by Anne Mather
‘Well, if you really want me to stay…’
‘I do,’ said Martha, disappearing into the kitchen again, and Sarah wheeled her chair after her with a frown of concentration creasing her brow.
‘Martha!’ she insisted. ‘If you don’t tell me what’s going on, I shall go to my room and stay there. I may do that in any case. I have no desire to sit at table with that man!’ Martha paused in the process of taking some frozen steaks out of the fridge, and after a moment’s hesitation, she said: ‘He wants Josy, Sarah. He says he’ll take me to court for custody if—if—’
‘If what?’
‘—if I don’t agree to—to go back to him.’
‘What?’ Sarah was obviously as stunned as Martha had been.
‘It’s true. He—he says he’s prepared to take us both—well, all three of us, actually—for—for Josy’s sake, I suppose.’
Sarah stared at her as if she couldn’t believe her ears. ‘You can’t be serious!’
‘I am.’ Martha could not sustain her sister’s accusing stare, and she turned away to peel the plastic from the meat. ‘I know it isn’t easy to accept, but—well, he didn’t actually give me much choice.’
‘You mean you’ve agreed!’
Martha bent her head. ‘I haven’t—disagreed,’ she amended. ‘Oh, I refused at first, of course, but when—when the situation was made clear to me…’
‘You can’t do it, Martha!’
Martha sighed. ‘What else can I do?’
‘You can fight him, of course.’
‘And if I lose?’
‘You’re losing without even trying.’
‘I’m trying to be fair to Josy,’ declared Martha defensively. ‘It—it’s been on my mind for some time…’
‘What? Going back to him? Is that why you told him—’
‘No, no, no!’ Martha put her palms over her ears, as if to silence the doubts that were plaguing her as well as her sister. ‘Sarah, try to understand! If I do as you say—if I go to court—I may never see Josy again.’
‘Rubbish! They couldn’t deny you access.’
‘Access! Access!’ Martha stared at her. ‘Do you think that’s all I want—access? Sarah, Josy’s my daughter, the only child I’m ever likely to have. I can’t give her up. I can’t!’
‘You may marry again,’ said Sarah impatiently. ‘You’re young. You have your health.’ There was bitterness in her tone now. ‘If you were crippled, you could state that with certainty, but you can’t. Why, you could meet some other man tomorrow…’
‘No, Sarah.’ Martha turned back to the steaks again, and with an angry oath her sister wheeled her chair about.
‘So I’m not even to be consulted,’ she said coldly. ‘Well, don’t expect me to accompany you, because I won’t.’
‘Sarah!’ Martha’s face mirrored her dismay, but her sister was adamant.
‘I mean it. I have no intention of giving that man any power over me! You can go, if you like. Leave me—I’ll manage somehow. But I shan’t go with you, so don’t imagine I’ll change my mind.’
‘Sarah!’
But the wheelchair had already disappeared into the living room, and with a sinking heart Martha forced herself to concentrate on cooking the food.
In spite of her lack of enthusiasm, the steaks were soon grilling to perfection, and the salad she had prepared to go with them was crisp and light. Fortunately she had bought some cheese the day before, and that accompanied by crackers would have to do as a dessert. Nevertheless, the food was the least of her worries, and as the minutes since Dion and Josy had left stretched from ten to fifteen, and from fifteen to twenty, she felt the stirring fear of wondering whether he intended to bring her back.
Roger, who must have overheard her argument with her sister, was a tower of strength. Ignoring Sarah’s resentful silence, he began to talk about a film they had all seen on the television the night before, asking if Martha had read the book, and whether she agreed that the plot had been simplified to appeal to a larger audience. It was always easier to explain complicated situations in a book, he asserted, when the author was able to use the character’s thoughts as an explanation for his activities.
Martha tried to answer him, but her mind wasn’t really capable of summoning an opinion, and she was searching for an apology when she heard the crunch of tyres in the road, and the smooth braking of an engine.
‘They’re back,’ remarked Roger, his eyes gentle with understanding. ‘Now you can breathe again.’
Martha hesitated only a moment, and then hastened into the kitchen to check on the steaks. Sarah looked at Roger, then wheeled her chair towards the door, but he stepped into her path.
