by Chloe Rayban
The sound of Stavros moving chairs around outside brought me back to my senses.
The room – cleaning. Where did I start?
The beds. I hesitated again. Which one had Lucy slept in? The far one or the nearer one – the one I’d slept in, the night of the storm?
I started to strip off the sheets. And then stopped…
There was one long silky hair on the pillow A dark hair with a glint of red in it. So she’d slept in the same bed, my bed. I leaned down and picked it up. The hair curled and clung around my finger as if it had a life of its own. It brought on a totally uncalled-for rush of excitement and my heart pounded.
I heard an echo of Stavros’ voice in my mind: ‘And the girl. I see her when she look at you…’
How had she looked at me? I didn’t see her looking at me. But she must have. She must have been pretty interested for Stavros to have noticed. Lucy. Lovely, lovely Lucy. Oh smegging hell – why did she have to leave like that?
But then I had another thought. Maybe she was still on the island? They were obviously right at the start of their holiday – they’d both been dead white. Yeah, that’s right, they’d probably just moved on to the next beach, where there was more life. They couldn’t have gone far. How many beaches were there on the island, anyway? I’d search them all. I’d find her somehow. Stavros must give me a day off sometime or even an afternoon off? Why hadn’t I thought to ask?
Stavros threw open the door and found me standing there like a moron still clutching the sheets.
‘How you doin’?’
‘Fine, nearly finished.’
‘Good. I want you wash the terrace, before peoples come.’
Jeesus, I had to get a move on or he’d throw a wobbly again. I ripped the sheets off and dumped them in a pile outside on the terrace. Then I went at the floor with the broom like a maniac. Trying to catch up. Trying to calm down.
‘Peoples’ didn’t come of course. By mid-morning I’d finished all my chores and the room was made up ready for more guests. Stavros had wandered off somewhere up the goat track, leaving me in charge.
I went and sat at a table at the edge of the terrace looking out over the bay. The dredger was putting on a five-star performance, working double time. It had crept just a few metres further out to sea. From this side of the terrace there was a panoramic view of the village. It was built in a totally arbitrary way, the tiny whitewashed houses clinging to any available scrap of land, some of them perched so precariously they looked as if they were about to tumble down into the harbour. I could see now that some of them had tiny terraces, built out like ashtrays. No, more like boxes in the theatre, all facing towards the bay, as if a performance was about to take place. Maybe with the dredger as the star.
One terrace in particular caught my attention. A woman had come out on to it. She threw a cloth over the table and started laying out dishes of food. She was wearing skin-tight white cycle shorts and a skimpy black T-shirt and had sunglasses pushed back into her blonde hair. Certainly not one of the locals.
A guy joined her. He had his arm possessively around her waist. Cool-looking guy – and he knew it by the look of him – wearing tight black jeans and a white T-shirt that must’ve showed off every muscle of his torso, the kind of guy girls went for. Well she did, anyway, you could see by the way she pressed her body against his. I felt a frisson of envy. They stood there for a moment, clamped together, gazing out to sea.
I got up and fetched myself a Fanta at this point. Watching them like this was really getting to me. I still hadn’t quite recovered from making, or rather unmaking, the girl’s bed – my bed. When I came back the two of them weren’t on the terrace any longer. But their breakfast was still there, waiting, untouched.
I took a long draught of my drink. They were probably inside making the coffee or something. It was then that I noticed I wasn’t the only one observing this breakfast. Three sleek bodies detached themselves from the shadows and went stalking down towards the carefully laid table.
Cats. Young cats in the absolute prime of life. That perfect age between late kitten and adult cat status. A white one, a tabby and a perfect ginger cat. All of them long-legged, lithe and hungry.
I looked on with a snort of amusement as they homed in with ever-decreasing circles towards the breakfast. Serve Lover Boy right. A slight clink of a spoon on china could be heard as the first cat landed with a bound on the table. The others joined it, knocking over a yogurt pot. Three hungry heads bent over the creamy pool and I expected the couple to come out and shoo them off. But nothing happened. They were going to be so mad when they found out… Why didn’t they notice?
