Rethymnon had not changed much. His mother loved the place for its
intransigence. It kept itself to
itself, she said, sniffing the air and turning a blind eye to the pettiness of
tourism. But she would not have wanted to live there. Xania, a little further along the coast, had more to offer to
people who wanted ‘culture’.
Steve watched the wide street as it shimmered
remotely in the afternoon heat and wondered what his mother would say now. She would never guess that he had chosen
Crete to escape to.
“Run to the bakery, Stephano, and bring bread!”
He raced down the cobbled steps, clutching the coins
she had given him and staying in the shade.
The shop was near the harbour of his mother’s
hometown, and so he did not go directly to the baker’s – he liked to watch the
boats rocking in the water.
“Two breads, please.” He had spoken Greek then.
The baker joked with him about his blond hair and
Stephano didn’t understand. But he
grinned anyway because he knew the baker would give him a lollipop from a
saucer he kept behind the counter.
“Come here, boy.
Come choose.” The man’s face was greasy and his mouth stayed open a
little after he had stopped speaking.
“Thank you.
I would like the orange one, please.”
“Orange, like the sun in the evening. Here!
Take it and go home to your mother.”
He clapped his hands together to see the boy jump, turn tail and
run.
Stephano could hear him laughing all the way home.
“Come, my love, we are ready to eat.”
“Why does the baker always make fun of my hair,
Mamma?”
“Because it is rare, my child, and a sign of your
true heritage.”
He
knew she would say this. It was a
question he had asked before and he liked the answer, even though he did not
quite understand it. If his father was
there, he did not ask. His father would say, “What rot!”
That had been a long time ago, when he had been a
child, spending the summers in his grandfather’s house, playing by the harbour
and staring at the boats, sitting together and watching the lizards on the
garden wall.
He had returned to the island now, but not to the
town. He had chosen a place he did not
know so well.
In front of him, moisture rose from the sea and
disturbed the air, causing the surface to blur and swim. He drew on a cigarette, narrowing his eyes
against the smoke, looking out over the predatory women who glanced his way,
choosing to ignore them. He was
preoccupied by the audacity of what he had done, brazen and without
remorse. He laughed involuntarily.
In the cloudless sky, Steve followed the line of the
sun’s rays from ninety million miles away to the pavement at his feet – even
this did not impress him. He had done
something so absolute, that the ordinary world seemed to have stalled around
him.
Now, he would concern himself with the immediate and
the manageable, and his present discomfort, with the building giving no shade,
made him want to move. Over his shoulder, away from the sea, the shadows were
cooler. Next to a vacant, solitary
chair, a boy started up a scooter, a shard of purple light with its metallic
drumming. Noise ran down the side
street, climbing the walls of the buildings and spilling out onto the main
drag.
“Be careful, Stephano. Watch out for the boys!”
By ‘boys’ his mother had meant boys like this one,
who rode their scooters around the town, indifferent to the safety of
pedestrians.
Steve squinted again, scanning the high houses with
their crumbling stone and dark, cool windows, wondering what it would take to
fix them up. Some of the shutters were
closed to the heat, or perhaps the buildings were empty. Either way, it didn’t really matter.
The boy revved his engine and set a helmet on his
head, its strap left dangling. As the
scooter started towards the busy tourist street, an old lady dressed in black
emerged from a doorway and shouted something after the boy. It seemed that he had heard her, but he did
not look back.
Bowing her head, the woman installed herself, her
body awkward and graceless, on the waiting chair. She frowned, fingering the
beads in her lap, gazing after the boy.
“Can I have Papou’s worry beads, Mamma?”
“Why do you want those old things, my child?”
“Please.”
His grandfather’s beads were Tiger’s Eyes, with
small metal balls between and a silver shield where they fastened. Papou
always left them for him, on a shelf in the hall.
“You may take them.
But remember to replace them where you found them.” His mother’s eyes were darker than the
Tiger’s Eyes.
“Yes, Mamma.”
The scooter drew level with the main street, the
boy’s features sharp and symmetrical. He cast a lazy glance towards the tall
stranger, looking for a gap in the pedestrian traffic, and slid past Steve with
a nonchalance that had all the powerful disregard of youth. The scooter rocked and righted itself,
weaving through the crowd. Steve
followed its progress until it was out of sight.
“I saw a lady drop her baby today, Mamma.”
“Mother of God, what do you mean, my child?”
