded bar of the opera house, Daphne knew that when she responded to Kate’s letter she would be equally evasive, for although she would write that Sholto hadn’t proposed and showed no indications of doing so, she couldn’t put down on paper how she felt about that, because she truly didn’t know.

  Proposals in the past – and since her coming-out she had received quite a few – had always, for her, been the death-knell of the relationship in question. As far as she was concerned, it was too much, too soon. To receive a proposal from someone who barely knew her – one of those who had ‘popped’ had done so after their first date – was, she felt, more insulting than it was complimentary. Such proposals of marriage were, however, what a debutante’s social season was all about, and she had found it annoying that in order to enjoy parties and balls she also had to endure being proposed to by men who, because of the column inches Tatler regularly gave her, thought becoming engaged to her would be a social triumph.

  Without a shadow of a doubt she knew it wasn’t an attitude Sholto would share.

  A bell rang, indicating that the third act was about to begin, and she put her champagne flute down and slid her hand into the crook of her father’s arm.

  Sholto was a world removed from any of the men she had, for however short a space of time, thought herself to be in love with. She had never, she reminded herself, thought herself to be deeply in love with any of them. Now she knew that she had never been remotely in love with them; that the only flame that had ever burned had been the flame of infatuation, and even that flame had been exceedingly pale.

  As they walked back into the auditorium, excitement spiralled through her that was so intense she sucked in her breath. Of course she knew how she felt about Sholto not yet having proposed to her! It was that he was certainly going to do so one day, and that she wasn’t going to spoil the moment when he did, by worrying about how far in the future that moment might be. Why should she, when everything between them was so very, very perfect?

  She was still bathed in the joyous certainty of what lay in their future when, later that evening and arm-in-arm with her father, she walked into the Adlon.

  Francine, evening-gowned and with her shoulders swathed in white fox furs, was about to enter the lift. Across the reception hall their eyes held. A smile touched Francine’s garnet-red mouth.

  Daphne was about to respond politely when, with a stab of shock, she registered the nature of the smile. It wasn’t friendly. It wasn’t even pleasant. Instead it was a smile full of triumph and malicious amusement.

  On the morning when Daphne and her father were due to fly back to England, Daphne took a lone, early-morning stroll along Unter den Linden’s tree-shaded boulevard. It was, she thought, the nicest part of the city. There were park benches at strategic intervals beneath the linden trees, and so early in the day the wide central walkway was uncrowded. She paused at the point where Wilhelmstrasse interconnected with the boulevard. Wilhelmstrasse was the city’s government district and was also where the British Embassy was situated. Sholto was, she was sure, somewhere tantalizingly near. He wasn’t, though, taking an early-morning stroll.

  She refused to be disappointed. By the end of the day they would both be back in England and in all probability would have a late-night supper together at the Dorchester, or the Savoy.

  He would give her his professional assessment of what the true state of things was in Germany and she would tell him of how, when she had been at the Reichssportfeld, she had seen Hitler close up and had been surprised at how insignificant he had looked. Then, not wanting to waste time talking any longer, they would take a taxi to Sholto’s Kensington mansion flat and make delicious love.

  Anticipation flooded through her, filling her with such happiness she could hardly bear the intensity of it. One thing she was now certain of was that she had been wrong in thinking there was no hurry for Sholto to propose to her. She now wanted him to propose to her at the earliest possible moment. She wanted his ring on the fourth finger of her left hand. She wanted a huge wonderful wedding at St Margaret’s, Westminster, with Kate and Ella as bridesmaids. She wanted the sense of oneness that she felt with Sholto to be a sense of oneness that would last lifelong.

  ‘Cooee!’ a familiar voice called, breaking in on her thoughts.

  Miranda was seated on one of park benches and, to Daphne’s relief, there was no sign of her mother anywhere nearby. Walking across to join her, Daphne said, ‘We’re leaving for the airport in an hour.’

  ‘Lucky you. We’re going on to Dresden to stay with friends of the Ribbentrops.’

  Daphne sat down beside her. ‘Your mother doesn’t like me,’ she said bluntly. ‘Have you any idea why?’

  ‘Well, of course she doesn’t like you!’ Miranda stared at her in astonishment. ‘As things are, why on earth should she? Just remember it was you who suggested we all have pre-dinner drinks together. Why Mummy agreed to it, I have no idea.’

  ‘Why on earth shouldn’t I have suggested we have pre-dinner drinks together?’

  Miranda raised net-gloved hands in the air in exasperation. ‘Because I, for one, found the e
xperience very difficult under the circumstances.’

