Angel of Death (14 page)

When she said so Charles regretfully said, ‘We still have quite a distance to travel, there’s no time for sight-seeing, I’m afraid. You’ll have to tour Athens on your way home.’

‘Why do so many houses have a gap under them?’ she asked.

‘They’re built on stilts, for earthquake protection – this is an earthquake area, although in fact they rarely have quakes in Athens. Two or three times a century, maybe.’

‘That’s often enough for me!’ she said, surprised and horrified.

‘And for the Greeks.’

‘I remember the last one,’ Pandora said. ‘I was in Athens at the time. The house shook violently, and a wall split from ceiling to floor. Everyone began screaming and running out into the street, away from buildings. I’ve never forgotten.’

The sky was a startling, vivid, cloudless blue. The sun burned in it, gold and round and dangerous to look at; she did not dare to try, already half-blind with the sunlight. They pulled up at traffic lights and she stared at a garden in which grew a tree she had never seen before, bark peeling from the trunk to show a strange orange-brown skin underneath.

‘What’s that?’

‘A strawberry tree.’

She began to laugh. ‘You’re kidding! It grows strawberries?’

‘It has a berry, you can see some developing, but they aren’t really strawberries although from a distance they look like them once they’ve ripened and turned red.’

Most of the trees and plants were familiar, but here and there she noticed something she had never seen before. So much of the suburbs seemed to be new, recently built, there were very few older houses and many blocks of flats. Perhaps that was the result of earthquakes?

Pandora leaned back and closed her eyes. Miranda watched her anxiously. She was pale and sweat dewed her forehead. The journey must be tiring for her.

‘Is she suffering with this heat?’ she whispered to Charles who smiled and shook his head.

‘She’s used to it. Don’t forget, this is her country. But travelling is exhausting, even if you’re healthy. I shall get her to lie down as soon as we get on the boat. She could sleep for a couple of hours.’

A few moments later she saw masts against the skyline and caught sight of the sea on the horizon. They must be near the coast.

‘Piraeus,’ Charles confirmed and then they turned into a road running into the port, which was crowded with vessels.

With people, too. Crowds flowed along outside rows of tavernas; girls in shorts and t-shirts, with straw hats on their heads, young men in jeans and sleeveless tops, children pulling along balloons. People sat at tables under fluttering umbrellas, eating grilled meat, fruit, locally caught fish, drinking glasses of corn-coloured retsina which filled the air with the strong scent of resin.

Artists sat in front of easels, painting views of the boats and ocean-going cruise ships, while the crowds jostled around to watch.

‘It looks like a film I once saw about St Tropez,’ Miranda murmured.

‘No, no,’ protested Charles. ‘Piraeus is a working port. St Tropez is a playground now, whatever it was before Brigitte Bardot made it famous.’

The hotel’s boat was moored right at the end of the quayside. They parked beside it and Miranda saw black Greek lettering painted on the white hull. That must be the name of the hotel. Pandora stirred, opening her eyes.

‘Are we here?’

‘Yes.’ Charles got out and came round to help her out of the car.

The chauffeur got out too and began unloading their luggage. A young man in a white shirt and shorts appeared and carried the cases away. Miranda warily followed Charles and Pandora down a gangplank into the sleek white vessel bobbing on the water.

Half an hour later they were heading away, out into a blue, blue sea. Miranda sat on deck, under a striped red and green awning, on a matching lounger, dazzled by the blinding light. There was a strange exhilaration in feeling it fill your eyes. The crewman in white had brought her a tray bearing a jug of iced fresh lemonade, a couple of bottles of spring water, and some glasses.

Charles came up to join her and sat down too, to sip a glass, sighing in relief.

‘That’s better, I was dying of thirst.’

‘So was I,’ she said, her own glass still in her hand, her throat full of the taste of lemons. ‘Does it get cooler in the evening?’

‘A little, but just a little. When I first came out here in the summer I used to sleep in the swimming pool, on a floating lilo. It was the only way I could get cool enough to sleep. But now there is air conditioning in the hotel life will be much easier.’

‘How big is the hotel?’

‘We can sleep a hundred guests – it isn’t one of those gigantic hotels, thank God.’

