Follow a Stranger (9 page)

Sam had come in together, talking loudly.

“Oh, you’re alone,” said Pallas, with obvious relief. “I

thought Marc might be in here. Heavens, Kate, if you had

seen his face when he discovered we had let you go up to

To Angkistri alone! He practically burst a blood vessel.

Marc has such set ideas about women. He likes to wrap

them in cotton wool for safe keeping.” She grinned at

Sam. “Although these days he does seem to be making an

effort to turn a blind eye to my new clothes and hairstyle.

So perhaps he is improving.”

“He’s a throwback to the knights of old,” Sam teased.

“His recipe for life starts, first catch your damsel ...”

Pallas giggled. “Club her,” she suggested, “and throw

her over your horse.”

Sam played up. “Gallop away with her to your castle,”

he added, twirling an imaginary moustache, “and shut

her up in an ivory tower.” He sighed exaggeratedly. “Ah,

those were the days!”

“Nowadays,” said Marc’s cool tones from the door, making

them all look round guiltily, “your knight

would have a hard time telling the damsels from the other

young men.”

“But think what fun he would have trying to find out!”

Sam countered impudently.

Marc’s brows rose. “Really? Shall we go in to dinner

now? Mama does not feel well enough to stay down,

Pallas. She has one of her headaches.”

They had moussaka for dinner—aubergines thinly

sliced, rich dark minced lamb and a thick cheese sauce

covering it all. Kate enjoyed it very much and determined

to make it when she got home.

Marc peeled an apple slowly, his long slim fingers deft

in all their movements. Kate watched him, remembering

the gentleness of those fingers on her face earlier.

“By the way, Pallas, Helene cabled today. She arrives

at the end of the week,” he said without looking up.

His sister looked up, frowning. “Alone?”

He shook his head and shot her a quick glance. “She is

bringing Marie-Louise and Jean-Paul with her.”

Pallas dropped the fork with which she was eating a

confection of chocolate and cream. “Jean-Paul?” she

repeated breathlessly. “Oh, why did you have to invite

him here?”

“Why shouldn’t he come here?” Marc demanded. “He is

our cousin, after all. And he usually visits us once a year.”

She pushed back her chair, standing up suddenly. “It

isn’t fair!” she wailed, like a child, and ran out of the

room.

Sam stared after her, then looked at Marc, who calmly

went on peeling his apple, the rings sliding from between

his fingers in symmetrical spirals.

Silently, Sam followed Pallas out of the room. Kate felt

curious, yet nervous. She wanted to know why Pallas so

much disliked the idea of a visit from this cousin of hers,

and yet she was tensely aware of being left alone with

Marc once more.

He cut himself a slice of the apple, bit it with relish,

and then smilingly offered her half. She shook her head.

But before she could ask him about his sister’s reaction to

his news, he had said lazily, “Did you know that Spiro

Pyrakis lived near here?”

She dragged her mind back from the thoughts which

had been absorbing it.

“Spiro Pyrakis? No, I didn’t. I have all his records at

home. He’s my favourite pianist. I went to all his London

concerts last year, and I found his playing even better

than I’d dreamed. Of course, a recording is never the

same as the real thing.”

“He’s a friend of mine,” he said casually.

She stared at him, too awed to speak.

“I was talking to him on the telephone this morning,”

he said lightly. “He asked me to sail over there tomorrow.

Would you like to come?”

“I couldn’t,” she stammered, torn between delight and

awe. “He wouldn’t want to meet a stranger ...”

“I told him about you,” Marc went on, “asked if I might

bring you. He said it would be delightful to meet a pretty

girl.” He grinned at her, his grey eyes alight with wicked

amusement. “Spiro loves the company of pretty girls and

he has been shut up on Epilison for weeks, writing a new

concerto. He jumped at you like a hungry trout jumping

at a fly.”

Kate flushed. “I’m sure he didn’t,” she protested.

“Wait until you meet him. You’ll see I am telling the

truth. You’ll come?”

“If you’re sure ...” she said nervously. “Are Pallas and

Sam going, too?”

“No,” he said firmly. “Too many people would irritate

him. He hates a crowd.”

“Pallas is a pretty girl,” she suggested innocently, her

eyes on his face.

He grinned at her. “Spiro has known her since she was

knee-high to a cicada—he would squabble with her. There

is something childlike about him, you know. He and

Pallas always quarrel, but they are fond of each other.”

Kate excused herself early, pleading fatigue, and he

stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching her. “If your

back is aching I have some liniment that might help,” he

offered, seeing her involuntarily holding her back.

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Thank you.”

“I promise not to kiss the sore place again,” he offered

teasingly.

Red and furious, she did not answer, but ran quickly

up the stairs.

Next morning she was downstairs early for breakfast,

wearing blue denim jeans and a loose matching jacket.

Her thick, white ribbed sweater gave her a boyish look,

emphasised by the fact that she had tied her blonde hair

at the back into a ponytail. The severe style gave a new

vulnerability to her face, of which she was unaware.

Marc was sitting at the table, eating rolls and dark

red jam. He eyed her lazily. “You look about seventeen,”

he commented.

Kate took a boiled egg from the silver covered dish and

came to sit down opposite him.

He leaned over and teasingly cut a slice of toast into

thin strips for her. “Little girls like to have soldiers to dip

into their eggs, don’t they?”

She gave him a dignified frown. “What time do we

leave?” she asked forbiddingly.

He laughed aloud, his mood clearly relaxed and

carefree this morning.

