Beloved Rake

by Anne Hampson

  ‘She takes me around, but—but Dirk does too, of course.’

  His frown deepened.

  ‘I understood Englishmen stayed with their wives all the time. You mean, he sometimes goes out without you?’

  ‘Were I married to Phivos,’ she returned gently, ‘I would have to tolerate his going out without me all the time.’

  ‘Yes, certainly, but you are not married to Phivos. Your mother used to grumble when I went out without her and she would always remind me that, had she married an Englishman, she would never have been left alone.’

  ‘Dirk has business to attend to.’ She wished she hadn’t made the slip, but as she had done so she now endeavoured to make excuses for her husband. ‘He couldn’t possibly be with me all the time.’

  Another shrug.

  ‘I hope you are happy, my child?’

  ‘Perfectly, Father,’ she lied, lowering her head.

  ‘I think he should have come here with you.’

  ‘That was impossible. As I’ve said, he has work to do.’ Another lie. When would she stop?

  ‘He didn’t mind your coming alone? These Englishmen,’ he added with a shake of his head. ‘They do not seem to care what their wives do. I’m not sure, Serra, that I approve of this freedom the women have.’

  ‘It is like that over there. All the women are free; they’ve achieved equality. It will come here in time.’

  ‘Then I sincerely hope it is not in my time,’ he declared emphatically, and something in the way he said that brought her head up with a jerk.

  ‘You’re not thinking of getting married again?’ she gasped, horrified.

  He looked away.

  ‘I have met someone,’ he muttered, half contrite, half challenging.

  ‘But it isn’t done.’ He remained silent and she added, ‘You never remarry when once you’ve been widowed!’

  ‘That’s a sweeping statement, Serra. Sometimes people remarry.’

  ‘All the family will be ashamed of you.’

  ‘I daresay they will.’

  ‘They won’t accept this lady.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, my child.’

  ‘And yet you’re intending to marry her?’

  ‘I’ve not definitely made up my mind—but she has a very excellent dowry. Tobacco fields and two houses. Two, what do you think of that?’

  She looked thoroughly disgusted.

  ‘It is a dreadful thing to get married again when once you’re widowed, Father.’

  He looked at her; she noticed the lines on his dark face, lines the sun had made ... and perhaps loneliness, she thought suddenly.

  ‘What is this lady like?’ she wanted to know, thinking of her own loneliness—which was nothing like that her father endured, because he had no one now that she had left him.

  ‘You will like her, Serra,’ he answered simply.

  ‘I’m to meet her?’

  ‘She comes to dinner this evening.’

  Serra’s eyes widened.

  ‘Her parents allow this?’

  A small silence and then,

  ‘She too is widowed.’

  Another silence as Serra digested this.

  ‘What about her family? Do they approve?’

  ‘On the contrary, they thoroughly disapprove.’

  ‘Is she old?’

  He smiled at that.

  ‘She’s thirty-eight. I expect you, my dear, consider that old?’

  ‘No. Dirk’s twenty-eight,’ she said irrelevantly. And, as her father did not speak, ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Maria.’

  ‘Has she any children?’

  ‘Of course. She has three.’

  Serra frowned.

  ‘Three children? They must be young?’

  ‘Petros is eighteen, Anna is seventeen and Helena is almost fifteen.’

  ‘Oh, dear, two girls. What about their dowries?’ She shook her head emphatically. ‘You can’t marry a woman with two daughters, Father.’

  ‘I have your dowry, remember, and as Maria has two houses we shall manage.’

  ‘So Maria really has only one house with her dowry?’

  ‘I suppose so, but,’ he added, ‘we do not need even that because I have this house.’

  ‘Aunt Agni,’ she began, when her father interrupted her to say,

  ‘Aunt Agni is one of the reasons I’m considering this step. Life was bad enough before your marriage, but since—’ He broke off and Serra thought he gave an inward shudder. ‘She is a shrew, my dear, and I shall welcome the excuse of getting rid of her.’

  ‘She still doesn’t approve of my marrying Dirk?’

