Читать книгу Footprints in the Sand - Chloe Rayban - Страница 7

It was cool in the room. The shutters had been closed all morning to keep the sun out. I lay back and shut my eyes. I heard Mum bustling around the room, collecting her things. As she went out through the door she said: ‘Oh, and Lucy – don’t go out in the sun again. Not till after four. It’s scorching. You’ll get burned.’

‘Mmmm. OK. Bye.’

I lay gazing into the semi-darkness, chasing the tiny squiggles you get in your eyes as they darted back and forth across the gloom. They’re stray cells apparently, being washed back and forth over the eye. I’m fascinated by all that stuff. Mum calls it gruesome. She’s not exactly scientific. I reckon her science education must’ve ended with the life-cycle of the frog. When I told her I wanted to be a vet she nearly freaked out. She claimed I’d got the whole idea from some series I’d seen on the telly and it would wear off. But it is what I want to do – really badly.

My head had stopped throbbing. I listened to the noises outside. The dredger must’ve knocked off for the day and I could now hear all the other sounds of the village. Hens somewhere not too far off. And a donkey braying in the distance – a long cascade of eeyores, like mad hysterical laughter. Then the soft sound of the wings of pigeons as they landed on the roof and started scrabbling and cooing.

I was starting to feel bored. What a waste of all that sunlight out there. I climbed off the bed and went to the door. It wasn’t that hot. Mum was just being over-protective, as usual.

My shorts were hanging on the balcony rail. I could at least try and get the tar off. There was a pump in the vineyard – maybe that worked. I took the shorts and some soap and went and cranked the handle. Sure enough, a gush of water came out.

The shorts were brand new from Gap. They were the first pair of shorts I’d ever had which didn’t make my bottom look big. I’d been really pleased with them. But after five minutes or so of scrubbing with the soap, I’d made the tarry marks bigger and darker, if anything.

‘What you doin’?’

I jumped. The Old Rogue was standing with his hands on his hips watching me, frowning. Maybe I wasn’t meant to be in his vineyard.

‘There’s no water in the bathroom. I was trying to get these marks off.’

He held out a hand. ‘Let me see?’

He took the shorts and made some tut-tutting noises. Then he carried them over to where he had a can of what looked like kerosene. He slopped some on and rubbed the marks. Then he brought them back to the pump, and with a lot of huffing and puffing, soaped the stains and rinsed them out.

‘See – good – like new,’ he said.

The tar had disappeared as if by magic.

Thank you, that’s brilliant.’

‘Parakolo.’

‘Parakolo?’

‘No worries.’ His face broke into a smile. He wasn’t such an Old Rogue really.

‘How do you say “thank you” in Greek?’

‘Efharisto.’

I messed it up the first time, and he repeated the word syllable by syllable.

He was tickled pink when I got it right.

I hung the shorts on the balcony rail to dry in the sun and leaned beside them gazing out to sea. It was a really intense blue – like a mirror-image of the sky, but deeper. There was a lone windsurfer skimming across the bay. My eyes lazily followed it. I’ve always wanted to windsurf. Plenty of girls do. There was a gravel pit not far from home where they gave lessons. But Mum said they were too expensive. That’s the thing about your parents divorcing. You soon discover that two different homes cost a lot more to run than one did. Even though Mum worked too now, we never seemed to have anywhere near as much money as we used to.

Leaning further over the rail, I saw that there was a kind of shack on the beach that I hadn’t noticed before. It had a pile of windsurfers beside it and a sign which said that they were for hire. Civilisation!

Once my shorts were dry, I’d take a closer look at that beach. Maybe, somewhere along that stretch of sand, I could find a big enough gap in the weed to risk a swim.

Half an hour later, I was down on the beach. I cast an eye along the stretch of sand, looking for bathers or sunbathers, but it was deserted. Or was it? At the very far end, almost too far away to see, there seemed to be a few rough tents and towels maybe, hanging between the trees – signs that backpackers had taken up occupation. I thought of the bronzed boys on the boat. Just maybe this wasn’t such a bad place after all.

I drew level with the shack. The sign advertised pedaloes as well as the windsurfers, but I couldn’t see any. The shack was locked up, and on closer inspection, I found a piece of paper was stuck on the window giving the opening times for hire. It was closed between one o’clock and four.