And then it occurred to me that maybe they had something more important than breakfast on their minds. I got up and paced around the terrace. I had some censorable thoughts about what was going on in that house – lucky guy.
Chapter Eight
I had plenty of time to observe the bay over the next couple of days. Stavros managed to think up endless lists of useful jobs for me to do around the taverna.
And frankly anything he wanted me to do, I did. I was trying to build up enough goodwill to ask him for the time off I needed, and maybe an advance on wages. I was going to need money to fund my search for Lucy. It was pretty difficult being penniless, although I’d solved the shaving problem. I’d found an old disposable with some life left in the blade in one of the rooms. So I wasn’t totally without possessions.
Being without a watch was more tricky. But on the second morning, I’d discovered an utterly brilliant natural alarm clock. My room had a tiny window high up over the door. As the sun rose, it shone in through the window, casting a square of sunlight on my wall. By positioning the mattress in precisely the right place, the square would move round to shine on my face, waking me up at bang on seven o’clock – neat! Never had I been woken so pleasantly. No violent shrill alarm clock, no murmured threats from Mum, just a glorious golden warmth on my face – magic!
So that third morning I was up early and keen to get down to work. Which was more than I could say for Stavros. He never came round till at least ten o’clock. He just sat drinking tiny cups of Greek coffee and calling out commands to me. I’d quickly learned to ignore his moods. I just tried to pace myself and get on with the job.
First task of the day was always to stack the chairs on the tables and sweep and hose the terrace. This was on the village side, so while I worked I could observe the activities of Lover Boy and Blondie. It made a pretty stark contrast to my current way of life. They spent most of the time sunbathing on their balcony. The guy had really creepy Speedos that were so small they were indecent, and she had one of those bikini bottoms that get kind of swallowed at the back so she looked as if she had nothing on. They lay so close together you couldn’t slide a credit card between them. By the look of it, their holiday was the nearest thing you could get to taking up residence on a double sunbed.
That morning, when I’d finished the terrace and was about to take a breather, Stavros decided that his vines were looking sickly and I had to spray them with an evil-smelling noxious substance that turned them white.
Stavros, meanwhile, was ‘hard at work’ down below, sitting by the shack, reading a newspaper, waiting for windsurfers to show up. I expected to take his place when I’d finished the vines. But no such luck. He had a better idea. He found me a pail of whitewash, a brush and a bucket. He took a long time instructing me on that particularly Greek obsession for painting everything white. First, I had to paint a load of empty olive-oil drums so that he could use them as plant tubs. When I’d finished turning the drums into garden ornaments he wanted me to climb on to the roof and paint under the eaves with a brush on a long pole. And finally, just in case I should get bored or something, he told me that he wanted all the white lines repainted down the steps that led down from each side of the taverna. There were literally thousands of them. There was enough work to keep me occupied for a lifetime! Repainting the Forth Bridge was a do
ddle compared with this.
I stood there with the brush and the bucket trying to find the right way to phrase my request.
‘Look, Stavros…’
‘Hmmmm?’
‘I was wondering if… I mean, before I start a job like this, I’ve really got to go into town and sort out my travel arrangements. And I ought to ring my parents again…’
‘Your parents? You ring from here…’
‘Yeah but it’s expensive, you know, calling England.’
‘You don’t talk long – OK?’
‘But I still need to go to the Tourist Office, to re-book my air ticket.’
‘What you saying?’
‘I need a bit of time off. And I don’t have any money, Stavros. Remember, I gave it all to you. Everything I had.’
‘You want time off. AND you want money?’
‘Er… yes well… only an afternoon or so… and an advance maybe?’
‘Advance. Hmm. How much?’
