him.
But that is enough of Julian for the moment. On, on to his charming wife, if that is not too precise an imperative.
15
‘You too, Mr White?’
She stood behind me with one hand, palm inward, fingers splayed, resting on her hip. The blonde hair was gathered into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, held by a large gold pin. She wore a tight blue pullover without sleeves, and a worn pair of white cord trousers. Her toes were out through battered tennis shoes. Standing there before me, with the wind shaking the hills around her, she seemed a Cycladean queen, the patrician line of each small bone formed by a millennium of aristocrats. Aye, and a lady into whom this poor peasant could never hope to plunge his hairy claws. She advanced, smiling, her eyes on mine, fully aware of the effect she had onme, and pleased with it.
‘Me too?’ I asked.
She glanced at the well.
‘Do you also have a fascination with holes in the ground?’
‘Not in the ground, no.’
I tried to bite off my tongue. She was good enough to ignore that remark. I studied the hand which she lifted to her forehead to brush away a strand of hair, and a whole night of forgotten drunkenness came flooding back to me. Her nails were badly bitten.
‘Julian says that his greatest ambition is to buy Syntagma Square, dig an enormous crater in the middle of it, and then spy from the palace windows on the people who come to gape into it …’
She wheeled around to face me, and considered me curiously.
‘I wondered if you have the same kind of mind.’
I did not know what to make of that question. I giggled, and then looked gravely down into the well, giving her the benefit of my dignified profile. The wind roared around us.
‘There was a man driving alone one night on a country road in Ireland,’ I said. ‘He was going home. He crashed, and was thrown through the windscreen into a field. Various important bones were broken. At the other side of the field there were lights. He crawled toward them. It was a farmhouse. He got so near to it that he could see the farmer sitting by the fire with a newspaper, and the farmer’s wife bathing a child in a tin bath. With a great effort he started forward for the last few yards. Nearer and nearer, almost there, he began to laugh with relief, and laughing fell into a pond, and was drowned.’
Somehow that was not what I had meant to say. Helena made a gesture of distaste, and stepped away from me.
‘Oh no,’ I cried. ‘Listen.’
I caught her by the arm, but released her instantly. She stood with her back to me, her head bent, waiting.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Kyd. That story sounds differently, it should sound … I don’t know. I’m sorry.’
She smiled at me over her shoulder, and without a word went into the house. I moved toward the gate, and met the boy,Yacinth, coming in from the road. He moved slowly, with his hands plunged in the pockets of his shorts. He seemed bored. I watched him, searching for Helena’s face in his, but, strangely, could not find it.
‘Hello,’ I said brightly.
He looked at me from under his lashes, tossing the black curls away from his forehead with an angry turn of his head. He muttered a greeting of sorts, and went quickly past me, through the dim doorway. A short laugh sounded in the house, the wind blew, and then Helena appeared, carrying a bundled towel under her arm.
‘I don’t think your brother likes me,’ I said.
‘Yacinth? He’s a strange child.’
We walked down the hill to the village. Helena bought chocolate and grapes, while I stood in the doorway kicking my heels. Above the heads of the crowd, a familiar thatch of red hair approached. I slipped into the shop and stood behind Helena.
‘Hide me,’ I said.
‘What?’
She looked at me, at the street, at me again, and smiled.
‘Your German friend?’
‘Not so much a friend.’
‘Oh’
Already, it seemed, I had traded an old love for a new.
The road took us away from the village, and along
But that is enough of Julian for the moment. On, on to his charming wife, if that is not too precise an imperative.
15
‘You too, Mr White?’
She stood behind me with one hand, palm inward, fingers splayed, resting on her hip. The blonde hair was gathered into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, held by a large gold pin. She wore a tight blue pullover without sleeves, and a worn pair of white cord trousers. Her toes were out through battered tennis shoes. Standing there before me, with the wind shaking the hills around her, she seemed a Cycladean queen, the patrician line of each small bone formed by a millennium of aristocrats. Aye, and a lady into whom this poor peasant could never hope to plunge his hairy claws. She advanced, smiling, her eyes on mine, fully aware of the effect she had onme, and pleased with it.
‘Me too?’ I asked.
She glanced at the well.
‘Do you also have a fascination with holes in the ground?’
‘Not in the ground, no.’
I tried to bite off my tongue. She was good enough to ignore that remark. I studied the hand which she lifted to her forehead to brush away a strand of hair, and a whole night of forgotten drunkenness came flooding back to me. Her nails were badly bitten.
‘Julian says that his greatest ambition is to buy Syntagma Square, dig an enormous crater in the middle of it, and then spy from the palace windows on the people who come to gape into it …’
She wheeled around to face me, and considered me curiously.
‘I wondered if you have the same kind of mind.’
I did not know what to make of that question. I giggled, and then looked gravely down into the well, giving her the benefit of my dignified profile. The wind roared around us.
‘There was a man driving alone one night on a country road in Ireland,’ I said. ‘He was going home. He crashed, and was thrown through the windscreen into a field. Various important bones were broken. At the other side of the field there were lights. He crawled toward them. It was a farmhouse. He got so near to it that he could see the farmer sitting by the fire with a newspaper, and the farmer’s wife bathing a child in a tin bath. With a great effort he started forward for the last few yards. Nearer and nearer, almost there, he began to laugh with relief, and laughing fell into a pond, and was drowned.’
Somehow that was not what I had meant to say. Helena made a gesture of distaste, and stepped away from me.
‘Oh no,’ I cried. ‘Listen.’
I caught her by the arm, but released her instantly. She stood with her back to me, her head bent, waiting.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Kyd. That story sounds differently, it should sound … I don’t know. I’m sorry.’
She smiled at me over her shoulder, and without a word went into the house. I moved toward the gate, and met the boy,Yacinth, coming in from the road. He moved slowly, with his hands plunged in the pockets of his shorts. He seemed bored. I watched him, searching for Helena’s face in his, but, strangely, could not find it.
‘Hello,’ I said brightly.
He looked at me from under his lashes, tossing the black curls away from his forehead with an angry turn of his head. He muttered a greeting of sorts, and went quickly past me, through the dim doorway. A short laugh sounded in the house, the wind blew, and then Helena appeared, carrying a bundled towel under her arm.
‘I don’t think your brother likes me,’ I said.
‘Yacinth? He’s a strange child.’
We walked down the hill to the village. Helena bought chocolate and grapes, while I stood in the doorway kicking my heels. Above the heads of the crowd, a familiar thatch of red hair approached. I slipped into the shop and stood behind Helena.
‘Hide me,’ I said.
‘What?’
She looked at me, at the street, at me again, and smiled.
‘Your German friend?’
‘Not so much a friend.’
‘Oh’
Already, it seemed, I had traded an old love for a new.
The road took us away from the village, and along
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