Chapter 12
It was still dark when Cleo woke after a few hours of fitful sleep, but there were lights on in various tents, including the triage station. Maya was still sleeping but Tash’s bed was empty and her shoes were missing; she’d obviously risen already.
Feeling guilty for having left her post for so long, Cleo got up quietly and pulled yesterday’s sweatshirt on over her pyjamas. Then she padded across the damp grass towards the shower facilities.
It was sheer joy to find volunteers there, Marina and Katerina among them, handing out individual drawstring bags containing soap, shampoo, a comb, toothbrush, toothpaste and a small, clean towel. They also gave Cleo a change of clothes.
‘There are a few free cubicles,’ Marina said, pointing. ‘Help yourself.’
Cleo nodded in thanks. As she walked along the row of showers, she saw the heads and faces of various people she recognised, including Ingrid the Norwegian. They smiled at one another but didn’t speak; they wouldn’t have been able to hear above the swooshing water anyway.
When she finally came to an empty cubicle, she hung her towel on the peg outside and stripped off. The sensation of warm, clean water on her skin was so delicious, she almost laughed.
And it was bliss to watch the water run black, and finally clear, after soaping herself down thoroughly and washing her hair. It had almost been worth the wait, she decided, to experience such a simple but profound pleasure now.
When she’d finished washing, she dressed quickly in the clothes Marina had given her: a white T-shirt, a fresh grey sweatshirt and navy sweatpants.
Everything was too big, but it was easy enough to roll up the sweatshirt arms and the bottoms of the joggers, and she paused for a moment to enjoy the sensation of soft fabric against her clean, sweet-smelling skin.
There was a tiny, circular mirror on the outside of the cubicle which she used to comb her hair after towelling it down. She was quite surprised to discover she looked relatively normal. Pale, perhaps, and make-up free, obviously, but her complexion was smooth and dewy and her eyes sparkled.
Perhaps, she thought, the light from within was coming from feeling useful and knowing she was doing a good job; she hadn’t lost her nursing skills after all.
Then there was Achilles too, of course.
The mere thought of him gave her butterflies, but she told herself she must keep her feet on the ground. After all, what did she really have in common with a Cretan musician, handsome and charming as he was?
Circumstances had thrown them together and there was no doubt a strong attraction between them.
The dreamy kiss they’d shared was proof of that.
But she wasn’t about to move to Crete and she doubted very much he’d want to live in London or could be happy there.
She also suspected he was quite a bit younger than her, though neither of them had asked about their ages.
The sun was starting to rise as she strolled towards the triage station, hoping to grab some coffee and a bit of breakfast en route. People were milling round their tents, chatting, while their children played.
She spotted Tash, laughing with a group of local teenagers, teaching them a clapping game Cleo remembered from school. Their laughter rose into the air, bright and unexpected, until one of the teens shouted something and pointed towards the kitchen tent.
Cleo hoped this was a sign he knew something she didn’t and food was on its way.
She was in luck. Before long, a crowd formed an orderly queue outside the kitchen area and she saw Fran standing behind a table by the door of the tent, pouring cups of steaming coffee from a giant urn.
Meanwhile, other volunteers started putting cartons of milk, packets of cereal, cheese, jam and bread rolls on the other tables dotted round, for people to help themselves. There were also piles of cardboard bowls and plates, plus wooden knives, forks and spoons.
Fran must have noticed Cleo at the back of the queue and beckoned to her.
‘Here, you’re one of the medical team. You get special treatment,’ she said with a wink, handing Cleo a mug of coffee. ‘Help yourself to cereal and bread.’
‘How are you doing?’ Cleo said gratefully, before taking a tentative sip of coffee. It was still a bit too hot to drink.
‘I’m all right, actually. It’s Henrietta I feel sorry for.
She feels terrible this happened on one of her retreats.
She thinks no one will ever come here again.
I keep telling her not to be silly; it’s not exactly her fault.
But she won’t listen. I think she’s doing a fantastic job looking after everyone.
She, her husband and Maya are really running the show. ’
Cleo nodded. ‘She mustn’t blame herself. I’ll have a word with her.’
But Fran didn’t seem to hear.
‘Mind you,’ she went on with a giggle, continuing to pour coffee for the others as she spoke. ‘That Achilles fellow is putting on a show of his own. I reckon all the ladies have fallen for him. He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?’
‘He is,’ Cleo replied, lowering her eyes so as not to give herself away.
