(11/20) Farther Afield

by Miss Read

  'Plenty tomaytoes,' nodded the waiter. 'Tomaytoes very good. You like?'

  'I'll have the same,' said Abe.

  The waiter vanished. Abe patted Mother's hand, and beamed upon her.

  'You certainly know what you like,' he said proudly. If she had suddenly explained Einstein's theory he could not have been more respectful.

  Our shrimp salads arrived, and Abe and Mother studied them as we ate. They were delicious, and soon a mound of heads and tails grew at the side of our enormous white plates.

  A thin white cat weaved her way from the shop through the legs of the chairs, and sat close to us.

  With thoughts of my incarcerated Tibby, I handed down a few shrimp heads. There was a rapid crunching, and the pavement was clear again. I repeated the process. So did the cat.

  'Like a miniature Hoover,' commented Amy.

  'Starving, poor thing,' said Mother. 'Or got some wasting disease maybe.'

  'I haven't seen any animals looking hungry in Crete,' I said, coming to the defence of our hosts. 'Cats in hot climates often look thin to our eyes.'

  'I was raised where cats were kept in their place,' said Mother. 'If us kids had fed our animals at the table, we'd have caught the rough side of our Pa's tongue.'

  I forbore to comment.

  'You ladies aiming at going to Knossos?' asked Abe, changing the subject with aplomb.

  We said we were.

  'You done the museum?'

  We said we had.

  'Some beautiful things there,' said Mother, 'but I didn't care for the ladies in the wall-paintings. Shocking to think they went topless like any disgusting modern girl. I sure was thankful our Pastor wasn't present. What did you think, Abe?'

  Abe looked uncomfortable.

  'Well, I thought they were proper handsome. Fine upstanding girls they looked to me.'

  Mother gave him a stern look.

  'After all,' said Abe pleadingly, 'it was a long time back. Maybe they didn't know any better.'

  At that moment, their plates arrived, and we asked for our bill and paid it.

  'See you at Knossos!' shouted Abe, as we said our farewells and walked away from the table.

  'Do you take that as a threat or a promise?' asked Amy, when we were safely out of earshot.

  As luck would have it, we did not come across our friends at Knossos, but Amy commented on them as we parked the car at the gates at the site of the ruined palace.

  'I wonder how many English wives would be pandered to as Mother is,' she mused.

  'Would they want it?'

  'On the whole, no. On the other hand, it must be wonderfully encouraging to be deferred to so often. It might make one terribly selfish, of course. After all, it hasn't done Mother a lot of good – sulking like a spoilt child when things go wrong.'

  'Perhaps they haven't any children,' I surmised. 'Couples without children often get over-possessive with each other.'

  'Not all of them,' said Amy dryly. And I remembered – too late as usual – that she and James were childless. Whoever it was called the tongue an unruly member was certainly right. Trying to control my own proves wellnigh impossible, and results in more self-reproach than I care to admit.

  'Or perhaps,' I continued hastily, 'it's a case of arrested development, and Abe panders to her simply because she's so immature.'

  'Immature? Mother?' snorted Amy, locking the car door with a decisive click. 'Mother's development has reached its highest peak, for what it's worth. She's got that man exactly where she wants him – under her thumb. Whether it makes her happy or not is another thing, but you see it over and over again in marriages. One must be boss; never an equal partnership.'

  We made our way in the brilliant sunshine to the entrance to Knossos.

  'You make marriage sound a hazardous proceeding,' I remarked. I don't think I could have succeeded in it.'

  Amy shook her head at me.

  'You don't know what you've missed, my girl. It has a bright side, believe me. I'll tell you all about it one day. I bet even Abe and Mother have a few happy times.'

  'Well, let's hope they enjoyed their shrimp salads. I don't like to think of Mother suffering with gas while she's sightseeing.'

  We entered the grounds, and made our way through a shady avenue which led uphill to the site of the great palace, where men and women, some two thousand years B.C., had faced, no doubt, the same marital problems at large today.

