by Carl Nixon
They travel through several small villages, whitewashed groups of houses on dusty patches of land. Old men sit outside in twos and threes and stare unblinking into the car as they pass. The landscape is uninspiring, rocky gullies with hills planted in rows and rows of low olives and the barren slopes of the steep mountains further inland.
‘Ron. This is the road to Sphakia. Does anything look familiar?’ Peter looks hopefully back at him in the rear-view mirror.
Ron looks around and sees a sealed road with smoothed out edges where the mountain has been bulldozed and dynamited away. His memory semaphores him images: the rocky trail over the mountains; Barry Bunker’s tanned face laughing in the torchlight; sleeping under an olive tree only feet from the corpse of a young German still tangled in his parachute; the heels of the bloke in front who later drowned.
‘No,’ he says to Peter. ‘We marched at night to avoid being bombed and strafed from the air.’
‘But nothing looks familiar?’
He considers. ‘Yes, one thing does.’
Peter looks expectantly back at him.
‘There were olive trees.’
Peter frowns and does not ask Ron any more questions.
They have just left a village and the narrow road has flattened out, falling away on one side into a dry stream bed, when Ron hears a sudden intake of breath from Margaret. There is a solid thump as something hits the front of the car, and then Peter is braking hard.
‘Did we hit someone?’ asks Ron, alarmed.
‘A dog,’ says Peter. ‘No, it was just a dog.’
Margaret is the first out of the car. When Ron reaches her she is kneeling next to the dog’s body and lifting its head so it rests on her wrist like a pillow. The animal is clearly dead, sprawled half in the narrow ditch which runs along the downhill side of the road. Margaret’s white cross-trainers look bright against the brown earth. It is a small dog and almost the same colour as the ground, as if it has evolved to be camouflaged in this landscape. Its legs are too short for its body and its fur is mangy. A mongrel and probably a stray. The only sign of the car’s impact is a small smear of blood on the ground beneath the dog’s flank. Flies are already starting to gather. Margaret is holding the dog, stroking along its neck.
‘It’s dead,’ says Peter. ‘We should go.’ He stands behind them close to the car, and looks around as though expecting angry Cretans to emerge from among the olive groves demanding remuneration or revenge.
Margaret is still crouching, stroking the dog’s head. ‘You were driving too fast.’
‘It darted out.’
‘If you’d been going slower you could have missed it.’
‘What does it matter? It’s just a stray bloody dog.’
Margaret lays the dog’s head down carefully. She straightens and stares at Peter coldly and then walks back to the car. Peter follows her without looking at the dead dog. He slips his long body behind the wheel and slams the door. Ron is the last to climb back in.
They drive on into the mountains with only the noise of the straining motor in the small space. After another hour the car pulls off the road which has been climbing steadily. They have come to the broad saddle of the road before it dips down again. Peter announces into the sudden silence that he is going to go on foot to a point where he can look down and sketch the Askifou valley, parts of which they can glimpse ahead. ‘In their journals several New Zealand soldiers commented on being inspired by the sight of the valley among the mountains.’ He looks at Ron for confirmation but Ron looks away back towards Hania and the sea and says nothing. Peter sighs. He takes his bag with his camera and pencils and sketch pad, and walks towards a stand of pine trees up the hill.
‘Wait.’
Margaret gets out and follows him. Ron stays in the car. Although he cannot hear clearly what is said, Ron watches as Margaret begins to berate Peter bitterly, at first about the dog but then about other things. The name Carolyn is mentioned several times. For once Peter does not defend himself. He stands, tall and thin on the side of the dusty road, and faces Margaret as she expels her anger into his face. Embarrassed for them both and for himself, Ron looks away.
When Margaret finally returns to the car, her face is tight. Peter has gone, vanished across the road and into the trees. Without a word she collects a basket from the boot and takes Ron by the arm, leading him over a ditch and into the olive trees growing up the side of a small hill. Ron is soon breathing heavily so that Margaret stops walking and spreads out a blanket on an almost level patch of ground beneath a tree.