I managed to screw about twenty quid’s worth of drachmas out of him. The time off was a bit more of a struggle. But, in the end, he relented. So that afternoon, I found myself on the two o’clock bus out of Paradiso.
I realised as the bus took off that I didn’t really know where to start looking for Lucy.
‘Where are the good beaches?’ I asked the driver as I bought my ticket.
‘What you want? Jet ski? Para-gliding? Water-ski?’
‘Maybe?’
‘My friend! You must go to Skiathos then.’
I grinned back. ‘No. OK. Nothing fancy. Just a nice beach with a taverna perhaps.’
‘Next beach, best beach. No taverna. But plenty backpackers and windsurfers.’
‘OK. I’ll try that then.’
So I got off at the next bay. It was like I thought. A place entirely given over to posers. Those guys had equipment that brought tears to my eyes – must’ve cost a fortune. I scanned the beach for any sign of Lucy and her mother. If they’d been there they would have got trampled underfoot. Everywhere you looked there were these gladiator types competing with each other to be the best dressed and best equipped this side of Malibu.
I walked along the row of shops that fringed the seafront. There was a flashy modern café plastered with posters of windsurfers, a number of smartish restaurants with brash new tables and umbrellas set out on the sand, one glossy air-conditioned shop selling boards and accessories which were so out of my price range I didn’t even dare look inside. And at the far end, a scrubby sort of enclosure surrounded by trellis that called itself the VIP Club. I peered through the trellis. Inside, there was a circular slab of concrete that was intended to serve as a dance floor flanked by a couple of dusty amplifiers – the whole place looked pretty run down. The tables hadn’t been cleared from the night before, empty beer bottles and cigarette packs littered the place. So this was the local night life. Some VIPs…
I soon gave up on that beach and went back to the bus stop and waited for the bus to come round again. When it arrived, it disgorged its entire cargo of passengers and I was the only person to get on.
The driver grinned widely as he saw me climb in again.
‘You no like?’
‘The beach is OK. Not wild about the inhabitants.’
He rubbed his fingers together. ‘Plenty money, eh?’ And he whistled through his teeth.
‘Yeah.’
I slid into a seat and we set off for the next bay.
Altogether, I checked out six beaches. Apart from the windsurfers’ beach, the others were about as popular as the Paradiso. If Lucy had been on any of them I would have seen her. But she wasn’t.
I was pretty downhearted by the time I got to the port. I was beginning to feel convinced that Lucy and her mother must have left the island, or were just about to.
I scanned the crowd waiting to board the ferry just in case. But there were only locals, waiting patiently with their bundles and suitcases. Not a sign of a tourist among them.
The Tourist Office was just opening up after the afternoon siesta.
Lurid T-shirts swung from the door-frame bearing the message: You’ll learn to love Lexos. I smiled grimly to myself. Maybe I should consider moving on.
It took ages to sort my flight out. A fax was sent to the airline and then I had to wait around for a reply. The girl in there rang the airline three times. In the end she told me to come back in a few days.
All through that journey back to the taverna, I scanned each village for a sighting of Lucy or her mother. Once I saw a girl who looked like her and I leapt to my feet, hitting my head hard on the luggage rack. I was about to stop the bus, but as we drew nearer I realised, no, she was nothing like her. It was useless – they could be anywhere and they’d hardly be standing by the roadside, would they?
Feeling really depressed, I disembarked from the bus at Paradiso. The square was catching the last of the evening sunlight – in the olive grove the trees cast long shadows, and the crickets were tuning up for their evening performance. The whole place smelt like pure magic. What a waste it all was without Lucy.
I hesitated before going back to the taverna. If I did, and Stavros saw me, he’d probably present me with his blasted brush and bucket of whitewash. So instead I crept round by the cliff path and made my way down the steps to the beach.
