A woman’s voice cut through her thoughts. ‘Hello again. Did you find what you were looking for?’
Melissa looked up with a start.
It was a moment before she registered who they were. Then she realised it was the couple she’d asked for directions on her walk. She hadn’t spoken to anyone else all day, apart from in the supermarket and here.
‘Oh . . . no. No, I didn’t in the end.’
‘Ah, well. Tomorrow’s another day.’ This was the man.
They had been shown to the empty table next to hers. The taverna was filling up.
Melissa smiled to be polite.
‘All on your own?’ asked the woman, taking a rather beady inventory of her table settings. It may have been her long thin nose that gave the impression of a busy little bird.
And perfectly happy, Melissa tried to convey with a nod.
‘Do join us! We can’t have you sitting here, eating on your own, can we?’
‘Oh, no . . . really –’
They insisted. There was no way out. If she did not accept, there would be the awkwardness of continuing to sit there next to them, having rudely turned them down. Groaning inwardly, she took the chair he had pulled out at their table.
‘David and Sheila Robbins,’ he said, the aptness of which made Melissa smile inwardly. They stopped short of shaking hands to seal the formal introductions.
Sheila was a bank manager. ‘My business is people, not money!’ she trilled.
‘I’m a retired police officer,’ said David. That made sense; the broadness of the shoulders and the easy, slightly authoritative manner with a stranger.
‘What about you – what do you do, Melissa?’
She took a deep gulp of wine. Typical of the British abroad, wanting to place you, get the measure of you, even though they might never set eyes on you again. Exactly why Julian Adie had chosen to live here all those years ago, when it was remote and the only road was impassable in winter: to escape the expatriates and their social investigations.
‘I’m an archivist,’ she said.
‘That sounds interesting,’ prompted Sheila, eager for more.
‘What kind of archivist?’ asked David.
‘Well . . .’ Melissa hesitated, wishing this had never started. ‘Most recently, government work.’ From the rapt expressions on their faces this was the wrong thing to say. ‘Nothing exciting, I’m afraid,’ she assured them. ‘I’ve been working for the National Archives – reams of boring minutes being transferred out of government offices to make room for more reams of boring minutes, mostly.’
‘I’m sure it’s fascinating,’ said Sheila, giving Melissa the full benefit of her professional people skills. ‘Don’t you think so, David?’
‘Oh, it must be.’
‘We’re from Bucks,’ she volunteered. ‘Just outside Chesham.’
They waited expectantly for her to pat the conversational ball back.
‘London,’ she said eventually.
Was there a flicker of suspicion in her husband’s eye, as if he’d caught her hesitation and was wondering what to read into it?
‘Are you staying in Kalami?’ Melissa rallied with an attempt at brightness.
She stood on the beach, letting the tension go. The bay was black. The curious iron street lamps along the broadwalk cast shifting columns of light, gold and silver, on to the dark water.
She was relieved to be alone again. Sheila and David, friendly and well-meaning though they were, brought it home that for the past few days she had been living in a kind of limbo reality. It was hard to explain, but since she had arrived here she had pushed real life away, perhaps because it was so painful. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. There was a haunted quality to the island because every time she looked around, she was searching for signs of the past not the present and she wanted to immerse herself in that past, hoping always that would lead her to some kind of understanding. Or perhaps it was all just a channel to be able to think about her mother as she had once been, not as she was at the end.
Melissa let herself into the apartment, and quickly put on another sweater. It was only nine-thirty, but the night air already had a chilly edge and there did not seem to be any means of heating the rooms. She moved a table lamp to the small dining table, and raised it on a pile of books and information leaflets from various holiday letting companies. Then she fetched her own books from where they were scattered around the sofa. The thick biography of Julian Adie by Stephen Mason was open with a coffee mug resting on the pages, making her slightly shocked at her own slovenliness. It was now frilled with strips of paper marking relevant passages, some with scribbled notes on.
‘To Elizabeth, always remembering Corfu, what could have been and what we must both forget.’
The words were constantly in her head like the nagging refrain of a song. And still the same questions. What must be forgotten? The sense of regret in the words was overwhelming. Why had she never said anything about Julian Adie before? She had obviously known him, and, the inscription implied, shared an intimate understanding. But Melissa could not find one mention of Elizabeth in the biography, nor in Adie’s own autobiographical accounts of his life and travels.
The nineteen sixties, the photographs had probably been taken, Bill had said. The biography certainly placed Adie on Corfu at various times from the mid-thirties right up to the seventies. So it was possible, but no more than that. It was as though their connection really had been forgotten, excised from both lives.
Although, had Elizabeth really never mentioned Julian Adie before? Melissa’s initial reaction was to be sure she had not, but had she simply never heard her, switching off from the flow because she thought she knew all the stories of her mother’s life? So why then, when Elizabeth was only so intermittently lucid, when she seemed barely to know who Melissa was, let alone anyone else, did she press the book of poems on her so urgently?
Why was this so important? What was Elizabeth’s connection with Julian Adie and what was Melissa supposed to do with it if she found it? How did Elizabeth fit into his story? So far it was all impressions and conjecture. She needed to clear it all from her mind, in the only way she knew, before it overwhelmed her.
