Beloved Rake

by Anne Hampson

  ‘But I keep telling you, he wants to marry me.’

  ‘Nonsense! He’ll never come here! Englishmen— they’re all the same! Flirts, they are, and that’s all he was doing with you! Flirting! Where did you go? Tell me at once!’

  ‘We only went into a tavern—’

  ‘Taverna!’ exclaimed Aunt Agni, throwing up her arms in horror. ‘Good girls never frequent tavernas!’

  ‘There were two of them—’

  ‘Two! Oh, Elias, say something to this shameless daughter of yours, for I can’t find words to express my utter disgust!’

  ‘You appear to have found many words, Agni,’ said Mr. Costalos, frowning at her. She had come to house-keep for him on the death of his wife, whom she had never really liked, simply because she was English. ‘Please go away and leave this matter to me.’

  ‘Very well.’ She marched to the door. ‘But mark my words, the man will not turn up, so you can forget about marrying Serra off so easily. In fact, you’ll never marry her off at all now, because she’s ruined—utterly and irreparably ruined!’

  Serra stood there before her father; it was a long while before he said,

  ‘Sit down, child, and tell me all about this man who says he’s coming here this afternoon to offer for you.’

  But her aunt’s words had gone deep, and now that Serra was in her home Dirk Morgan seemed quite unreal. He would not come, she told herself one moment, while the next moment she was hearing his firm voice saying that he never broke his word.

  ‘We met on the Acropolis, as I’ve said. He was with Charles, his friend—’

  ‘You picked him up?’

  ‘Picked him up?’ They spoke in Greek and Serra took that quite literally. ‘I don’t know what you mean?’

  ‘It’s a typical English expression. In England they meet like that. It’s quite disgusting.’

  She still remained rather in the dark, and so she ignored that and went on to tell her father all that had happened, without of course mentioning the real reason why Dirk wanted to marry her.

  ‘He promised faithfully he’d come,’ she ended in a desperate tone. ‘He will come—I know he will!’

  ‘Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?’ Her father’s voice had lost its anger; he was pained, and exceedingly disappointed in his daughter. ‘It’s the English blood in your veins,’ he added, shaking his head.

  ‘I know he’ll come,’ she said again, but in a much more subdued voice. Should he not come she was, as Aunt Agni had asserted, utterly ruined. She would be regarded as unchaste by all her relatives, and by all the village, in fact. When she went out all would stare, then look the other way. That was how it was in Greece.

  ‘I sincerely hope you are right, my child, for if this man was indeed flirting with you, and is not serious, then I don’t know what’s to become of you. We shall all have to hang our heads in shame for the rest of our lives.’

  ‘You don’t mind my marrying him, then?’

  ‘Mind? Serra, it is my one fervent wish that this Dirk will indeed want to marry you.’

  She said nothing, but her relief could be seen in her eyes, for she had been slightly troubled that her father would object to her going so far away. Yet she need not have worried because all that concerned him was that he should get her off his hands, so avoiding the shame which threatened to descend upon the whole family.

  Her father wanted to know more about Dirk, but there was little Serra could tell him, except that he was rich. This was received with interest, but only briefly, for her father made the firm assertion that the man was just amusing himself with her. Why should a wealthy English tourist want to marry a girl like her? he wanted to know. Here again Serra could not satisfy him and all she could do was advise her father to wait until Dirk arrived.

  'You seem so sure he will arrive—’ Mr. Costalos shook his head. ‘Time will show, my daughter, time will show.’

  Two hours later Serra was standing by her bedroom window, her heart in her feet. He was not coming. How could she have been so foolish? And what had she been thinking of to talk to the men in the first place, so bringing such disgrace on her family and herself? If she had not been so unhappy she would never have dreamed of talking to strange men. ‘It was owing to my feeling ill,’ she tried to excuse herself, but she admitted there really was no excuse. Tears moistened her lashes, and within seconds she was weeping as if her heart would break. What was to become of her? A spinster’s life, spent with a father and an aunt who would persistently remind her of the disgrace. The tears poured forth until her eyes were swollen and her cheeks like fire. ‘I wish I were dead,’ she whispered tragically. ‘Oh, please let me die—’ Miraculously her tears ceased and she didn’t want to die at all. ‘He’s come!—I knew he’d come!’ The taxi had stopped; Dirk alighted and paid the driver. Serra’s bedroom was on the ground floor and she ran to the door and listened. Dirk introducing himself to her father. Then silence as they entered the sitting-room. She could not go in to them, for the offer must not be made in her presence. She glanced at the clock every two minutes for the next half hour. What were they talking about? Why hadn’t her father come for her? Perhaps something had gone wrong—but there was nothing which could go wrong, she told herself desperately.

