(11/20) Farther Afield Page 9

  Amy reached for a piece of grass and began to nibble it thoughtfully. Her voice was steady, her eyes dry. It seemed to me that this outpouring was the fruit of much suffering and tension. One could only hope it would give her relief, and I was glad to be able to play the role of passive friend.

  'And then, of course, Aunt Winifred was a religious woman and took her marriage vows seriously. When she was told that God had joined them together and that no man, or woman, should put them asunder, then she believed it without a shadow of doubt. I'm sure she stuck to Uncle Peter as she did because she felt sure he would be committing a mortal sin and must be saved from this truly wicked temptation. She told herself – as God knows I've told myself often enough – that this was a kind of madness which would pass if she could only hold on.'

  Amy threw away her ruined grass stalk.

  'And she did, and the marriage held, and I don't think she ever chided Uncle Peter about the affair. But for all that, it no could never be quite the same again. You can't be hurt as much as that and get away without the scars.'

  There was a little silence, broken only by the mewing of a seagull, balancing in the air nearby.

  'And will you hold on?' I ventured.

  Amy nodded slowly.

  'I've learnt that much from Aunt Winifred. In the end, the outcome may not be the same, but I've more sense now, than I had thirty years ago, than to fling off in high independence and precipitate things.'

  She turned to me suddenly and smiled.

  'And another thing, I'm so awfully fond of the silly old man. We've shared too much and for too long to be pettish with each other. I'm not throwing that away lightly. That's the real stuff of marriage which you lucky old spinsters, with your nice uncomplicated lives, can't appreciate. It's an enrichment. It's fun. It's absorbing – more so, I imagine, if you have a family – and so you just don't destroy it, but nurture it.'

  She sprang to her feet, took my one good hand in hers and heaved me upright.

  'Come along, Nelson,' she said, as I adjusted my sling. 'Toplou is some way off. Think of those fortunate monks who have no such problems as mine!'

  We piled the remains of our picnic into the basket, and picked our way back to the car.

  Amy's spirits had recovered. She chanted as we headed eastward:

  'And miles to go before I sleep

  'And miles to go before I sleep.'

  11 Toplou

  THE monastery of Toplou stood like a fortress silhouetted against the grey sky. We approached it by a tortuous road, snaking up the hillside.

  The wind grew stronger as we ascended, and a fine drizzle of rain misted the windscreen. At the summit, we drove across bumpy grass into a deserted forecourt.

  The wind buffeted us as we emerged from the car, and went towards the cliffs' edge. We stood on a headland, the dark sea hundreds of feet below us clawing with white foamy tentacles at the rocks below. Sea-birds screamed and wheeled, floating like scraps of paper in the eddies of wind. It was too rough to talk. The wind blew into our mouths, snatching words away, making us gasp with shock.

  There was no one in sight. A disused mill, sails gone, and one salt-bleached door hanging awry, stood nearby. At its footings, a dozen or so scrawny chickens scratched and pecked, scurrying away with clucks of alarm, as we struggled by them.

  It was more sheltered in the courtyard, but equally deserted. A verandah ran round the four sides, at first floor level, and large rusty tins were ranged at intervals. Once they had acted as window boxes, it would seem, but now, rust-streaked and battered, only a few dead stock plants protruded from them.

  Everywhere the paint was flaking, and the walls were streaked with the rain-trickles of many seasons. This famous Christian monastery, built by the Venetians 600 years earlier to withstand the assaults of the infidel Turks across the water, presented a pathetic sight close to, in contrast with the magnificence of its aspect when viewed from afar.

  We approached a door and knocked. There was no sign of life. We looked about us as we waited. Someone, somewhere, lived in this sad place. A tattered tea towel flapped from a make-shift wire line, destined never to dry whilst the misty air encompassed all.

  We knocked again, louder this time, but with the same result. Disconsolate, we began to explore further. A dark archway seemed to lead to another courtyard. A broom was propped against a wall. A bucket stood nearby. Were those potato peelings in its murky depths?