I took off my sneakers and found the black sand was burning hot, so I had to do a hurried hop, skip and a jump down to the water’s edge. The sea felt deliciously cool. Just the right temperature, in fact, and the weed didn’t look too bad close up. There were plenty of gaps to get through.

I hesitated. I was longing for a swim, but a swim is always all the more delicious if you get really hot first. So I spread out my towel quite near to the water’s edge, stripped off to my bikini and stretched out. Not much point smothering myself in sun-lotion – I was going in the water any minute.

I had a compilation tape made by Migs’ brother in my Walkman. It was brilliant, he’d put all my favourite tracks on it. I quite fancied Nick actually. He was quite a bit older than us, going to University next year, so he was hardly likely to take much notice of a friend of his kid sister. But he was always nice to me for some reason.

I lay on the sand soaking in the delicious warmth of the sun, with my eyes closed listening to the tape and having some rather censorable thoughts about Nick…

I woke up to find the tape had come to an end. How long had I been asleep? I’d left my watch back at the taverna. I looked guiltily at the height of the sun. It had moved round quite a bit. My skin didn’t look burnt in the bright light – maybe I hadn’t slept for too long. It would be just my luck to end up looking like a slab of coconut ice – all pink one side and white the other. Maybe I should have that swim. But now the sun was lower, the sea didn’t look half so inviting. I wondered again what was lurking in the weed. Perhaps a better idea would be to turn over and get my back to catch up with my front. I turned over on to my stomach, and as I turned, I caught sight of the windsurfer again.

I watched the little pink and blue sail gliding effortlessly in the steady breeze. It must be so quiet out there, with just the sound of the sea and the wind. The windsurfer hesitated and the sail dipped, then quick as a flash it was up again and the board started off in another direction. The surfer was tacking like a sailing boat, and as he turned and took another tack, I realised he was obviously heading for my beach. I propped myself up on an elbow and slid on my sunglasses to cope with the glare.

As the surfer came closer I could see it was a guy – and quite a nice guy too, as far as I could tell from this distance. It was going to be tricky to tack in to the shore, and I was interested to see how neatly he could do it. As he drew nearer, I became even more interested. He must’ve been here some time because he had a great tan and I couldn’t help noticing, not a bad body. That’s the thing about windsurfing – at least that’s what Migs always said. ‘It tones guys up in all the right places – pecs, six-pack, you name it! Take it up Lucy – and then you can introduce us to all your friends.’

The windsurfer changed direction again, and for an instant he paused and the sail dipped into the sea. In those few seconds that he waited, poised and about to pull the sail up, I got a full view of him. Oh no, this just wasn’t fair. He was absolutely gorgeous, sunbleached hair, nice jaw-line – yes, definitely – he was very, very yummy.

He was pretty close to the shore now and I could tell he’d caught sight of me. To my delight he did an epic wobble and nearly fell off. Wicked! I’d really put him off his stroke.

I just managed not to laugh. Instead, I turned over and put my headset back on and pretended to ignore him. I didn’t turn the tape on though. Through the phones I could hear him beaching the board and dragging it up on the sand. I sneaked a glance. A pair of nice strong feet and ace legs deliciously flecked with golden hairs strode past me. He carried the sail up the beach and then he went back for the board. Closer up he was definitely very good news indeed.

I lay pretending to be absorbed in my music as he stowed the board and then made off up the beach in the direction of the taverna. Our taverna. Maybe he was staying there too…

Brilliant! I sat up and started to gather my things together.

Once back at the taverna, I was half-expecting to find my bronzed windsurfer sitting there, having a drink after his sail, maybe. I ran my fingers through my hair and just prayed I hadn’t burnt myself red as beetroot. But he wasn’t on the terrace. I caught sight of him walking down the path between the vines with a towel round his neck. So he was staying here. Excellent!