  ‘Serra!’ Aunt Agni’s stern voice. ‘Your father wants you!’ Aunt Agni did not even enter the room, but merely rapped imperiously on the door and went off, the sound of her feet like thunder on the tiled floor.

  Serra felt shy as she entered the sitting-room. She had hastily dried her eyes on seeing the taxi, and of course she hadn’t shed any tears since, but her face and eyes had by no means recovered and on seeing Dirk’s expression she realized she must look a dreadful fright.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked before her father could speak.

  ‘I thought you weren’t coming.’ She gave him a deprecating smile before adding inconsistently, ‘But I knew you would, because you promised.’

  He had certainly made an impression on her father, for he fairly beamed at Serra, saying she was a very lucky girl indeed, and he himself was fortunate in having his daughter marry into a family like Dirk’s. All their relatives would be proud of her, and she must have a big wedding, he finally asserted, at which Dirk stepped in and explained that, as there was so little time, the wedding must be soon and, therefore, quiet.

  ‘If that is your wish,’ her father agreed, though he did add that all the relations would be disappointed, for in Greece a great deal of celebration attended a wedding.

  They were married four days later and as neither Dirk nor Charles saw any reason why the small matter of Serra’s entry into their lives should in any way interfere with their holiday plans they all went off to Beirut together, where they occupied three separate rooms at the fabulous St. George’s Hotel, reputed to be one of the most luxurious hotels in the whole of the Middle East. From her bedroom window Serra looked out on to the magnificent Bay of St. George into which flowed the warm blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea. The luxury of her room took her breath away and on first entering she amused herself by switching everything on—the lights and air-conditioning and radio—and then she pressed a couple of bells, deciding not to do so again, for her action brought in a maid and a hotel porter.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said contritely. ‘I was just trying everything.’ Both gave her odd looks, shrugged their shoulders and departed.

  The incident did not trouble her unduly and she hummed a little tune to herself as she unpacked her new clothes. These her father had insisted on buying for her, so pleased was he over the question of the dowry. There were some emotional repercussions when the time came for Dirk to take his bride away, but both Serra and her father felt much better when Dirk promised she could have a holiday with her father later on in the year.

  ‘But you are not sending her alone?’ Serra’s father stared at Dirk owing to his phrasing, and, realizing at once that it would not be the thing to send Serra to Greece alone, Dirk promised th
at his sister would accompany her. It was Serra’s turn to stare, for that was the first she had heard of a sister-in-law!

  ‘Oh, but I am very happy!’ Having finished her unpacking Serra sat down at the dressing-table and combed her hair. ‘And I look happy!’ Her eyes shone like stars; her cheeks were softly flushed. What a wonderful time she was about to have! Once she got to England she was determined to do everything, and although as yet she was rather vague about what constituted ‘everything’ Serra anticipated having a gay and carefree life.

  On joining the two men half an hour later in the lounge she recounted the story about the bells she had pressed. Charles laughed; Dirk told her to control her impulses in future.

  They went out into the sunny, sub-tropical city, a city teeming with noise and colour and animation. American cars swished past barefoot natives, their backs bent double under the loads they carried. There were domes and minarets, skyscrapers on the seafront; and inland, the masses of coral-coloured roofs of the little village houses. These houses were often set on ledges on the foothills of the limestone Lebanese Range, the mountains which backed and flanked the city. On these foothills grew the brilliant green umbrella pines and, in fewer numbers, the famous cedars of Lebanon. Behind the mountains was the desert, in front the sea swept away in a shimmering expanse of cobalt blue towards a horizon made indistinct by the heat haze quivering against it. On the waterfront streamlined yachts and steamers lay gracefully at anchor, flying international flags. Cargo boats were there, and brightly-painted schooners and brigantines which plied along the coast, loading and unloading on the way.