They walked down to the small quay a quarter of an

hour later. Marc helped her to climb aboard his neat little

yacht, cast off and jumped on board himself. The wind

took the sails and Kate looked up at them with pleasure

as, white and free, they slapped to and fro above her.

“Watch your head,” Marc ordered curtly, and she

ducked down at once as the beam swung round.

The wind blew behind them all the way to Epilison, the

neighbouring island on which Pyrakis lived. They made

the crossing in an hour and a half.

The island looked beautiful as they skimmed closer.

Blue, shadowy hills, golden sands, white houses,

shimmering in the early morning sun, in an unreal

beauty which reminded her of a postcard come to life.

They tied up at a small jetty and walked up, along

narrow village streets, past the untidy white houses

whose doors all seemed to stand permanently open. Old

women in black sat on some of the doorsteps, shawls over

their grey heads, their wrinkled, tanned faces smiling at

Marc as he walked past. He paused to speak to each one,

gallantly, teasingly, and they giggled at what he said.

Fishermen mending nets waved to him, little boys

begged for drachmae. Everyone seemed to know him and

like him.

They paused at the very top of the hill and he pushed

open high iron gates set in a flinty wall which ran around

a charming, untidy garden, set with cypress and gnarled

old olive trees.

The house was of an ornate, oriental design, the

windows all curves and arches, the stonework fretted.

Kate was so nervous that when Marc, with a sharp

glance, smiled and held her hand as if she were five years

old, she did not protest, but clung to his protection.

“Suppose he’s angry because you brought me?” she

whispered. “He probably prefers his privacy, like most

famous people.”

He squeezed her fingers comfortingly. “Goose! I told

you, he loves pretty blonde girls!”

She giggled, and then the door opened and a fierce old

man, his thick grey moustaches quivering, glared at them

from flashing black eyes.

Marc spoke to him, in Greek, grinning affectionately,

and the old man answered in a low, grumbling voice, his

hands moving in vivid emphasis. Kate saw him shooting

those black eyes at her, and looked nervously up at Marc.

He laughed, slipping an arm around her shoulders. “He

says he does not like young ladies coming here because

Pyrakis always falls madly in love with them, especially

when they are blonde and beautiful, like you!” And his

grey eyes glinted wickedly.

She blushed and stammered, “I don’t believe he said

anything of the sort!” She moved away, so that his arm

slid off her shoulder.

Marc’s eyes continued to laugh at her. He spoke again

to the old man, grinning, and the old man laughed, deep

in his throat.

He talked gutturally, gesticulating, and Marc laughed.

Then they walked into the cool, shadowy hall and the old

man shuffled away, his great hooked nose like an eagle’s

beak, in profile.

Kate stared around her in fascination. The floor of the

hall was tiled in black and white marble. A gold-painted

tub stood in one corner, full of tall waving ferns, and

opposite her hung a gilded mirror in which her own face

swam, like a translucent mermaid’s, against the dim

background of the hall.

“That is Kyril. He has been with Spiro for years and is

devoted to him, in a fierce, scornful way. They shout at

each other and swear to kill each other, but they are

inseparable.” Marc came up behind her, staring over her

shoulder at her face in the mirror.

Their eyes met. Hers fell away, shyly, at something

odd in his. Then Kyril came back and led them down the

hall. The room they entered was long, austere and as

shadowy as the hall. Beyond open french windows she

could see a cluster of bushes and tall cypress, whose

branches darkened the room, giving it an undersea look,

a cool greeny light filtering through and spilling over

books, tables, chairs.

In a shabby old armchair sat Spiro Pyrakis, his

leonine head turned towards them.

He rose, holding out his powerful fingers, first to Kate.

Kate. “
Mia kyria
,” he murmured, his slightly protruding

blue eyes appraising her. Then his polite smile widened.

“Marc,” he said, in charmingly accented English, “you lied

to me, you dog!”

Marc raised an enquiring eyebrow.

“You told me she was pretty,” said Pyrakis. “She is

enchantingly lovely!” And the blue eyes gleamed down on

her. She was not so inexperienced that she could not

recognise the glance of desired possession, and a hot

blush rose to her cheeks.

Marc moved restlessly, but said nothing. Pyrakis

raised her fingers, very very slowly, and kissed each one

separately, his eyes still fixed on her pink face.

“What innocence, what delicacy!” he murmured. “To

see her blush is like seeing a rosebud open.”

Marc moved to the window and stood with his back to

them, his hands jammed into his pockets. “She is a

pianist, Spiro, and an admirer of yours.”

“Of course,” purred Pyrakis, smiling. He turned Kate’s

hands over, inspecting them. “Your fingers told tales to

me,” he said, softly. “These little tips work hard. Either a

typist or a pianist. I suspected a pianist, because of this

...” and he delicately touched the pulse which beat at the

base of her slender throat. “Sensitive, responsive little

creature! Ah, if I were younger! To see that tell-tale beat

stir at my touch!” He sighed romantically.

Kate looked helplessly at Marc’s unresponsive back. “I

... I teach, Mr. Pyrakis, I’m not an artiste ...” she

stammered, trying to withdraw her hands without

seeming rude.

His face relaxed and a great charm flowed out towards

her. “A good teacher is the bounty of heaven,” he said

gently. “I had a wonderful teacher!” He released her

hands and waved her to a chair. Much relieved, she sank

into it, and Marc turned round and also took a seat.

Pyrakis glared at the door. “Where is that fellow, that

thief, that rascal?” he bellowed in rapid Greek, and from