  ‘She never approved of my marriage to your mother because she was English, remember.’

  ‘No. She doesn’t like the English, does she?’

  ‘I’m afraid she doesn’t. But what you do has nothing to do with her. I daresay she’d have grabbed at an Englishman, as a last resort, had she had the opportunity.’

  No one had ever offered for Aunt Agni, and although Serra did not care for her at all she was in fact sorry for her, because to a Greek woman, marriage and children was her only aim.

  ‘Do you love Maria?’ she asked hesitantly at length.

  ‘I like her very much. We don’t fall madly in love, Serra, you know that.’

  ‘Madly in love—’ She spoke softly, and a little sadly. How had she come to fall madly in love with Dirk? It was a foolish thing to do and yet ... how could she help herself? Love just came, and it grew and grew until it filled your whole being.

  ‘You’re madly in love,’ her father said, smiling at her. ‘Anyone can see that.’

  Anyone? Not Dirk. If he did ever see it, would it make him change towards her? Serra closed her eyes because of the ache of tears pressing against them. What was he doing now? she wondered, remembering the ravishing blonde he was with in Beirut. But if she were patient, as she had previously determined she would be, then some day Dirk might tire of all these lovely girls and want to settle down. Jenny was certain he would—eventually.

  ‘And once I haven’t all that competition I might just be able to make him notice me,’ she whispered to herself.

  To her surprise Serra liked Maria on sight. She was slim—which was unusual for a Greek woman who had been married for years—and her face was frank and softened with lines that could only be described as kind and compassionate. She seemed to like Serra, too, greeting her enthusiastically and immediately inquiring her about her husband and her home in England. And when dinner was over and Serra’s father had gone to his room for a few moments Maria said, rather anxiously, Serra realized,

  ‘Your father has told you we are thinking of getting, married?’ and when Serra nodded, ‘Many people will frown on us, but, my dear, we are both very lonely.’

  ‘Yes, I think I understand,’ Serra murmured, feeling a little shy because of the confiding manner of the older woman.

  ‘The opinion of others worries us, but we like each other and feel we can be happy together.’ A small pause. ‘You, Serra—what would you think if we married?’

  Raising frank eyes to Maria’s face, Serra said,

  ‘When Father first mentioned it I was—well, a little horrified, as you can imagine. But on thinking about it, and after meeting you --’ She broke off and smiled. ‘I would like my father to marry you.’

  Maria leant forward and took Serra’s small hand in hers.

  ‘Thank, you, Serra,’ she whispered huskily. ‘Thank you very much indeed. I think we shall not take notice of our critical relatives. We shall take the course that will bring us both happiness.’

  Serra recalled that her father had not been quite sure about the marriage, but when he came out to them on the patio and Maria told him what his daughter had said he smiled and the faint expression of strain and uncertainty which had been with him all through dinner faded away as he said,

  ‘Then you at least would not condemn us?’

  ‘Maria has told you what I’ve said
, Father. I would like you to get married—and I’m very sure you’ll be happy together,’ and she added, ‘The relations will come round in the end, I have no doubt of that.

  Serra had told her father that she would be staying a few weeks, and although he registered surprise he made no comment. He would never understand those Englishmen, his expression seemed to say. Serra wrote to Dirk, and to Mrs. Morgan and, later, when she knew Jenny would have returned from her holiday she wrote to her too. Jenny wrote back, advising Serra to remain in Greece a little while longer. She gave no reason, her letter being strangely guarded and, misunderstanding, Serra wept bitter tears when she read it. Dirk did not want her to return...

  Maria and Elias were married quietly at the church in the village where Maria lived. Serra walked with other girls of about her own age, each carrying a brown candle about two foot long, and decorated with a wide ribbon bow at the top. Despite the general disapproval everyone turned out and it was a gay procession that walked up the hill to the pretty white church, where the bearded priest was waiting. Inside the church chattering went on apace during the ceremony, and now and then some young man would ask the priest to stop the service while he took a snapshot of the couple, who would pose, smiling, one on either side of the priest. Then the ceremony would continue—until the next interruption.