‘You must stay and greet your brother-in-law,’ Martha heard him say rather sardonically, and Sarah’s angry remonstrance went unheard beneath the boisterous excitement of Josy’s entrance.
Martha came to the door of the kitchen reluctantly, and Josy immediately made a beeline for her. ‘It’s super!’ she cried, gazing up at her mother with sparkling eyes. ‘Uncle Dion’s car, I mean. It goes ever so fast! But he didn’t drive too fast, because if you do, a policeman might stop you from driving altogether.’
‘I’m glad you enjoyed it, darling,’ Martha managed, with a tight smile, and lifted her head as Dion followed his daughter into the room.
His eyes went straight to her, then to Roger, and finally to Sarah. Closing the door behind him, he offered a slight bow of his head in her sister’s direction, then looked questioningly at the other man.
‘Oh—er—this is Roger Scott, Dion.’ Martha stumbled over her words in her haste. ‘Roger, this is—this is Dion Myconos.’
‘Hello.’ Roger shook the other man’s hand politely, and they weighed one another up in silent appraisal. Sarah said nothing, hands folded in her lap, eyes downcast, and with a feeling of escape Martha turned back into the kitchen.
The steaks were cooked, and she looked about her doubtfully. The kitchen was quite large, large enough for the three of them to eat at any rate, and four on occasion. But five? And Dion? Martha shook her head. She would have to think again.
‘I brought you this.’ Dion’s voice behind her brought her head round with a jerk, and she turned it to find her husband offering her a bottle, wrapped in tissue paper. ‘That was what took us so long. I could not find a suitable dealer. It is just a small contribution, that is all.’
‘Well—thank you.’ Martha unwrapped the paper and examined the label. It was a favourite of hers from years past, a rich claret, that would complement the meal ideally.
‘We eat in here?’ enquired Dion, not leaving as she had hoped, but glancing about him curiously. ‘There is not a lot of room, but no doubt we can manage.’
‘I—er—I thought we might eat in the living room,’ murmured Martha uncomfortably, eyeing Dion’s dark suit. ‘I mean—oh, God!’ Her voice dropped to an undertone. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘You think I am too proud to eat in the kitchen?’ he suggested crisply, eyebrows arched in interrogation. ‘When did I ever give you that impression? As I recall it, you have cooked for me on other occasions. At the house in Maxwell Grove, for example!’
Martha opened a drawer and took out a tablecloth, spreading it on the table without another word. His mention of her parents’ house had been deliberate, she was sure, recalling as it did the early days of their relationship, before the bonds of being Dion’s wife had tightened the threads about her. They had been so happy in those days, so eager and in love—or she had been in love, she amended, remembering the jealousy that had stifled all other emotion.
Before they were married, they had spent a lot of time at Maxwell Grove. It was somewhere they could be together, could be alone, if Sarah was out, and Martha had wanted to be alone with Dion at that time, more than anything else. It held other memories, too, memories of the first time he had made love to her, and the soaring ecstasy she had experienced when he taught her the delights of physical possession.
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Possession, she thought bitterly now. Why did everything always come back to that word? In those days, it had been something to cherish, not to challenge.
Dion had removed his jacket now, draping it over the back of one of the chairs, loosening the top button of his shirt beneath the dark tie. The scent of his body drifted across to her, warm after the heat of the day, and she was glad when Josy’s childish tones interrupted them, and she could thrust her unwanted memories away.
‘Roger’s staying for supper, too,’ she announced to no one in particular. ‘Auntie Sarah’s just told me. But she says to tell you she doesn’t want any supper.’
Martha’s lips tightened. ‘She will, when she sees it,’ she replied, with more confidence than she felt. ‘Josy, get the glasses out of the sideboard, will you? The ones with the stems. And tell Auntie Sarah that she’s got to eat something because I’ve made it for her.’
‘Your sister does not forget,’ remarked Dion dryly, glancing about him thoughtfully. ‘Where is a corkscrew? So I can open the wine.’
‘Sarah says she won’t leave England,’ declared Martha tautly, rummaging through the cutlery drawer. ‘I can’t go and leave her alone.’
