by Teresa Crane
‘I’m sorry about the little dog,’ he said, unexpectedly gently, and as so often lately, caught off her guard she felt the sudden, mortifying threat of tears.
She cleared her throat. ‘Don’t be silly. He’s only a dog. And an ill—behaved one at that. You’d better be off. It’s getting late.‘
Leon hauled his bulk from the chair. ‘I have an idea. For once I am not so busy today. Meet me for lunch. We’ll start to put some flesh back on your bones at Dmitri’s. One o’clock, yes?’
Cathy, halfway to the kitchen with the breakfast plates, hesitated. ‘I —’
‘What?’ He was jocular. ‘You don’t want to lunch with your husband? You’d rather take your ration book down to the butcher’s and slave over a hot stove?‘
‘Of course not - it’s just that I was thinking of —’ she stopped. What had she been thinking of doing? Nothing. Another aimless, empty day. A drift around the art galleries to find a picture to go over the mantelpiece. A solitary sandwich in a corner house. A visit to Harvey Nichols, perhaps, or Debenham and Freebody’s to buy something she neither needed nor particularly wanted —
‘Never mind what you were thinking. You meet me at Dmitri’s. At one.’
She shrugged. ‘OK.’
*
With Leon gone and the breakfast cleared she stood at the window of the elegant first-floor apartment looking into the street below. It was a relatively quiet cul-de-sac. The roar of the traffic in Kensington High Street was a background as, at Sandlings, had been the roar of the sea. For a moment she could almost see the gleaming, tide—washed strip of sand between the shingle and the creaming water, hear the haunting screech of the gulls, feel the small wet nose pushed affectionately into her hand. She closed her eyes, feeling the familiar, agonising ache in her heart. The ache of homesickness. The ache of a lost love. The ache of hopelessness. It astounded her sometimes that no one appeared to see it, that everyone acted as if the world — as if she — had not changed. She sometimes felt that she was living in two places at once; in the busy, noisy, inhabited world of others, and at the same time in the shadowed and joyless place to which her soul had retreated during that awful journey back from Suffolk with Adam. They had barely spoken. She had, she supposed, been in a state of shock, her mind and emotions in a turmoil, incapable, almost, of speech or of rational thought. The break had been so sudden, so brutal, so shaming that she had felt physically ill. fixed indelibly in her memory had been the look on Nikos’ face, the sound of his voice: ‘My father kills me if I stay with you. You kill me if you make me leave you. Don’t do it, Cathy. Don’t!’ She had sensed, too, beneath her son’s grim silence, his triumph, and had detested it.
In the intervening weeks she had avoided Adam as far as she could, and Nikos had avoided her almost entirely; although inevitably there had been the odd occasion when their paths had crossed. Cathy leaned to the window, pressing her forehead on to the cold glass. She did not want even to think of it, could not bear to contemplate the perfect, cool politeness so at odds with the disturbing look in the golden eyes, that had once spoken of love, but that now she was terribly afraid might speak of hate, or — worse — con- tempt. On the one occasion they had been left momentarily alone together, at a bleak little cocktail party given by a society harridan whom Leon, for some reason, was assiduously courting, he had snubbed her utterly, turning and walking away from her without a word or a glance and before she could open her mouth. Like her he had lost weight, and — unlike her, she well knew — it suited him. The delicate planes and angles of his face had sharpened and hardened, the line of his long mouth, too, was less soft. There were permanent, smudged shadows beneath his eyes that, far from detracting from his attraction, somehow served only to add to it; every young god’s face should, she supposed, wearily, have a hint of decadence behind it. And that was not too far from the mark. For Nikos, to his father’s open delight, had taken to drink and, with an even more single-minded dedication, to women.
‘At last!’ Leon had chuckled when two mornings in a row Nikos had turned up for work in a state of some delicacy and looking as if he had not slept for a week. ‘The boy has discovered he is a Greek! Is good. The influence of the old dragon is fading. He will be the son of his father yet!’
