Apollo's Seed

by Anne Mather

  ‘The tickets will be arranged for you,’ he said smoothly. ‘And now, if you are ready to leave, I myself will drive you back to the helicopter.’

  ‘No! That is—’ Martha gazed appealing at Aristotle Myconos, but he could not—or would not—help her. Dion was already moving towards the house, preparatory to summoning the car, when she realised she would have to use Sarah after all. ‘I can’t return to Rhodes, because Sarah needs me.’

  She saw her husband’s expression change as she brought her sister’s name into it. Dion had never liked Sarah, and in all honesty, Sarah had not encouraged him to do so. In the beginning, Martha had found her sister’s attitude towards her husband rather irritating, but as their relationship foundered she began to see that Sarah had been right all along.

  She and Sarah had been very close in those days before her marriage. Their parents had been quite old before they started their family, and after their father’s death twelve years ago, their mother had found it difficult to carry on. Consequently, when Martha was sixteen and Sarah was eighteen, they found themselves orphaned, and more dependent on each other than ever.

  Nevertheless they were good friends, and once Martha had completed her secretarial training and got a job as a doctor’s receptionist, they had found no difficulty in keeping up the small house in Wimbledon, where they had lived all their lives. Until that holiday in Rhodes, which had altered everything…

  Now, Dion removed his cigar from his mouth and said flatly: ‘I see. I should have known your sister would be involved in some way. Very well. Why does she need you? Because she is afraid of your becoming involved with this family again?’

  ‘Dion!’ Alex’s urgent voice interrupted them, and turning, Martha saw her husband’s brother beckoning from the open doorway. ‘Dion, Giorgios is on the telephone. He wishes to speak to you personally.’

  The oath Dion uttered made Martha flinch, and she watched apprehensively as he flung down his cigar and ground it under his heel. Then, with a frustrated gesture, he strode across the patio, and disappeared into the house.

  However, when Alex would have followed his brother, his father’s voice arrested him. ‘Martha is leaving,’ Aristotle said, the firmness of his tone belied by the unsteady movement of the hands he extended towards her. ‘That is what you wish to do, is it not?’ he adjured, waiting expectantly for her reply, and dry-mouthed she nodded. ‘Kalos! You will drive her to the helicopter, Alexander.’

  ‘But—my handbag—’

  Martha’s words were faltering, her head curiously light at this unexpected reversal of the situation, and for a moment Aristotle’s impatience showed. Then, gesturing towards Alex, he bade him collect her belongings from his study, while he escorted his daughter-in-law to the car.

  The limousine was waiting where she had left it, and the old man saw her comfortably seated before glancing round irritably as the minutes stretched. Martha, too, was aware of the tension that was gripping him, and while she knew she must take this chance of escape, she couldn’t help wondering whether she was not simply aggravating Dion’s reactions.

  ‘Your son—’ she began, looking up at her father-in-law, and Aristotle turned back to her with assumed dignity.

  ‘Dionysus will have time to reconsider his position,’ he replied doggedly, his breath escaping on a sigh of relief as Alex re-appeared. ‘Herete, Martha. Go with God!’

  * * *

  It was a nerve-racking journey down to the helicopter. Any minute Martha expected to hear a fast car speeding behind them, or some dramatic summons on the two-way radio incorporated in the front console. But nothing happened. The helicopter took off, and as they circled the island, she saw no sign of activity from the villa, not even the puff of dust from the road which might have indicated a fast-moving vehicle.

  Alex did not accompany her back to her hotel. He made his farewells at the airport, and she thanked him for returning her safely.

  ‘We will meet again,’ he averred gently, shaking her hand in parting, and she wondered why he sounded so sure of himself. But she was not going to ask him. She was only too relieved to be back on neutral ground again, and she climbed into the back of the car that awaited her with scarcely concealed relief.

  Back at the hotel, however, reaction overtook her, and she went up to her room to fling herself on the bed, feeling totally and completely shattered. It had been the most exhausting episode of her whole life, and she wondered apprehensively what Dion would do now. It was of a certainty that he would not give up, not so easily, and while his father had his own reasons for wanting her gone, he did not know the whole truth of what had happened.