  ‘Circumstances?’ Daphne prayed for patience. ‘What circumstances?’

  ‘You and Mummy sharing a lover.’

  Daphne burst into laughter. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Miranda. I’m not sharing a lover with your mother. I’m in love with Sholto.’

  ‘So,’ Miranda said with steel in her voice, ‘is my mother.’

  Daphne’s laughter died. Crossly she said, ‘You are a fool, Miranda. Whatever put such a ridiculous idea into your head?’

  ‘Mummy did.’

  ‘Well, it isn’t true. How could it be? Your mother is probably old enough to be Sholto’s mother.’

  ‘No, she isn’t. She’s thirty-six and Sholto is twenty-eight.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Daphne’s irritation was growing. ‘The fact remains that Sholto isn’t her lover. If Sholto knew what you were saying, he’d be furious.’

  ‘Maybe he would be, but that doesn’t alter the fact that it’s true. He’s been her lover for four years.’

  There was a mulish certainty in Miranda’s voice.

  Daphne stared at her. Then she said, ‘You’re wrong, Miranda. Sholto and your father are friends. That he was a family friend was one of the first things Sholto ever said to me.’

  ‘If he did, it was a euphemism for being something else, although he is on friendly terms with my father. I believe all of Mummy’s previous lovers always have been.’

  Daphne felt a hideous feeling of doubt stir. ‘I don’t believe it.’ She rose abruptly to her feet. ‘Sholto would never be so dishonourable.’

  ‘Why not? He has been before. You’re not the first girlfriend he’s had during his affair with my mother. If you don’t believe me, ask him, but be prepared for him telling you you’re making a fuss over nothing. That’s what he’s said to previous girlfriends when they objected to my mother being the central relationship in his life. I’m sorry if you didn’t know about Sholto and Mummy before. I’d always assumed you did and that, as you are so unconventional, you didn’t care.’ As an afterthought, she said, ‘Mummy had dinner with Sholto the night of our pre-dinner drinks party. Perhaps now you understand why she was so cool towards you.’

  There was no spite in her voice. Only a truth impossible to disbelieve.

  The blood drained from Daphne’s face as she finally, and belatedly, understood.

  She understood other things as well.

  She understood why, late on the night of the pre-dinner drinks party, Francine Seeley had smiled at her with such triumph and malicious amusement.

  She understood that although Sholto had said it was impossible for him to see her while he was in Berlin, it had been possible for him to see Francine.

  And most of all she understood that for the past four months she had been living in a fool’s paradise.

  Swamped by tidal waves of rage and pain, her joyous happiness of just minutes ago now dust in the wind, she was certain of only one thing, and that was that after she had confronted Sholto with what she knew – and though it would nearly kill her – she was never going to see him or speak to him again.

  Chapter Eight

  It was the end of morning surgery and as the last patient closed the door behind him, Sam pushed his chair away from his desk. He had a long list of home visits to make and needed a cup of tea and a biscuit before setting off on them. The practice he had joined as a newly qualified general practitioner was in Scooby, a moorland village close to Richmond, and many patients lived on farms and homesteads in outlying areas. If today’s list was anything to go by, Sam knew it would be late afternoon before he was able to sit down to a proper meal.

  There was a tap on his door and the receptionist opened the door just wide enough to put her head around it. ‘The tea’s mashed, Dr Jowett. Shall I bring it in?’

  ‘Yes, please, Jenny. And would you do a favour for me and double up on the biscuits?’

  Jenny Gulliver, who was seventeen and who, if he’d asked it of her, would happily have lain down and died for Sam, blushed rosily. ‘Course I will. They’re chocolate digestives today. Dr Fallow doesn’t like them much, but I know you do.’

  The door closed and as Sam began checking his doctor’s bag to make sure he had everything he needed in it before leaving on his rounds, there was a smile on his mouth. Jenny was pretty and outgoing and someone he would, in the ordinary way of things, have enjoyed having an occasional pub lunch with, or an early-evening drink with. The minute he had realized she had a crush on him was, though, the minute he’d realized he would never issue any such invitation. It would raise hopes he had no intention of fulfilling and he wasn’t the sort of bloke to lead a girl on, especially not when the girl was as young and as nice as Jenny.

  He put the stethoscope he had recently been using into his bag and, satisfied that everything else he might need was already in it, clicked the bag shut. His desk was clear, apart from Ella’s last letter to him. He picked it up and put it in the inner pocket of his tweed jacket. That way, unintentionally but happily, it lay next to his heart. All her earlier letters to him were back at his digs, lying in a neat pile in his underwear-and-sock drawer.