Cathy had said nothing, had tried to ignore the raw knife-wound of jealousy. The thought of Nikos with another woman — worse, with a beautiful girl — was unendurable. But then the whole situation was unendurable; unendurable and inescapable. She was trapped. A little surprisingly the only time her spirits had lightened had been during their short trip to Greece, when Leon had taken her to see the nearly finished house. Almost against her will she had been enchanted by it, and the challenge that it had offered had been hard to resist. The weather had been mild and it had rained a little, but almost every day the spring sunshine had broken through, and the promise of summer was clear. As, in the ancient pre-war car that Leon kept on the island, they had jolted along the unmade road that led up the mountainside towards the village the deadening depression had begun to lift and she had started to relax. The hillsides were freshly carpeted with spring flowers, the mountain gorse was in full golden bloom. The streams and springs were full and running with the winter rains. In tiny hamlets stately women, black—eyed and swarthy-skinned, an infant on the hip, a child held by the hand, watched in unsmiling curiosity as the car laboured past. Old men with walnut faces rested within the olive groves, hunkered on their heels with their midday meal of bread and cheese. A shepherd boy, barefoot and dressed in greasy fleece, trilled and whistled to his flock as the scrawny animals scrambled up a steep track.
Cathy’s artist’s eye, that over the past weeks had dulled, grew sharper and more interested at every turn. Here and there, dotted about the hillsides, she saw the gleam of azure and gold, barbaric and beautiful in this rocky landscape; the domes and steeples of tiny churches nestling within their glossy-leafed groves of orange and lemon. The car had rattled through yet another small village and then on up a steep track that after a while levelled, then plunged precipitately down towards a small cleared area that ended in what looked alarmingly like a cliff edge. Sensing her sudden movement Leon laughed. ‘Is all right, Kati. Is not as bad as it looks. See — there’s the house — beyond the big tree —’
Cathy looked. All she could see, almost on a level with the small piece of clear ground, was a roof, part tiled, part what looked like a kind of thatch. For the moment she was rather more concerned with their perilous descent. Ridiculously she found herself clutching at the sides of her seat. A fat lot of good that would do her if the car didn’t stop! When the vehicle did roll to a halt she discovered that she had been holding her breath. Her husband’s deep laugh rang out again. ‘You’ll have to get used to it, koukla mou!’
She wondered, a little wearily, and for far from the first time, if Leon knew how irritating she found it to be called his little doll — and if he would understand if she tried to tell him. ‘I doubt I ever will.’ She climbed out of the car, stood, stretched, and then found herself catching her breath as she took in the beauty of what lay before and beneath her. The house was nestled into the hillside below; all that could be seen of it from here was the roof and a low stretch of windowless whitewashed wall, around which a narrow rocky track, cut into the hillside, curved. The tops of the trees of the grove in which it was set were several feet below where she stood. The view was spectacular: a wide, fertile valley dotted with tiny farms, villages and churches, beyond which rose the shadowed foothills of another range of mountains, that lifted to the west. To the left, along the run of the valley and around a spur of hillside, the sea glittered. From this height she could just see the clustered roofs of the little port of Karystos in which they had disembarked that morning. For the moment the sky was a cloudless blue, the air dazzlingly clear. Far above her two huge birds circled lazily.
‘Eagles,’ Leon said, his voice very soft. ‘Look at them. Kings of the air. The birds of Greece.’ They stood fo
r a moment listening to the mountain silence, that was punctuated by the trilling of birds and the running of water. Then, ‘Come,’ Leon said, briskly, ‘let’s see what progress has been made. If any.’
In the event even he had been pleasantly surprised. The house — which was in fact two dwellings knocked into one — was perfectly habitable, if Spartanly furnished. It was quite literally built into the hillside behind it, the back walls of the lower rooms being simply roughly rendered living rock. These downstairs rooms, that had once been the winter home and summer shelter for the family’s animals, had been turned into four shady, serviceable bedrooms and the tiniest and most primitive of bathrooms, with a wide verandah running across the front of them. The upstairs accommodation — kitchen, dining room, large sitting room and a half-finished terrace that overlooked the valley — was reached by an outside staircase that curved up from the verandah. The only access to the house was by a gate on the upper level which opened from the lane directly on to the terrace. The ground dropped away from the house through stepped groves of olives and lemon trees and from the terrace Cathy caught sight of a tiny building huddled some hundred yards or so from the house. ‘What’s that?’