  We tried another door. This time we began to open it gently after our preliminary knocks had brought no answer. The handle was rough and gritty to our touch, eroded by the salt air, clammy in our palms.

  'May we come in?' we cried into the twilit room.

  There was a responsive rumbling, and the sound of a chair being pushed back upon stones. A monk, in his black habit, smiled a welcome. I suspect we had woken him from a nap.

  He spoke little English. We had no Greek, but he nodded and smiled, and led the way across the courtyard to the chapel. He was obviously very proud of it. His face was lined and tired, I thought, although he could not have been much more than forty, but it lit up with happiness as he conducted us from one ikon to another and stood back to let us study them.

  Truth to tell, the place was so dark, and the ikons so dimly lit that I am sure we saw less than half of the beauties with which he was familiar. But we admired them, and followed our guide on a further tour of inspection.

  It was uncannily quiet. Our companion was the only living soul we saw. Could the other monks be away for the day, or locked somewhere in meditation or prayer? We did not like to enquire, and in any case could not possibly ask for enlightenment in the primitive sign language we were obliged to use for communication.

  We followed him through a long room which reminded me so sharply of Fairacre's village hall that a pang of homesickness swept over me. Wooden chairs were ranged all round the walls. A billiard table took up the major part of the room, and photographs hung awry on the walls.

  Everywhere lay dust. The smell of sea-damp clung about the rooms, and the banisters and rails were sticky with the all-pervading salty air.

  Our host continued to smile and to point out objects of interest – a framed text, incomprehensible of course, to us, an archway, a window. At last we came back to the door where we had met him. What, we wondered, did we do about alms-giving? We noticed a wooden platter on a low shelf, just inside the door, in which a few coins lay. We put our own upon them, looking questioningly at our guide, who nodded and smiled and bowed.

  He held our hands in farewell. His were cold and bony, and with a rare maternal urge I wished suddenly that I could cook him a luscious meal and build a good fire, to keep out the desolation of the place.

  We retraced our steps. I was chilled to the marrow, and would have been glad to climb back into the car, but Amy strode across to a white marble war memorial hard by the deserted mill, and I followed her.

  The monastery itself had been forlorn enough, but here was the very essence of sadness. Against the foot of the cross was propped a wreath of brown dead laurel leaves. Above it, the inscription was streaked with brown stains. Dead grass shuddered in the wind from the sea, and nearby an old fruit cage, its wire broken and rusty, protected nothing but a jungle of tall grass bleached white by the salt winds, and rustling like the wings of a flock of birds.

  Another chapel stood beyond it. It too was deserted, some of the windows broken and boarded. On this magnificent headland, in its proud position as one of the bastions of Christianity, it was infinitely sad to see this once-loved, splendid place, so desolate and forlorn.

  We returned in silence to the car, too moved to speak, until we had wound our way down the great hill and reached the road again.

  This experience had made us pensive, and I reflected, as we drove in silence, upon the life of the monk, living in chill discomfort, in that remote place high above the sea. For once, my smugness at contemplating the single life was shaken. I felt again the touch of the cold thin hand in m
ine, the gritty dampness of the surrounding walls, the dust, the darkness.

  And, for a moment, I looked upon a lot which might well be mine and other solitary old people's in the future, where loneliness and bleakness stalked, and even the light of religious beliefs could do little to comfort.

  I shivered, and Amy patted my knee with a warm hand.

  Thank God for friends, I thought gratefully.

  ***

  Our spirits rose as we took a roundabout route back to the hotel. The clouds lifted, and the blue Cretan sky was above us again.

  We stopped in Kritsa, a village we had grown to love, a few miles from our hotel. It lay in the hills among olive and carob groves, and there were wonderful walks nearby, as we had discovered.

  We sat on a log on the side of the hill, our feet in the damp grass. In the distance we could see a woman on her balcony busy spinning wool on a hand spindle. Nearer at hand, another woman dragged branches of carob tree towards three splendid white goats, who strained at their chains bleating madly. Their stubby tails flickered with excitement and anticipation, and as soon as the greenstuff was near enough they fell upon it, crunching the bean pods with every appearance of delight.