‘Here. Sit down.’
He sits carefully, feeling his knees twinge. From the basket, Margaret takes crusty bread and cheese bought in Hania that morning. There is bottled water and red wine. The leaves cast dappled shadows that move slightly around them as she lays out the food. The trunk of the olive tree behind them is forked with age and the wood twists in on itself like the thick plaited bread Ron suddenly recalls the islanders baking for weddings. For the first time in a long while he feels hungry and is grateful.
As she lays out the food on the blanket Margaret begins to cry. She turns away, hiding her face so that he will not notice. He cannot remember seeing his daughter cry since she was a very small girl. Still sitting, he reaches out and pulls her close to him so that her head is against his chest. At first she resists, but then he feels her surrender. She starts to sob and he soothes her, making small cooing noises as he remembers he used to do when she was young and would wake in the night. He sees that there is a small patch of maroon blood from the dead dog dried on the edge of her sleeve. He does not know how long he stays that way, holding her. Until the shadows have moved, growing longer and swinging further to the east.
When he is sure that Margaret is asleep Ron lowers her gently so that she is lying on her side on the rug, her face away from the sun, and then he stands using the trunk of the olive tree for support. He picks up a piece of bread and some cheese. Remarkably he is still hungry. In fact he is ravenous. He walks a short distance and stands eating, ripping the crusty bread with his hands and laying the cheese inside in thick wedges. The land falls away from the spot where he has stopped. In the distance is the blue of the Mediterranean. He can see the rows of olive trees and the road to Sphakia winding up through the mountains, hugging the edge of a ravine, and their car parked on the side of the road. There is no sign of Peter.
As he eats his bread and cheese he stands with one hand against a rough trunk and feels the wind off the sea on his face. He eats as slowly as possible, savouring the taste and the place. There are no exhilarating flashbacks to falling paratroopers or German bombers swinging in along the road. Small personal things have stayed with him from his days on Crete, but the war was sixty years ago and he has other stronger memories from his life. Better memories to make a raft of now. In this moment there is only the peppery taste of good strong cheese. There is only his knees aching from the climb, blood in his stool and his sleeping daughter who is almost an old woman herself and whose marriage is probably over.
The Seduction
here’s to Shakespeare!’
‘To Willy!’
The final curtain call had been several hours ago, and the last of the amateur dramaturgs had given up trying to catch the director’s eye and drifted away into the night. Now only the remnants of the cast and crew were left, clustered in small groups around the foyer. As they drank they consumed the remaining free food in the manner of underpaid contract workers unsure of their next job. A few tepid and flaking sausage rolls, squares of yellow cheddar on toothpicks and a runtish lamington were all that were left from the opening-night spread put on by the ladies of the Royal Theatre Supporters’ League.
‘To the best show this side of Sydney!’
‘Titus!’
‘Tight Ass!’ Alastair Howard raised his wine glass.
The other actors moved their bodies closer and roared with laughter at this running gag.
Over at her table Karen smil
ed, in on the joke. The actors’ laughter was projected around the small space, bouncing off the fake Doric columns. Well-modulated tones echoed back from the mouths of the figures in the old production photographs hanging around the walls. Karen sat at her table with the other backstage crew but often looked towards the bar where the actors gathered like bright birds. The company at Karen’s own table were more subdued. Half a dozen backstage crew dressed in black discussed problems of lighting, sound and costuming with untrained voices while empty bottles of Steinlager and DB collected in front of them. Karen crushed out her cigarette in an ashtray shaped like the two Greek masks, Comedy and Tragedy. It was Comedy who had the ash ground into his metal eye.
‘The butt of my joke,’ she said, and laughed out loud.
There were nervous smiles. When she tried to explain, the others just stared and smiled harder.
‘I get it,’ said Michael from set construction. He leaned towards her with a lopsided smirk. Karen noticed that he had not been able to completely remove the green paint from his fingernails. His aftershave was inadequate to hide the occasional heady waft of turps. They had once fumbled together backstage during a performance of Suddenly, Last Summer. It was a move that she had instantly regretted. She blamed the lapse on the turps fumes radiating from his body which had made her giddy and easily susceptible to his advances.