“She was sitting on the back of a scooter and it
went like this, to go round an old man who had raised his stick.” He showed his
mother how the scooter had swerved, with a movement of his small hand. “And the
woman made a squeaky sound and dropped the baby.”
“Was it all right, my love?” She had pulled him onto her lap and was
stroking his hair.
“I think so, Mamma.
But the woman was crying and the man shouted at her.”
“Never mind, my love. Never mind.”
The harbour wall took Steve’s attention now, and led
his eye out to sea, his thoughts once more to England; more particularly, to a
village church, chosen for its idyllic setting and pretty stained glass, its
kissing gate and ancient willow tree. He sighed heavily and dropped his
cigarette, stubbing it out with his foot. When he had been a child, life had
been simpler.
It was not yet eleven o’clock; the sun would get
hotter. He had not yet eaten but felt
no hunger in the heat, only thirst. Nearby,
there were people laughing and drinking, but Steve was loath to join the throng
that had settled along the beachfront.
He preferred the smaller bars in the back streets, where a cold beer
could be bought, accompanied by a plain dish of olives, nuts or even small,
salty baked potatoes. The veneer of the
beachfront bars and cafés was not for him just now,
although later he would seek them out.
He turned down the alleyway, moving with his usual subtle swagger,
indifferent to the eyes that followed him.
As he came level with the old woman, he looked
quickly past her, into the house she had emerged from. There was a narrow passageway of cool
stone. At the end, he glimpsed a garden,
luminous and startling, and in it, a man sitting at a table holding a glass in
his hand. Steve did what he could to pass by slowly and when he looked back
over his shoulder, as he knew that he must, the old lady was staring directly
at him. Steve had been certain that she
had not paid him the slightest regard.
Her eyes were as blue as the Cretan sky. They were the boy’s eyes. She must be the his grandmother. He smiled
to himself. There were hundreds like
her on the island. Old women dressed in
black, waiting to die.
“Your grandmother was a beautiful woman,” Papou
told him in his whispering voice. “She knew you would come.” His grandfather always nodded when he said
this, as though he were listening to her say the words, before he repeated them
in a voice that was meant to be hers:
“I know he will come. He will have golden hair, like the sun.” Papou laughed then, and put his hand to his grandson’s cheek, before
pinching him on the nose.
“Papou!” But he was not hurt. He only wanted to see the picture of the
beautiful woman that was his grandmother.
“Make
sure no one is looking when you open it.
It was given to me by your yia yia, and your mother will take it
from me.” Papou put his hand
inside his shirt and pulled out a locket, whilst holding a finger to his lips
and looking from side to side. “A
grown man should not wear such an item!”
He sounded just like Stephano’s mother now, and he laughed at the
mischief of it all.
With
their heads almost touching, the boy carefully opened the catch and pulled the
locket apart. He liked the tiny hinges
and their resistance to his fingers.
Inside, was a picture of a young girl with dark hair and a long,
straight nose just like his. The glow
of her calm expression made him feel warm from the inside.
“She is beautiful,” Stephano sighed and bent forward
to kiss the photograph.
“Yes, your grandmother was a beautiful woman,” Papou
repeated, shutting the locket and putting it back inside his shirt.
“She will be young forever,” said the boy,
mimicking his grandfather’s voice.
“Of all the…! Well!” He made a grab at his grandson,
but Stephano ducked.
Then they would go down to the harbour and watch the
boats. Sometimes, Papou would teach him
how to sketch them. His grandfather’s
drawings were always better than his own.
At the end of the street, Steve took out another
cigarette and chose a road he had already travelled. Outside the first café he
came to he returned the stares of the Greek men, with their richly coloured
faces, their eyes sharp with something like wisdom, making him feel as though,
to them, he were of no consequence.
“These men from the village, my child, who sit all
day drinking raki and smoking cigarettes – these men are good for
nothing.”
“Why, Mamma?”
“They do not work.
They live careless lives and take from others.”
One of the men spat into the gutter as Steve passed,
looking up at him as if to beg a comment, as if he could read the thoughts of
the stranger.
Soon, he arrived at the bar he had been looking for
– the one he had visited the previous day, and where he would be able to sit
undisturbed, out of the glaring heat.
He read the faded wooden sign above the door: Kooki’s. That was
it. He supposed that Kooki was the man who came to serve him from behind a
panelled wooden counter at the back of the small interior. Today, Steve was his only customer.
