(11/20) Farther Afield (14 page)

'We got stuck with oratorios mainly,' I remembered. '"Penitence, Pardon and Peace", "Olivet to Calvary", "The Crucifixion". My father could sing very well. Unfortunately, I couldn't play very well. Tempers used to get rather frayed, until we fell back on something simpler, like "The Lost Chord" or "Merry Goes The Time When The Heart Is Young".'

'I sometimes think,' said Amy, 'that people of our generation who are constantly mourning "the good old days" must have forgotten such things as musical evenings, and starched knickers, and washdays tackled with yellow soap and a washboard.'

'And button-hooks that pinched your flesh, and elastic driving you mad under your chin,' I added. 'Children have such lovely clothes these days. No wonder they learn to dress themselves so much earlier than we did.'

'A case of have to, I expect, with all the mums having to rush off to work.'

Amy grunted contentedly and turned her face into the pillow. Peace descended again, and I lay listening to the gentle splashing of the waves and the chirruping of a nearby cricket until I too drifted into sleep.

We slept for over an hour and woke much refreshed.

'Let's ring for tea here,' suggested Amy, 'and remind them about early breakfast. What hopes of bread rolls, I wonder?'

It had been a standing joke. Each morning our tray had arrived with one bread roll each, a sweetish confection rather like a Bath bun without the sugar, and a slice of sultana cake. Accompanying these things was a small dish of unidentifiable jam.

The bread rolls were excellent. The other things too cloying for our taste first thing in the morning. Marmalade we had on one unforgettable occasion. Our telephone conversation with the kitchen staff ran on the same lines each morning.

'Hello. This is room twenty eight.'

"Ullo. Good morning. Breakfast?'

'Please, for two. Coffee for two.'

'Coffee for two.'

'Bread rolls for two. NO BUNS OR CAKE, PLEASE.'

'Bread rolls. No ozzer zings?'

'No, thanks. Just bread rolls.'

'Just blead rolls.'

'And
marmalade,
please, not jam.'

'Just marmalade. No nice jam?'

'No, thanks.'

'Bleakfast coming.'

'Thank you.'

'Okay. You're welcome.'

And within a few minutes the waiter would arrive with a beaming smile, and a few words of English, and a laden tray with exactly the same food as before.

'We might just as well save our breath,' Amy had said. But I disagreed. It was part of the fun to keep trying, and as I pointed out, we had been given marmalade
once.

I must say it seemed odd that with oranges and lemons bowing the trees to the ground with the weight of their fruit, marmalade seemed to be looked upon as a luxury. As it was, we had been obliged to buy ajar in the town, and very poor stuff it was, reminding me of the jam manufacturer who made a fortune from his product SPINRUT, the main ingredient of which can be readily recognised by those who can read backwards.

Our tea tray arrived, and we were told that, as we had to make such an early start, our breakfast would be delivered in the evening, with the coffee in a flask. We received the news stoically, as befitted Britishers.

'At least it will wash down the Kwells,' Amy pointed out. 'Let's go out and get some air.'

It was still too hot for much exertion, but we strolled in the shade of the trees, and watched the more energetic holiday-makers swimming in the pool. A gardener was pushing a hand mower very carefully and slowly over the two tiny lawns. The hose and sprinkler lay nearby. I wished my lawn at Fairacre received such love. It would be the showpiece of the village. It was sad to think that this time tomorrow I should not be here to see the sprinkler at work on those two thirsty patches.

Later, after dinner, we took a last walk through the streets of Aghios Nikolaos, and stopped for coffee at our favourite cafe.

The night was velvety dark, and we sat at a table near the water's edge. The sea slapped the bottoms of the moored boats as they swayed at anchor. Out to sea, a lighted ferry boat chugged across to Piraeus, and I wished that one day I might visit Greece itself.

As though reading my thoughts, Amy said: 'We haven't seen nearly enough, of course. Next time we must stop in Athens, and then come on to Crete and see the western end. The thing to do would be to spend six months or a year in these parts.'

'I can't see our Education Committee giving me leave of absence for that time,' I observed.

'If things don't turn out well at home,' said Amy slowly, 'it's a comfort to think there's so much to do here. I shall hang on to the idea. It would be a life-line to sanity, wouldn't it? I mean, in the presence of civilisations as old as these, one's own troubles seem pretty insignificant. Or so I've found, anyway,' she added, 'during the past fortnight.'

'I'm more glad than I can say, to hear you say that,' I told her soberly.

'And I can't thank you enough for coming with me. You've been the perfect companion for an old misery like me.'

'
Thank me?
I cried. 'Why, it's entirely–'

But Amy cut me short.

'One word of thanks from you, my dear, and I shall throw those sandals you've just kicked off, into the sea, and you'll have to walk back to the hotel barefoot!'

The threat sufficed. Amy had won, as usual. We took our time over the coffee, and lingered to look at the sea on our way home.

Sure enough, on the low table in our room the breakfast tray waited for us. It was covered with a snowy cloth.

When we came to investigate we found one bread roll, one bun, one slice of cake and a dish of dark brown (fig?) jam apiece. Two stout flasks flanked our empty cups.

'Well, there we are,' said Amy, replacing the cloth. 'How about that at five in the morning? I don't think I'll be able to face a thing.'

'I shall,' I said robustly. 'Just think how far it is to England! Why, we may not be able to eat on the plane.'

'I shan't want to,' replied Amy, putting her Kwells on the tray, with a sigh.

We undressed and climbed into our beds for the last time. I meant to he awake for a little, savouring all the pleasures of scent and sound that came drifting from the garden at night, but I scarcely had time to arrange my pillow before sleep overcame me, and a few minutes after that, it seemed, the telephone was trilling, telling us to get up in readiness for our departure.

