by Jane Shemilt
“Eve just texted to tell me you’d be here; apparently we were on the same plane. I’d have swapped seats, if I’d known.” His eyes linger on hers.
She’d known, though. She’d spotted him immediately in the departure lounge at Heathrow. His height and then that handsome face at odds with its disdainful expression. She had waited at the back as he worked his way to the front of every line. On the plane she had slipped past him, head lowered, as he assembled an office of papers on the tray in front of him. She needed quiet, these hours of travel had been hoarded in advance. She was writing by the time the plane roared into the air. She ignored the clinking drinks cart and the offers of food. This was the space she had craved, alone but surrounded by people, safe in the way their flat no longer seemed to be, especially on her own. As the plane descended, she’d come back to herself as though from the depths of a river, the story coating her skin like silt.
“I’ve booked a car.” Paul smiles, inclining his head. “Come along.”
She edges away. She doesn’t want to be forced into conversation with Melly’s husband. She had planned to take the bus.
“Don’t wait for me, I need to buy a present for Eve. I’ll meet you there.”
“I sent them a case of wine. We can say it’s from you as well. Let’s go.” He slides his fingers over hers on the handle of her case, a trick that works. She removes her hand.
“A light traveler, my kind of woman.” His teeth gleam. He leads the way through the airport, head held high, oblivious to the surroundings, the dense flow of language, and the overpowering heat.
The low-slung sports car is waiting for them in the baking parking lot; she is forced to sprawl backward into the bucket-shaped seat. He stretches across her to lock the door, his arm accidentally brushing her breast. She stifles a cry as a wave of panic washes her back to the dumpsters, the leash around her neck, those scrabbling hands. Paul glances at her curiously as the car surges forward. Sweat trickles down her back and she breathes slowly, forcing herself to relax. It’s Paul, for God’s sake, Melissa’s husband, she’s met him before.
He begins to talk as though to an attentive audience. His life is busy: projects, travel, a contract he’s just won from Paris. She tunes out his words. Shops and people slide past, unfinished concrete houses string along the road. Dogs sleep on sidewalks. He accelerates when they leave the town, the yellow hills and motorway blur. The car finds its pace and the engine hums quietly. Paul continues to talk but her eyes close, exhaustion has caught up with her. Since Martin’s been away, she has slept in fitful bursts, missing his warmth; terrified that the gang of boys could burst in, seeking revenge for the guy she stabbed. She hasn’t seen them since but they might be biding their time, waiting to catch her out when she’s alone and asleep. She’s told no one yet, even Martin has no idea, still. In his absence, she’s taken to pushing the kitchen table against the door at night and dozing on the sofa, lights left on, her sleep broken. Her fatigue is overwhelming; lulled by motion, she lets herself sink into sleep.
She is woken by stillness; the light is softer, the noise of the engine ticks to silence. Paul opens the door and glances around at an empty village square; he exhales sharply as if disappointed. “Well, this is it, according to the GPS. Eve said we should park by the café; the track leading to their house is too narrow. We have to turn left by a fig tree that’s down a lane opposite the church. I’ll lead the way.”
Outside he hands over her case; she is to carry it this time. He has worked out some equation to do with time and effort and has come to the conclusion she’s not worth the pursuit. She takes the case, relieved. Above them, the branches of a large plane tree spread out in a great canopy. Swallows skim like arrowheads above the outside tables of the café and disappear under the rafters. A couple of thin donkeys stand in front of an olive oil co-op across the road; an old man is sitting on the curb, jars of honey and olives on the ground around him. Grace sees the week ahead spreading out in the sun, a whole week. There will be time with the children, she and Martin might draw closer again. She’ll tell him that she’s missed him. She’ll ask about his work; she might even share her own. Her heart lifts. Paul has crossed the road with long strides and has vanished into a narrow gap between two houses. She hurries to catch up with him. Her case bumps over paving as she passes pink geraniums in pots and a tortoiseshell cat dozing on a wall.
