The Secret of Helena's Bay

by Sally Quilford

  After dinner, someone put music on, and Yaya taught them Greek dancing. She explained, translated by Paris, that the island dances were ‘watery’ in flow and tone, and showed them how to do it.

  Once the British guests got over their initial reserve, they all began to enjoy themselves, whilst Len did his impression of Zorba the Greek, dancing out of time with all the others but not caring at all.

  Shelley felt a hand in hers, and saw Paris standing next to her, whilst Mrs Caldicott took her other hand. There was something secure about the way they held on to her, though she was honest enough to admit that it was Paris’s hand which made her feel the safest. With wine filling her veins and a newfound sense of peace, she allowed the dance to carry her away from all the cares of the past year. Tony was forgotten. Her mother was forgotten. Stefan was forgotten. The sinister men on the east bay were forgotten. After all, how could anything be sinister on this wonderful islet? All she felt was the music and Paris’s strong hand holding hers.

  She decided that despite their little idiosyncrasies, the people were good people. Mrs Caldicott might be a bit stern, but she was kind to everyone, ensuring they all had plenty of food and drink, clucking like a mother hen over those who seemed a bit lonely, insisting they join in the fun. Len might moan a bit but he was a good laugh when he let go and forgot he was supposed to be a sensible ex-policeman. Miss Charters, though a bit bird brained at times, was a sweetie with lots of funny tales to tell. Even June, with her brittle salon manager manner, turned out to be good company. Shelley wondered then if that was what the holiday was all about. Cracking through tough shell people built around themselves in the outside world.

  The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine and the ozone from the sea. If Shelley were asked to describe paradise, this would be it. Miles away from the hustle and bustle, with no exhaust fumes or roaring engines. Only the soft hush of the sea as it touched the shore, and the occasional cicada chirping out a night song. And Paris’s hand in hers adding to the romance of it all. It felt like a night when good things could happen, and she’d had precious few of those in the past few years.

  They started on the terrace, but gradually the line of dancers snaked down to the beach, where soft sand slipped between their toes. Even when they were too far away to hear the music clearly they danced. Some broke off and ran into the water.

  Suddenly Shelley felt herself pulled in that direction, and Paris dragged her into the waves. There was something exhilarating about getting her clothes soaking wet. It felt boisterous and daring. Even more so than if she were naked. Her dress clung to her trim figure, whilst her red hair, usually flattened with a straightening iron, curled around her temples.

  “Aphrodite, I presume,” said Paris, softly. They had moved away from the others, and were standing alone some way along the coast. The water helped cool the fever she felt at being close to him.

  She smiled shyly at the compliment, admiring how his own clothes clung to his lean frame. “Don’t tell me,” she teased. “I’ve got a face that could launch a couple of jet skis. Oh, no that was the Helen to whom you aspire.”

  “Actually when I said that and then looked at you, I was wondering if a thousand ships would be nearly enough.”

  Glad that it was dark, so that once again he could not see her blush like a silly schoolgirl, she smiled and turned to look up towards the farmhouse, where the lights on the terrace twinkled comfortingly. “That’s a kind thing to say. Thank you.”

  A moment later she felt his hand on her shoulder. He turned her gently back to face him and put his hand beneath her chin, raising her face to his. The world seemed to stand still as his lips found hers for a tender kiss. Lacing her arms around his neck, she allowed herself to enjoy the moment. The kiss became deeper, more passionate, and his hands splayed out on her back, as if he wanted to touch as much of her as possible. She was not averse to the idea herself, feeling his chest and the beating of his heart through his wet shirt.

  She pulled away reluctantly. “Is this allowed? You know, is it ethical and all that?”

  “I’m not your counsellor, Shelley, despite you insisting on believing so.”

  “In that case,” she said, putting her arms back around his neck, “I’d quite like another kiss please.”

  Their second kiss was much deeper, and more passionate. Shelley had no idea how much time past, whether it was moments or millennia. They could have been lovers from ancient Greece, or lovers from the future, and like all lovers, they created their own time.

  After a long time holding onto each other, they took a leisurely walk back to the farmhouse. The others gave them knowing smiles and winks as they approached the terrace.

  “I …er … think I’ll go and phone my mum,” said Shelley. There was no hiding her blushes that time. The lights on the terrace revealed all. “I’ll see you soon,” she said to Paris, hoping he would understand the invitation, then worrying that she might be offering it too soon. She was not a girl of easy virtue, preferring to be in love before she slept with any man. But, as one of her favourite songs went, if this was not love, why did it feel so good?

  After her chat with Paris, she was feeling a bit guilty about how she had treated her mum, Pat, since the problems with Tony. Pat had wanted to help her, but Shelley had pushed her away, feeling she was being judged all the time. Yet her mum had been there for her, giving her a home and money when she needed it. All she had given in return were bad moods and silence.