Another burst of laughter came from the direction of the bar, and the actress talking to Alastair flicked her blonde hair away from her face with the back of her pale hand.
As more and more people drifted away, Karen stood and walked, only slightly unsteadily, towards the toilets. She stopped for a moment in front of the photograph wall. Years ago the wall had displayed portraits only of the actors who were full members of the Royal company (and back then, strictly paid-up members of Actors’ Equity too). Now, in more egalitarian times, the technicians, stage managers and other backstage crew had been allowed their 8 by 10 square of fame.
Karen’s own face was displayed in the first row, second from the end. In the alphabetical hierarchy, Burrows placed her near the top, between the general manager’s secretary and an older actor named Chamberlain who couldn’t manage accents apart from his own (which a barb doing the rounds said he could only just manage), plus southern American and bog Irish. He wasn’t in Titus, which the director had set in colonial New Zealand during the land wars and therefore required a selection of English and Maori vowels. With a professional’s eye, she saw that the photographer’s lighting was too stark to flatter her pink-toned skin and that the slightly upwardly angled illumination created the vague impression that her eyes were about to pop from her head. But it was not lighting that made her face so broad, as if she were a Russian peasant in a play by Chekhov. Lighting could not mask her naturally thick neck nor her broad long-distance-swimmer’s shoulders. Like the tip of an iceberg, they hinted at the big bones, the wide expanse of bosom and rolling hips beneath.
Even as Karen gazed at his face, Alastair Howard’s hand came down, oh so gently, on her shoulder. ‘Just checking out the wall of fame?’ he asked. His eyes lingered on his image but his hand stayed on Karen’s shoulder. His palm felt hot against her skin even through the cotton of her dress. Alastair was tall, over six foot, with the slightly deflated look of a naturally large man who has achieved slimness through a strict and almost exclusive diet of strong black coffee and Marlboro Lights. His hair was just beginning to turn grey above the ears. Either that, she thought, or he was dying it grey to look more sophisticated.
‘I just wanted to say that I love what you’ve done with the lighting on this show. Fantastic. It really is fantastic.’ His voice was a rumbling base. His eyes were aqua-blue and she wondered about the rumours that he wore tinted contact lenses. Karen imagined that she saw him glance down at her breasts which were an expanse of only slightly mottled skin above the low scoop of her purple dress. She felt herself begin to breathe faster.
‘Thanks. I’m pretty happy with it.’
‘And so you should be. It’s fantastic. Really.’
There was a pause in which Karen knew she should say something but couldn’t think what. Instead she studied the photographs intently, in a way that she hoped made her appear studious and intelligent. A woman who had mastered her field. Who was ready to seize any opportunities life might toss her way.
‘Karen, the thing is, and I know it’s terrible of me to ask, but I’m in a spot of trouble and I was wondering if you could help me out. There’s been a bit of unpleasantness with one of my flatmates. She’s moving out but I’d rather not go back there tonight. If you know what I mean.’ He smiled as broadly as his photograph.
‘Yes.’
‘The point is, I need a place to stay for the night and Tim said that your flat is near here?’
She nodded.
‘Please say no if it’s a hassle. Really.’
Karen had a sudden image of Alastair Howard slipping off his shiny blue shirt and letting it fall on to the floor of her bedroom. She could almost feel him run the tips of his long fingers over her lips.
‘It’s not a problem.’
‘Are you sure? You’re not just saying that?’
‘No, really.’
‘Excellent. You’re a wonder. I can’t tell you what this means to me.’ He hugged her tightly and she felt the warmth of his breath on her neck and the firm push of his chest against her breasts. ‘I’ve got a photo-call in the morning so I hope you don’t mind if we leave pretty soon?’
‘No. Sure. I was going to leave anyway.’
