Mrs Pargeter's Package (3 page)

CHAPTER 7

The walk from Spiro's to the Villa Eleni was magical. From the flat seashore strip, along which the tavernas and few shops of Agios Nikitas clustered, the hills rose steeply and out of their olive-, cypress-and brush-clad slopes the square, white outlines of buildings rose. By night only the villas' soft lights could be seen, pale orange-tinted rectangles in the thick blue velvet darkness.

The road which led up from the tavernas divided after about fifty yards. One branch went straight up the hillside, the other took a more oblique route. Ginnie indicated the second with her torch. 'We'll go this way. Not so steep.'

It was still quite a marked incline, and Mrs Pargeter started to puff a little as she pulled her substantial bulk upwards. At a point where the track turned sharply, she stopped for a breather and looked back. Pinpricks of stars in the sky and dots of light from boats gleamed back at her. Then, over the sea, sudden triangles of light raked out across the water from the further shore.

Ginnie turned back at that moment and her torch found Mrs Pargeter's puzzled face. 'Searchlights from Albania,' she explained.

'Really?'

'Oh yes. They come on most nights.'

'What are they looking for?'

The outline of Ginnie's shoulders shrugged against the night sky. 'No idea. Nobody knows much about what goes on in that place. Come on. Not far now.'

'Right.' Mrs Pargeter readdressed herself to the steep track of broken white stone. 'It's times like this that I really am determined to lose some weight.'

But it was said more for form than anything else. Mrs Pargeter lived at peace in her plump body. Her outline had always been generous and, as she grew older, that generosity had begun to verge on prodigality. But the late Mr Pargeter had never complained. Nor had anyone else, come to that.

She saw a tiny spot of light appear suddenly and move in a hazy scribble above the scrub to the side of the path. As suddenly it disappeared. Then another showed. And another.

'What on earth are those, Ginnie? I don't think I believe in fairies.'

'They're fireflies.'

'Really? God, this place is so beautiful, isn't it?'

'So beautiful,' Joyce echoed. Then her voice was broken by a sob. 'What a beautiful place to be alone in.'

'You're not alone, Joyce. I'm with you.'

'I know, Melita, but . . .' More sobs came. 'I mean, Chris isn't here. Chris'll never be anywhere again. I don't think I can manage without him.'

'Of course you can. It'll take time, but you'll do it, Joyce. That's what Chris would want you to do.'

'Oh God, Chris wanted me to do so many things. Even now he still wants me to do things. He's left me a letter with great lists of instructions. I just don't think I can cope.'

'You can cope. You'll—'

Mrs Pargeter stopped at the sound of a door closing ahead and hurrying footsteps approaching. The beam of Ginnie's torch moved up from the ground and briefly illuminated the impassive face of the young woman from

Spiro's kitchen as she almost ran towards them.

'
Kalinikta, Theodosia
,' the rep said.

Without any response, the woman pushed past them and, using the direct path which their curving one had now rejoined, hurried on down the hillside.

Mrs Pargeter flashed a look across to Joyce, to see if the silent Greek woman's appearance had repeated its traumatic effect, but her friend just looked weepy and preoccupied.

'What have you done to offend her?' Mrs Pargeter asked Ginnie.

'Nothing. Theodosia can't speak. She's dumb.'

'What? But—'

'Here we are – the Villa Eleni.' Ginnie accompanied the interruption with a sweep of her torch across the frontage of the building ahead of them. A low white-painted rectangle with a shaded veranda at the front. Under this, either side of a front door, were double French windows, closed in by louvred shutters.

'She could have left a light on,' muttered Ginnie.

'Who?'

'Theodosia.'

'You mean she had just come from here?'

'Yes, she was checking it was tidy before you came in.'

'I'm sorry? I don't understand.'

'Theodosia is the maid for the Villa Eleni,' Ginnie explained patiently. 'She's Spiro's sister, you see, and he owns the place.'

'Oh, does he?'

Ginnie pushed open the unlocked door and switched on some lights, illuminating a central living area. A couple of wicker armchairs were placed near the entrance and at the far end, by the doors leading to the kitchen and bathroom, were a dining-room table and chairs. The bedrooms ran the length of the building, one each side of the central area. Ginnie opened the windows and shutters at each end of Mrs Pargeter's room. 'Sea view at the front, and at the back you get a lovely outlook on to the garden.'