It looked as though Kooki was wearing the same dirty
brown trousers and had the same soiled cloth over his arm, with the same long
moustache hairs interfering with the pink gash of his mouth. He had full, womanly lips. There was dirt under his fingernails, as
though he had been digging the earth with his bare hands. The olives he brought were black and oily,
heavy with saltiness, and served in a bowl filled from his fist. The potatoes arrived in the same way and the
beer was opened at the table in front of him, with the large man standing over
him, too close. Kooki had said
something as Steve had entered, which he had recognised as a greeting. The
Greek he had learned as a child had mostly deserted him.
Inside, the floor was swept with sawdust. On the counter, there were bottles of clear,
alcoholic liquid and on the shelves behind the large Greek proprietor, an
eclectic collection of glasses and a mess of faded photographs amidst the ubiquitous
worry beads (none of them was threaded with Tiger’s Eyes) and religious
artefacts. To one side, there was a
buzzing refrigerator and next to it, a spit roast oven housing the corpses of
half a dozen chickens turning slowly, their fat dripping onto greasy potatoes
sprigged with oregano. It was the kind
of place Steve’s mother would have avoided at all costs.
The olives and potatoes made him thirsty, as they
were supposed to, and he held up his hand for another beer. Kooki brought one over and stood looking at
him, holding onto the bottle and perhaps deciding something. Steve smiled a little, but Kooki continued
to examine him impassively. Then, just
as Steve had the impression that the man would say something, he took a
toothpick from his apron pocket and, baring his teeth, commenced a grisly
excavation. The offending remnant of
food was released and his hand dipped back inside his pocket. This time, a handkerchief came up, and Kooki
pushed his large, pitted nose from side to side.
Steve stared in amusement, wondering whether he should
say something. Kooki’s hand, still
clutching the soiled handkerchief, slid onto the young man’s shoulder and the
proprietor of the café shook out an explosion of a laugh
as he pushed his customer towards the second beer, which stood on the table in
front of him.
Steve had a notion that Kooki had formed an opinion
of him.
“Would you like something to eat?” he asked, in
Greek. “The chicken and potatoes are
delicious!”
Steve looked
up and saw that the persistent café owner wanted him to eat something. He was pointing at the chicken turning on
the spit, making gestures and smacking his lips together.
Steve began to wonder whether Kooki were deranged in
some way that he hadn’t noticed the previous day.
“Noo, no.
Thank you, not hungry. Ochi,
ochi,” he said, shaking his head.
He pronounced the word easily, and Kooki’s face
brightened. He made shushing noises and pressed Steve into his chair so that,
before he could do anything about it, there was a plate of food in front on
him.
Sarah would have laughed at him. He saw her flashing eyes. ‘Just eat the chicken and potatoes - the
nice Greek man wants you to be strong.
Make him happy. Go on, you might
like it! He might give you seconds.’ And as he thought about Sarah making fun of
him, he ate the food, wishing that she had come with him.
The sun was no longer overhead when he left the
small bar after several raki and a huge bowl of yoghurt with honey. He had told Kooki that his name was Steve
and had tried, unsuccessfully, to teach him how to say it. He did not say that his mother was from the
island and that she called him Stephano, still. He thought that he now knew that Kooki had a brother and a sister
and that one of them was no longer alive, or else had gone away somewhere. He had stayed longer than he had intended –
Greek hospitality was impossible to turn down.
“It is the Greek way. There must be respect between the host and the guest. It is a two-way process. Learn this lesson well, my son. It will be with you all your life.” And in
case he had not realised the importance of his mother’s words she would say
them again, more slowly, fixing him with her loving eyes, “All your life!”
Kooki
had refused to take payment for the meal, and now Steve couldn’t help thinking
that he had promised to do something for the café owner, although he had no
idea what it was.
Out in the fresh air again, he did not want to go
back to the hotel. Going back to his room would lead to thoughts of the life he
had rejected. The hills rose up behind
the town and he turned towards them, crossing the main road, going up a steep
track bordered by forest, clinging to the shade where he could. He had no hat, nor any water; it would be
foolish to go too far.
The track rose up more steeply after a while and
turned away from the coast. A man
passed by in a motorised cart, raising a cloud of dust. Sitting next to him, another old woman
dressed in black. Steve raised a hand
in greeting and the man nodded, the expression on his face impenetrable. The woman did not look at him. The road
wound on and pebbles rolled and crunched under his feet. He smelled the
dust. Further on, there was a wizened
tree growing out of the rock. It was not like the other trees, and was laden
with fruit, oval in shape and prickly.