  Ever since arriving in Crete she had written to him once a week. It was something he took great comfort from, certain that – busy as she was, and as excited as she was about the work she was doing – she wouldn’t write with such regularity unless he was as important to her as she was to him.

  Her first letters had been all about the kind of dig it was. In dark blue ink on thin airmail paper she had written:

  It’s almost like a dig of the last century in that, although being done with Greek government authority, it isn’t an official dig being carried out by the British School in Athens (though the British School is taking an interest in it). Instead it’s a private venture, although who is funding it is a secret that our charismatic site director is keeping to himself. He excavated in this area a year ago and, though he found a couple of Bronze Age tombs (huge things, built on a great scale – the ground plan of them is square, the front and back walls vertical, the other two walls sloping inwards), he didn’t find what he was looking for (which is a small Minoan palace). The existence of such grand tombs does, though, indicate he is right in thinking there was a palace in this area (some of the artefacts found in the tombs are magnificent, especially a couple of incredibly beautiful swords). Where the palace is concerned, all we have to do now is find it!

  In July her letters were as much about people and the heat as they were about the excavation work:

  Goodness, but it’s hot here, Sam! If this had been a regular dig, we would long ago have called a halt till the weather is cooler, but nothing here is like a regular dig. For one thing, there are so few of us on it. Lewis operates very much as a one-man band. How he managed before he took Kate on board, I can’t imagine; and as far as he and Kate are concerned – well, I’ll come to that another day. All in all, there are ten of us on the team: Christos Kourakis, our site foreman (his family home is within sight of Knossos and he practically grew up on the Palace of Minos dig), Dimitri and Angelos Mamalakis (brothers born and bred in Kalamata), Pericles Georgiou (a mainland Greek who has worked on American digs), Nico Petras (keen, but without much experience), Yanni Zambiakos (Yanni is in his sixties – like Christos, he worked for Sir Arthur Evans on the Palace of Minos dig and has massive practical experience) and finally Adonis Paterakis (he’s in his teens and, as his looks live up to his name, he’s a great favourite with the village girls). Now that the men’s initial unhappiness at working alongside two women has been overcome, we’ve meshed into a great team. The happiest I’ve ever been on a dig.

  By the end of July Sam knew a lot more about the people she was working with and spending time with. He knew that the Mamalakis brothers were both married with young families; that Dimitri’s wife, Aminta, was sweet-natured; and that Angelos’s wife, Rhea, was the exact opposite and the village gossip into the bargain.

  Towards the en
d of the month Ella had written:

  Despite the site being only a fifteen-minute walk from the village, the village women never visit it. Their menfolk regard the site as a man’s province (Kate and me excepted – just) and, in Crete, what men think and say goes. Rhea, however, still gets to know everything that happens on-site and then, heavily embellishing it, broadcasts it far and wide. Fortunately Angelos hasn’t cottoned-on to Kate’s feelings for Lewis and so hasn’t been able to share that with Rhea. If he had, it would be the talk of the village by now. Pericles Georgiou keeps himself to himself, but may not be able to do so for much longer. Apollonia, the widow he is lodging with, is beginning to be very proprietorial about him. There is no work for young men in villages like Kalamata, and so to suddenly have a clutch of single young men lodging in the village has caused a lot of female excitement. Even Yanni is being eyed up by old Zenobia, who tells fortunes and hasn’t a tooth left in her head.

  With the practice doors closed until six o’clock, when evening surgery began, Sam’s tea and biscuits were now waiting for him on the reception desk. As he drank his tea he reflected on the oddity of how easily Ella had become assimilated into Cretan rural life. When he’d expressed his puzzlement in a letter, she’d responded by writing back:

  Dearest Sam,

  Bizarrely, I find many aspects of Crete and Yorkshire – and Cretans and Yorkshire folk – similar. Just as Yorkshire is part of England, and yet is viewed by those who live in it as a country apart, so Crete, though part of Greece, is regarded by Cretans as a country apart. And having grown up in a mill cottage on the edge of the moors, the hardship in Kalamata hasn’t come as a surprise to me. There is, for instance, no running water in the village (as there wasn’t in the house my granddad used to live in). Lavatories are primitive, dry-earth affairs (something I’ve had experience of in the past), and children run barefoot, as did many of my playmates when I was a child. Just as Yorkshire folk face hardship with what we call ‘Yorkshire grit’, so do the people of Kalamata. All in all – and as I love the work I’m doing – it’s been easy for me to settle in here.