Then I suddenly had an awful thought. Oh my God, what if Mum had found somewhere else to stay? Nightmare! Oh curses and damnation! Why had I been such a pain about wanting to move on? It wasn’t such a bad place. I mean, one beach in Greece is very much like another, isn’t it? And the taverna was so cheap. A real bargain. There might even be some money left over for windsurfing and I could start to learn and…

But Mum wasn’t back yet. Did that mean she was still searching – fruitlessly? Or was she held up looking at rooms – fixing up the details – oh pl-ease!

I went into the bathroom wishing there was some magical method of thought-tranference by which I could bring her back. Our shower was working again and wonders will never cease – the water was actually hot.

I had a really good shower and washed my hair. My skin stung as the hot water ran down it. I had overdone it. I just prayed it wouldn’t all peel off before I had a chance to tan. I’d have to be really careful tomorrow.

After my shower, I dressed in my most favourite T-shirt and the pair of jeans that made my legs look longest and went out on to the terrace.

The sun was dipping towards the horizon and promising a pretty spectacular sunset. The evening light shone through the vines, casting dancing shadows across the terrace. The faded blue tables and ancient wicker chairs looked kind of rustic and picturesque.

I sat down at a table nearest the sunset. Even the dredger looked somehow glamorous in this light. The low sun had lit up all its rust, turning it a dramatic burnt ginger colour.

The Old Rogue came out of the kitchen wearing a clean vest.

‘You want drink, yes?’

‘Yes please. Orange.’

‘Portocalada?’

‘Is that orange?’

‘Yes. Greek for orange.’

‘Portocalada?’

‘Yes, good!’ he smiled. He was in a much better mood today. He held out a hand. ‘Stavros,’ he said. ‘What is your name?’

‘Lucy.’

‘Lucy – very nice.’

He was a long time bringing my orange, but when he came back he was carrying a plate as well, with what looked like crispy fried onion rings with a slice of lemon on them.

‘For you, on the house,’ he said.

‘Oh thank you. What are they?’

‘Mezze,’ he said. ‘Good – eat!’

I tasted one. They were hot and crispy and delicious.

‘Good, yes?’ he said, watching me.

‘Very good,’ I agreed.

He was going to be ever so disappointed if we moved on. We’d really be letting him down. I smiled and nodded and sipped my drink and indulged in a silent prayer that Mum had found nothing but chicken-pens and and five-star rip-offs on her search.

Stavros waved an arm towards the sunset.

‘Beautiful, yes?’ he said proudly as if it was his very own sunset ‘on the house’.

‘Fantastic!’ I agreed.

‘Best sunset view in the island,’ he said, and he made his way off back to his kitchen.

It really was, too. A narrow band of cloud was hovering above the horizon, splitting the sunlight into great golden shafts like you see in old-fashioned religious pictures. It was incredible. I mean, Stavros was right. This headland must be the very best place in the whole island to watch the sunset.

As I sipped my drink I heard footsteps on the gravel. I steeled myself to confront Mum. But it wasn’t Mum. It was him… the windsurfer. He did a double-take when he saw me – almost dropped the package he was carrying.

‘Hi,’ he said.

‘Hello,’ I said, in what I hoped was a suitably cool and laid-back voice.

Then he made off down some steps behind the taverna and I heard a door slam. He was staying here. There was no question about it.

There was no way I was going to move on now. My mind raced. How was I going to persuade Mum to stay? Well, there was the sunset for a start.

I climbed down the few steps from the terrace and on to the headland to get an even better view of the last moments. It was only a few metres to a rocky outcrop that stood at the furthest tip. Standing there was like standing on top of the world. I was sandwiched between sea and sky, and the two of them were putting on a performance that was like the biggest firework display and the most dramatic laser show ever.

The clouds were tinted violet and the sun had turned into a great molten ball of fire, sliding down the sky. As the last liquid orange glob of it slipped down into the inky sea I heard Mum’s voice, calling:

‘Lucy… Lucy!’

She was back.

Making my way across to the terrace, I prepared myself for a forceful introduction to a change of plan.

She dumped her bag down on the table. She looked hot and tired. She didn’t look as if she’d had a lot of luck!

I slid on to a chair opposite her.

‘Phew, what an afternoon!’ she said. (I felt sure she hadn’t found anywhere.) But then she leaned forward with a triumphant look on her face.

‘It’s all settled. I’ve found a fabulous place. You’ll love it.’