“Fig tree,” Paul shouts, and turns left. She is close enough to see that he twists his feet when he treads on the fallen figs, crushing the flesh into stone as if enjoying the sensation. She picks up a fig that has fallen onto a wall; beneath the warm green skin, the pippy interior is sweet.
No one comes to Paul’s knock on the gray wooden gate; he tries again, thumping hard. A scatter of small birds fly up from the fig tree. The gate opens after another wait. Poppy is on the other side in a red swimsuit, her braids sodden, the freckles standing out on her pale face. She steps back silently then turns and runs down a path, leaving wet footprints that disappear in the heat. She vanishes between the olive trees.
“Anyone would think we were robbers,” Paul says, breaking the silence, “come to plunder.” They walk through the gate into a paved space roofed with trees. To the left a straightedged building towers above them; a white awning like a sail is stretched over a table and chairs on a patio, behind which a doorway leads into darkness. In front of the house is a browning lawn. Rows of olive trees extend as far as she can see; there’s a table covered in papers in their shade, a clothesline hung with towels and, farther back, stone buildings roofed with tiles. Eric appears from around the side of the building.
“Hi there. Sorry, we’re by the pool, luckily Poppy heard you.”
He shakes Paul’s hand then Grace’s. “I hope you weren’t waiting too long. The door’s unlocked, you could have just pushed it open.”
Unlocked? Why is it that people with money leave so much untended? Eric smiles down at her, nodding as if in reply to something she hasn’t said. “So glad you could make it.” He walks to the gate and slides the bolt shut.
“It’s great to see you in your natural habitat at last. What a place.” Paul gazes up at the tall stone building. “Lucky old you.”
“It was Eve’s father’s,” Eric replies. “Dates from the Ottoman Empire. They hurled cannonfire at each other across the street, sworn enemies. It’s safer nowadays, of course.”
Is it? Nowadays it’s more difficult to tell where your enemies are, harder to defeat them. It would be easier to live in a tower, and then Grace remembers she does. She fought a battle and won. She mustn’t forget that, when she runs to the parking lot in the morning and back again in the evening, dreading the tap of following feet, or as she locks herself in at night, then lies awake, sweating with terror. The enemy has been vanquished, at least for now. She must remember she’s a winner. She catches Eric’s eyes on her and realizes her teeth are clenched. She turns away to look at the view.
“Come with me.” Eric sets off down the path through the trees. “Your quarters are through there.” He gestures at the cluster of stone buildings. “Everyone hangs by the pool or on the patio. I’m not sure how much schoolwork is being done.”
The sounds of splashing become louder. Listening, Grace almost stumbles into Martin, who is on a sunbed facing toward Eve in a little clearing in the trees. She is lying on an opposite bed, Ash tucked into her back. Her face is intent, she’s unaware of their arrival.
“Eve,” Eric says quietly, “our guests are here.”
She’s immediately on her feet; Ash rolls into the space her body has left, his eyes still closed in sleep. Martin twists around, then pushes himself off his bed. His bare feet tip a glass of wine, which spills onto the ground. The earth is so hard that it stays on the surface, a pool of shining red, like blood, she thinks, staring at the way the olive leaves are reflected, a little pool of fresh blood. She looks up, meeting Eve’s smiling gaze.
“Darling.” Martin’s face is flushed; he puts an a
rm around her. He doesn’t usually call her “darling.” He has put on weight and, despite the fluster, looks relaxed and amused, as if pleased with life. It occurs to her that he hasn’t missed her at all.
“It’s lovely to see you.” He kisses the top of her head.
“Are the kids behaving?” Not the greeting she’d planned, but she feels off-balance, as though she’s intruding. It’s the best she can manage.
“Of course they are.” Eve steps forward to kiss both her cheeks.
“Where are they?”
“Just over there.” Eve points through the trees. “In the pool.”
“On their own?”
“It’s okay, Gracie.” Martin pats her arm. “Melly’s with them. You’ll have to let go a little now you’re here.”
Grace pulls her arm away.
“Martin tells me you want to be a writer one day, like him.” Eve smiles. “We must find you a table.”
