Staying Out for the Summer

by Mandy Baggot

  ‘Don’t look so worried, Luce,’ Gavin said, putting an arm around her shoulders. ‘When have I ever let you down?’ He continued his trajectory with Lucie now on the same squashed-to-his-side course.

  ‘You shaved off my hair,’ she answered without hesitation.

  ‘We don’t know I did that.’

  ‘Gavin, I can’t even do my eyeliner straight. There’s no way I cut my own hair.’

  ‘When have I ever let you down apart from that?’ He sniffed. ‘If I did do that. Sharon’s being very sketchy about her whereabouts after the casino.’

  ‘Well… you dropped hot glue on the upholstery of my car trying to fix your leather trousers on the way to Sharon’s probably-not-fiftieth-birthday.’

  ‘That was not my fault!’ Gavin exclaimed. ‘That was your driving!’

  ‘The main thing people do in a car is drive! I’m pretty sure gluing clothes together isn’t in the Highway Code’s list of common practices.’

  ‘Listen,’ Gavin said, smiling. ‘Everything in the UK is way way behind us now. Miles and miles back there over seas and clouds.’ He waved a hand at the pure blue sky. ‘All that matters for the next few weeks is you, me and total relaxation.’

  The word ‘relaxation’ from Gavin’s lips actually made her whole spirit thrum in that moment. Her whole self – so much more than her dodgy back – was crying out for it. She needed to completely ease off the gas, take her foot off the pedal and let her soul do the driving…

  ‘Yassas! Yassas! You are the Gaveen and Loosely?’

  There was a man in front of them now, a paper sign in his hand bearing the word ‘Sortilas’. He had thick black hair and a cigarette hanging from his lips. The suit he was wearing was a little too small for him and the belt he really didn’t need was set to the last notch.

  ‘I’m Gavin,’ Gavin announced. ‘Gav-in… and this is Lu-cie.’

  ‘I am Miltos. Mil-tos. The driver for the van to Sortilas.’ He grabbed Gavin’s suitcase with one hand and Lucie’s with the other before either of them had time to blink, let alone respond.

  ‘Did he say “van”?’ Lucie asked Gavin as they hurried after Miltos, past the line of luxurious taxis.

  ‘I’m sure he meant “minibus”,’ Gavin replied, with little conviction. ‘Minibus, van, they’re probably one and the same in the Greek language.’

  Lucie’s heart brightened as she set her eyes on a small, sleek, silver coach ahead. It was all polished chrome and blacked out windows, as if ready to transport Lady Gaga and a full entourage. This was more like it!

  Except Miltos wasn’t stopping at the mini-coach. Stop! Stop at the coach! Lucie held her breath as Miltos halted not at the door of the bus she had convinced herself would contain air-conditioning to simulate Iceland – which was exactly what she needed right now – but instead at the rusty framework of a van. A van plastered with effigies of every fruit you could imagine. Miltos now had his hand on the wing-mirror that was wobbling in the humidity so much it could barely be attached to the vehicle. Then he opened a sliding door, popping in their cases and then holding out his hand.

  ‘Loosely,’ he greeted with a smile.

  Lucie now wanted to cry. The interior of the van was dark. Were there even seats in there? There had surely been a mistake. She stayed still, waiting for Gavin to point out the obvious error in their transfer.

  ‘Please, Loosely,’ Miltos spoke again, taking the cigarette from his lips, dropping it onto the ground and crushing it beneath his shoe. ‘Let me help you with the step.’

  ‘Gavin,’ Lucie said, her throat tightening. She didn’t know what else to say. She hoped saying his name would be enough to spur action.

  ‘This is…’ Gavin began, drawing up to Lucie’s shoulder, ‘so not like anything in Southampton, right?’ His voice lowered to a whisper then. ‘Think of it as a grade up from the shittiest Uber you’ve ever been in. The info said it was a thirty-minute drive at most.’ He smiled at Lucie. ‘Dark means it will be cool inside there.’

  ‘All I can smell is…’ Lucie stopped talking and really breathed. What was that scent?

  ‘Cherries,’ Miltos offered. ‘I have sold many cherries this morning, but there are a few containers left. Do not worry. Plenty of space.’ He put his hand out again and Lucie felt Gavin nudge her forward.

