Читать книгу The Meaning of Friday - Vanessa Gordon - Страница 13

4

The ferry ‘Blue Star Naxos’ from Rafina brought Helen Aitchison to the island on time. The ship did a cumbersome pirouette in the bay and reversed into port, where it lowered its huge steel ramp to release lorries, cars and pedestrians onto the crowded jetty. Helen concentrated on negotiating the ramp without being pulled down by her heavy suitcases or staggering in front of a car. She felt sweaty and dishevelled, but knew Martin would never notice. She saw him waiting for her just beyond the crowd. He was easy to pick out, taller by a head than most people and fair haired. He saw her and waved. He was one of the few people not holding a sign bearing someone’s surname, and, typically of him, was standing on his own.

Helen joined the people and vehicles which jostled down the road towards the car park and the town, moving as one intolerant jumble. There were trucks laden with everything from bottled water to iron girders. There were taxis, minibuses, and the cars of hoteliers parked in the way with boot lids raised to receive their guests’ luggage. Somehow everyone began to disperse. The fumes from the ferry were black as the boat turned up the power to leave the dock, having relieved itself of every passenger requiring Naxos and taken more on board.

Day’s hug was stiff but his smile was sincere. He lifted Helen’s cases into the boot of his second-hand Fiat 500 and said triumphantly, “Welcome to Naxos, Madame! Welcome to our Cycladic summer!”

Day had remarkably few airs and graces for a relatively successful TV figure, she thought. He ring-fenced his private life, refusing to be at the beck and call of publishers and programme-makers. Luckily these people wanted what he produced, acknowledged his need for ‘research time,’ and so far had indulged his idiosyncrasies. These included long periods in Greece. He was therefore a particularly contented man as people of forty go. If a dark mood overtook him, it was short-lived. He had a great many friends, and she had always understood why.

It took them twenty minutes to escape the congested port. Once on the road out of town the traffic dwindled and Helen began to relax. She knew Naxos and liked its combination of Cycladic culture and modernity. It had a busy summer season, but away from the beaches and towns its people still led fairly traditional lives. Goats, cheese and olives co-existed with car rental, pizzerias and souvenirs. There were beaches and mountains, fast food and outstanding cuisine. Naxos also had a reputation for seriously good art, including ceramics, marble work, textiles and photography. There were two good museums, several ancient archaeological sites, and in the centre of the island and round its rocky coasts there were villages which retained the feel of traditional Greece.

Day began to tell her about his new Greek house in the village of Filoti. She already knew Filoti, with its central road climbing languidly beneath overhanging plane trees, its tavernas and cafés with tables outside, its small market space and its ancient tower. Helen had not even seen a photograph of Day’s house, however, the place where she was to stay for the next few months.

They reached Filoti and Day pulled up by an old house with an unimposing frontage in keeping with the other properties on the outskirts of Filoti. Day unlocked the main door and led the way inside. The cool of the main room enveloped her, her eyes struggling with its dimness until he opened the shutters. He opened more and more of them as they explored the house. The improvements made by the recent conversion became clear. The back of the house had not one but three balconies, all facing away from the road and overlooking the valley at the back. The main room was large, consisting of a living area dominated by a large wooden table, a sofa, and a galley kitchen tucked at the far end. Off this room was the largest balcony, where Helen thought she would spend most of her time, enjoying the light and the view of the valley.

Day showed her round proudly. Her room had its own small balcony with a table and chair where she could also work. Day’s room, desperately untidy but filled with light, was on a lower level cleverly cut into the hillside, and had a balcony which overlooked a garden of vegetables and fruit trees belonging to the people next door. Day’s room, in the modern part of the house, had the complete seclusion he cherished, while Helen’s room had the better view. It was an arrangement that would suit them both.

“Isn’t it perfect, Helen? Our summer will be superb. We shall meet on the main balcony for lunch, and again after siesta for aperitifs. We shall then wander into the village for a delicious meal at the excellent Taverna O Thanasis, I can’t wait to take you there, it has the most wonderful food. Thus we shall eke out our days throughout the summer in a civilised manner. And some excellent work will be done!”