Melissa opened the new notebook she had brought, and started to write.
II
THE SEA AND the light constantly moving together, interweaving and patterning, made Melissa aware of being alive, of blood coursing around the body, sun on her arms as she stood at the open window. It had been a good night; she had only woken twice. There seemed to be a slight easing of the spiritual numbness which had become habitual.
Perhaps putting her thoughts down on paper had helped. That had preserved them but put a stop to their noise in her mind.
She was at the tourist office when it opened at nine.
‘Do you have a detailed map of this area?’ she asked the man at the desk. He was dark, with well-muscled shoulders and a four-day beard which did nothing to diminish his good looks.
‘A map of the island?’
‘Just this part. I’d like as many details as possible. The biggest scale you have.’
He came round to the front of the desk, and led her past stands of hanging shell and bead necklaces and displays of snorkelling equipment. The way he moved implied he was well used to being cock of the walk. He pulled a couple of maps off a book rack. ‘We have these. The whole island – we don’t have a special one for here.’
‘Can I see inside?’
He opened both. They were road maps, showing few landmarks smaller than mountains.
‘Do you have a walking map?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, no. We’ve sold them all.’
‘And you won’t get any more now until next year?’ she guessed.
‘That’s right.’
‘Oh, well.’
She hesitated, wondering whether it was worth asking him about Julian Adie. He waited, seemingly amused that she was lingering – or perhaps he was ju
st pleased with himself.
‘Yes?’
Something around his mouth reminded her of Richard, and she felt herself blushing.
‘I – I think I’ll take one of these.’ She pulled out a snorkel mask.
‘Anything else?’
Don’t push it. ‘Just this, thank you.’
But as she turned to go, she reminded herself she had nothing to lose. If she couldn’t find the path to the shrine, the only option was to follow Adie and Grace, and go by sea.
‘Are there any boat trips still running?’ she asked. She had a vision in her mind of an organised day long sail and picnic that might go somewhere close.
He shook his head. ‘Not now. It is too late.’ He gave a lovely smile. ‘Sorry.’
‘Oh, well. It was worth asking.’
‘It’s always worth asking.’ He paused. ‘Possibly there are a few boats coming north from Kerkyra.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Kerkyra – from Corfu Town. You could maybe take a trip from there. They bring bigger boats for tours of the coast. I can find out if you are interested.’
‘I could . . . but . . .’ The idea didn’t appeal. If all else failed, then perhaps she might, but it seemed unlikely she would be able to see anything she wanted from a boat carrying a hundred or so tourists, far less achieve what she really wanted, which was to climb on to the rocks by the shrine as Adie and Grace once did.
He thought for a moment. ‘You know the boat hire office near the White House?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why don’t you ask for your own boat?’
‘I’d thought of that – but . . . I decided not to.’
‘You don’t like little boats?’
‘Well . . .’ She gave what she hoped was a wry smile. ‘I’m not an experienced sailor.’
‘Nervous?’
‘A bit.’
‘Go and see. Ask for Manolis. Tell him Christos sent you.’
‘All roads lead to Manolis . . .!’
‘You know him already?’
‘I’m renting one of his apartments.’
‘Then ask him – he might give you a special deal.’
Melissa thought about it, but then when she reached the boat hire office, she went on past. She was going to have to work up some confidence for that one. Instead she returned to the wide swimming rock on the curve of the next bay, and tried out the new snorkel. It leaked a bit (it was really nothing more than a cheap toy) but it was certainly usable if you could get used to the invasive trickle of thick salty water.
In the clear shallows, the seal-brown boulders which had broken away from the cliffs were covered in algae like a dusting of mauve chalk. Brightly coloured fish darted over part of an ammonite the size of a car wheel and off into forests of black sea grass in the bowl of the bay.
She swam around, entranced, for almost an hour, amazed that the water was so warm. Then, just as Adie described in the poem titled ‘Plunge’, dated 1937, she surfaced to birdsong.
Sun-dazed, Melissa made her way back into the village. She had left her watch behind that morning, deliberately wanting to cut loose. But from the tightness and reddening of her skin, she knew she must have sat for hours on the rock, staring at the sea.
A white pick-up van pulled up in front of her, just where the lane became a path too narrow for vehicles. The driver executed a dazzling three-point turn in front of her, then stopped, calling out. Melissa ignored him and carried on walking.
He shouted again before she registered what it was he was saying, and that he knew who she was. ‘Mrs Quiller?’
It was only then she looked up properly and saw it was Manolis.
‘I hear you want a boat! Why do you not come first to me?’
‘Oh!’ It was as if she’d been caught out.
‘Christos says you were asking about boats!’
‘Yes . . . yes I was, at the tourist office . . .’
‘Many fine boats at Manolis Boat Hire,’ he laughed.
‘I’m sure there are,’ she said. ‘But they probably don’t come equipped with someone who knows how to drive it.’
He spread his palms. ‘Is easy! Easy boats for tourists . . . I give a lesson to everyone who takes one!’