Steve was thirsty already, and the melon-like aroma of the fruit tempted
him, but he did not know whether it was edible, so he left it.
It was unwise not to turn back to the town, but he
looked up the rise ahead and continued anyway.
After a while, when his thirst had become harder to bear, he saw a
scattering of houses ahead and decided to ask there for water. Even the thought
of water excited him. He could smell
and taste the memory of it and feel it moving over his tongue and down his
parched throat. It surprised him how quickly thirst had come upon him.
As he approached the first of the houses a tall,
long-haired girl hurried inside, and a babble of Greek could be heard as he
drew nearer. He looked towards the
door, which was ajar, and cleared his throat.
“Hello. Kalimera!”
A young boy came out, warily. He must have been about twelve or
thirteen. His sister, who looked older,
stayed inside. Keeping his distance,
the boy looked at him. It was the same
boy who had ridden a scooter past him on the seafront. There it was, parked at
the side of the house.
“May I help you, sir?”
It was odd to hear English being spoken so carefully
in such a remote place.
“Yes. Could you give me some water?”
The boy’s confidence dissolved and he looked
confused, he had not understood and, shrugging his shoulders, looked back to
the house where his sister was waiting, all the while twisting his hands inside
his pockets and becoming more and more agitated. From inside the house, the girl spoke urgently.
“He wants water.
Give him water!”
At these words, the boy disappeared quickly inside
the house once more. Steve waited,
wondering whether he would get water, or whether yet another person would come
to see what he wanted. He was impatient
for a drink.
Further up the road, there was the sound of an
animal squealing. Three men were
holding down a pig, and it looked as though one of them was tying its front
legs together while the others sat astride the animal, pinning it down. One of them had a large knife between his
teeth. The others were shouting and
laughing, gregarious in their efforts to control the animal. One of them stood up and looked down the
hill; the other two glanced at Steve and immediately looked away.
Just then, the boy came out of the house with a jug
of water and a drinking glass. The
squealing of the pig suddenly increased and then there was silence. It was the echoing silence that comes after
the clamour of loud noise. Steve knew that the man with the knife had cut the
pig’s throat.
The boy poured out some water and handed him a
glass. Steve put it to his lips and
closed his eyes as he swallowed, holding out the glass for more when he had
finished. The boy looked in the direction of the pig and a large smile spread
across his young face, his eyes dancing with pleasure. The girl looked out too, towards the group
of men, who shouted something to her.
The boy nodded up the hill, gesturing to the girl to hurry, and poured
out more water for the man, slopping it in his impatience to be released.
A moment later, the girl emerged, a scarf newly
arranged on her head, covering her hair and some of her face. She carried large bowls and quickly headed
up towards the men standing around the slaughtered pig. Steve watched as one of the men drank from a
beer bottle, his Adam’s apple pulsing.
The pig lay still in the dirt, its blood running along the dusty ground
like a ribbon.
“Can we make cheese, Papou?”
“Yes, my child.”
Stephano fetched the lasso and the bucket.
“That’s right, gently now. Don’t excite her. Good.”
“Shall I throw the lasso?”
“If you have to throw it, you must throw it. If you are too far,” Papou murmured.
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
The goat pricked its ears and started to jump.
Steve saw the girl watching him. The men were busy
now. He thanked the boy, wondering
whether he should offer money. But,
remembering his mother’s words, he turned away, deciding not to, and took the
same road back to the town.
The hotel was new, sprawling and luxurious. Inside, there were marble floors and
pillars, opulent and cooling. Steve
stood at the reception desk and waited.
“Good afternoon, sir. Your key. And one
message.” The receptionist’s Greek
accent amused him.
“Thank you.”
He took the envelope and the key, staring shamelessly at the woman’s
breasts.
The lift carried him to the top floor. As he turned the key in the lock, he felt
the envelope, smooth in his hand but had no curiosity about its contents. Inside the room, he slid it onto a table
next to the telephone and walked across the wide lounge, out onto the roof
terrace. There was shade now, and he
slipped out of his long trousers and cotton shirt, pulling off his pants and
stretching, naked in the fresh air. On
a chair, next to the small private pool, he found a pair of hopelessly
unfashionable trunks, a bathrobe and a pile of freshly laundered towels. The water was cool and silky, but it smelled
strongly of chlorine.
