Chapter 5 #2
Sometimes we encountered another vehicle on roads that didn’t seem to me to be wide enough for us both to pass.
Gregor appeared to cope perfectly well, clashing the gears and forging forwards like a knight preparing for the joust into the most unlikely spaces and muttering under his breath.
Words that Beryl said were at best unflattering regarding the other driver’s parentage, appearance and intelligence.
Eventually, about forty minutes later, we pulled into a stony car park and Gregor opened the doors with a satisfied grunt.
Outside and away from the air conditioning, which had been unexpectedly aggressive, so much so that Susan had pulled on a cardigan halfway through the trip, the heat was already building and hit us like a wall as we clambered down.
The remains of the deserted monastery were just piles of stones in some places, and a couple of walls remaining in others.
There was some welcome shade from a grove of trees which grew courageously in the rocky soil, but in front of us was the most breathtaking view over a little town below and the vast blue of the Mediterranean behind it.
We all stood in silence for a few minutes, not quite able to believe what we were seeing.
We retrieved all our painting things and fold up chairs from the boot of the bus and Dennis strode out to pick a spot.
Susan and June did the same and before too long, we were all settled in our preferred spaces, all of us mesmerised by the location.
Was the sky ever that wonderful, intense shade of blue in Herefordshire?
Maybe it was the way the light was reflected off the sea here, or possibly the clearness of the air.
A couple of seabirds wheeled above us before gliding effortlessly away.
I fussed about for a few minutes, wanting to find the spot to settle where I would discover previously unsuspected levels of talent in myself.
Will was obviously doing the same thing, and for a while we strolled around admiring the view of the ruins, the sea beneath us and the fabulous old olive trees which stood, bent and gnarled, casting shade over our group.
‘Feeling inspired?’ I asked at last.
We stood side by side looking out at the fishing boats far out to sea, and then he gave a sigh.
‘I know what I would like to achieve, but I’m not sure I know how,’ he said at last.
‘Me too,’ I said. ‘Paintings can sum up so much, can’t they? And I have found I remember far more about a place when I paint it than when I just take a photo on my phone. Don’t you?’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ he said.
‘The trip our group took to Warwick Castle at the beginning of April; it really brought the feel of the place alive for me. This place is even better,’ I said, warming to my subject.
Underneath the olive trees there was a crash and a bit of shouting. It seemed Susan had knocked Dennis’s collapsible easel over and also spilled her painting water on his shoes. June was dabbing at him with a paint-daubed rag and Dennis was looking furious.
‘We could go and help,’ I said.
‘Or we could stay out of their way and go over to that café and get a coffee or something,’ Will said with a nod.
‘Excellent,’ I said and grinned up at him.
Well goodness me, I wasn’t expecting that at all.
Effie was having a cigarette away from the group, but I could see Beryl and Anita watching us edge off, and Anita gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up.
It wasn’t so much a café as a shack with a few metal tables and chairs arranged outside under a red and white awning. I sat down, my chair rocking slightly on the uneven ground.
‘Greek coffee?’ Will asked, and I nodded.
The owner busied himself with a mighty-looking urn and after much hissing of steam and clattering of china, Will returned with a loaded tray.
‘I got some galaktoboureko too. I hope you don’t mind,’ he said, putting a small plate in front of me. ‘I’ve only recently re-discovered them. Filo pastry, vanilla custard and orange syrup.’
‘I don’t mind at all. What’s the worst that can happen?’ I laughed, pulling the plate towards me. ‘Thank you.’
We sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, enjoying the rich smoky taste of the coffee, which contrasted so well with the sweetness of the pastry.
Simple as it sounded, it was one of the most delightful things I’d ever eaten.
To do so on the top of a sun-drenched crag overlooking the Mediterranean was an added delight.
And my companion somehow added to the event.
I kept sneaking little glances at him, liking what I saw.
He had a fine profile, clean jawline and close-cropped grey hair, so perhaps he had been a Marine.