The passage of the boat churned up white spray which blew over her, cooling her face and body deliciously. Suddenly she saw something silver glint among the waves and sat erect, pointing.

‘Oh. What’s that?’

The silvery sleekness cut through the water and leapt up in a glittering arc. Four of them, in a line, great fish with a familiar outline although she had never set eyes on them before.

‘Dolphins,’ Charles said casually, and no doubt he was blasé about them, had often seen them before, but she was entranced by the thought of the beautiful creatures. ‘You see them quite often out here.’

Breathlessly, she got up and leaned on the side. ‘They’re coming closer!’ The fish were so marvellous she could have cried. She would have loved to touch them, swim with them.

‘They’re very friendly creatures,’ Charles told her. ‘They seem to enjoy human company and they’re very curious about ships.’

The dolphins swam beside the boat for some time, leaping and curvetting, turning wide, curling grins upwards to them, so much like smiles of greeting and friendliness that her delight grew even stronger.

When, tiring of their game, they vanished down into the blue waters again Miranda was very sad to see them go. There was something wonderful, almost godlike, about the great, silver-blue fish.

Charles went down to check on his wife and Miranda lay under the awning, her eyes closing in the drowsy heat. When she woke up Charles was back, leaning on the side, staring ahead.

As she stirred he looked down at her, smiling. ‘We’re nearly there.’

Yawning, she asked, ‘Was I asleep for long?’

‘A couple of hours at least. You must have been tired. Pandora has been sleeping, too. I must go and wake her up soon. We should dock in an hour.’

She slid off the lounger and joined him. Ahead of them in the distance, rising out of the sea, was a small island, its indented coast rocky and wild.

The centre was green and mountainous, steep sides climbing from the shore, with few signs of habitation.

‘It looks deserted. Do many people live there? Where’s the hotel?’

‘There are a few hundred inhabitants, that’s all. The hotel is a short drive from the harbour, but you can’t see it because it’s surrounded by trees. As we get closer you may catch a glimpse of white walls and red roofs. The hotel building is one storey; it isn’t very big because the guests live in bungalows scattered through the grounds. It gives them more privacy. They can cook and eat in their bungalow, or walk up to the hotel to eat.’

As they drew closer, a rough, powerful scent blew towards them on the wind. She distinguished pine, herbs, lavender, and other smells she couldn’t identify.

‘What an amazing scent!’ she said to Charles who nodded.

‘The French call it the maquis; it’s the smell of the plants and shrubs that grow all over the island. There’s a lot of gorse, heathers, wild olives, pine trees.’

‘I can smell those!’ She could make them out, tall, gaunt, leaning in the wind’s path, and even see the olive trees now, their silvery green leaves tossing and fluttering. ‘Is yours the only hotel on the island?’

‘Yes. There aren’t many roads, and those there are really aren’t suitable for motor traffic. You need a four-wheel-drive vehicle to get about. There are no towns, just a few villages scattered around the coast. The main industries are fishing and farming. This is still an unspoilt island, tourism hasn’t had much of an impact.’

‘But somebody built the hotel!’

‘Not exactly. It was a private house, built around the turn of the century, and not that big – there were six bedrooms in the beginning. When it came up for sale, Pandora’s father bought it, to turn into a hotel, but decided not to build on to it. It would have spoilt the appearance. Hence the bungalows in the grounds. Pandora’s brother designed them – they’re adobe style, very plain, rough-cast white plaster on the walls inside and out. Some have just one bedroom, some have two and there are a couple with three bedrooms. They have shower rooms and a tiny kitchenette in one end of the sitting room. The decor is pretty; each is furnished in just one or two colours. There are televisions but mostly so that guests can watch videos. We have a video library in the hotel. There are several pools. The bungalows are set around them so that guests can swim in privacy if they wish, only using their pool if nobody else is in it.’

‘And they’re mostly British, the guests?’

‘We get people from all over Europe and America, actually, but the majority speak English. He turned away. ‘I’d better go and wake Pan.’

They were close enough to the shore now for her to make out the harbour, white-walled, set round with small white houses, a church bell tower here and there in the back streets, fishing boats moored at the jetty, and along the sea wall a few tavernas, with fluttering awnings in blue or yellow. Further along there was a narrow beach with half a dozen children playing on it.