  The wedding feast was held in the orchard of Maria’s house, the tables, very long and draped with snow-white cloths, literally sagging with food. The wine flowed and the bride and groom sat on chairs and gave out wedding biscuits to the guests.

  Many people talked to Serra, asking about her husband and her home. The Greek girls all asked her if she were in love and she answered truthfully. No one thought to ask if her husband were also in love.

  A fortnight after the wedding Elias asked Serra when she was going home. He was clearly troubled now and Serra knew she must be thinking of going back to England. Yet Jenny’s most recent letter, received only a week ago, again advised Serra to remain in Greece.

  ‘Next week, perhaps,’ she answered her father, trying to hide her dejection. How could she go home when her husband did not want her? He had answered her letters, it was true, but in cool impersonal tones.

  ‘Perhaps?’ frowned Elias.

  ‘I l-like it here, Father,’ she stammered.

  ‘But your husband has plenty of money, so you can come again—just as often as you like.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I’ll go into Athens and find out when there is a plane,’ she began, but he interrupted her.

  ‘There are plenty of planes. Serra, are you happy with your husband?’

  ‘Of course! What a question!’ Was she convincing? Perhaps, for her father did not pursue the matter further.

  On setting out the following day for Athens, where she would arrange her flight home, Serra told her father not to expect her back for tea, as she intended spending the afternoon on the Acropolis.

  Having arranged to leave Greece on the coming Saturday she strolled towards the Plaka, her unhappiness a leaden weight now that her decision was finally made. Somehow, at the back of her mind, there had flickered a hope that Dirk was missing her, and that he would write telling her she must come home. But two long months had passed and Serra at last admitted it was a forlorn hope that she cherished. What must her future be? There was only a lonely void ahead, for she had no desire for the gay round of pleasure in which she had originally expected to indulge.

  Conflicting thoughts intruded to confuse her mind. That new maturity which had entered into Dirk; his sister’s confidence that he would soon change his wild ways. There was Dirk’s softness on several occasions; there were his kisses and that admission that he had enjoyed being with her. Serra recalled her glowing confidence on the night of the dinner party, and her happiness the following day ... until that moment when Dirk had said in a hard inflexible tone,

  ‘No one will ever reform me.’

  Serra’s eyes flickered. Was it merely obstinacy on her husband’s part? Basically he was strong of character and will, and it would be natural for him to experience anger that his sister should be endeavouring to ‘mould’ him. And that was what she was endeavouring to do. Hadn’t Jenny expressed the hope that, one day, she might have the sort of brother she wanted?

  Having reached the Plaka Serra repeatedly glanced upwards to the great limestone rock, dropping sheer on all sides except the west, and each time her eyes were raised she felt a stab of pain in her heart as she remembered the last time she had been on the Acropolis. It was stupid to go there today, but a compulsion over which she had no control had been with her since her waking hour, when she knew she was going into Athens to make arrangements for a return to the husband who did not want her. The ancient rock had always drawn her, wrapped as it was in a veil of pagan mystery. For although much was known of the ceremonies and rites which were enacted in the temples, there was much still remaining obscure.

  Taking the steep path through the cypress grove—the approach to the Acropolis which most tourists missed owing to their being driven there by coach or taxi—Serra entered from a different point from that through which the ancient Panathenaic processions passed so long ago—the beautiful Propylaea with its marble steps and magnificent Doric columns.

  She wandered about for a while and then, strolling over to the Parthenon, she sat down on one of the steps, her mind naturally filled with the dramatic events of that other occasion, the occasion when Dirk entered her life, subsequently to become the man who would lift her from the restrictive customs of her father’s country and transport her to the freedom that had been her mother’s heritage as a girl.