  We walked down the hill and revisited the church. This was freshly whitewashed, and as spruce inside as out. Two dark-eyed children jostled each other as they rushed towards us, a bunch of wilting flowers in their hands, hoping for custom.

  There were two letters for me when we returned, which I welcomed with cries of joy. Why is it that letters when away are so much more satisfying than those that drop through one's own letter box?

  One was from the kennels assuring me that Tibby had settled down well, was eating everything put before her, including the dried food which is spurned at home, and seemed well content.

  How typical of a cat, I thought sourly. At home, she will reject anything from a tin, and all forms of dried cat food. Rabbit, from China not Australia, is welcomed, preferably still warm from her personal casserole, raw meat cut very small, and occasionally poached fish. Her tastes are far too extravagant for a teacher's budget, but I weakly give in. Now, it seemed, she wolfed everything in sight, and made me appear an even bigger ass than I am.

  The other letter was from Mrs Partridge, the vicar's wife, and I thought how uncommonly kind she was to take time from all her commitments to cover three pages to me with all the news of Fairacre.

  Mrs Pringle's bad leg had flared up again and Dr Martin had been to see her. However, she was still at work, both in the school and the school house. (I could foresee that I should have to express my gratitude and admiration to the martyr, when I returned, in terms as fulsome as my conscience would permit.) The Mawnes had held a coffee party which raised twenty-eight pounds, and would no doubt have raised more but it rained, which damped things. (Not surprising.)

  Mr Mawne had high hopes of my returning with plenty of pictures of the hawk. Had I had any luck? The Coggs twins had gone down with measles, but appeared to be playing with all and sundry, as recommended by modern medical men -such a mistake; it would never have been allowed in their own nursery – so no doubt my numbers at school would be much depleted when term began.

  She ended with high hopes for my complete recovery and kind regards to Amy.

  'I am to pass on Mrs Partridge's kind regards,' I said, turning to her. She was engrossed in a letter of her own, and did not reply for a minute or two.

  'Very sweet of her,' she remarked absently, looking up at last. She waved her own letter.

  'From Vanessa. She wants a silk scarf trimmed with little gold discs. You can wear it over your head, she says, and somebody called Bobo, or maybe Baba – the child's handwriting is appalling – Dawson, brought one home from Greece recently and looks "fantastic" – spelt with a "k" – in it.'

  Amy looked enquiringly at me.

  'Have you seen such a thing?'

  'There are lots in the hotel shop.'

  'Must be white, black or a "yummy sort of raspberry pink",' said Amy, consulting the letter.

  'I think I saw a black one.'

  'Then we'll snap it up as soon as the shop opens,' said Amy decisively. 'I'm not trying to track down "a yummy sort of raspberry pink". By the way, Gerard's been up to Scotland again. It does look hopeful, doesn't it?'

  'He's bound to be there quite a bit,' I pointed out reasonably, 'if he's doing this book on Scottish poets.'

  Amy snorted.

  'He's staying at Vanessa's hotel, and she sounds delighted to see him. I should say there's definitely something cooking there. Here, would you like to read her letter?'

  'Read all about Fairacre in return,' I said, as we exchanged missives, and I settled back in the armchair to decipher Vanessa's sprawling hand. Amy certainly had the best of this bargain, I thought, remembering Mrs Partridge's immaculate copperplate.

  'This Hattie May,' I said, struggling laboriously through the letter, 'she had tea with. Does she mean the Hattie May who was leading lady in all those musical comedies just after the war?'

  'Must be, I suppose. She faded out after she married, I remember.'

  'Well, Vanessa says that she is now a window – widow, presumably – and happily settled in a cottage near their hotel. I think I saw her in everything she did. What a dancer!'

  'Come to think of it,' said Amy, putting down Mrs Partridge's letter, 'she mentioned her when she stayed with me last. Hattie May was living in the hotel then and looking for a permanent home. Nice of her to invite Vanessa out. I sometimes wonder if the child is lonely up there. Scotland always seems such an empty sort of country.'