  Serra was in a dream of sheer ecstasy. How had all this come about?—and in less than a week? Was she really married?—and to an Englishman, as she had always longed to be? Automatically she touched her wedding ring as if for proof that she really was a wife. In name only, granted, but that suited her fine. Dirk wanted to be free, and so did she. It was a wonderful arrangement for them both.

  All along the street were pavement vendors, mainly selling fruit and vegetables. Even used as she was to masses of produce such as this Serra gasped at the fantastic variety and colour, piled in neat pyramids or mounds, or hanging from the trellis outside the shops. Smiling men invited them to buy while not showing any annoying persistence when either Dirk or Charles shook their heads.

  ‘Aren’t we buying any?’ Serra looked up at Dirk, suddenly aware that she had no money, her two hundred drachmae having been spent with wild abandon on a pair of gloves to go with her wedding outfit, her father and Aunt Agni having overlooked this vital adjunct to her charming little suit of pale green linen.

  ‘Do you want some?’ Dirk frowned. ‘You can’t be carrying a bag of fruit about with you.’

  ‘I’d eat it.’

  ‘Not in the street, you wouldn’t!’

  She felt rather hurt by his tone and fell into a forlorn little silence. Aware of this, Charles presently tried to cheer her up by saying there would be all the fruit she could want on the dinner table that evening.

  ‘It was just that I wanted to buy it, though,’ she explained, bringing forth a smile without much difficulty. ‘It’s fun buying such things.’

  ‘Fun?’ Dirk looked down at her, his eyes puzzled. ‘Is buying fruit your idea of fun?’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ was all she said, and the matter was allowed to drop.

  They returned to the hotel at seven o’clock and an hour later were dining on delicious Lebanese food and, as Charles had prophesied, a huge bowl of fresh local fruit was put before them.

  During the meal the two men had been discussing a visit to a night club, and now, having decided on the Caves du Roy which stayed open till dawn, they spoke to each other in a way that made it patently clear that Serra was not to accompany them.

  ‘Can’t I come with you?’ she ventured when the opportunity arose during a lapse in the conversation.

  ‘You’d get too tired,’ said Charles in a faintly apologetic tone. ‘We’ll be there for hours and hours.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get tired, I promise.’ She looked at her husband. His face was set and unsmiling.

  ‘You’re too young for such places. As Charles says, we’ll be there for several hours. No, you go to bed. It’s half past nine, and I’m sure you’re used to going to bed somewhere around this time?’

  She nodded but went on to say,

  ‘I’m on holiday, though.’

  ‘All the more reason why you should go to bed. We’ve some busy sightseeing to do—starting tomorrow.’

  From her bedroom window Serra watched them leave the hotel a few minutes later. She felt a little lost, and certainly not in the least tired. There was no reason why she shouldn’t go downstairs and sit in the lounge, she thought, and, picking up a magazine Dirk had bought for her to read on the flight to Beirut, she went out and took the lift down to the lounge. Many celebrities sat around and Serra became so interested that she forgot her magazine, and it slipped off her knee on to the floor. A young man stooped and picked it up; Serra smiled as he placed it on the table, and thanked him. He gave her a smile in response and sat down opposite to her.

  ‘You can’t be here all alone?’ His voice was pleasant, his eyes admiring. Serra felt shy, and an involuntary glance round was inevitable. Then she smiled at her action. No need for fear any more; she was no longer a timid, subjected little Greek girl. From now on she was English, possessing the right of freedom.

  ‘Yes, I’m all alone.’

  The young man frowned, misunderstanding her.

  ‘Do you often travel about on your own?’

  ‘I misled you.’ she apologized. ‘I’m here with my husband and a friend.’

  ‘I see.’ The young man glanced around. ‘I’d better go, then,’ he said, and stood up. Serra had an urge to keep him in conversation for a few moments, and then she would go to bed, she decided, even though she was still not in the least tired.