Mrs Pargeter joined her on the low balcony at the back of the bedroom. Light spilled on to flowers and shrubs in pale-blue-painted oil-drums.

'Can't see much in this light,' Ginnie apologised, 'but you wait till morning. The flowers are really fabulous this time of year.'

'I look forward to it,' Mrs Pargeter said.

She gazed back into the bedroom with satisfaction, approving the neat twin beds with their white sheets, the functional wooden bedside furniture, the gleaming marble floor. Though self-catering was not her usual style, this really could have been a lot worse. Not lavish, but comfortable and well-maintained. Yes, if she could only manage to cheer Joyce up a little, she was set for a very enjoyable fortnight.

When Mrs Pargeter and Ginnie went back into the living-room, there was no sign of Joyce, but the sound of running water could be heard from the bathroom.

'Well . . . if you've got everything you want,' the rep said, 'I'll be off.'

'It all looks fine, thank you. Very comfortable.'

'You'll find there are sort of basic supplies in the fridge. We always stock our clients up with a bit of food and a couple of bottles of wine. Or there's mineral water if you want something non-alcoholic. That's probably safer than the tap water.'

'Mineral water'll be fine. I feel quite parched.'

'Yes, everyone gets dehydrated in this heat. You must make sure you keep up your fluid intake. Would you like me to get you a glass of mineral water now?' asked Ginnie, suddenly solicitous.

'No, no, I'll manage.'

'Right. As I say, it'll be in the fridge. Now, what else should I tell you . . . ? The minimarket opens at nine in the morning, and fresh bread's delivered there round nine thirty. Spiro'll change travellers' cheques, or you can do them at the Hotel Nausica – though Spiro's rate tends to be better. I'll be in the taverna between twelve and one tomorrow, if there's anything you want to check with me, and emergency numbers are in the villa guide on the table over there.'

'Thank you.'

'Well, I hope you'll be comfortable . . .'

'Sure we will be.' Mrs Pargeter, hostesslike in her new home, held the door open for her guest. 'You have far to go, do you?'

'Not far,' Ginnie replied uninformatively.

'Well, goodnight.'

'Goodnight.'

The rep did not bother to switch on her torch, the path familiar to her from many such visits. Soon her outline vanished into the darkness. Mrs Pargeter watched a couple of fireflies ignite and extinguish themselves, then closed the door.

She checked the contents of the fridge and found them more lavish than she had expected. Bread, cheese, jam, some ham and sausage. Long-life milk, a couple of bottles of white wine, the promised mineral water. And a bottle of ouzo.

For a moment she contemplated hiding this, but decided that she couldn't. Joyce might have seen it, for one thing, and she was a grown woman, after all. If she really was going to be helped out of her current state, the approach must be cautious and tentative. But Mrs Pargeter felt quietly confident that, with the unforced help of the sun and the sea, she could achieve much for her friend in two weeks of gentle therapy.

She poured herself a large glass from the square plastic bottle of mineral water and went through to her bedroom to unpack. The cases, she noted with satisfaction, had been delivered to the right rooms. In fact, apart from the delay at Gatwick – a circumstance beyond the tour operators' control – all of the arrangements had been commendably efficient. She heaved a suitcase up on to one of the beds and put the key into its padlock.

It was at that moment she realised, with annoyance, that she had left her flightbag down at Spiro's. She remembered taking it off the coach and putting it under her seat at the taverna. Then, in the confusion of Joyce's sickness and their hurried departure, she had left it there.

Oh well, never mind. Her flightbag always contained toothbrush, face-cloth and make-up in case of airport delays, but she had others in her main luggage. Passport, credit cards and travellers' cheques were in her handbag which she had with her, so at least her valuables were safe. And, Mrs Pargeter thought as she stifled a yawn, she certainly didn't fancy walking down that steep path and back up again.

No, the flightbag would come to no harm overnight. She'd pick it up in the morning. And, even if it did get stolen . . . well, that would be a nuisance rather than a disaster.

She heard movement from the living-room and went through to see what state Joyce was in.