13 Going Home

I
T
was still dark when we set off along the bumpy road to Heraklion, but by the time we were in the aeroplane, the sky was filled with rows of little pink clouds, made glorious by the sunrise.

We circled the island, and I wondered, with a pang, if I should ever set foot there again. The experience had opened my eyes to a larger, more beautiful world, to an ancient culture happier than our own, and had given me a glimpse of 'the glory that was Greece.'

I felt wonderfully refreshed, and my arm and ankle were so much better that I discarded my sling whenever possible. Prudence, however, made me wear it on the flight. One gets jostled quite badly enough during travel when hale and hearty. With a slowly-knitting bone, I intended to take all precautions.

We made an unscheduled stop at Athens. The workmen were still pushing screaming machines over the marble floor, and the dust was as thick as ever. However, we found a cup of good coffee and a very nasty chocolate biscuit apiece, while we waited, and then we were herded aboard the new aeroplane.

Amy had taken her Kwells, with a swig of flask coffee and much shuddering, and dozed for most of the journey. I had insisted that she sat by the window this time, so that I was in the middle seat of the three. There were a good many empty seats, so that I was somewhat surprised when a lone female came to sit by me.

'Haven't I seen you in Aghios Nikolaos?' she began.

I said indeed she might have done.

'I saw your friend had dropped off, and thought you might be glad of some company,' she said.

'How kind of you.'

'Well, I'm a schoolteacher, and I should think you are too, so I thought we might have something in common.'

Now, I am not ashamed of being a schoolteacher, rather the reverse, when I consider that I am still strong and healthy after so many years of classroom battling, but there is something depressing in being told that one wears one's profession like a brand upon one's forehead – the mark of the beast, in fact.

I said civilly that yes, I was a schoolteacher.

'There's a look, isn't there?' she prattled.

'Downtrodden? Hungry? Mad?'

'Not quite that. Shabby perhaps, and not much given to dressing well and making-up properly.'

This was really rather hard. I had visited the hairdresser at the hotel the night before, and she had given her all. Never had I looked so
bouffant,
so glossy, so truly feminine. The sunshine had produced high-lights which I had never before seen in my normal mouse, and I was looking forward to dazzling Fairacre with my new glamour, and my suntan.

I was also wearing an expensive – for me – pale pink linen dress and jacket, and Aunt Clara's seed pearls, not to mention new white sandals. And here was this stranger, bursting in upon my previous solitude, and generally undermining my self-confidence.

I was catty enough to notice her own crumpled floral print frock and dirty white cardigan, and also her undistinguished coiffure, but was humane enough to forbear to comment. Really, civility puts almost too great a strain on mankind at times.

Primitive woman, I reflected, under such provocation, would have torn the greasy hair from this person's head in handfuls, and felt very much better for the exercise.

Instead, I asked her where she had stayed in Aghios Nikolaos and she mentioned a hotel near our own, which we had visited for lunch once.

'If I'd had the money,' she said, 'I should have stayed where you were, but you can't do that on a teacher's salary.'

She sounded suspicious, and I wondered if she thought I had some secret source of income – heroin, perhaps, smuggled in the heels of my new shoes. Obviously, in her eyes, my age and dowdy appearance would exonerate me from any other immoral activity.

I did not rise to the bait, but asked her if she had far to go when we reached Heathrow, and she told me that she lived at Chatham near the docks, and would be met by her fiance and his twin brother. They were
exactly
alike, and went everywhere together.

I asked when she hoped to get married, and wondered, but didn't ask, if both twins would be together on the honeymoon.

'Next Easter,' she said, and went on to ask where I lived. I told her.

'It's so pretty round there,' she said enthusiastically. I agreed.

'You wouldn't like to exchange houses, I suppose? It sounds a lovely place for a honeymoon, and Chatham would make a nice change for you.'

'Frankly, no. I seldom leave home,' I said shortly.

I put one of my magazines firmly upon her knee, and opened my own.

She looked aggrieved, but opened it obediently, and silence fell.

I glanced at comatose Amy. One eye opened and shut again in a conspiratorial wink. Amy doesn't miss much.

A few minutes later she roused herself, and sat up with a yawn.

'What a lovely nap! What's the time?'

The stranger told her, returned my magazine and stood up.

'I'll go back to my seat now,' she said, showing more tact than I imagined she had. On the other hand, it was said so primly, that maybe she had taken offence at my disobliging refusal to exchange houses. Whatever the reason, it was a great relief to see her depart, after such an unnerving encounter in mid-air.

We were late arriving at Heathrow and we seemed to wait for hours around the revolving contraption that disgorges one's luggage. Why is it, I wondered, that other people's luggage always seems superior in size, quality and polish to one's own? I was somewhat cheered by watching a red-faced man, very much like our local farmer Mr Roberts, collecting his pieces of battered luggage, each securely lashed with orange binder twine.

'I've lost two good leather straps up here in my time,' he said, catching my eye. 'They won't bother with binder twine, and if they do there's plenty more where that came from.'

Amy rang the garage whilst I collected our bags, and hours later, it seemed, we settled ourselves into her car.

The air was chilly, the clouds like a grey tent, low over us. Rain lashed the tarmac, umbrellas glistened all around, and goose-pimples stood on our arms. One could almost feel the tan fading.

We were in England again.

'What an extraordinary woman that was,' commented Amy, as we drove from the airport. 'I noticed her once or twice when we were walking about the town. She seemed to be holidaying alone.'

'I'm not surprised.'

'A typical case of someone who lives alone,' continued Amy, hooting at the motorist in front of us who had signalled that he was going left for the last half-mile, then right, and eventually went straight on.

'How do you mean?'