  ‘I promise you’re going to love it when we get there,’ Gavin whispered.

  ‘Well, I think you need to tell me where “there” is now,’ Lucie grumbled, stepping up into the fruit van with Miltos’s assistance and thumping down onto a seat that appeared to be next to an over-spilling tray of nectarines.

  Gavin hopped in alongside her, orange bag catching on a set of weighing scales as his bottom found slightly torn pleather. ‘You said you wanted a surprise.’

  ‘You said I wanted a surprise,’ Lucie answered, gathering herself together in as minimal space as possible. She was afraid that any movement might involve the juice of fruits she suspected would stain the white trousers she had bought on impulse when a holiday clothing ad had been fed to her on Facebook.

  ‘We go to Sortilas!’ Miltos reminded them, sliding the door closed then hopping up into the cab at the front. ‘Your health holiday begins right here. With the fruit!’

  Health holiday. Had he said ‘health holiday’? She didn’t want a health holiday. She wanted cocktails and not having to watch her weight. As much as Gavin worked out at the hospital gym, he wasn’t really one for nuts or seeds, and the only pulses he was fond of usually involved a heavy dance track at nightclub The Edge. And she really wanted something different to measured and cautious, or her mind was going to be trying to tell her she shouldn’t have even left her safety net in the UK…

  ‘Gavin,’ Lucie said. ‘Please tell me this isn’t some sort of… fat camp.’ For some reason she was conjuring up images of celebrities having their girth measured and progress tracked as they went from slob to slim in a series of challenges that involved coloured tracksuits.

  ‘What is “fat camp”?’ Miltos asked as he started the engine and the van began to whine and groan like Lucie might soon if she didn’t get something alcoholic in her system. Maybe that was why Gavin had been Mr Italian Aperitif on the plane! Because he knew that was the last of his alcohol!

  Gavin placed a hand on Lucie’s knee and squeezed. ‘Mr Miltos, please reassure Loosely that Sortilas is going to have plenty of food and plenty of wine before she faints.’

  Lucie pulled a face at Gavin’s use of her name.

  ‘Oh, Loosely,’ Miltos answered, looking at her in the rear-view mirror. ‘In Sortilas no one goes hungry. Not even the fat camp ones.’

  Eight

  Sortilas Village Square, Sortilas

  ‘Let me shoot one of them. Just one. I will aim for their arseholes.’

  From their seated position on one of the dark green painted iron benches in the village square, Michalis watched the gathering over his extra-strong frappe as Nyx made guns with her fingers and made the sound effect of pistols shooting towards the tourists who were arriving, led by Melina. The village president was carrying a big chunky wooden staff that had a large mati – evil eye symbol – on its top. The Greek legend was that items bearing this symbol were talismans, meant to ward off any unpleasantness.

  ‘Why do you want to shoot the tourists?’ Michalis asked.

  ‘They are stupid,’ Nyx answered, now pretending she was looking down the sight of a sniper rifle and lining her vision up with a man wearing a very bright palm-tree-patterned shirt. Michalis couldn’t pretend that wasn’t a crime against fashion but still, tourism was as vital to Corfu as having air to breathe.

  ‘Nyx,’ Michalis said. ‘They come here and give money to the tavernas and the bars.’

  ‘They come here and think it is paradise,’ Nyx told him. ‘Sooo dumb.’

  He had come back here and thought it was paradise too. And it was, compared to what he had been living with in Thessaloniki. Arriving back on this quiet, beautiful island,
he had immediately felt a change in pace. But, exactly like he had at Nyx’s age, his sister wanted to escape the confines of village life and familiarity to visit new places and have different experiences. He could tell her that life outside of Corfu might seem naturally appealing. He had thought a vibrant city existence was for him, once upon a time. He had longed to be a doctor who worked miracles, made big changes and discovered cures. And then, when he wasn’t being a hero, he would have time to go out, enjoy the buzz of a new scene, meet many people from all over the world, live the largest of lives, fall in love... Yet now, after doing all of that, after everything that had come to pass over the last eighteen months, he felt it would be important to remind his younger sister that happiness came in many forms and she should not take for granted the slow pace of life and peace here. Because one day, just like him, she might want to cling to it. Though, having said that, and looking at Nyx now, his sister aiming a pretend bow and arrow at the group mainly dressed in shorts and T-shirts, he knew it was doubtful she would listen. She was filled to the brim with that confidence of youth, that feeling that she was ungoverned by anything or anyone, invincible.