Grace doesn’t allow herself to look at Martin. Her writing ambitions are private, he knew that. She won’t tell him any of the details, she’s changed her mind. It’s not Eve’s fault, she’s trying to be kind.
“Shall we move on?” Paul asks pleasantly. “I’m longing to see my daughter.”
Eric leads the way through the undergrowth. The small bushes snag on Grace’s jeans; freeing herself, her head collides with a plate hanging from a tree. It falls to the ground, smashing into pieces.
“Okay?” Eric turns back.
“Of course.” Grace begins to pick up the fragments. “Sorry.”
“There’s plenty more, don’t worry.” Eve gestures to other plates suspended in little groups, each painted with a black circle, a dark dot in the center. Grace hadn’t noticed them before but now she sees there are dozens of them, swinging by strings threaded through small holes that have been carefully drilled in the glass. “Greek superstitions,” Eve says, smiling at Martin as if at some private joke. Grace’s head begins to throb. The heat is more intense than she’d imagined, hotter even than Zimbabwe; it must be the moisture in the air. She puts the shattered fragments on the wall.
They emerge onto the stone paving around a long, narrow pool surrounded by pine trees. Blades of shadow lie across the greenish water, swallows swoop to the moving cloud of insects hovering over the surface. The children are in a circle at the far end, the water up to their chests, chanting as they take turns to push a ball under the water. They wait until it bobs up, wait again, then after a few moments push it under once more. None of them have noticed the adults’ arrival; they seem engrossed in the game. She counts them, you should always count children in the water: her two, their brown skin gleaming, Izzy’s bright blond hair, Poppy’s red braids—
“Ah, there you are.” Melissa’s voice comes from the deep shade of a pine tree; she stands up from her deck chair and puts her book down. Her pink caftan casts an upward glow to her pale face.
“How wonderful.” She comes up to them, adjusting her sun hat. Paul leans forward to kiss her cheek, then he narrows his eyes at the children in the pool, searching for his daughter, smiling as he catches sight of her.
“I’m so glad you’re here, not a moment too soon.” Melissa smiles at Grace. “We missed her, didn’t we, Martin?”
“We absolutely did.” Martin looks toward the pool. “Though the kids have been fine.”
“You should join them,” Eric tells her. “You’ll find everything you need . . . Christ.” He begins pulling off his shirt as he sprints toward the shallow end, his shoulders moving as though there were animals beneath the skin. He dives into the pool, pushes aside Poppy, and pulls Sorrel from the center of the ring of children. A child, not a ball. Sorrel’s face is streaming. Eric carries her out of the pool to Eve, who kneels to embrace her daughter. Martin kneels too; his mouth is turned down, he’s shaking his head, looking helpless. Eric strides back to the shallow end, Grace follows, her mind blank with fury. He jumps in and hauls Poppy toward the steps by her arm.
“Let me go. It was a game,” she shouts. “I had a turn so Sorrel wanted one.”
“Out, Charley,” Grace raps. “Blake, out. You will both apologize.” They climb from the pool. Eve and Sorrel have vanished, along with Martin. Poppy wriggles free from Eric’s grasp and disappears swiftly through the trees.
“Don’t worry.” Melissa indicates Paul who is sitting by the edge of the pool talking to Izzy, now floating in the shallow end. “He’ll find out exactly what happened.”
“You spoiled the game.” Blake wrenches his hand from Grace’s. “Sorrel was enjoying it. We were taking it in turns. Jesus.”
“Don’t swear.”
“You do, all the time.”
“Who thought this game up?”
He shrugs.
Grace turns to Charley, who is shivering by the edge of the pool.
“We all did, I think.” She looks unhappy. “Sorry. We didn’t mean to scare Sorrel; it was my go next.”
“Go to your rooms.” Grace keeps her voice calm with effort. “We’ll talk when you’ve had a chance to think what it must have been like for Sorrel, who is only little, much littler than the rest of you.”
Blake and Charley glance at each other as they walk off; when they reach the trees they start running. She hears a spurt of laughter; it sounds like Blake’s.
“I’m sorry.” Eric is behind her, water streaming off his shoulders.