Dion’s impatience exhibited itself in the way he pushed her aside and located the implement for himself. Inserting the pointed screw, he uncorked the bottle expertly, and then rather harshly he demanded:
‘When are you going to realise you are not your sister’s keeper, and she is not yours? Of course she says she will not leave England, because she knows how guilty that will make you feel. Etsi, you tell her you are leaving. Then we will see what she will decide.’
Martha gave him a resentful look. ‘You feel no remorse, do you, Dion? Sarah’s accident means nothing to you.’
He shrugged. ‘I know if our positions were reversed, she would spit on me. Why should I pity her? She has always tried to come between us. She is doing it still.’
‘There is nothing between us, Dion!’ Martha choked hotly. ‘Don’t imagine because you appear to hold all the cards that I have no will of my own! I’m not a puppet, Dion. I don’t jump when I’m told. And if you think by forcing me to come back to you, I shall change my opinion of you, you’re very much mistaken!’
He moved his shoulders in a dismissing gesture, but he did not make any response, and Josy’s return with the glasses prevented any pursuance of that particular exchange. ‘Auntie Sarah says she isn’t hungry,’ she remarked, putting the glasses down on the table. ‘I think she means it, Mummy, because she got quite angry when I said what you told me to say.’
Dion’s eyes flickered, and patting her head he said: ‘Do not worry about your aunt, little one. She will change her mind, never fear.’ But he was looking at Martha when he said it.
Martha served the meal on to plates before putting it on the table. There was not enough room for serving dishes as well as everything else, and the table looked quite attractive once the wine was poured.
‘Will you come through, Roger?’ she asked, going to the door of the living room, and he nodded goodnaturedly, propelling Sarah’s chair before him in spite of her protests.
‘You can’t absent yourself from the family gathering,’ he assured her mockingly, pushing her chair to the table. ‘Mmm, this looks delicious, Martha. I only wish I had someone to cook for me every night.’
Dion cast the other man a thoughtful glance as they sat down, and presently he asked: ‘You consider yourself a part of this family—er—Scott? My wi—that is, Martha—told me you are—what would you say?—the family friend, no?’
‘That’s right,’ Roger nodded. ‘Our parents were friends years ago. And when Martha and Sarah needed somewhere else to live, I was happy to offer them this place.’ He grimaced. ‘It’s not much, I know, but it’s cheap.’
‘We’d have been lost without you, Roger,’ Martha assured him indignantly, uncaring what Dion thought, and she was surprised when her husband seconded her gratitude.
‘I can see I have much to thank you for,’ he observed quietly, his eyes resting on Josy as she sawed rather clumsily at the meat. Then his eyes shifted to Sarah as he went on: ‘I regret we did not meet earlier.’
Roger’s eyes met Martha’s across the width of the table, but he didn’t make any comment, and she was grateful. Instead, he swallowed a mouthful of his wine before complimenting her on the tenderness of the steak, and she hoped her husband would take the hint and not turn the meal into an interrogation.
Sarah had listened to this interchange without comment. The sight and the smell of the meal had proved too much for her, and she, like everyone else, was enjoying the food, although her eyes strayed often in her sister’s direction, and there was bitterness as well as resentment in her stare.
Martha, for her part, found the food nauseating. In spite of the emptiness of her stomach, her throat refused to open, and she chewed the meat over and over again until the wine forced a passage down to her stomach.
‘I understand you have an interest in antiquity, Scott.’ Dion spoke again, and Martha glanced apprehensively at her other guest.
‘That’s right,’ Roger agreed amicably. ‘It’s my hobby. I’ve always enjoyed poking about old ruins.’ He grinned at the girl in the wheelchair beside him. ‘That’s why Sarah and I get along so well.’
‘Your appalling humour is only superseded by your manners!’ she retorted irritably, giving him a venomous look, and Martha cleared her throat to disguise the hysterical gulp that threatened to escape her. It was typical of Roger to tease her sister in this way, but the implications were so serious, she felt nearer to tears than laughter.
Dion rescued the situation by asking Roger about his research into ancient Greece. ‘I believe you have a particular interest in the eruption on Thera,’ he remarked, using the old name for Santorini. ‘Have you ever been there?’
