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It wasn’t so impossible, after all. He was Greek. He had said he lived at Piraeus, where he had his boat-building business, but why shouldn’t he come over to the island for a holiday? He sailed, didn’t he? He could come here on one of his own boats, anchor in the harbour. It would be perfectly natural for him to visit the hotel, even stay here.
Or was she looking for an excuse, trying to convince herself she wasn’t going out of her mind?
She turned back into the sitting room, smiling at Milo. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to start work at once?’
He shook his head. ‘Acclimatise yourself first. The heat here can be exhausting, you’ll have realised that by now. In a few days you’ll be used to these temperatures, you’ll find it easier to work all day. And if we need you to interpret for us with any guests we know where to find you! If I’m in the hotel, I can do it. If I’m out you may get a call asking you to come and help. OK?’
She smiled, nodding. ‘I’ll be happy to do what I can. That’s what I’m here for, after all.’
Milo left her to unpack again and explore her new domain. She put her clothes away in the built-in wardrobe then wandered around to look at the prints hanging on the walls. One was a watercolour of nineteenth-century Athens, a view with the Parthenon to the fore. Round it stood thickly painted trees, white Georgian-style houses a little below that and in the far distance an emblematic sketching of the sea; blue waves, a boat, masts. There were other watercolours of the island; she recognised the harbour, with its clutter of tavernas and houses, painted dark brown, blue and red. Beside it hung a painting of a blue-domed church. It must be the one they had visited yesterday.
Even more interesting to her was an old map of the Cyclades. She studied it closely, orientating herself. There was the sacred island of Delos which was the centre of the islands. There was Mykonos. Nearby was another little island, called Syros. Where was Delephores? She couldn’t read some of the print, it was too small, and there seemed to be dozens of tiny islands scattered over the brightly painted blue sea.
While the morning air was still cool enough she decided to go for a walk. First, she had to make sure the bungalow was safely locked up, the shutters down over the windows.
She wished she could go swimming but she couldn’t risk getting her plaster wet. But she decided to walk to the sea again, by another route, past guest bungalows and swimming pools, some of which held people, splashing about, swimming lazily. And today the beach had a number of children on it, running in and out of the waves, playing beach ball, lying down on towels on the yellow sands where their parents sunbathed under umbrellas. The dry north wind, the meltemi, was still blowing in sharp little flurries.
It seemed unbelievable that she was here, not in London. That was another world, far away.
Terry Finnigan wasn’t in London, either. He was in Manchester, having driven up there overnight and taken a room in the Hilton. When he had settled in, he poured himself a shot of whisky from one of the miniatures in the fridge, before getting a number from directory enquiries, then dialling.
A voice he instantly recognised, despite the many years since they had met, answered cheerfully. ‘Hello?’
‘Irene?’
‘Yeah. Who’s this?’
Clearly she did not recognise his voice.
‘Terry.’
‘Terry who?’
‘Finnigan,’ he said and heard her intake of breath.
‘You’re kidding! Terry Finnigan? My God, we never thought we’d hear from you again. Where’ve you been all these years?’
‘London. How’re you, Irene?’
‘Fine – how are you?’
‘I’m in a bit of trouble.’
‘And now you need help, so you thought of Bernie?’ There was a touch of cynicism in her tone, which didn’t surprise him. Irene had always been blunt, and he could hardly deny the truth of what she had said, could he?
‘That’s about the size of it,’ he admitted.
‘Come up here and talk to him, then. Whatever it is, he can’t do it over the phone. Come to Manchester.’
‘I’m here, staying at the Hilton.’
‘We
ll, jump in a taxi and come over. We still live at the same address. You remember it? Greeby Road? Number six. Have you had your tea yet? We haven’t. Have it with us. I’ve made a lovely hotpot, that was always your favourite.’
‘Wonderful,’ he said, remembering vividly the golden circles of potato fitting on top, the deep dish of lamb and onions and carrots. You could smell it the minute you walked through the front door. ‘Thanks, Irene. I’ll be there in half an hour.’
He drove there in his Jaguar, not merely covering the distance in miles but in time, back to his youth, in these grey, huddled streets. Why had Bernie and Irene stayed here? They had money, they could have moved out, as so many rich Mancunians did, to Cheshire or Shropshire, to the beautiful countryside so close to Manchester.