  ‘Well… they will spend money at your shop,’ Michalis stated, sucking at his drink again.

  ‘Papa’s shop,’ Nyx said with a grunt. ‘Not mine. And, really, how many holidaymakers want to spend their time in the sun cooking lamb testicles?’ Nyx widened her eyes then, showing slight macabre excitement. ‘I have started selling them marinated in a lemon and garlic sauce by the way. They are very popular.’

  ‘Not all tourists want to eat out,’ Michalis reminded her. ‘The ones staying here in Sortilas, those who do not want to venture far, will need ingredients to cook. We are the only shop in the village that sells meat.’

  Nyx pulled another face. ‘They always ask me for “burgers” and “English sausages”. If they want “burgers” and “English sausages” why have they come to Greece? Why do they not take their holidays in… sausage-shire.’

  ‘Nyx,’ Michalis said. ‘You are becoming more and more intolerant.’

  ‘I am?’ she asked, this time her expression spelling out ‘astounded’. ‘How was I not getting this right before?’

  ‘Do you not need all the business you can get?’

  Nyx sighed and slurped at her frappe. ‘That is what Papa says. But, you know, sometimes there are more important things in life than being nice to dumb people for their money.’

  Michalis focussed closer on the activity in the square and the village president. Melina seemed to be leading the group of newcomers towards a wooden trestle and behind the table stood two people dressed in what looked like hospital gowns, gloves and masks. ‘Nyx, what is going on over there?’

  ‘Oh, Micha!’ Nyx exclaimed almost excitedly. ‘I forgot to tell you about the new procedures here. This is great to watch! It has been going on ever since the golden tortoise and plaque arrived on the side of the church.’ She giggled. ‘It is health screening.’

  ‘What?’ Michalis asked, adjusting his sunglasses.

  ‘Yes! Melina has decided that, with Sortilas getting the award for longevity and excellent health, the village must do everything they can to ensure this is not undermined. So, screening and tests.’

  Michalis was up on his feet. ‘This is madness. She can’t do that. And who are the people dressed in PPE?’

  ‘Ah, well, one of them is Stavros and—’

  ‘Stavros? Who hires mountain bikes?’

  ‘Melina said he was used to wearing gloves and using fluids to lubricate the bikes, so he was a perfect candidate to take swabs of oily snot and mouth juices.’

  Michalis shook his head and wondered what to do. This was complete craziness. There were still enough tests and isolation measures without this. These were people looking for a break from their lives, people, like him, who were desperate for a relaxing escape. You did not start that off by shoving a six-inch cotton bud down someone’s throat if it was no longer an absolute necessity.

  ‘The other one, it is Athena,’ Nyx said. ‘She has provided the goat piss.’

  ‘Goat piss!’ Michalis exclaimed.

  ‘That is my very favourite part!’ Nyx told him. ‘I think we should move benches. Get closer.’

  ‘I am getting closer,’ Michalis stated brutally. ‘I am shutting this down.’

  Nine

  ‘Gavin,’ Lucie said, her voice wobbling. ‘Why are there people in PPE here? You promised me this was not a health holiday.’ And the figures clad from head to toe in protection were causing flashbacks to some of those harrowing nights she was desperate to get some distance from.

  Despite the latex apparitions ahead of them, they were standing in the most picturesque village square that really did look like the quintessential depiction of Greece from bygone times. Wrought iron benches housed elderly men passing the time of day and snoozing cats stretched out, bellies up, or curled into a tight bundle protecting paws from the sun. They had been dropped off a mere few hundred metres away before being roughly greeted by a woman with a big stick, then urged to join another group of people who seemed to have got down from a very luxurious coach…

  In a stark comparison, Miltos had given them less than twenty seconds to unfurl themselves from the confines of the fruit van, stretch their legs, check their clothes for cherry juice and marvel at the glorious view down over the mountainous terrain towards a glistening sea. And now they were here. Faced with figures who looked a lot like she and Gavin had last year. And the intense Greek heat had to be a number of degrees hotter than Abbington Ward. She felt for them.

