Follow a Stranger

by Charlotte Lamb

  Mrs. Lillitos laughed softly. “The more I hear of her

  the more I admire her! Now, Marc, go away, and let me

  talk to Kate alone for a while. You are too disturbing.”

  He made a violent grimace, but did not argue. When

  he had gone, his mother smiled at her. “He was, even as

  a boy—it was like having a hurricane permanently in

  the house.”

  Kate laughed. “I can imagine!”

  Mrs. Lillitos leaned back. “Tell me about yourself, my

  dear. Do you like teaching music?”

  “I like teaching anyone as talented as Pallas,” she said

  frankly. “It’s a great pleasure to feel that one is able to

  help someone with her gifts.”

  Mrs. Lillitos did not reply directly. After a pause she

  said, “And yourself? Are you musically talented? Did you

  ever want to be a professional pianist?”

  “How did you know I was a pianist?” Kate asked in

  surprise.

  “I heard you playing to my son last night. It was very

  pleasant. You must play for me again some time. Did you

  enjoy exploring the island today?”

  Kate blinked. “I ... I didn’t go with Pallas and Sam,”

  she said slowly. “I went to the temple.”

  “To Angkistri?” repeated Mrs. Lillitos. “Are you

  interested in archaeology? We have a young man here

  now, studying the temple.”

  “He is my fiancé,” Kate explained, smiling in surprise.

  Why hadn’t Marc told his mother that she and Peter were

  engaged?

  Mrs. Lillitos stiffened and stared at her. “Fiancé?” she

  repeated. “Fiancé?”

  Kate would have thought she did not know the word,

  but she remembered that Mrs. Lillitos was French and

  must be perfectly familiar with it.

  “Didn’t Marc tell you?” she asked. “Surely Pallas must

  have mentioned it to you?”

  Then she saw that Mrs. Lillitos was very pale. Her frail

  hand was groping for the stick which stood propped

  against her chair.

  Feebly she stood up, refusing Kate’s offer of help with a

  silent shake of the head.

  “I do not feel very hungry tonight,” she said. “I think I

  will go back to my room. Will you call my son?”

  Kate obeyed and Marc came in quickly, looking at his

  mother with natural anxiety.

  “Give me your arm, my son,” she said heavily.

  He moved to her side at once and they left the room

  slowly. Kate sank back into her own chair, baffled. Why

  had Mrs. Lillitos suddenly altered? Was it just that she

  had begun to feel ill, or had something Kate said upset

  her?

  Before she could think too closely about it, Pallas and

  Sam had come in together, talking loudly.

  “Oh, you’re alone,” said Pallas, with obvious relief. “I

  thought Marc might be in here. Heavens, Kate, if you had

  seen his face when he discovered we had let you go up to

  To Angkistri alone! He practically burst a blood vessel.

  Marc has such set ideas about women. He likes to wrap

  them in cotton wool for safe keeping.” She grinned at

  Sam. “Although these days he does seem to be making an

  effort to turn a blind eye to my new clothes and hairstyle.

  So perhaps he is improving.”

  “He’s a throwback to the knights of old,” Sam teased.

  “His recipe for life starts, first catch your damsel ...”

  Pallas giggled. “Club her,” she suggested, “and throw

  her over your horse.”

  Sam played up. “Gallop away with her to your castle,”

  he added, twirling an imaginary moustache, “and shut

  her up in an ivory tower.” He sighed exaggeratedly. “Ah,

  those were the days!”

  “Nowadays,” said Marc’s cool tones from the door, making

  them all look round guiltily, “your knight

  would have a hard time telling the damsels from the other

  young men.”

  “But think what fun he would have trying to find out!”

  Sam countered impudently.

  Marc’s brows rose. “Really? Shall we go in to dinner

  now? Mama does not feel well enough to stay down,

  Pallas. She has one of her headaches.”

  They had moussaka for dinner—aubergines thinly

  sliced, rich dark minced lamb and a thick cheese sauce

  covering it all. Kate enjoyed it very much and determined

  to make it when she got home.

  Marc peeled an apple slowly, his long slim fingers deft

  in all their movements. Kate watched him, remembering

  the gentleness of those fingers on her face earlier.

  “By the way, Pallas, Helene cabled today. She arrives

  at the end of the week,” he said without looking up.

  His sister looked up, frowning. “Alone?”

  He shook his head and shot her a quick glance. “She is

  bringing Marie-Louise and Jean-Paul with her.”

  Pallas dropped the fork with which she was eating a

  confection of chocolate and cream. “Jean-Paul?” she

  repeated breathlessly. “Oh, why did you have to invite

  him here?”

  “Why shouldn’t he come here?” Marc demanded. “He is

  our cousin, after all. And he usually visits us once a year.”

  She pushed back her chair, standing up suddenly. “It

  isn’t fair!” she wailed, like a child, and ran out of the

  room.

  Sam stared after her, then looked at Marc, who calmly

  went on peeling his apple, the rings sliding from between

  his fingers in symmetrical spirals.