Melissa was beginning to shake her head, knowing that would make little difference to her confidence or seaworthiness, when she found herself saying, ‘All right then. I’ll give it a go.’
The hills opposite were rusting in early evening when she took a wobbly step on to the boat, a basic fibreglass craft about ten feet long with a steering wheel and outboard motor. She had never thought of herself as a brave person physically, but she had a stubborn streak that could be called on to override her qualms if she wanted something badly enough. Sometimes that surprised people who saw her only as the quiet, thoughtful one who loved maps and books, and worked as a keeper of secrets, locking away information in order for it to be found again.
Richard saw her as his sweet, sensible little wife, who was happy to fall in with his plans; who had once wanted to move to Dorset to take up the job at the maritime museum and live in a house with a garden, but who made do with growing herbs on a grimy kitchen windowsill instead; who enjoyed a comfortable life that gave her no right to complain when he worked late so many nights.
What would he think if he could see me now?
She lurched into Manolis’s boat. It rocked alarmingly.
‘You can drive a car?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ Her legs were trembling.
‘Then . . . no problem. First, the ignition.’ He pushed a button and the engine gurgled to life. ‘This here . . . neutral . . . forward . . . back . . .’ He went through the controls. ‘Now, we go one hundred metres forward – you are driving.’
And soon, she was.
Out on the wind-wrinkled sea, Albania was merely the other side of a large lake. Heading south, she held a steady speed, not too fast, as Manolis had advised. Within minutes, confidence rising, she was round the headland and across the bay where she had snorkelled (it was called Yaliscary, Manolis informed her), then puttering past Agni and the cliffs where she had looked in vain for the path going down. If it hadn’t been for the mention in the guidebook, it would have been all too easy to believe the shrine was another of Julian Adie’s personal myths. Would she be able to see it, even from the sea?
It was there.
A small square grey-rendered building was perched just above the shoreline. Just as he described it, the shrine seemed to sail on the crest of storm-flung waves, tossed up on the very edge of the island, the moment frozen in stone when it was caught between a sweeping bowl of fractured rock and taller stacks which leant away at a mad tipsy angle. Proud straight cypresses stood watch above, while a curious light turquoise pool glowed below. She nudged the boat in as close as she could, worried all the time that it might snag on submerged rocks if she ignored Manolis’s warnings.
There was no one else in sight, neither on land nor sea. She was as close as she would ever be to seeing it as Adie and Grace would have done in the nineteen thirties, before the Ionian was churned by pleasure craft full of brightly dressed tourists.
She gazed at the narrow chamber of water that gleamed below the drunken fissures and the shrine. Was that the pool where he described her diving for cherries? It must have been, though the rocks looked too jagged and hard to lie down or even stand on. It was an odd moment, entrancing yet unsettling. There were elements of obsession here. Or should that be possession, by the spirits of the past?
Her trial hour with the boat was up. On the way back she was glowing deep inside. It was hard to explain. She had done it, though it was such a little thing. There was definitely a sense that she had conquered some fear, perhaps that of taking a risk on her own.
But I am on my own. This is it, from now on.
From her shifted perspective, as she guided the boat back into Kalami the bay was a wider expanse, the village sparser and more vulnerable in contrast to the looming
rise of the green mountain behind.
Manolis was waiting. She cut the engine as he had shown her when she approached the mooring, let down the anchor, then threw the rope for him to catch. He caught it with one hand and reached out the other to help her on to the landing.
‘How was that – good?’
‘Fantastic!’
‘I said it was easy.’
‘Well . . . good boat, good teacher!’ She was full of her achievement.
A few waves away were the rocks where Adie and Grace had sat and talked and gazed and swum, where they had laughed and argued on summer nights with literary friends from London and Paris, splashing into silver and eating grapes at midnight.
‘Who owns the White House now?’ Melissa asked.
He gave his look of slightly absurd surprise. ‘We do. We’ve always owned it.’
‘You mean your family rented it to Julian Adie?’
‘Of course.’
She was taken aback by the simplicity of the facts.
‘I don’t suppose . . . does anyone still remember when he lived here?’
‘My father was a boy when Julian Adie lived here, but he remembers him well.’
‘Did he come back to Kalami, after he had moved away?’
‘Yes, many times.’
Melissa’s heart jumped.
Was it possible that he had ever brought Elizabeth here too? ‘Do you think I might be able to talk to your father about him sometime?’
‘You like the books?’
‘I do.’
Was any further explanation going to be required? It seemed not.
‘I will tell him,’ said Manolis.
Manolis, kindness pleating the corners of his eyes as he smiled, was slotting a note under the door to her apartment when Melissa returned with breakfast the next morning.
‘Ah! Mrs Quiller! A little invitation for you –’
She smiled warily, suspecting some kind of special tourist deal on a boat, an ever-so-gentle hard sell. ‘Thanks.’
‘My mother says it is the perfect time for you to come, so you must! She is the wise woman of the village!’ He laughed, wagging a finger to suggest that she should take him up on whatever offer was being made. ‘She says she can tell you like tea, and not the cocktail drinks in the colours of the rainbow!’
Songs of Blue and Gold Page 6