  I had no idea, when reading about Knossos, how vast an area the whole concourse covered. As before, Amy and I started our tour together, but soon decided to meet, two hours hence, at the gate, for there was so much to see that one was better on one's own.

  As always, it was the light that impressed me most. It was easy to see how such a happy civilisation evolved. The clarity of light, the warmth of the sun and the embracing sea, combined to give an exhilaration of spirit. Fertile soil, many rivers and trees were an added blessing. Small wonder that the ancient Minoans had a spontaneous gaiety and energy which created such a wealth of superb architecture, paintings and sculpture.

  They were practical people too, I was glad to see, with sensible plumbing, spacious bathrooms and plenty of storage space for their provisions. Many a twentieth century builder in England, I thought, could have learnt a thing or two from the workmen of Minoan Crete.

  The great staircases, supported by the massive red columns, smaller at the base than the top, led from one floor to another, and on each were things to stand and marvel at. A little crowd stood looking at King Minos' throne, reckoned to be the oldest in the world. But the object which gave me most pleasure was the fresco in the Queen's room showing dolphins at sport above the entrance. There they play, some four thousand years old, still bearing that particularly endearing expression of benignity which so enchants us when we see the fish today cavorting, for our delight, in water parks and zoos.

  Their gaiety was echoed in the frescoes showing processions or feats of physical skill. Many we had seen in the museum, but replicas were here, and one could not help but be impressed with the physical beauty and elegance of the men and women. The topless gowns, so frowned upon by Mother, had beautiful bell-shaped skirts, and the stiff bodices, cut away to expose the breasts, supported them and were intricately adorned with gold and precious jewels. Their hair was long and wavy, their eyes made up as lavishly as Vanessa's. They were really the most decorative creatures, and not above helping in the acrobatic pursuits, as the pictures of them assisting their menfolk in the bull-vaulting escapades showed clearly.

  Perhaps, I mused, this is what northerners lack. Our climate is against flimsy clothing, sea-bathing and outdoor sports. If we took more physical exercise, should we be more blithe and energetic ? Would our lives become as creative and as happy as the Minoans' most certainly were? Should we be less introspective, less prone to self-pity, less critical of others?

  The secret, I decided, was simply in the sun. Given that, given warmth and light, one was more than half-way to happiness.

  I rose from my staircase seat looking out to sea, and made my way reluctantly to the outside world.

  'But I shall come again,' I said aloud, stroking the ancient dust from a pillar as I passed. There was so much more to learn from the Minoans about the proper way to live.

  10 Amy Works Things Out

  'IT is a truth universally acknowledged,' Jane Austen tells I us, 'that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.'

  A lesser truth, universally acknowledged, is that the first week of a fortnight's holiday is twice as long as the second week. Why this should be so remains a mystery, but no doubt the theory of relativity might throw some light on the matter if one could only understand it.

  'Of course,' say some people, trying to be rational, 'one does so much the first week. Trips here and there, friends to visit, new people to meet – it's bound to seem longer.'

  But this theory did not apply to Amy and me. Apart from the trip to Knossos, and some blissful walk
s in the mountains after the main heat of the day had passed, we had done nothing but sleep, bathe, eat and converse in a languid fashion. True, we had roused ourselves to write a few postcards, now and again, but on the whole the first week had seemed like two days, and here we were, embarking on our second week, with dozens of places as yet unvisited.

  Aghios Nikolaos itself we quartered fairly thoroughly, for we had taken to shopping for our midday picnic, collecting a hot fragrant loaf from the bakery in a cobbled side street, choosing cheese and chocolate, but learning quickly to wait until we reached the villages to buy the famous tomatoes, for here, in the town's dusty streets, their freshness soon withered. We soon knew the most welcoming cafes, the newsagent who sold English newspapers, the shoe-maker who would make you a pair of leather sandals in next to no time, and the jewellers who displayed the beautiful gold filigree work which was beyond even Amy's purse.