  Silently, Sam followed Pallas out of the room. Kate felt

  curious, yet nervous. She wanted to know why Pallas so

  much disliked the idea of a visit from this cousin of hers,

  and yet she was tensely aware of being left alone with

  Marc once more.

  He cut himself a slice of the apple, bit it with relish,

  and then smilingly offered her half. She shook her head.

  But before she could ask him about his sister’s reaction to

  his news, he had said lazily, “Did you know that Spiro

  Pyrakis lived near here?”

  She dragged her mind back from the thoughts which

  had been absorbing it.

  “Spiro Pyrakis? No, I didn’t. I have all his records at

  home. He’s my favourite pianist. I went to all his London

  concerts last year, and I found his playing even better

  than I’d dreamed. Of course, a recording is never the

  same as the real thing.”

  “He’s a friend of mine,” he said casually.

  She stared at him, too awed to speak.

  “I was talking to him on the telephone this morning,”

  he said lightly. “He asked me to sail over there tomorrow.

  Would you like to come?”

  “I couldn’t,” she stammered, torn between delight and

  awe. “He wouldn’t want to meet a stranger ...”

  “I told him about you,” Marc went on, “asked if I might

  bring you. He said it would be delightful to meet a pretty

  girl.” He grinned at her, his grey eyes alight with wicked

  amusement. “Spiro loves the company of pretty girls and

  he has been shut up on Epilison for weeks, writing a new

  concerto. He jum
ped at you like a hungry trout jumping

  at a fly.”

  Kate flushed. “I’m sure he didn’t,” she protested.

  “Wait until you meet him. You’ll see I am telling the

  truth. You’ll come?”

  “If you’re sure ...” she said nervously. “Are Pallas and

  Sam going, too?”

  “No,” he said firmly. “Too many people would irritate

  him. He hates a crowd.”

  “Pallas is a pretty girl,” she suggested innocently, her

  eyes on his face.

  He grinned at her. “Spiro has known her since she was

  knee-high to a cicada—he would squabble with her. There

  is something childlike about him, you know. He and

  Pallas always quarrel, but they are fond of each other.”

  Kate excused herself early, pleading fatigue, and he

  stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching her. “If your

  back is aching I have some liniment that might help,” he

  offered, seeing her involuntarily holding her back.

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Thank you.”

  “I promise not to kiss the sore place again,” he offered

  teasingly.

  Red and furious, she did not answer, but ran quickly

  up the stairs.

  Next morning she was downstairs early for breakfast,

  wearing blue denim jeans and a loose matching jacket.

  Her thick, white ribbed sweater gave her a boyish look,

  emphasised by the fact that she had tied her blonde hair

  at the back into a ponytail. The severe style gave a new

  vulnerability to her face, of which she was unaware.

  Marc was sitting at the table, eating rolls and dark

  red jam. He eyed her lazily. “You look about seventeen,”

  he commented.

  Kate took a boiled egg from the silver covered dish and

  came to sit down opposite him.

  He leaned over and teasingly cut a slice of toast into

  thin strips for her. “Little girls like to have soldiers to dip

  into their eggs, don’t they?”

  She gave him a dignified frown. “What time do we

  leave?” she asked forbiddingly.

  He laughed aloud, his mood clearly relaxed and

  carefree this morning.

  They walked down to the small quay a quarter of an

  hour later. Marc helped her to climb aboard his neat little

  yacht, cast off and jumped on board himself. The wind

  took the sails and Kate looked up at them with pleasure

  as, white and free, they slapped to and fro above her.

  “Watch your head,” Marc ordered curtly, and she

  ducked down at once as the beam swung round.

  The wind blew behind them all the way to Epilison, the

  neighbouring island on which Pyrakis lived. They made

  the crossing in an hour and a half.

  The island looked beautiful as they skimmed closer.

  Blue, shadowy hills, golden sands, white houses,

  shimmering in the early morning sun, in an unreal

  beauty which reminded her of a postcard come to life.

  They tied up at a small jetty and walked up, along

  narrow village streets, past the untidy white houses

  whose doors all seemed to stand permanently open. Old

  women in black sat on some of the doorsteps, shawls over

  their grey heads, their wrinkled, tanned faces smiling at

  Marc as he walked past. He paused to speak to each one,

  gallantly, teasingly, and they giggled at what he said.

  Fishermen mending nets waved to him, little boys

  begged for drachmae. Everyone seemed to know him and

  like him.

  They paused at the very top of the hill and he pushed

  open high iron gates set in a flinty wall which ran around

  a charming, untidy garden, set with cypress and gnarled

  old olive trees.

  The house was of an ornate, oriental design, the

  windows all curves and arches, the stonework fretted.

  Kate was so nervous that when Marc, with a sharp

  glance, smiled and held her hand as if she were five years

  old, she did not protest, but clung to his protection.

  “Suppose he’s angry because you brought me?” she

  whispered. “He probably prefers his privacy, like most

  famous people.”

  He squeezed her fingers comfortingly. “Goose! I told

  you, he loves pretty blonde girls!”