Or a secret agent. I could almost imagine him creeping into a deserted warehouse with his gun ready to dispatch the criminals within.
‘Isn’t this marvellous,’ he said, ‘exactly what I was hoping for.’
‘Beautiful,’ I agreed. ‘Have you been here before?’
‘Not to this island. I’ve been to some of the others as I told you. This is perfect.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ I said rather too enthusiastically.
We sipped at our coffee, which was hot and sweet, and I had almost plucked up the courage to ask him about himself when he turned to me.
‘So, tell me about yourself. What brings you here, Meg?’
I swallowed my mouthful and wiped the sticky flakes of filo pastry from my mouth with a paper napkin, which unfortunately was one of the one-ply, cheap sort, and bits of it stuck to my chin very unattractively. I peeled them off and tried to look more comfortable than I felt.
‘I moved to Lower Begley in January, following my divorce. It was quite traumatic actually because Malcolm – that’s my ex-husband – kept hiding things from my solicitor and in the end we had to go to court’ – why did I need to tell him about that?
Change the subject – ‘and I tried a few activities, because once I got the house straight, actually I was a bit bored. I quite liked the yoga class, and I’d even bought a mat and the little blocks you can use if you aren’t very flexible, but then I got wedged – oh, never mind.
Then I saw a notice about this art group in the village hall, which is only a short walk from my house, so terribly convenient.
It’s on a Tuesday morning, so that worked for me too.
I needed something new to do. I was getting stuck in a rut of housework and gardening, you see, neither of which I’m very good at, and as I said, I was on my own too much.
I wanted some company; a new hobby, I suppose.
It’s easy to make friends when one is young.
You meet other women at antenatal classes, or toddler groups or at the school gates.
At my age it is a bit harder. And Anita – the one over there in the yellow sunhat and the blue dress – she was there too and she turned out to be my neighbour.
And she mentioned this trip soon after I joined.
Apparently there was a spare place because Gwen was having her garden wall repointed… ’
I realised I was rabbiting on and had hardly stopped to draw breath. Was I nervous? And if so, why?
‘Anyway, enough about me, tell me about you,’ I said at last.
‘Nothing much to tell,’ he said. ‘I’m single, I’m retired, I just needed a break.’
‘A break from what?’
‘Everything.’
And that was that.
Oh. Well, didn’t I feel a fool, going on about my divorce and Gwen’s wall and yoga blocks. Although it was true; I had got stuck on the second afternoon when my back seized up, and it had been very embarrassing.
I wanted to change the conversation into a new direction, one where he would open up and tell me about himself and perhaps explain why he looked so familiar, but for some reason I couldn’t think of anything sensible to say.
‘This is delicious,’ I said at last, ‘thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he said, and I could tell that the brief moment of warmth between us had chilled. Perhaps because I was so often on my own, I talked too much when I had the chance. I tried a different tack.
‘I’m looking forward to the wine-tasting evening,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard there are some lovely wines produced here.’
‘Yes, that should be good.’
Hmm.
I wondered if he was regretting his decision to ask me over with him. What should I have done differently? And then I felt a bit cross. If he wanted to turn uncommunicative, it wasn’t my fault. It really didn’t matter if he liked me or not. I needed to stop worrying about such things.
‘Well, perhaps we should get on with some painting?’ I said.
He stood up and waited patiently for me to collect my handbag from under the table and he picked up my flimsy chair, which had fallen over when I stood up, and then we walked back towards the group, who looked as though they were already hard at work.
He paused and I turned to look at him.
‘By the way, you’ve got a bit of paper stuck to your cheek,’ he said. ‘No, the other side.’
I did too, and hadn’t realised. I pulled off a strip of paper napkin and shoved it in my pocket.
‘There’s a bit more on your chin,’ he said.
I pulled out my handkerchief, licked the end of it and scrubbed at my face.
He took my hand and guided it to the right place, where it seemed I had a dollop of something. I was aware of two things: feeling a bit of a fool, but also the pleasant warmth of his hand holding mine. Heaven knew what he thought of me.
Honestly.