  Tears filled her eyes as she recalled one momentous incident after another. Dirk’s promise, which she feared he would not keep; their wedding day, so quiet, lacking the pomp and gay abandon that accompanied that of her father and Maria only a short while ago. Yet Serra had not minded the quiet wedding because it meant escape. Then the visit to Beirut and her two scrapes which had made Dirk so angry. There was the journey to England and the meeting with her mother-in-law—

  Serra braked her reflections at that point, for she squirmed at the vision of herself, smothered in soot and cobwebs, facing the elegant astonished woman whom she had previously heard refer to her son’s wife as an oddity.

  An hour passed and still Serra sat there, chiding herself for her dejection and telling herself she was lucky to have married a rich Englishman, and that she should not expect more than what Dirk had originally promised. She stood up at last; the sun was beginning to drop and the temples were bathed in the ethereal transience of an Eastern sunset, their columns and pediments and entablatures sprinkled with a lacy quivering splendour of copper and gold and russet-bronze. A breeze fluttered in from the west to stir Serra’s hair and fan her cheeks, lightly touching them with a rosy hue. The one or two people strolling about put up their coat collars, but Serra turned her face into the wind, feeling it drive through her hair after gently caressing her brow.

  Suddenly she blinked, and her heart seemed to swing right over. What hallucination was this! A hand went automatically to her stomach—butterflies! —and her legs felt weak, just as on that other occasion.

  Having spotted her, he stood for one profound moment and looked at her, then strode towards the mighty temple, and the small trembling figure that was his wife. His manner was confident, his approach swift, as if every separating second irked now that his tardy decision was made. And yet on reaching her he hesitated, and she saw with wonderment that he found speech difficult.

  The few people still remaining on the Acropolis had drifted towards the Propylaea, through which they presently disappeared. And still Dirk stood there, looking down at his wife with infinite tenderness and love in his dark eyes. His gaze was searching, as if he would seek an answer to his silent question. Her swift trembling smile was that answer and a little laugh of triumph escaped him. Serra could only stare, spellbound, dazzled by this miracle.

 
‘You have come ... you have come to me—’ The rest was smothered in a kiss, tender and warm and ardent. His strong arms embraced her and she nestled her head against his shoulder, the questions flitting through her mind ignored in this intimate moment of ecstasy. He kissed her again and again, as if he would make up for all those lost days and weeks of uncertainty. But after a while he released her and, taking her hand, led her to the spot where she had been sitting—on that first day—a moment before Charles had cheerily asked her to remain still until he had taken his snapshot. They sat close and Dirk told her of his struggle, of his reluctance to settle down: and be the family man.

  ‘Yet I have known for some time, my love, that I was finding you devastatingly attractive, but I fought it and fought it—right up till yesterday I fought, but at last I knew that all I wanted was to love my wife and to be loved by her.’ He turned his head and she caught her breath at the wealth of love in his expression. ‘I know you care—I saw it in your smile just now—so I have my wish, for I love you with all my heart—’ He broke off, emotionally affected as she would never have believed he could be. ‘I bless the day I found you, my little Serra, here on the steps of Athena’s Temple.’ His mouth caressed her cheek in a way that set her pulses tingling; she turned her face and gave him her lips.

  ‘Yesterday, when you decided to love me—’ she began a little while later.

  ‘Decided?’ He slanted her an amused glance. ‘That’s a unique way of putting it! I’ve loved you some time, my sweet.’

  She laughed shakily, still a little shy, and overwhelmed by this stupendous happening that had changed her whole life in a matter of minutes.

  ‘Yesterday, when you discovered you wanted me—why didn’t you write and tell me to come home? I was coming home on Saturday anyway,’ she added, curling her small hand round his.

  ‘The most sensible and practical thing was for me to write,’ he agreed. ‘But having at last seen the light—or rather, admitted to seeing it—I had a sudden desire to have a holiday with you in Athens; a honeymoon, my love, and so I simply booked myself a seat for today’s plane and here I am. On my arrival I immediately took a taxi to your father’s house and he told me you would be here.’ His fingers moved caressingly across her hand before he lifted it to his lips. ‘What made you stay away so long?’ he asked, keeping her hand close to his mouth.