As they moored at the jetty she jumped, seeing a couple of pelicans clacking their beaks and making squawking noises of affront.

Pandora laughed behind her. ‘They’re the island’s watchdogs. Don’t go too close, they sometimes push people off the jetty into the sea.’

‘I’ve never seen them outside a zoo. Are there many of them on the island?’

‘A few. There were far more, once, I think, but now there are just a handful. The fishermen don’t like them because they eat fish, but I don’t think they persecute them, they are too popular with everyone else. I’m not sure why the population dwindled.’

‘They’re so funny!’ Miranda watched them stalking back and forth, their beaks constantly opening and shutting. ‘A couple of clowns! Where do they nest?’

‘On the beach somewhere. People keep away but tourists sometimes go down to take pictures, which upsets the pelicans. In the spring the storks nest on the church tower; everyone complains about the noise they make, but it’s charming to watch them sit up and spread their big wings and clack their beaks, when they’re disturbed. They do it every time the priest rings the bell. But tourists can’t get up there to take their everlasting photographs, so the birds keep coming.’

Charles leaned over the side, pointing. ‘Here comes the car.’

It was not a limousine this time, but a large, black four-wheel-drive. Charles and the young crewman helped Miranda and Pandora up the ladder to the top of the jetty and the driver of the vehicle came to give them a hand into the back seat. Then he and the other two men shifted the luggage into the spacious boot before they slowly backed off the jetty on to the narrow road running along the sea front.

Miranda wished she had her camera to take pictures of the tavernas, the pelicans, the brightly coloured boats, some of them painted with an eye or an open hand, on the side. But she had packed it, and from Pandora’s tone when she talked about tourists taking photos it was probably just as well.

‘Why are there those signs painted on the boats, Pandora?’

‘They’re ancient symbols against evil and bad luck.’

The eyes were slanting, black, with a faintly sinister look in Miranda’s opinion; the hands were small, fingers spread wide, outlined in frilly black and red. She couldn’t guess what they symbolised.

The road out of the fishing port deteriorated within minutes. Despite the excellent springs on the four-wheel-drive they began bouncing and rocking to and fro as they drove along. Charles looked anxiously at his wife. Pandora was holding on to the strap on the window beside her; Miranda saw her knuckles whiten and her face took on a greenish tinge.

‘You aren’t going to be sick, are you?’ she asked and Pandora grimaced.

‘I hope not. Luckily, it isn’t far.’

Ten minutes later they turned off the unmade, rocky road on to tarmac which wound between trees; through them Miranda saw white walls from time to time. They must be some of the hotel’s bungalows, she realised, seeing one of them clearly. A girl in a dark blue swimsuit was lying on a lounger under an umbrella on a balcony. She glanced down at them through sunglasses. Her skin was smoothly tanned, her figure slim and healthy.

Turning sharp left they came in sight of what was obviously the hotel, a long, low, one-storey building with a veranda running along in front of it. The driver parked in front of the entrance and Pandora sighed in relief. Charles came round to help her down, his arm around her thickening waist.

‘OK, darling?’

She nodded, leaning on him. ‘But I’d like to go to bed right away. I need to lie down where it doesn’t rock about or bump.’

He smiled. ‘I’ll take you now. Miranda, for tonight you’ll be staying in the hotel, too. Tomorrow we’ll sort out a bungalow for you.’

A man came forward from the reception desk in the lobby, smiling warmly. ‘Miss Pandora – it is good to have you back home with us. How are you?’

Although he asked a question Miranda saw his black eyes quickly, shrewdly, running over Pandora, watched his brows twitch together, his smile first fade, then come back, stronger, yet no longer so genuine. He could see how Pandora was and it made him unhappy.

He put a hand on her shoulder, very lightly, almost a caress, a touch of sympathy.

‘You are home now, we will take care of you.’

‘Hello, Milo.’ She smiled at him with obvious affection. ‘How is everything?’

He raised his thin shoulders in a shrug, lifted a hand and moved it from side to side gracefully in a gesture which was easy to interpret, wordlessly saying that one day everything was up, the next it was down.