“Hardly your fault.” She looks at the disappearing figures of her children. They have changed in the few days since she saw them. They seem unfamiliar, sun-tanned, of course, a little thinner, but something else, hard to put her finger on, as if their loyalties have shifted and they are going by a different set of rules.
“Our pool.” His brown eyes are clear as if rinsed by the water. “Our fault.”
Paul walks past them. “We’ll continue our little chat at the house.” He sounds confident, relaxed even. Perhaps Izzy told him that the other children organized the game, that it had nothing to do with her. “See you all later.” One large hand rests heavily on his daughter’s neck. The heat of that palm must prickle uncomfortably against her skin, but her head is bent, it’s difficult to see her expression. Melissa follows them, turning to raise her hands in a gesture of helplessness. What can we do—she seems to be asking—with such naughty children? Grace feels light-headed and enormously tired.
Eric glances at her. “You look exhausted, have a seat.”
She lowers herself onto a stone wall that’s covered with pink flowers shaped like little stars. Eric extracts a couple of beers from a cooler in the shade of the wall, flips off the tops, and hands her one. She holds the cold bottle against her neck. Eric seems kind—a kind, thoughtful man. She wonders if Eve sees that still; it’s so easy to take things for granted, lose sight of what you have. Something is happening to her and Martin, a space opening between them that is widening all the time. It’s hard to tell which one of them is moving away or how to close it up. Eric sits next to her with a little sigh.
“You’ll have to forgive us,” he says after a while. “We allow our kids a lot of freedom; it goes to their heads sometimes, especially here. Eve’s very trusting. She thinks everyone is fundamentally good, that children are born moral, corrupted later.”
“And you?”
“The opposite. Children are born barbarians and need to be tamed. My own are probably the worst.” He leans forward to pick up a stone that has fallen from the wall then kneels to wedge it back. Was that a joke? She can’t see his face; another stone falls out and a large beetle with horned antennae tumbles to the paving and scuttles into the shade.
“We’re so lucky to have this place, the children love coming here; but there’s always something to do. Little things that don’t seem important at the time but they add up.” He forces the second stone back into place. “Eve says I fuss too much.”
“It all looks perfect to me.” Grace wipes her sweating face.
“That’s because you can’t see what’s happeni
ng; we’ll arrive one day to find the house is a heap of stones in the dust, and that the insects have taken over.” He glances at her and smiles. “I’m joking, don’t look so worried.” He sits next to her again. “Blake’s a good lad, by the way; he’s been helping me prune the olive trees.”
“That’s wonderful; he’d love doing that.” She smiles, feeling more cheerful. “Martin’s been so focused on his writing recently, and I’ve been busy with long shifts.” And sidetracked by fear; it’s all she can do to survive, let alone concentrate on her children. “We haven’t been there for him as much as we should.”
“He reminds me a bit of myself at his age; it made all the difference to me when I discovered I was good with my hands. There are plenty more trees that need pruning at home if he wants.” He smiles down at her. “Now, that swim. I’ll grab your case.” He disappears, jogging lightly through the trees. The glass plates chime in the silence. She looks at the water by her feet, seeing Sorrel’s face with her eyes shut and mouth open, gasping for breath before she was pushed under again. How much longer would it have continued if Eric hadn’t spotted them?
“I put your case in the shed where we change.” Eric’s voice makes her jump. He nods at a small building in the trees. “You should find a towel in there, watch out for the ants.”
The green water is very cool. The stress of the past weeks seems to slide from her skin as she swims. She turns on her back, the white circle of sky between the pines is fringed with branches and crisscrossed by darting swallows. Small insects float by her face; a struggling wasp brushes her lips. Mosquitoes hum above her head. After a few more lengths she pulls herself from the water and sits on the edge. Eric hands her the towel from the chair.
“I’d forgotten how much I love swimming.” She dries her face. “I used to swim a lot.”
“Back home?”
Home. People often ask that, as if it’s not possible for her to belong to more than one place or even to the country she moved to. “We couldn’t swim in the dams because of schistosomiasis, but I snuck into the pool of the hotel where I worked.”