  But it was life in the country, in the small villages among the olive groves and the carob trees, which fascinated us.

  Despite the splendid electric lights which hung in some of the narrow streets, most of the houses seemed to have none indoors. The interiors were dark, and the families seemed to sit on their doorsteps as long as the light lasted.

  We met them, during the day, and particularly in the early evening, on their way home. The little groups usually consisted of a man and wife, and perhaps one or two children. They would be accompanied by a mule or a donkey, sometimes both, and two or three goats. Occasionally, a cow swaggered indolently with them, its full bag swaying from side to side. The animals were in fine condition, and the American, Mother, was quite wrong to accuse the Cretans of callousness. All those we saw were lovingly tended, and the sheepdogs that sometimes ran with the family were as lively as those at Fairacre.

  Always there would be a great bundle of greenery, culled from the banks, for the beasts' evening fodder, and always too, a large bundle of kindling wood lodged across the front of the donkey's saddle, intended, no doubt, for cooking the evening meal.

  The women were dressed in black, and the men in clothes of dark material. All acknowledged us when we met, and smiled in a friendly way, but it was quite apparent that they were busy. They were at work. They wished us well but would not dally. Here, the Biblical way of life still held – a day to day existence, charted by the hours of light and darkness, and by the swing of the seasons. There was a serenity about these people which we have lost it seems. Perhaps we have too many possessions, look too far ahead, take 'too much thought for the morrow, what we shall eat, what we shall put on'. Amy and I would not have wanted to change to this style of living, even if we could, but it was balm to our spirits to see the simplicity and dignity of another way of life, and to learn from it.

  We decided to visit the monastery of Toplou at the far eastern end of the island. We had soon realised that it was impossible to attempt to see the western half of Crete, for the hilly nature of the country and the surface of many of the roads made the going slow.

  'We'll come again,' promised Amy, 'and we'll stay in Heraklion next time, and push westward from there.'

  Meanwhile we intended to see as much as we could with Aghios Nikolaos as our very good centre. The coast road eastward, we soon discovered, on the morning we set off for Toplou, had its own hazards, for falls of rock had crashed into the road and gangs of workmen shook their heads and did their best to stop us.

  Amy was at her most persuasive, and tried to explain that we should never be so foolhardy as to run into real danger, but surely, if they themselves were brave enough to be working on the road then our little car – driven with infinite care – could edge past?

  They grimaced at us, poured forth a torrent of Greek to each other, held up their elbows and looked fearfully above them, miming the dangers we must expect if we persisted. We sat and smiled at them, nodding to show we understood, and at last, with a shrugging of shoulders, they beckoned us on. Their expressions showed clearly their feelings. On our own heads be it – and that might well be, literally, a ton or two of overhanging rock, made unsafe by the violent storm of a few nights before.

  We survived. The sky was overcast that day, but the sea air lifted our hair, and we sat on short turf which smelt aromatically of thyme, to have our picnic.

  'I wonder,' said Amy lazily, as we rested after lunch, 'what the outcome will be between the Clarks. She came round this morning, when you were up at the hotel, to borrow the Knossos guide book. Do you know, that wretched man thinks he's found a house! She's beside herself.'

  'Where is the house?'

  'Malia.'

  I remembered it as one of the ancient sites on the road to Heraklion. I also remembered it as a dusty, somewhat sleazy, long street full of booths selling straw hats, and bags, and some pretty fearful souvenirs. I couldn't see Mrs Clark settling there after the green and pleasant purlieus of Surrey.

  'What's her reaction?' I asked.

  'Unusually forceful, which I drink's a good thing. He's gone a little too far a little too quickly, and while she was really doing her best to meet him halfway a week ago, now she's beginning to get much tougher.'

  'What a problem! I only hope they don't fall out permanently. They seem so fond of each other, that I can't see them getting too vicious over this affair.'

  'I'm sure they'll find some solution. Evidently, she now stipulates that nothing is bought outright until they have lived in the place for a few months, and can see how they like it.'