  She rushed upstairs to get her mobile phone. She hoped there would be a signal now that the storm had passed. She was to be disappointed. Even if there had been a signal. That was the least of her problems. The battery was flat. To make matters worse, she had forgotten to pack her charger. Which was odd, as she was sure she remembered putting it in her case. Mrs Caldicott had said something about losing her phone charger too, had she not? Shelley shook her head. “Don’t start seeing reds under the bed again, dear,” she muttered, in a good imitation of Mrs Caldicott’s stern tones. Wondering if Paris might let her use the office phone, she nipped back downstairs.

  As she drew nearer to his office, she heard voices from within. She was about to walk away when she heard one of the voices – a man – say in an accent direct from the north of England.

  “You must keep that lass away. She’s threatening to ruin everything we’re working for. We are so close to finding the rubies.”

  Shelley gasped. That’s what they were looking for at the bay. The other voice was indistinct, no more than a murmur. But it sounded soothing, as if trying to placate the man.

  “Yeah, I know you say no one believes her, but they might if she keeps on about it. Someone’s already contacted the mainland, asking about the old bloke.”

  Shelley moved closer to the door, then realised that the voice was coming nearer. She ducked back out of the way and hid in a small sitting room across the hall, peering through the crack in the door. She saw the man from the beach leave the office. It was Professor Grunwald.

  For a horrible moment, she thought he saw her, so she drew further into the room, until she heard him leave via the back door. She watched from the window as he walked towards the huts, and down onto the beach, presumably intending to take the same route she had. It was interesting to note that for a man who had hurt his ankle, he did not limp at all.

  She watched him for a while, until he faded out of view, and then went back to the hall. When she got there, the office door was open and Paris stood framed by it, looking quizzically back at her.

  “Is everything alright, Shelley? You look pale,” he said.

  Struggling to remain composed, Shelley smiled. In reality she wanted to burst into tears, but she would never be weak for a man again. All that rubbish he had said about her not feeling guilty. All that pretended understanding about her mother. The day on the mainland. The kissing. All he had been doing was keeping her sweet, whilst he and his friends got on with their illegal pursuits, and, worse still, hurting a harmless
old man. Within seconds she convinced herself that the only reason he took her to the mainland was to get her out of the way whilst they did something else illegal.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just a bit of a headache from the sun. I think I’ll have an early night.”

  “Would you like some company?” He asked, a note of suggestion in his voice.

  “No.” It came out sharper than she intended. “I mean, no, sorry. I’d really like to be alone for a while.” She turned towards the stairs and climbed two steps.

  “Shelley?” His voice was smooth, and made the hairs on the back of her neck tingle. Oh how she hated him for being so attractive. But, from her recollection of films, bad guys always were.

  “Yes.” She half turned to look down at him. Even with her standing a couple of steps up, he was taller than her. Instinctively she climbed a couple more, to gain the upper hand.

  “I’d like to know what’s brought the shutters down again.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I thought you and I had made some headway today. You opened up to me, like you were starting to trust me. Didn’t the kissing mean anything to you?”

  Opening her mouth to speak, Shelley found she had nothing to say that would not set her off in floods of tears. Swallowing back a lump in her throat, she managed, “You’ve certainly said all the right things.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, Paris, it doesn’t mean anything. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, alright!”

  She turned and ran up the stairs, as the tears began to flow freely down her cheeks.

  When she got to her room, she threw herself on the bed, crying. But soon she steeled herself, and sat up, impatiently rubbing the tears from her face. She would not cry over another conman. He had been so nice to her. Perhaps it was esay for him because she wanted to believe that there was one nice man in the world.

  Thinking back she remembered him saying that he could not afford to stay on the islet all year round, but he wanted to. Was that why he and his friends were searching for the rubies? So he could have the money to run the centre all year? And if so, did the means justify the ends? Shelley decided it did not. The rubies belonged to the church. What’s more, people had died, on this islet and throughout the Greek mainland. All over Europe in fact. The rubies were quite rightly red, to denote the blood shed so that they and other treasures like them could be sold from the innocent people who owned them.

  Yet she wanted to give Paris that excuse. That he only wanted the money so he could run the centre and give people wonderful holidays. But after all he had said in the museum, about those who died, sounding sympathetic as he did, she could not allow it. Would not allow it. That was the mistake she made with Tony. Allowed him excuse after excuse. Some things were inexcusable, no matter how much in love with a person you were. And foolishly, stupidly, infuriatingly she realised, as the tears began to flow again, she had allowed herself to fall for another conman.

  Chapter Nine

  The following morning, and after a bad night’s sleep, she vowed to avoid Paris. That was not too difficult. When she arrived at breakfast, he left, his face a mask of some emotion she could not fathom. She also had to avoid being kept from going about her own pursuits by Mrs Caldicott and Miss Charters. After a singing class, where Len and June regaled everyone with their version of ‘I Got You Babe’, Shelley decided to go investigate what was going on.

  Despite their best efforts and an infusion of guilt which Shelley’s mother could have learned from, she politely declined to help Mrs Caldicott find a missing scarf or assist Miss Charters with her attempts to finish a jigsaw.

  “Are you sure, dear? It’s most relaxing, you know, and you seem a bit stressed,” said Miss Charters, holding up a piece of blue sky that looked like a hundred other pieces of blue sky on the table.