Roger shook his head. ‘Unfortunately not.’ He paused. ‘Have you?’
Martha was surprised when her husband nodded. ‘Once,’ he agreed evenly. ‘It is not an attractive place. One sails into the gulf surrounded by gaunt cliffs, and despite their colouring, they have no charm. Of course, you know the story of how the volcano erupted and the middle of the island sank and the sea poured in, only to be spewed out again in the tremendous tidal wave that engulfed Crete more than seventy miles away. That kind of catastrophe leaves a certain—atmosphere, no? Oh, there are villages and people, and life goes on. But somehow the mules that carry one from the harbour to the capital, Fira, and which are supposed to contain the souls of the dead, seem to epitomise the tragedy in terms of what was lost, you understand?’
Roger had been listening intently, and now he broke in to ask whether Dion had seen the two blocks of lava which had appeared in the crater where the volcano used to stand.
‘Nea Kameni and Palea Kameni?’ Dion inclined his head. The “Old Burnt Island” and the “New Burnt Island”,’ he quoted. ‘Yes, of course. Have you heard them described as being reminiscent of the surface of the moon? They are like sentinels to the cataclysm, and when one observes a shred of smoke rising from them, one cannot help but feel aware of one’s own mortality.’
‘I didn’t know you were interested in archaeology,’ Roger said now, avoiding the awkward position of not knowing how to address Dion. ‘Have you made any studies on Mycos itself?’
Dion smiled then, and Martha wondered if Roger was aware of how deceptive a smile could be. ‘One does not need to be interested in archaeology to know the legend of Thera,’ he replied smoothly. ‘You forget, Greece is my home. The islands are an integral part of my life, and I too find their history fascinating.’
‘But Santorini has baffled historians for years,’ exclaimed Roger eagerly. ‘There’s still speculation about Solon’s theory of Atlantis, and your own Professor Marinatos claimed that perhaps Solon’s confusion over the dates was nothing more than a clerical error.’
‘I can see you find it fascinating, too,’ remarked Dion dryly. ‘You k
now of course that the abscence of any human remains beyond a few bones and some charred teeth points to the suggestion that the inhabitants had time to flee before disaster struck. There are comparisons with Pompeii to be made, although it is doubtful that any craft could have withstood the tidal wave that followed on the eruption.’
‘That’s my whole theory,’ Roger explained, resting his elbows on the table and leaning forward enthusiastically. ‘If there were any survivors, Mycos might have given them refuge.’
‘Oh, honestly, must we spend the whole meal talking about some extinct civilisation!’ Sarah protested irritably. ‘We all know of your preoccupation with the past, Roger, but for myself, I would rather know what is going to happen in the present.’ She looked challengingly towards her sister. ‘Are you leaving, Martha? I think I have a right to be told. Or am I expected to find out about that as well as everything else?’
‘Leaving?’ It was Josy who took up her aunt’s words, her childish features revealing an anxious bewilderment. ‘Where are you going, Mummy? You didn’t tell me—’
Martha cast a frustrated glance at Sarah, as she strove to reassure her daughter. ‘Nothing’s been decided yet, poppet,’ she replied firmly. ‘Auntie Sarah is just talking about something that—might happen, that’s all.’
Dion’s fingers circled his wine glass. ‘What your mother is trying to say, Josy, is that I have—suggested to her that you all might like to come and live in my country, with me.’
Josy’s eyes widened. ‘In your country?’
‘Greece,’ agreed Dion quietly. ‘Your—father’s country.’
‘Why don’t you tell her, Dion?’ demanded Sarah scornfully, and Martha’s lips parted in dismay at her words. ‘You want to, so why don’t you? Or aren’t you prepared to commit yourself that far?’
‘Sarah…’
Roger’s rueful admonishment was a mild reproof, but Dion’s warning was unmistakable. ‘Do not try to fence with me, Sarah,’ he advised. ‘We know one another too well to indulge in that kind of foolishness. You would be advised to hold your tongue on occasions when your opinion is not invited, unless you wish me to explain certain—how shall I say?—inconsistencies in your attitude, to my wife.’