In the twilight, the sea looked thick and inky. A single fishing boat was being rowed out. The slow, rhythmic creaking of the oars sounded ridiculously clear in the silence. The rower was standing upright, leaning on the oars in that curious Greek way. The boat was heading out to where a ring of makeshift floats showed that a net had been set. I’d thought the floats were garbage when I’d seen them at first. They were a colourful collection of mis-matched plastic bottles, some still bearing their labels.
Now the fisherman had come level with them, and I watched as he leaned forward and hauled in the net, tossing the occasional bit of seaweed back into the water. At last, as the final length of net came up, I saw the flash of a couple of fish as they fell into the boat. Such a meagre reward for so much work.
The boat turned now and started heading back towards the harbour. I suddenly realised, there was something familiar about the figure rowing. I heard his voice, hardly more than a whisper in the darkness, coming over the water to me.
‘Hey – English boy. You find my knife?’
I realised guiltily that I’d totally forgotten about it.
‘Hi!’ I called out. ‘No, not yet. I’ll look tonight.’
The shadow of the boat moved a little closer.
‘What’re you doing with that boat?’ I called.
‘I work – for a fish,’ the boy held up one of the fish by the tail. He spat dismissively into the water. The fish was barely fifteen centimetres long.
I remembered the fishermen, their salt-hardened hands playing at dominoes. They had little enough to live on themselves, without helping the boy. And there was Stavros, no doubt sitting on his terrace with a glass of ouzo and a nice little plate of something to go with it. And here was I, just passing through, working for the luxury of a few hours’ windsurfing. It put things in a new perspective.
‘I’ll find your knife,’ I called back.
He nodded, then leaned on the oars again and resumed rowing. I watched him round the headland. Then I turned and went back to the taverna.
I searched my room from top to bottom, but there was no sign of the knife. I thought of the one I’d had in my backpack. It was a real Swiss army knife, one of the more expensive ones, with scissors and everything. If I ever caught up with the scum who’d nicked our gear – I’d… I’d… I don’t know what I’d do.
Chapter Nine
The next morning I went about my routine tasks dutifully. No robot could have worked more systematically or with so little emotion. Even Stavros noticed my glum expression.
‘Was wrong? You OK? You sick?’
‘Didn’t know you were paying me to smile,’ I said.
Stav
ros hesitated, looked at me again and then went off, shaking his head.
OK, I was in a foul mood, I admit it. I kept telling myself I was crazy. I didn’t even know the girl. I should put her right out of my mind. Why the hell should she spoil my holiday? Windsurfing – that’s what I was here for. Yeah, windsurfing – what did a mere girl matter when I had a bay like this to myself?
That afternoon, the wind was perfection again. I felt the cool breath of it on my face as I swabbed down the tables after lunch. It made me feel a lot better. A good long sail – that’s what I needed. The sooner I could get out there, the better. Stavros muttered something and lumbered off for his siesta. As soon as his door closed I was down with the boards.
I sailed round the headland into the windsurfers’ bay this time. My heart was in my mouth as I came out of the lee of the headland and caught the wind full on.
Even the German guys in their windsurfer power-dressing were keeping in to the shore. I had some pretty hairy minutes tacking in towards them but then, once I was into more sheltered waters, I could see what attracted them to this particular bay. It was much wider than Paradiso. There were no rocks or shallows, just an endless silver expanse of glittering water, a windsurfer’s paradise.
Time after time I tacked out and took long satisfying runs back with the wind into the shore. I was starting to feel that I was getting some respect from my fellow surfers – in spite of my antiquated equipment.
After an hour or so, my body told me it had had enough. It was tempting to go on, but I knew the dangers of surfing too long and finding yourself in a tricky situation without the strength to cope. So reluctantly, I braved the headland again and rewarded myself by one long seamless ride into the shore.
I climbed off the board neatly and drew it up the beach. I was about to dismantle and stack it when I paused. Someone else had been on my beach. There were footsteps leading down from the shack to the water. I wondered guiltily whether I’d actually missed the one potential piece of trade to come Stavros’ way this side of Christmas.