Swimming in the sea as a child, the water had been
so clear that it had sparkled in diamond patterns, bouncing on the breeze,
hurting his eyes.
“Can we go fishing, Papou?”
“Perhaps in the morning. We must ask your mother.”
He winked and smiled with one side of his mouth. He had a sort of stiffness on the other side
that made it stay down when he smiled.
Mamma had told Stephano that the dentist had hit a nerve and that it was
an accident that could happen to anyone.
“Can we roast the fish on the barbecue?” he
asked, hoping that he never had to go to the dentist’s.
“First we must catch the fish,” laughed his
grandfather. “They are clever and do not want to be roasted on our fire.”
“But we are more clever, aren’t we, Papou?”
“We shall find the answer to your question on the
end of our fishing lines, my child.”
Steve did not want to think about his
grandfather. What he craved now was
company of a different kind. The girl at reception drifted into his thoughts,
and he allowed himself to examine her perfect skin, brown eyes and blue-black
shiny hair. Her neck was long and
smooth, leading down to large breasts, concealed under a white blouse, which
bore the hotel insignia. He wondered
what kind of underwear she had on. As
he floated, gently rocked by the water, the pale face of the girl he had seen
that afternoon and the spectacle of the slaughtered pig came back to him,
spoiling his fantasy.
He tried to sink back into his daydream but it was
no use. The sound of a bird wailing and
the noise of the street below intruded.
Irritated, he turned onto his front and swam, feeling his muscles work
in the water, but the pool was small and he soon tired of it. The “El Greco”
was a travesty. It professed to be
something it was not. The building was
new, but lacked true grandeur or style.
He was used to better.
Back in his room, Steve turned up the
air-conditioning, drying himself with one of the large, soft towels. The bedroom was spacious and airy, with tall
mirrors along one wall. Tacky. As he entered, he saw his reflection. What was the use of being wealthy and good
looking, with brown skin and a toned body if you were on your own for the
evening?
He remembered the letter and fetched it, ripping
open the envelope disinterestedly and pulling out the note: Telephone call – Mr. Reek – 14h. He
smiled, imagining the receptionist trying to spell a name that made no sense to
her. There was a litterbin next to the
window and he dropped the note into it.
The room was too big. It felt like an empty space.
Fatigued not only by the heat but also by the intricacies of his
predicament, Steve lay down on the bed and pulled the sheets over him, happy
for sleep to take him.
The sound of the telephone next to his bed woke him.
“Hello?
Steve? Is that you?”
“Uh? Yes… yes.
Hang on.” He made himself
comfortable, tugging at pillows and sitting with the phone still against his
ear, listening to his friend’s breathing and the clatter of pans in the
background. The sun had sunk low in
the sky and he turned the air-conditioning off, flicking the remote control on
the bedside table. Goose bumps spread
over his body. And, finally, his long
eyelashes came down softly as he let his eyes close and answered lazily,
“What’s up, my friend?”
There was a pause. “What’s up? What the hell is going on with you,
you…? I’ve rung you on your bloody
mobile God knows how many times. Sent
texts too…”
Steve sighed. “I texted you the hotel number, didn’t
I? No need to panic, man. Just having a nap.”
He tested Rick’s patience with an audible yawn. On the bedside table, his mobile phone was
no doubt full.
“Hell, Steve.
Man, what a mess! You’ve really
left a pile of shit behind you this time!
What the hell are you up to? Are
you okay? Shit, what a mess! Man!”
His words went nowhere, his voice barely softening.
“I know it.
Couldn’t do anything else, Ricky.”
“But, why didn’t you say something?” He paused,
waiting, but as there was no answer, he said what he had been instructed to
say: “Your dad is bloody furious and your mum looks about a hundred – been
using some pretty colourful language, in Greek, by all accounts.”
Steve pictured his mother, gesticulating and raising
her eyes to heaven.
Rick hadn’t finished. “May’s distraught – you
know? And her parents, well, I should
say you’d be safer staying out of the country for a good while longer. God, mate…” His voice trailed off, before a
new thought struck him. “You know
they’re thinking of getting some bloke to look for you? Some kind of private eye?” Rick’s voice faltered for a second.