‘It’s the original shepherd’s hut.’ Leon was tossing logs into the iron stove that ran almost the length of one side of the large kitchen. ‘The first house that stood on this land. I didn’t want to pull it down. It seemed a good idea to keep it. Tell me —’ He straightened. A curl of blue, fragrant woodsmoke wreathed about him, and for the first time in years she saw in his eyes a touch of uncertainty. ‘What do you think of the house?’
‘It’s lovely,’ she said, and meant it. ‘It’s upside down, but it’s lovely.’
‘You mean the bedrooms being downstairs and the living rooms up?’
She nodded. She had wandered to the window. Smudged cloud had built up over the hills, and cloud-shadows chased themselves across the valley.
‘It’s simple good sense.’ Leon had moved to a small cast-iron pump that was set in a wide, shallow sink of stone. ‘The bedrooms, windowless and buried in the rock, are cool and dark in the summer and cosy and easy to heat in the winter. The living rooms are light and breezy by day in the summer and catch any winter sunshine.’ He levered the pump handle. Water spurted. He caught some in a cup and brought it to Cathy. ‘And, as you see, there is the most spectacular view. Taste that.’
She sipped. It was so cold it almost sparkled in her mouth. She drank deeply. ‘It’s delicious!’
‘It comes directly from the spring a little way up the hill. The spring is famous — there is a little church - I’ll take you there, perhaps tomorrow.’
Cathy now, penned above the Kensington traffic, remembered those few peaceful days that had followed with a faint twist of longing. Whilst Leon had spent most of his time instructing his workers, arguing with suppliers and drinking and discussing the ways of the world in the local taverna — an activity which appeared to be mandatory upon the whole of the male population of the area — she had roamed the hillsides, or sat beneath the olive trees in the half-finished garden, watching the distant sea, happy to be alone, the peace and quiet lulling her senses, calming her nerves, easing her sore heart. She had even started to think about the garden; so far as Leon was concerned only the construction was up to him, the rest was to be her concern. The land that dropped away from the house already consisted of ancient terraces in which grew equally ancient trees, gnarled and twisted by time and the elements. Cathy was glad to have come in time to prevent the enthusiastic mass felling that Leon had had in mind. Looking at the grotesque patterns etched upon the bark of an old olive tree she found her fingers itching for a pencil. With both Nikos and Adam what seemed half a world away she had half persuaded herself that happiness, or perhaps to be more realistic simple contentment, was not after all entirely beyond her grasp. Here, relaxed and in his own environment, Leon had been genial and good-tempered. He had, she knew, enjoyed showing off his achievements — of which she quickly came to understand she was one — to the people amongst whom he had grown up, and for most of whom nothing had changed - or was likely to change — since the time of their grandparents, and to her his standing in this community in which respect came very hard-won.
Then they had returned to London, and the fragile peace of mind she thought she had achieved had, like a mirage, proved to be of no substance whatsoever. Nothing had changed.
She supposed, bleakly, that nothing ever would.
*
Dmitri’s, Leon’s favourite restaurant, was crowded. As the wife of one of the proprietor’s best customers she was welcomed with deferential smiles and greetings and shown to a small table in the window. Inevitably Leon had not yet arrived. Cathy ordered a dry sherry and sat, chin on hand, watching the busy street outside. Just before she had left the apartment her editor had phoned; everyone was delighted with the illustrations for The Sea Magician, and would she be interested in another commission? Not very well paid, but prestigious — would she care to come and discuss the project? Cathy had prevaricated. Since she had left Sandlings she had had neither the heart nor the inclination to pick up a pencil. But then — perhaps this was what she needed? Something of her own to occupy her, to force her to pull herself together? She couldn’t go on like this, adrift on a sea of self-indulgent misery — she caught her breath. Striding along the crowded pavement towards the restaurant were two tall, familiar figures, deep in conversation. For a moment a wave of something close to panic choked her. Why hadn’t Leon told her? She glanced around. It was too late to leave. By the time she had retrieved her coat they would be here.