  She giggled, and then the door opened and a fierce old

  man, his thick grey moustaches quivering, glared at them

  from flashing black eyes.

  Marc spoke to him, in Greek, grinning affectionately,

  and the old man answered in a low, grumbling voice, his

  hands moving in vivid emphasis. Kate saw him shooting

  those black eyes at her, and looked nervously up at Marc.

  He laughed, slipping an arm around her shoulders. “He

  says he does not like young ladies coming here because

  Pyrakis always falls madly in love with them, especially

  when they are blonde and beautiful, like you!” And his

  grey eyes glinted wickedly.

  She blushed and stammered, “I don’t believe he said

  anything of the sort!” She moved away, so that his arm

  slid off her shoulder.

  Marc’s eyes continued to laugh at her. He spoke again

  to the old man, grinning, and the old man laughed, deep

  in his throat.

  He talked gutturally, gesticulating, and Marc laughed.

  Then they walked into the cool, shadowy hall and the old

  man shuffled away, his great hooked nose like an eagle’s

  beak, in profile.

  Kate stared around her in fascination. The floor of the

  hall was tiled in black and white marble. A gold-painted

  tub stood in one corner, full of tall waving ferns, and

  opposite her hung a gilded mirror in which her own face

  swam, like a translucent mermaid’s, against the dim

  background of the hall.

  “That is Kyril. He has been with Spiro for years and is

  devoted to him, in a fierce, scornful way. They shout at

  each other and swear to kill each other, but they are

  inseparable.” Marc came up behind her, staring over her

  shoulder at her face in the mirror.

  Their eyes met. Hers fell away, shyly, at something

  odd in his. Then Kyril came back and led them down the

  hall. The room they entered was long, austere and as

  shadowy as the hall. Beyond open french windows she

  could see a cluster of bushes and tall cypress, whose

  branches darkened the room, giving it an undersea look,

  a cool greeny light filtering through and spilling over

  books, tables, chairs.

  In a shabby old armchair sat Spiro Pyrakis, his

  leonine head turned towards them.

  He rose, holding out his powerful fingers, first to Kate.

  Kate. “Mia kyria,” he murmured, his slightly protruding

  blue eyes appraising her. Then his polite smile widened.

  “Marc,” he said, in charmingly accented English, “you lied

  to me, you dog!”

  Marc raised an enquiring eyebrow.

  “You told me she was pretty,” said Pyrakis. “She is

  enchantingly lovely!” And the blue eyes gleamed down on

  her. She was not so inexperienced that she could not

  recognise the glance of desired possession, and a hot

  blus
h rose to her cheeks.

  Marc moved restlessly, but said nothing. Pyrakis

  raised her fingers, very very slowly, and kissed each one

  separately, his eyes still fixed on her pink face.

  “What innocence, what delicacy!” he murmured. “To

  see her blush is like seeing a rosebud open.”

  Marc moved to the window and stood with his back to

  them, his hands jammed into his pockets. “She is a

  pianist, Spiro, and an admirer of yours.”

  “Of course,” purred Pyrakis, smiling. He turned Kate’s

  hands over, inspecting them. “Your fingers told tales to

  me,” he said, softly. “These little tips work hard. Either a

  typist or a pianist. I suspected a pianist, because of this

  ...” and he delicately touched the pulse which beat at the

  base of her slender throat. “Sensitive, responsive little

  creature! Ah, if I were younger! To see that tell-tale beat

  stir at my touch!” He sighed romantically.

  Kate looked helplessly at Marc’s unresponsive back. “I

  ... I teach, Mr. Pyrakis, I’m not an artiste ...” she

  stammered, trying to withdraw her hands without

  seeming rude.

  His face relaxed and a great charm flowed out towards

  her. “A good teacher is the bounty of heaven,” he said

  gently. “I had a wonderful teacher!” He released her

  hands and waved her to a chair. Much relieved, she sank

  into it, and Marc turned round and also took a seat.

  Pyrakis glared at the door. “Where is that fellow, that

  thief, that rascal?” he bellowed in rapid Greek, and from

  somewhere in the house a loud voice replied in fierce

  tones.

  Soon the old man reappeared, carrying a little table.

  They sat around it, drinking black coffee and nibbling

  slices of honey-drenched pastry sprinkled with almonds.

  Marc mentioned Pallas and Spiro Pyrakis bared his

  teeth.

  “Has she begun to work yet, the lazy, idle girl?”

  “Miss Caulfield is her teacher. Ask her,” said Marc

  lightly, leaning back, his hands on the arms of his chair.

  Pyrakis looked at her, one thick brow raised. “What do

  you think of her?”

  “She is beyond me,” Kate confessed. “I think she has

  great promise.”

  He gestured impatiently. “Of course, but the

  temperament! She will not work. A musician needs tena-

  city, humility, stamina. Pallas lacks them all.”

  “Kate has great confidence in her!” said Marc.

  “Kate?” Pyrakis stared at her, his blue eyes caressing.