“Yeah, should be easy to find, mate. Still got my dickie bow on. Tell them I’m on the top floor, penthouse
suite at the El fucking Greco. Biggest shit-hole on the island.”
The two of them started to giggle and then gave in
to deep, soothing belly laughs until they could laugh no more. The last thing
Steve heard was a woman’s voice rising above the cooking noises, telling Rick
to grow up.
Talking to his friend hadn’t solved anything, but it
had put an end to the inertia that had built up inside him. Rick had agreed to fly out to Crete, and
together they would come up with a plan.
In the meantime, Rick had taken it upon himself to patch things up as
best he could back home, and buy Steve some time. Time for what, he did not say.
Steve lay on the bed, contemplating the soft light;
watching the edges of the furniture become less sharp. His body was heavy and his mind slow,
sifting unconnected thoughts, following them without interest, until they
dissipated and dissolved. In the end
they all came back to Sarah, which left a tight ball in the pit of his stomach
that was difficult to ignore.
He brooded for a while longer, not getting
anywhere. It didn’t matter. Nothing would happen until Rick
arrived. In the interim, he had a few
more days to get through, that was for sure.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got to his feet, still
not sure of what to do next, or even what time it was.
In the bathroom, he cleaned his teeth, picturing May
in her bridal gown; her hair adorned with flowers, waiting outside the church,
if indeed she had got that far, which he doubted. May would cope. She would hate him for a while and then replace
him. What was done was done. She would
thank him later.
Downstairs, in the lobby of the hotel, it was
busy. People were filing into the
restaurant, dressed in formal eveningwear.
The pool area had been cleared and a local band was starting up.
In the cool night air, the hotel gardens were lit
up, making the plants look surreal. He
headed out of the main gates and towards the beachfront, ignoring the memories
of his childhood, which swarmed out at him as he travelled the generic narrow
streets, with their familiar cooking smells and sounds of people calling to
each other.
The restaurants on the front were full, and the
music from various bars spread out into the evening air. The beach was deserted, and he crossed the
road, stepping onto the sand and heading for the shoreline. The sound of the waves made him think of the
pull of the moon and consider the mass of water stretched out before him, ruled
by forces he did not understand: reasonable scientific explanation seemed
either superfluous or contrived, making him frown at the way his mind worked.
The world was too complicated. Even the
solid, manmade harbour wall was playing tricks on him, indistinct between the
water and the sky, a pale amorphous arm, curving out to sea.
But Sarah would have loved all of it. And she would have made sense of
everything.
A quick glance in the mirror was all it took for
Joyce Shackleton to realise that she had put on the wrong shade of
lipstick. She gave herself a look,
harsh at first, sliding into vague amusement, as she brought out a moistened
tissue and wiped away the offending colour.
The mauve of her blouse would be difficult to match, and it was no
wonder that the lack of real daylight along with the glare of the office lights
had transformed the delicate pink she had applied so carefully that morning
into a shade that just missed. Just
missing was as good as missing by a mile in Joyce’s book. From inside a tasteful Gucci pouch she
selected a darker lipstick and two minutes later, bosom forward and back
straight, she glided elegantly back to her desk and gathered together the
morning’s correspondence for signature.
There were letters of introduction, enquiry and response. In a separate, unrelated folder was a
selection of high quality stationery in a range of pale greys and creams.
With one slick movement, Joyce knocked and entered
the office outside which her own position stood like a sentinel’s post.
“Good morning, Mr. Firth.”
The man she addressed looked up momentarily from his
vantage point and sent out a perfunctory smile of recognition, before returning
to the removal of a splinter from the index finger of his right hand.
“Confounded window frame! Can’t get hold of it, Joyce.”
Joyce deposited the papers she was carrying and went
quickly to the other side of the desk, gently took the offered tweezers and,
with the alacrity of a seasoned professional, nipped the morsel of dark wood
between the pincers and whipped it out, pressing down on the puncture point to
relieve the stinging.
“I’ll get some antiseptic and a small plaster.”
The man did not answer, but commenced an
investigation of the morning post.
Joyce returned with a small box, retrieved a cotton
bud and a bottle of TCP, sorted a suitable plaster and was soon finished.
“There. At
least that will keep it clean. I’ll
contact someone to look at the frame.”
“Yes, yes.
Of course. Good idea.”
“I’ve brought in the samples of wedding invitations
for you to see. May wants either this
one or the grey with silver lettering.”