‘Excellent. I’ll get my coat.’ He flashed her his best smile as he went to say his goodbyes.
He kept her waiting for only twenty minutes but by that time the rain had started to fall in a soft mist. ‘Shit.’ Alastair pulled his collar up around his ears. Karen thought it was remarkable how much he looked like James Dean in that photograph taken on the bridge, and wondered if he knew.
There were a few people standing under the eaves.
‘See you all anon,’ said Alastair. ‘Great show everyone.’
An actor with only a minor role held out a joint and Alastair paused long enough to take a drag. He offered some to Karen and she took a shallow puff, feeling the dampness of his mouth against her lips.
‘Party’s just gearing up. Hang around for a bit,’ the actor said.
‘I’ve got to go. I need my beauty sleep.’ Alastair winked and of course people laughed, and then he was moving away with Karen behind him like a shadow. There was a burst of laughter as someone said something not meant for Karen to hear.
They crossed the road and then hurried from the overhang of one tree to another. It was cold and the southerly wind forced its way into the light coat she had pulled on over her dress. Suddenly it began to rain harder. Their only warning was the rising hum of rain hitting the road and bouncing off the roofs of the nearby buildings. A downpour with raindrops that jumped up at them from the tar-seal.
‘In here,’ said Alastair. He led the way into the doorway of a bar to wait it out.
‘Where’s this Aladdin’s Cave of yours then?’ His chocolate voice was raised over the sound of the rain.
‘It’s just over on Winton Street, not far, but it’s not much really.’ Karen ran her hand over her sodden hair.
‘Any port in a storm.’
Karen laughed too hard. A couple pushed past them and went into the bar, shaking the water off their coats. Music, throbbing and vibrant, washed over them. She hoped that Alastair would invite her inside for a drink. Just the two of them. Maybe they would dance. But he said nothing, just stared mysteriously out at the rain. She gazed up at his rugged profile and wondered what to say to break the ice.
‘You must miss Alex,’ said Karen at last.
Alastair blinked twice. He seemed for a moment not to know to whom she was referring. ‘Um, yes, I do. But the part in Shortland Street was fantastic. It’s not like she could turn it down.’
‘I guess.’
/> Karen thought of Alex with her boy’s hips and aggressive pout and her competitive aversion to other women. She also remembered Tania who Alastair had been seeing during The Crucible. And Chantel whose real name was Shiree. Alastair had been seeing her for a while too, but they’d broken up during the final night of The Wind in the Willows. Chantel/Shiree had raged, screaming and swearing in the rehearsal room and throwing props, while most of the cast and crew pushed and shushed and giggled in the narrow hallway outside the door. It was a performance that everyone agreed was better than her somewhat stilted Mole. And Tarra. She’d been the one Alastair left his second wife for. They’d been caught in the costume room by the night cleaner, Alastair leaning back against the suit of armour left over from Joan of Arc, Tarra with a firm grasp on his jousting stick. She was eighteen at the time and as dizzy as a merry-go-round. Jen, the Royal’s hard-as-nails lesbian barmaid, affectionately referred to Alastair as ‘The Man-Slut’ and said that he’d try and screw anything without balls.
The rain let up a bit and they set off again. Karen could almost imagine that they were running together through the streets of Paris. Her flat, however, was not behind Notre Dame but behind a high hedge, now waterlogged and slumping. She led Alastair down the path which had been shrunk to a bush track by overgrown rhododendrons. The wide leaves slapped wetly at their coats and legs and flicked back, spraying, after they had passed. Alastair went first and did not seem to notice that Karen was soon drenched. There was no outside light and only a faint glow from the flat upstairs where, every Saturday night, a Christadelphian couple made crucifix-shaped candles that were for sale at the Sunday craft market.
Karen stepped into the darkened doorway and felt Alastair crowd in behind her. The leather of his coat creaked and rubbed against her back and his breath clouded around her. Karen’s key took longer to find than was strictly necessary as she waited for his hand to slip around her waist.
‘Can’t you find it? I’m bloody freezing.’