  It struck Shelley that the jigsaw was a bit like the islet. Everyone fit together in some way. She just needed to work out how.

  The previous evening she had felt warmth for these people, even something approaching affection. Now, because she did not know who to trust, they irritated her. But she was a good enough person to feel bad about that, because Mrs Caldicott and Miss Charters had only ever been kind to her, albeit in a schoolmarmish type of way.

  “Sorry,” she said, not sure if she could stop herself from crying, “I’d really like some time alone.”

  “Very well, dear,” said Mrs Caldicott, her voice softening. “We don’t want to crowd you. But if you do ever need someone to talk to, we may be a couple of chatty old birds, but we have seen a lot of the world.” The older woman looked in the direction Paris had gone. “There’s nothing that can’t be mended after a nice chat and a cup of tea.”

  “I’m afraid that’s probably not true,” said Shelley, dashing off before the tears fell again.

  Her first stop was the jetty. The singing class had ended about half an hour before the ferry arrived, which gave her plenty of time to get into place. It was only as it sailed into view and she saw the rugged Greek pilot that she realised he may not know a word of English. It also occurred to her that he might well be in on whatever was going on.

  By the time the small boat pulled up to the jetty, Shelley had more or less convinced herself that the idea was a stupid one. She turned to go back to the farmhouse, and saw Annette coming along the path towards her. “Are you off to the mainland again, Shelley?”

  “No, actually, I just wanted to speak to the ferryman, only it’s occurred to me he may not speak English.”

  “He doesn’t, but I can translate if you want to.”

  “No, it’s fine, honestly,” Shelley said. “It was a silly idea anyway.”

  “No, come on, let me help. Are you trying to book a trip?” Before Shelley could answer, Annette had whistled to the ferryman to come ashore.

  He landed on the jetty with a thump that very nearly broke through the old planks. Annette looked at Shelley, expectantly.

  “I wanted to ask him if he brought an old German man here on Saturday,” Shelley said, wishing she had not started this.

  Annette, showing no surprise at Shelley’s question, turned to the ferryman and translated. “No, he wasn’t on duty that day. I think his son was on the ferry that day.”

  “The other day,” said Shelley, “when a man was taken to the mainland with his sprained ankle. Was this ferryman on duty?”

  It turned out he had been. “Ask him,” said Shelley, feeling her cheeks grow hot, “if that was an old or young man.”

  Annette and the ferryman exchanged words for quite a while, with lots of hand waving and gesticulating. Annette turned to Shelley. “He was neither young nor old. He was about forty.”

  “Oh.” Shelley was perplexed. She felt sure the conversation had been longer than that. Then again, she did not know any Greek, so chances are it took a lot of words to ask a question that might only take a few words in English.

  Annette had a few more words with the ferryman, explaining to Shelley that Paris had ordered some jet skis.

  “He’s trying to encourage more young people to the islet,” she explained, sounding less impressed than she ought to be.

  “It was Professor Grunwald. You know that, don’t you?” said Annette when the ferryman returned to his boat and they were walking back towards the farmhouse.

  They began to walk back towards the farmhouse.

  “Yes, of course,” said Shelley. “I just wondered if it might be someone else.”

  “The man you saw on the first night?”

  “Yes.”

  “We haven’t seen him on the islet at all, and there’s no way he could have left.”

  “Are you going to tell me I’m still imagining it?” asked Shelley. “And did I also imagine that when Professor Grunwald visited Paris last night he spoke with an English accent?”

  “No! Are you sure?” asked Annette.

  “Yes, I know a Yorkshire accent when I hear one.”

 
“Well that’s amazing. I mean, he speaks English but always with a German accent. Mind you, I always thought there was something a bit fake about him.”

  “That’s not all,” said Shelley, finding that once she started speaking everything that had bothered her poured out. Annette turned out to be a good listener. “He hasn’t got a limp, which you’d think he would have. And the dig isn’t right somehow. They’re digging like navvies. I’m not an expert, but I thought archaeological digs were supposed to be a bit more careful and mindful of the landscape.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “You were over there the other night, during the storm. Didn’t you notice?”

  “They hadn’t started then because we’d only just arrived. Remember? They were just setting up their camping equipment. Maybe I should have another walk over there, and see for myself.”

  “Yes, that’s a great idea, Annette. It would be nice to have a second opinion.”

  “Do you want to come with me? I feel a bit nervous walking into that situation alone. Assuming it is a situation, I mean.”

  “Of course. There’s safety in numbers,” said Shelley, weak with relief. At last, someone was taking her seriously.

  Annette led Shelley along a path just below the farmhouse. “It goes straight across the islet,” she explained. “Much quicker than going around by the beach.”

  “I wish I’d known that the other day,” said Shelley. “Who gave the Professor and his people permission to dig on the islet?”

  “I’ve no idea. They had the right papers. I know that much,” said Annette.

  As they reached a spot parallel to the back corner of the farmhouse, Paris called from the terrace. “Annette, Shelley, where are you going?”

  “Don’t tell him,” said Shelley, in a whisper.