James T. Firth examined the cards briefly.
“May wanted your opinion. They are both very suitable, don’t you agree?”
“Very.
Yes.” And with a sudden bout of
impatience he pushed the cards away and said, “Whatever you think, Joyce. Please tell her what will please her most,
will you?”
“With pleasure.”
“You know what to do better than I.” He gave his secretary a twisted, rather
pathetic smile.
Joyce put down the letters to be signed and waited a
moment longer, like a maître d'hôtel
hovering at the table of an important guest.
“I’ll come back when you’re ready, then,” she said,
softly.
The office was not particularly busy. A large campaign was coming to an end and
the next projects were not yet ready for launch. People worked quietly at their desks, doing what they did. Joyce liked the place better when there was
something big coming up – there was a buzz, people were more alive, and she
could attend and serve, in the background.
An essential cog in the ever-turning wheel of the advertising empire of
Firth Enterprises.
The telephone rang.
“James Firth’s office.”
“Oh, good morning, Joyce. It’s May. How are you?”
“Hello, my dear.
I’m very well indeed, and how are you?”
Joyce felt a small flush of excitement and sat back in her chair.
“Busy.” She
sighed, then laughed.
“Bound to be, I should think!” Joyce replied, pleasantly.
“Do you have a decision on the – ”
“The cream with gold.”
“Didn’t he like the grey?”
Joyce did not like to insist. "They are both exquisite."
“Thank you, Joyce.
I suppose the cream is more traditional.”
“I suppose it is.
Yes.”
“Right. I’ll
get them in the post.”
“If I can be of any assistance – ”
“I think I’ve got it under control, thanks. Better get on with it! Will you tell James I called?”
“Yes, dear.
Good luck.”
Joyce put down the phone and frowned at the
invitations in front of her. The prospect of May's marriage to Stephen Firth
did not please her, but there was still time, and Joyce Shackleton was not in
the business of falling at the last fence.
Goodness knows she had overcome greater hurdles than this in the
past. She pictured May, full of hope
and happiness, and redoubled her resolve to prevent disaster.
Joyce put away the sample invitations and busied
herself with the morning’s various duties, following a smooth line, sailing
effortlessly towards lunch. At one
o’clock, glancing at the sky, Joyce put on her jacket, picked up her umbrella
and went out. There was the smell of
rain and a freshness that was invigorating.
The colder months were in some ways as delightful as the prospect of the
warmth to come. The English climate was
nothing if not comprehensive!
At a corner table for two, set for one, Joyce
Shackleton waited less than a minute before the owner of the restaurant arrived
to greet her and take her jacket.
“Ah, Joyce.
I see you have come prepared!”
“It’s better to be safe than sorry, Joseph. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. My trip to Paris was …superb.”
He pulled out a chair for his customer.
“I do love Paris!
Such a long time since I’ve strolled along the Champs Élysée.”
“We must go together one day. What do you say?” He handed her a menu.
“I should say yes, of course.”
Joyce selected her food and watched people passing
by outside. Joseph came over to ensure
that she was being looked after and, later, to say goodbye.
“I shall be in Manchester next week, Joyce. I hope you will miss me.”
“I’m sure I shall be pining until your return!”
Retracing her steps with a smile on her face and a
lightness in her step, Joyce savoured the memory of good food and of Joseph’s
gallant attentions. She sat down at her
desk, ready for a strategically planned afternoon, when the telephone rang with
news that would change the direction of her life for the next few weeks.
“Joyce?”
It was a voice she recognised immediately, but one
that had never before come to her via her office telephone. “Mother?”
“Yes. Of
course it is. I’ve been trying to get
hold of you for an hour.”
“Whatever is the matter?” Joyce looked around the room, hoping that her mother had not
spoken to too many people before being put through.
“I need you to come, the day after tomorrow. There’s been a cancellation at the hospital
and they want me to come in. Most
inconvenient, but they insist I should be there at eight o’clock in the
morning, of all things!”
It would be pointless to protest. Neither of Joyce’s sisters would be able to
help.
“Well? Are
you still there? Joyce?”
James T. Firth said that of course she should go. Just to make sure there was a replacement
for the time she would be away. So,
having telephoned the agency least likely to let her down, Joyce went home to
make arrangements for her trip. Frank
would not be happy, that was for sure.
Neither would her other clients.
But she would charm them, as always, and after all, she would not be
away for long.