  Taking that particular incident into consideration, Martha tried to view what had happened with an objective eye. It wasn’t easy. Her emotions were still too painful, too raw, too sensitive to the humiliation she had suffered. She had despised him before, she felt she hated him now—and hated herself too, for the disgusting way she had betrayed herself.

  How could she have acted that way? How could she have been taken in by that plea for sympathy, that deliberate arousal of her compassion, that had ended in her stumbling confession? It sickened her to think of how easily he had deceived her, and how weak she had been, accepting his kisses and the intimacy of his embrace, only to find she had been used for his purpose.

  With a groan of frustration she sat up, crossing her legs and balling her knuckles into fists. There was no point in belabouring the issue. What was done was done. She had been a fool to think she could deal with the Myconos’s like normal people. They were not normal people. They were jealous of their power, possessive of the things—and people—they considered theirs, and totally insensitive to anyone’s needs but their own. It had been her conceit which had made her imagine she could walk into the lions’ den, and come out unscathed. Why had she done it? Just to help Roger? Or because, as Josy grew older, she had felt some constraint to tell the child’s father the truth? Maybe she would have told Aristotle, allowed him to decide whether his son should be told, but she had never imagined being faced with the difficulties she faced now.

  Sliding off the bed, she padded on to the balcony, flopping into a wrought iron chair, and looking at that splendid view, which earlier in the day had given her such a feeling of reassurance. It didn’t reassure her now. All she could think of was how stupid she had been, how childish and how gullible, and how uncertain the future looked at this moment.

  * * *

  Despite her apprehensions, Dion did not try to contact her before she returned to London, and she couldn’t decide whether she was glad or sorry. It was typical of him that he should keep her in suspense like this, and Martha half wished she had not run away from Mycos, and given him such an advantage.

  It was June, and the holiday season, and Heathrow was a hive of activity when she landed there the following afternoon. She lugged her suitcase on to the tube, and rode into Central London that way, but changing trains for Wimbledon, she managed to get her ankles snagged by a carelessly placed pushchair. By the time she had walked the quarter mile from the station to Meredith Road, she was feeling distinctly strained, and it didn’t help to find Josy playing, without supervision, in the garden at the front of the house, her dress and sandals stained with muddy water.

  ‘Mummy!’ The little girl was completely unaware of her mother’s irritation, and flung herself into Martha’s arms, with all the loving impulsiveness of her nature. ‘You’re back!’ she exclaimed, hugging her tightly. ‘I’ve missed you!’

  ‘I’ve missed you, too, darling,’ said her mother gently, unwilling to remonstrate with her the minute she returned home. ‘But where is Auntie Sarah—or Mrs Bennett? You know you’re not supposed to play outdoors alone.’

  ‘I know.’ Josy wrinkled her nose. ‘But I was tired of playing in the bedroom, and it was such a lovely day.’

  ‘Why couldn’t you play in the living room?’ Martha objected, and then added: ‘Where is Mrs Bennett? I suppose Auntie Sarah’s lying down
, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’ Josy accompanied her mother up the path and into the tall Victorian house Roger had inherited from his parents. ‘But Mrs Bennett’s gone home, and I—’

  ‘Gone home?’ her mother interrupted her blankly. Mrs Bennett shouldn’t have gone home. Not at four o’clock in the afternoon anyway. She had agreed to take Josy to her play group in the mornings, collect her again at one o’clock, and stay until after their evening meal. ‘Oh, lord! What’s been going on?’

  The hall of the house was dark and rather gloomy, redolent of shadowy comers and stained paint. Roger hadn’t bothered to have it decorated for years, and Martha had enough to do, keeping their rooms in reasonable order.

  Their apartment, if it could be called such, comprised a living room and kitchen, where they took most of their meals, two bedrooms, one for Sarah, and the other which Martha shared with her daughter, and a tiny bathroom that was across the hall. All on one level, it was easy for Sarah to wheel herself from room to room, and although there was no garden at the back of the house, only a small yard, they had had a concrete slope installed, which meant that she could get outdoors that way. As the buildings were semi-detached, it was a simple matter for her to wheel herself round to the front of the house, and the independence this had given her more than made up for its lack of modem amenities.