“I love it, Martin,” she said. “It even smells wonderful.”

She was right, he thought, having not noticed it before. The fresh mountain breeze wafted through the open balcony doors carrying with it a green smell of cut grass and perhaps even a scent of the distant sea. The smell of wood old and new, lavender polish and fresh varnish, books and coffee, floated round the house.

Day showed her round the main room pointing out his prize possession, his library, and important items such as the fridge and the cafetière. The floorboards in this older part of the house squeaked in a very pleasant, somehow Greek way. Helen nodded in approval.

“How much of this furniture did you have to bring out from the mainland, Martin? I presume transport to the islands is very expensive.”

“I hired a guy with a van to bring my things over from Athens, including my books. The house came furnished, which is usual in the islands. The mattresses are new, I assure you - IKEA. All the bedding is brand new from a wonderful shop in Kolonaki. I bought things like the cafetière and the microwave on the island. I had some help from a friend of mine, Aristos, who’s the museum curator, and his wife. We’re invited to dinner with them, by the way, they want to meet you, and we’ll have to entertain them too. You can cook!”

She threw him a look, but he was clearly trying to be funny.

“I could fix a cleaner to come in once a month. If you think so?” he continued.

“No need. It won’t take you long.”

“Right. So all we have to do now is go to the supermarket in Chora and buy vital supplies. Do you want to unpack first?”

“If I just get my cases in …”

“No problem,” he said, and strode off towards the car.

Helen walked to the main balcony and stared out across the valley. It was going to be the best, quietest, most productive summer she had had for years, and it sounded like there would be some social occasions too. Here, surely, she would get the inspiration for her next book.

***

They bought what Day called their vital supplies in a reasonably large supermarket on the outskirts of Chora. Day, who was masterminding the expedition, filled the trolley with wine, gin, tonic, lemons, and toilet paper. Helen added some peaches, grapes and fruit juice. They began to get inspired and added tomatoes, rocket, two jars of Greek capers, Italian ham, feta cheese, oregano, good olive oil, and cheap grinders of salt and black pepper. Day found some nice-looking local flatbread which could be quickly grilled and drizzled with olive oil. Two six-packs of water in plastic litre bottles were essential. Nibbles for aperitifs. That sorted out lunches for a while, and they decided that dinner, at least to begin with, would be provided by the much-admired Thanasis; it was almost as cheap.

Back at the house, they put the shopping away and retired to their separate rooms for the afternoon. Helen tested her mattress and found it pleasantly firm. The pillows looked all right, but only a night on them would reassure her. Everything, thankfully, looked new. She unpacked and took her book to the balcony.

After a couple of hours, Day emerged from his room in fresh clothes to find Helen with her feet on the railings, contemplating the view.

“Gin and tonic?”

“Yes, please. Let’s start as we mean to go on.”

Day brought the drinks to the balcony and they watched as the sun began to sink and the coolness of evening creep over the valley.

“So, what do you plan to work on while you’re here?” Day asked.

“I have an idea for the next book, but it’s not coming together. I’ve brought some paints with me, and there are a couple of art supplies shops on the island if I need more. I’m just going to settle in gently, be a visitor for a while. There’s plenty of time, the summer is long.”

“Here’s to that!”

“And you?”

“I’m going to take a look at the work of a Naxian archaeologist called Nikos Elias,” he said enthusiastically. “He lived on Naxos most of his life and died a few years ago, and he was a mysterious and secretive figure. His house has been turned into a small museum, but I can’t find anything written about him yet. Even here on Naxos he isn’t well known, so it occurred to me I might do a short biography. Maurice, my agent in London, thinks he might have a publisher interested in it. Elias’s former partner looks after the small museum and I’ve been in touch with him. I thought you and I could drive over there one day. I’d like to get going on the work as soon as I can. Rumour has it that Elias made one or two discoveries which he didn’t publish, maybe something exciting, who knows? We’ll see.”