  ‘It’s not a “health holiday” as such,’ Gavin began.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Lucie snapped back. ‘Because, right now, I’m still wondering how you managed to book a fruit van to drive us from the airport. And marvelling how we got here without being crushed against a couple of pounds of nectarines, given the hairpin nature of the roads!’

  ‘I think someone needs a drink,’ Gavin replied.

  ‘Yes,’ Lucie agreed. ‘Someone does need a drink. Because I didn’t mainline all the airline Aperol!’

  ‘Maybe a little siesta when we get to where we’re staying? They do that in Greece, you know. An afternoon sleep to prepare for the evening.’ Gavin sighed. ‘That’s a ritual I could fully embrace and bring back to England. Along with some tapenade. It’s so expensive in Tesco.’

  ‘Where are we staying?’ Lucie continued to rant. ‘Because I can’t see any hotels here, Gavin. Just a… mini-market, a sort-of restaurant and a…’ She wrinkled her nose, still without sunglasses, and tried to see exactly what the other shop with a large glass frontage was. ‘Are those pig trotters hanging with that bunting?’

  ‘The Greeks make all sorts of interesting dishes. Didn’t you look at the in-flight magazine? There was a whole page on frying an octopus’s ink sack.’ Gavin shivered. ‘I had to jiggle a little bit and adjust my seat back after reading that.’

  ‘Gavin, please,’ Lucie begged. ‘What is this place? Because it doesn’t seem like anything out of a TUI brochure.’

  Gavin slipped an arm around her shoulders and drew her closer to him as they moved along a little in the queue of approximately thirty people. ‘Well, a friend of a friend recommended it to me. She said this place, this lovely village, was known for being one of the safest, healthiest places in Europe. There are actually people living here who are over a hundred years old. And they’re still active! All, you know, gadding about like the late great Captain Sir Tom Moore did.’

  ‘So, it is a health holiday!’ She didn’t want to live to one hundred if it meant eating the sack of an octopus or pigs’ trotters. She just wanted a nice cool glass of wine and this fluffy pita bread everyone said the Greeks did better than anyone else. Was that too much to ask? Particularly as the sensible voice in her head, that sounded very much like a version of Meg, was still whispering that she needed to hover her foot over life’s brake pedal instead of caressing the accel
erator.

  ‘Hear me out,’ Gavin begged. ‘I did my research. We have all the calm and tranquillity here in Sortilas. And then we have the lively villages of Sidari and Roda within easy reach for when we want to live it up with cocktails, karaoke and… a Cher tribute act.’

  Lucie closed her eyes. She was really hoping Gavin hadn’t booked their trip based entirely on the fact there was a Cher tribute act nearby. But right at this moment, watching people sipping at a strange cloudy gold-coloured solution in a small plastic beaker, all the renditions of ‘If I Could Turn Back Time’ seemed preferable to this current charade.

  ‘Wait until you see the house we’re staying in,’ Gavin said, nudging her rib cage with a teasing elbow. ‘You’re going to love it. It’s literal history.’

  No canvas. That was a plus. ‘House’ meant bricks and mortar, didn’t it? Lucie breathed a humid breath of relief. She had been imagining communal showers and hunting local wildlife for dinner…

  ‘Kalispera! Welcome to Sortilas!’

  It was the woman with the stick proffering a tray of the funny plastic cups their way. Gavin plucked one straight up and raised it in the air in a gesture of ‘cheers’.

  ‘Please,’ the woman said to Lucie. ‘A drink for you.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Lucie answered. ‘I’m not really thirsty.’

  ‘What?!’ Gavin remarked, his tiny cup as yet undrunk. ‘It’s sweltering out here.’ He lowered his voice a notch. ‘And it’s probably rude not to accept a welcome drink.’

  ‘Can’t you smell it?’ Lucie whispered. She was trying to keep a smile on her face for the woman’s benefit, but she also wanted to communicate her concern about the contents of the cups.

  ‘Smell what?’ Gavin asked, putting the little beaker nearer to his face.

  ‘Gavin, you’re a nurse! The drinks smell like wee,’ Lucie whispered, hiding her lips from the woman with the flat of her hand. ‘Wee that’s harbouring a week-old urine infection.’