  Entering the living room, Martha was forcibly struck by its shabbines after the opulent appointments of the Myconos villa. Even the hotel in Rhodes had been luxurious compared to this, and her heart sank when she saw the stack of dishes in the kitchen sink, and smelled the rank odour of congealing food from plates still residing on the table. Had anyone done anything since she went away? she wondered, confused by Mrs Bennett’s absence. She was usually so reliable, when it came to looking after Josy, and she had been paid to prepare their evening meal while Martha was away.

  ‘It’s a mess, isn’t it?’ remarked the little girl, with childish candour, and Martha felt a reluctant smile tugging at her lips.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ she agreed, putting down her suitcase, and taking off the jacket of her pants suit. ‘Get me that plastic apron, will you, darling? While I’m washing these, you can tell me what’s happened to Mrs Bennett.’

  Josy obediently passed her mother the apron, and then carried a stool to the sink, to enable her to perch on the end of the draining board. But when Martha’s hands were plunged deep into the soapy suds, she surprised her mother by saying thoughtfully:

  ‘I don’t think Mrs Bennett likes Auntie Sarah. Do you?’

  Martha frowned, concentrating on scouring the grease from a saucepan as she answered: ‘I don’t think that’s important, Josy. But as it happens, Mrs Bennett is a very agreeable lady. She usually likes everyone. Now, come along, have you been a naughty girl? Is that why Mrs Bennett’s gone home? Or wasn’t she feeling well today?’

  ‘Mrs Bennett hasn’t been here today—or yesterday,’ replied Josy, scooping up a handful of soapsuds and blowing them experimentally. ‘Ooh, look! Isn’t that pretty—’

  ‘What do you mean, she hasn’t been here today or yesterday?’ exclaimed Martha incredulously. ‘Haven’t you been to play school?’

  ‘Not yesterday or today,’ affirmed Josy blandly. ‘That’s why I was playing outside, you see. ‘Cos I was so sick of playing indoors.’

  Martha didn’t understand this. ‘But why hasn’t Mrs Bennett been here? I paid her—’

  ‘She gave Auntie Sarah the money back,’ Josy answered, dabbing soapsuds on the end of her nose. ‘Do I look funny?’

  Martha drew a deep breath. ‘Josy, what are you saying?’

  ‘Yes, what are you saying, Josy!’ echoed a familiar voice behind them, and Martha swung round to find her sister seated in her wheelchair in the doorway. Sarah’s face was unbecomingly flushed, as if she had awoken with a start and rushed to lever herself into her chair, and the pale skin which matched the burnished copper of her hair was blotched and marked with agitation.

  ‘Sarah!’ Martha went towards her at once, bending to kiss her sister’s cheek, and giving her the benefit of her warm smile. ‘How are you? Josy said you were resting. You shouldn’t have disturbed yourself. I was going to bring you some tea after I’d finished these dishes.’

  ‘After you’d found out from Josy what had been going on!’ countered Sarah testily, lips thin and angry. ‘Couldn’t you at least have come into my room when you got home? Couldn’t you have asked me what had happened, instead of grilling the child?’

  Martha was taken aback. ‘I wasn’t grilling Josy,’ she protested. ‘But when Mrs Bennett wasn’t here…’

  ‘And has Josy told you why she isn’t here?’

  ‘No.’ Martha glanced awkwardly at her daughter, wishing she was not witnessing this rather unpleasant scene. ‘As a matter of fact, she was just about to do so. But now you can instead.’

  Sarah’s nostrils flared, and then, as if realising her anger was unjustified, her shoulders slumped. Sitting there, her hands hanging loosely over the arms of her chair, she looked worn and pallid, and painfully thin, and Martha could not sustain her resentment against her. It had not been easy for her sister, acknowledging the extent of her paralysis, and if these last years had been hard for her they had been equally hard for Sarah.

  ‘I found the Bennett woman looking through the drawers of the sideboard,’ she explained now, her voice expressionless. ‘She said she was looking for a ribbon for Josy’s hair. I didn’t believe her.’

  ‘She was,’ remarked Josy, matter-of-factly, climbing down from the drainer. ‘I said that was where you kept them, Mummy, and when I lost my other ribbon on Monday…’

  ‘Oh, Josy!’ Martha stared at her daughter helplessly. Then she turned back to Sarah. ‘Didn’t Josy tell you?’