  ‘You needn’t go—not if you don’t want to. My husband and his friend have gone off for the evening.’ As soon as the words were out Serra realized her mistake. The young man stared at her in surprise, and no wonder, for she was very young, and very lovely.

  ‘They’ve gone out without you?’

  Serra was at a loss as to how she might repair the damage, but of course there was no way in which she could do so and all she said was,

  ‘I don’t mind. I quite like being on my own.’

  He shook his head, still rather dazed.

  ‘It isn’t natural.’ He looked her over with a swift all-embracing glance. ‘You can’t have been married very long?’

  She did not answer that, but changed the subject, asking about various people who were sitting around. Obligingly he answered her questions, smiling at the ‘oohs’ which issued now and then from her lips as he mentioned a Greek millionaire or wealthy Eastern potentate.

  ‘It’s so exciting!’ she exclaimed, turning an animated little face to take another look at the Greek millionaire. His yacht was in the bay, she knew, because Charles had pointed it out to her.

  ‘Is this your first visit to the Lebanon?’ her companion inquired, unable to take his eyes off her face.

  She nodded.

  ‘I’m from Greece,’ she informed him.

  ‘But you’re not Greek, are you?’

  ‘My father is, but Mother was English. My husband’s English.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I can’t understand him going off and leaving you here all by yourself.’ A small pause and then, ‘Will you come dancing with me?’

  Her pulse quickened. Dance ... she had been taught the Greek dances, so perhaps she would be able to follow the steps of other dances. To go dancing was undoubtedly an exciting prospect and she was tempted to accept the invitation. But as yet she was a little timid of spreading her wings. Newly uncaged, she faltered, afraid of the wide vista of freedom opening out before her; she longed to soar away, yet found that her wings were cramped from a long period
of disuse.

  ‘I don’t think I can come with you,’ she began when an English couple, having entered the lounge and taken a sweeping glance around, joined the young man, saying they were ready to go. Both looked oddly at Serra, then exchanged amused glances. Serra had the impression that her companion was in the habit of talking to strange girls.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Serra.’

  ‘Mine’s Tom, and this is Clark and Maureen.’

  Shyly she said,

  ‘How do you do,’ and began to finger her magazine with little nervous movements.

  ‘Will you come now that we have a respectable married couple to accompany us?’ invited Tom with an amused smile.

  ‘I see he’s been flirting with you,’ put in Clark. ‘Beware of such men as Tom!’

  ‘Have you no one with you?’ Maureen spoke, her eyes flickering with puzzlement as she noted Serra’s wedding-ring, shining and obviously quite new. Tom hadn’t even looked at the ring, let alone noticed its newness; it took a woman to do that.

  ‘No, she hasn’t; that’s why I’ve asked her to come dancing with us.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me there were others,’ Serra pointed out. ‘I thought it was only you.’

  ‘So you were afraid?’ Tom laughed. ‘No need to be. Well, are you joining us now that you know you’re safe?’

  ‘Yes, I’d very much like to join you.’ She noted the strangeness in Maureen’s eyes again and wondered if her slight accent had caused it. As they were in the taxi on their way to a night club Maureen asked Serra where she came from.

  ‘Greece.’ Tom answered for her. ‘But she’s half English. And she’s married to an Englishman.’

  ‘Your husband’s not with you?’

  Serra bit her lip. She resented all these questions.

  ‘My husband is with me, but tonight he’s gone out with his friend,’ she was forced to reply after a little silence.

  A tiny gasp escaped Maureen, and her husband also expressed surprise by the quick turn of his head. However, the couple must have decided it would be bad manners to continue questioning her and they fell silent, leaving Serra to enjoy the lights and the bustling life going on all around her. Entering into a congestion of traffic, the taxi slowed down and then stopped. Two barefoot natives passed by carrying huge bunches of bananas on poles over their shoulders; along the pavements the fruit stalls were illuminated; neon lights flashed and flickered from high buildings, the dark outline of the mountains cut in undulating waves into the starlit eastern sky.