It occurred to her Fran was much more smiley and jokey than usual, perhaps because her nasty sister wasn’t around.
‘Where’s Lesley?’ she asked, keen to divert the conversation. She didn’t want Fran starting any rumours about a romance.
Fran frowned. ‘In our tent. She said she couldn’t sleep a wink last night, what with all the noise and the ground being so uncomfortable. She woke up with a splitting headache.’
‘Oh dear.’ Cleo snorted under her breath. Typical of Lesley to complain about everything and get a headache just when help was most needed.
‘Who’s the older one out of you two?’ she asked now. ‘You or Lesley?’
‘Oh, Lesley,’ Fran replied, a little surprised.
‘Isn’t it obvious? She’s always bossed me around, ever since we were little.
I was a sickly, timid child and she was much more robust and outgoing.
My parents expected her to look after me when we were growing up and I guess she got used to being in charge.
I didn’t mind really; I was always more of a follower than a leader. ’
She smiled slightly apologetically, Cleo thought, but her eyes looked sad.
You’ve been under her thumb your entire life, Cleo mused. Maybe here you’ll finally learn to stick up for yourself.
‘Do you live together?’ she asked next. She was dying to know if either of them were married or had children, but didn’t want to pry.
‘Next door to each other,’ Fran replied.
‘We both like a bit of space, but we could hardly be closer, really. Our cottages are in a terrace, side by side. The walls are quite thin and we can hear each other moving round. Sometimes, if Lesley needs something, she’ll just knock on the wall of her front room.
She doesn’t even need to get up off her sofa. ’
Cleo could think of nothing worse than living in your sister’s pocket, particularly a sister like Lesley. She might end up killing her.
‘Do you both live alone?’ she ventured next, hoping she wasn’t overstepping the mark.
But Fran didn’t seem offended.
‘We’re both single, always have been,’ she explained. ‘Neither of us is the marrying kind. We’ve got two cats, though, Twinkle and Bob. Sometimes they live at mine and sometimes at Lesley’s. I don’t think they know the difference.’
Cleo frowned. Fran was sweet and gentle but the same couldn’t be said of Lesley.
Cleo would lay bets if Fran had ever brought home a boyfriend, Lesley would have seen him off sharpish.
There was something very wrong with the sisters’ relationship.
Their lives were so enmeshed and Lesley had such a hold on Fran, Cleo wondered how she could even breathe.
‘There you are!’
Cleo swivelled round and saw none other than Lesley stomping towards them.
‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ she said, glaring at Fran. ‘This place is a nightmare. There’s no system, no organisation and no leadership.’
Cleo raised an eyebrow.
‘Morning!’ she said, smiling through gritted teeth. ‘How are you holding up?’
‘Terribly,’ Lesley snapped. ‘My back’s gone, my feet ache and someone’ – she cast a meaningful glare at Fran – ‘lost my travel kettle. I’d only just been given it by one of the emergency workers and now it’s gone.’
‘I-I didn’t lose it,’ Fran said with a stutter, shrinking like a salted slug. ‘I-I put it in a corner under a bit of groundsheet.’
‘Well, you might have told me,’ Lesley huffed. ‘And honestly, these villagers. I mean, they’re lovely people and all that, but they’re hopelessly disorganised. Look at the coffee line! It’s ridiculous. At this rate, I’ll be waiting at least twenty minutes.’
She swept her arm in front and behind her. Scores of people were indeed queueing, but no one else was complaining.
‘Some people lost their homes,’ Cleo said mildly.
‘Yes, but twenty minutes! Surely they can do better than that.’
Fran flushed with embarrassment and stared hard at the ground.
All of a sudden, a commotion erupted just outside the supply tent next door. Several large, heavy crates of water had toppled over, scattering bottles across the ground like runaway skittles.
Several people in the queue ran to help, but Lesley stayed rooted to the spot.
‘That was bound to happen,’ she said. ‘Those crates were so badly stacked. Fran, I’ll have a coffee now the queue’s gone down.’
Cleo looked at Fran, who hesitated. Cleo could tell she was torn between helping with the bottles and obeying her big sister.
Then she did something extraordinary. Slowly and timidly, she turned away from Lesley, left her position, walked over to the other tent and started to help with the water bottles.
Lesley stared as though Fran had defected to an opposing army.
‘FRAN!’ she barked. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘I-I’m helping,’ Fran replied softly, bending down and picking up two more bottles.