  ‘The woman was obviously not just looking for ribbons!’ declared Sarah, sniffing. ‘She had half the contents of the drawer on the sideboard when I caught her. Nosy creature! She’s a horrible woman—I never liked her. She has far too much to say for herself. Just because you pay her to look after Josy, she seems to think she has a right to enter this apartment whenever she likes.’

  ‘Mrs Bennett said that Auntie Sarah was a spiteful old—’

  ‘That will do, Josy!’ Martha cut her daughter off with an impatient glance. ‘I think the least said about this matter, the better.’

  ‘She had the nerve to throw your money back at me!’ persisted Sarah indignantly. ‘Can you imagine that? Pound notes fluttering on to the floor!’

  ‘Not very many pound notes,’ remarked Martha, realising with a sense of resignation that she would have to go round to Mrs Bennett’s after their evening meal and try and straighten things out. She had always found the older woman kind and sympathetic, and if she was inclined to presume on good nature, Martha had made allowances for her.

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’ Sarah demanded now. ‘Josy and I have had to fend for ourselves these last two days because of that woman’s disgraceful behaviour, and all you can say is—’

  ‘Well, let’s not get into an argument about it,’ suggested Martha rather wearily. ‘I’ll finish these dishes, then I’ll see about making us a meal. After that, we may have some time to talk properly.’

  She turned back to the sink as she spoke, so Sarah was more or less obliged to accept this, and Martha heard her asking Josy to go and tidy up her toys in the bedroom. But when they were alone together, her sister could no longer hide her curiosity, and wheeling her chair nearer to the sink, she said:

  ‘Well? What did Myconos say?’

  ‘Myconos?’ Martha played for time. ‘Aristotle Myconos?’

  ‘Who else?’ Sarah was impatient. ‘Don’t tell me—he refused, didn’t he? You might have known he would.’

  Martha lifted the last plate out on to the draining board, and reached for a tea-cloth before replying. Then, starting to dry the knives and forks, she said: ‘Yes, he refused. You were right, I shouldn’t have gone there.’

&
nbsp; ‘I knew it!’ Sarah sat back, triumphant. ‘I knew you were wasting your time and your money.’

  ‘Roger’s money,’ pointed out Martha, dropping cutlery into a drawer. ‘You forget, he financed the expedition.’

  ‘Even so…Going to that man! You should have refused.’

  Martha sighed. ‘Sarah, you forget what Roger has done for us, for both of us. Without his help, who knows where we’d be? He lets us this apartment at a nominal rent—he got me that job at the university! Why, he even took us to the Scillies with him last summer, when they were conducting that underwater exploration.’

  ‘Only because you agreed to catalogue the notes for the team,’ declared Sarah scornfully. ‘You were working till all hours of the day and night. It wasn’t much of a holiday for you.’

  ‘No. But Josy had the benefit of the sea and sun,’ Martha answered quietly. ‘And you looked heaps better when we came back.’

  Sarah shrugged. ‘It’s all very well saying that, but it seems to me, Roger just makes use of you. Why, only last week, he had you transcribing those notes about Santorini—’

  ‘He does pay me,’ retorted Martha, finishing drying the dishes and opening the door of the fridge. ‘Now, let me see—what do you fancy? Bacon? Eggs? I think there’s some fish in the freezer here.’

  ‘No, we had that yesterday,’ Sarah contradicted reluctantly. ‘It was easy to cook. Roger fried it for us.’

  ‘Roger!’ Martha almost laughed at her sister’s discomfort. ‘After all you’ve said!’

  ‘Well…Sarah was indignant, ‘someone had to do it. Josy and I couldn’t go on eating bread and jam, and when he saw how we were fixed, he offered to make us a meal.’

  Martha shook her head. ‘You know you could have fried it yourself,’ she said, setting a frying pan on the hotplate, and arranging slices of bacon across the base. ‘Lots of women in your position have homes and families to care for. And they enjoy proving they’re independent.’

  Sarah grimaced. ‘Don’t let’s start all that again. I’m doing quite well. I can wash myself and dress myself, and Doctor Sikkim says he’s very pleased with my progress.’