  'Seems sensible. So he's agreed to rent something?'

  'I don't know. The difficulty is that people move step by step into awkward positions, and then won't swallow their pride and climb down.'

  'Too true.'

  'Look at James. I really can't believe that he wants to spend the rest of his life with this girl. She'll bore him to tears by the end of the year.'

  'You know her then?' I was taken by surprise. Amy had said so little about the girl that I had jumped to the conclusion that James had met her somewhere on his travels.

  'I've met her a few times in James's office. She's one of his typists. Perfectly nice child, I imagine, but should be flirting with some cheerful young man at her local tennis club or dramatic society – not ogling her boss.'

  Amy stubbed out a cigarette viciously among the thymy grass.

  'If this had happened twenty or thirty years ago,' she went on, 'I should have tackled it quite differently.

  'I keep remembering my Aunt Winifred who coped with much the same situation when she was my age. Did I ever tell you about it?'

  'No,' I said, settling comfortably for a domestic saga. 'Tell on.'

  'Well, soon after I left college I had a couple of years at a rather nice school near Highbury. As my Aunt Winifred lived close by, my parents, after much heart-searching, asked her if I might stay there as a P.G.

  'She was a game old girl, and had no children of her own, and said of course I must stay there, which I did, going home at weekends. Incidentally, she refused to take a penny in rent which made my upright parents most uncomfortable, but there it was.

  'My uncle Peter was an accountant – perhaps book-keeper is nearer the mark – at one of the good London stores, Harrods or Jacksons, something of the sort. He caught the 8.10 train every morning and came into the house between 6.30 and 7 every evening. He was very sweet and gentle, and always brought us a cup of tea in bed in the mornings, and spent his spare time pottering about in his greenhouse.

  'Imagine then, the horror when he calmly asked Aunt Winifred if she would kindly remove herself as he wished to bring home "a very lady-like girl" -I can hear my poor Aunt Win mimicking his tone to this day – whom he hoped to marry as soon as he and Aunt Winifred could get a divorce.

  'I was not present, naturally, at this scene, but heard all about it from my aunt some time later.'

  'What on earth did she do?'

  'You'll be amazed. As amazed as I was, all those years ago, I expect. She told me this with a smile of such self-satisfa
ction on her face that I was rendered speechless at the time. It seems that she had been left a small legacy by a godfather not long before. Something in the region of two hundred pounds. When she was telling me this, I remember thinking: "Oh, what a good tiring! She could make a start somewhere else!" But I realised that she was telling me that she decided to use the money "to win him back". She proposed to ignore his suggestion completely, but do you know what she did?'

  'Bought him back with two hundred?'

  'As near as! She blew the lot on having her hair dyed and re-styled. She bought masses of new clothes. She had a face-lift and heaven knows what else. Then she calmly waited for him to fall in love with her all over again.'

  'And did he?'

  'I think not. He was even more subdued after that little escapade; but she did succeed as she intended to do.'

  Amy sighed.

  'You can imagine my feelings on hearing this tale. I was absolutely furious. At that age I thought I should have let the man have his way, and gone off myself, rejoicing in the two hundred which would keep me going until I found a suitable job. To crawl around trying to get him back was the last thing I should have done. I was so shocked by my aunt's attitude that I said nothing. Perhaps it was as well.'

  'And how do you feel now about it?'

  Amy looked at me steadily.

  'I'm thirty years older and wiser. I know now how Aunt Winifred felt. To put it at its lowest level first – why should she give up her bed and board, and all the settled ways of a lifetime simply because he wanted to opt out of a solemn contract they had made? Why should she – the innocent party – shatter her own life simply because he wanted to be unfaithful?

  'On a slightly less material plane, she realised, I know, – and now that I'm facing the same problem I know how much it hurts – that one can't just destroy a shared life by walking away. The memories, the experiences, the influences one has had on the other, have simply made you what you are, and they can never be completely wiped out.'