  'That's its attraction. Anyway, Gerard told you that there were lots of young men who were being attentive, and I can't imagine a stunning-looking female like Vanessa being short of companions,'

  'You're probably right,' agreed Amy. 'And anyway, I imagine Gerard is to the forefront of the attentive ones. I hope he can persuade Vanessa to become a little more literate when they are married.'

  'Amy!' I cried, 'you are quite incorrigible! Let's go and change.'

  'And then,' said Amy, 'we must do Vanessa's shopping. I have a feeling I shall never be paid for it.'

  We had a splendid dinner, as usual, with lamb cooked in a particularly succulent sauce made with the magnificent Cretan tomatoes and a touch of garlic. Afterwards we pottered round the shop and Amy bought a black scarf for Vanessa and some silver pendants for presents.

  My purchases were more modest and consisted of attractive tiles which I hoped would be acceptable to Mrs Pringle and other kind souls who had made the holiday possible. Amy was admiring one of the beautiful gold plaited belts, and resisting temptation with remarkable strength of will. They were certainly expensive, and I hoped that she would not weaken and buy one, as I fully intended to get her one myself as a little thank-offering for her generosity over the past few weeks.

  She left the belts reluctantly, and we returned to our little house with our purchases. The moon was out, and the night was calm.

  We went out and descended the steps through the sweet-smelling night air. The scent of the lilies hung heavily about us. We walked in amicable silence along the sea-shore. Little waves splashed and sucked at the sand, and a flickering silvery pathway lay across the sea to the moon. It was one of those moments I should remember for the rest of my life, I knew.

  We were in bed early that night, and Amy was asleep long before I was. Somehow, sleep evaded me. I could not get the memory of Toplou from my mind. That deserted place, with the wind crying in its courtyards, haunted me. And the tired patient face of the monk, so gently smiling and polite, floated before me in the moonlight. He seemed to embody the spirit of his surroundings, the lost splendour and the forgotten ardour.

  The experience had shaken me, for it had presented me with the stark surprising fact that single people can be lonely. My own solitary state had always been a source of some secret pride to me. I was independent. I could do as I liked. Now I had seen the other side of the coin, and I found
it daunting.

  All my old night-time fears came flocking back. Suppose my health gave way? Suppose I out-lived all my friends? And why didn't I set about buying a little house now, instead of shelving the idea? Someone else, all too soon, would need the school house when they took over my post. I must start facing things, or the bleakness of the monk's life would be echoed in mine.

  Perhaps Amy was right to be so engrossed in match-making. Crippled though she was, at the moment, by the blows to her own marriage, maybe she was being true to a proper urge, something natural and normal, when she took such a keen interest in Vanessa's future. Some inner wisdom, as old as mankind itself, stirred Amy's endeavours. Maybe, in my comfortable arrogance, I was missing more than I cared to admit.

  I thought how smug I had been when married friends had told me of their problems; how perfunctorily for instance, I had disposed of Mrs Clark's dilemma. The truth was, I told myself severely, that, as in all things, celibacy has its good and bad sides. Nine times out of ten I was happy with my lot, which was as it should be. If I have to live by myself, it is as well to be on good terms with myself.

  On the other hand, this salutary jolt would do me no harm. Toplou had made me suddenly aware, not only of the sadness of the solitary, but the warmth of loving companionship, which Amy had spoken of so movingly, which marriage can bring.

  The dawn was flushing the sky with rose, and the small birds were twittering among the orange trees, before I finally fell asleep.

  12 The Last Day

  THE last day of our holiday arrived much too quickly. My feelings were divided. On one side, I hated the idea of leaving this lovely place, probably for ever, for I doubted if I should be able to come again. On the other hand, the thought of going home to the waiting house and garden, to wicked Tibby and to all my Fairacre friends was wonderfully elating. I remembered Amy's amusement at my excitement on returning home from Bent. But surely wasn't that as it should be? How dreadful life would be if home were not the best place in it.