She saw from the sudden shock in Nikos’ eyes when he caught sight of her that he had no more expected her than she had him. She watched as the two of them wove between the tables towards her, accepted her husband’s peck on the cheek in greeting. ‘See what a surprise I’ve brought you. The boy was mooning about the place like a lost soul. I offered him lunch to cheer him up.’ Leon leant to her and added in a stage whisper that could be heard halfway across the room, ‘He’s had a fight with the latest flame. Be kind to him.’
‘Pa —’ Nikos said. ‘You didn’t tell me you were meeting Cathy. You don’t want me —’
‘Nonsense, boy, nonsense. Sit down. I’ll get the waiter to lay an extra place.’ Leon clicked his fingers.
Nikos remained standing for a moment longer before pulling out the chair opposite Cathy and sitting down. The place was laid, the orders given. To her horror Cathy discovered that she was trembling. With great care she put her glass on the table, folded her hands in her lap. Leon was telling a long, complicated and slightly salacious story involving a business rival. Nikos sat, eyes downcast, absently tinkering with his fork, the shadowed sweep of his lashes veiling any expression. He looked tired and drawn. Cathy ached, physically ached, to put a hand out to him, to touch him, to hold him. She laced her fingers together, clenching them so tightly that they hurt. Leon talked on.
The next hour seemed to Cathy the longest and most painful she had ever endured. Not once did Nikos look at her, and only when it was totally unavoidable did he speak to her. In the end she herself lapsed to silence, leaving the conversation to husband and son. Yet try as she might she could not keep her eyes from Nikos’ face, could not still the echoes in her mind. She ate mechanically, picking at her food, hardly tasting it.
‘Baclavas,’ Leon said, having demolished a plateful of lamb and pasta stew. ‘Dmitri makes the best baclavas in London. No, I insist —’ He had correctly interpreted Cathy’s attempt to protest almost before she had opened her mouth. ‘I told you this morning. Lately you don’t eat enough to keep a sparrow alive. Is not good enough. What good is a skinny woman to a man, eh?’ He glanced slyly at Nikos. ‘What you think, Nikos? She needs to put more flesh on the bones, yes?’
For the first time Nikos’ eyes met hers. They were expressionless. ‘It’s up to Cathy,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Sir —’ A waiter had
appeared beside Leon, bent to his ear, ‘A telephone call. A Mister Kariopoulos. He says it’s urgent.’
Leon mopped at his lips with his napkin, pushed his chair from the table. ‘Excuse me. I won’t be a moment.’
Left alone Cathy and Nikos were silent. Around them a babble of conversation rose and fell.
‘I’m sorry,’ Nikos said at last, his voice the voice of a polite stranger; cool and neutral. ‘I really didn’t realise you were going to be here. I would never have come if I’d known.’
‘I realise that.’
‘How are you?’ There was no warmth in the question, no real enquiry.
She swallowed. ‘I’m well. And you?’ This was madness. Utter madness.
OK.’
‘Leon says you’re —’ she struggled for a moment ‘— you’re having a good time.’
He shrugged.
The silence between them was heavy, hanging between them, dense as a muffling curtain. Cathy picked up her wine glass, put it down again, turning it around and around on the tablecloth, watching it as if it were the most absorbing sight in the world. At the bar on the far side of the room Leon was talking volubly into the telephone, waving his hands. ‘There’s so much to say,’ the words were barely audible, ‘and no way to say it.’
‘There’s nothing to say.’ Nikos’ voice was harsher than she had ever heard it. ‘I’d really rather you didn’t try. Excuses? Lies? Spare me.’ As her startled eyes met his he leaned forward over the table, and she flinched from the expression on his face. ‘It was your choice, Cathy. Always remember that. You sent me away. I was ready to stand and fight. Fight the bloody world if necessary. You made it very clear that you weren’t prepared to do that.’ His mouth twisted to a bitter smile. ‘So much for love.’