The answer, immediately apparent, was not a very good state. Joyce, hair wet from the shower, sat at the table, with a dressing-gown wrapped around her, facing two glasses and the ouzo bottle from the kitchen. One of the glasses contained clear water, the other already showed the clouded white of diluted ouzo.

'I really wouldn't have any more of that, Joyce. It made you sick last time.'

'It wasn't that that made me sick,' came the belligerent reply.

'What was it then?' asked Mrs Pargeter lightly.

'It was . . . It was . . .' For a moment Joyce hovered on the brink of replying, but caution reasserted itself. 'Anyway, why're you telling me what I should do?'

'I'm not. I'm just suggesting—'

'Yes, you are!' Joyce bawled back. 'No one lets me lead my own bloody life. All the time we were married, Chris kept telling me what to do. And he's still telling me what to do from beyond the grave. And now Conchita tells me what to do and you tell me what to do and—'

'What do you mean about Chris telling you what to do from beyond the grave?'

'I mean . . .' Again Joyce teetered on the brink of confession, and again drew back from the edge. 'I know what I mean. That's all that matters. It's none of your business, Melita.'

'Very well, if you say so.'

Suddenly Joyce stated to weep. 'Oh, Melita, Melita . . . Everything's such a mess. I can't do it.'

'Can't do what?'

'Can't do anything. Can't do what Chris wants me to do. Don't even really know
what
he wants me to do, but he's got my curiosity aroused and I can't just do nothing . . .'

'Chris is dead, Joyce. He can't make any further demands on you.'

There was a bitter laugh. 'Don't you believe it.'

'Listen—'

But Joyce was in no mood for listening. No, Mrs Pargeter feared, if anyone was cast in the listening role that night, she had drawn the short straw. Normally she wouldn't have minded, but that particular night she did feel so tired. So exceptionally tired. She raised her hand to mask another yawn.

But the long night's listening never materialised, because it soon became apparent that Joyce was at least as tired as she was. The sobbing and the maudlin recrimination were quickly swamped by yawns and, within half an hour, it required only the minimum of persuasion to get her friend into bed. Joyce insisted on having the ouzo bottle and a glass on the bedside table beside her, but, even before her light had been switched off, she was fast asleep.

And, within five minutes, so was Mrs Pargeter.

CHAPTER 8

Mrs Pargeter opened her eyes and blinked at the bright parallelogram of light on the white wall opposite. She had not expected to sleep through. Usually she took a night or two to settle into a new bed.

Still, there was no doubting it was morning. She felt rested, though a little headachey. Perhaps she just wasn't used to the retsina . . . Mind you, she hadn't had that much of it. The second half-litre bottle had not been touched, and she hadn't mixed it with anything else. She shared the late Mr Pargeter's views on the subject of Greek brandy and had never liked the aniseed taste of ouzo.

Her head still felt muzzy when she stood upright and wrapped round her blue cotton dressing-gown. Already the air felt warm in the bedroom.

She moved to the front windows. The shutters and tall glass doors were pinned back, the view obscured by gauzy curtains which bellied and slackened restlessly in the sea breeze.

Mrs Pargeter pushed through them to the white glare of the sun, which challenged her aching head. But when her eyes accommodated to the brightness, the beauty of the scene melted away all thoughts of pain.

The tops of olive trees and cypresses shielded the sea frontage of Agios Nikitas from view, and Mrs Pargeter looked straight out across to the blurred outline of Albania. The sea was of that uniform blue that one distrusts in travel brochures, its surface raked here and there by the lazy swirls of currents. A large cruise ship slid sedately across the centre of the channel. The white sails of a yacht flotilla moved like formation seagulls over the blue. Nearer to the coast, awning-topped motorboats puttered along, searching for those secret bays which were rediscovered every day by new pioneers. A speedboat, planing high out of the water, towed behind it the white smudge of a waterskier.

Yes, thought Mrs Pargeter, I am going to like it here.

As she turned back into the villa, her shadow crossed a basking lizard which flicked out of sight, a black comma instantly erased from the whiteness of the wall.

She moved through the bedroom to the back windows, whose translucent curtains strained outwards into the garden. Once through them, she stood on the little balcony, looking out on a scene perhaps more beautiful than that at the front.

The flowers glowed in reds, mauves, blues, pinks and yellows against the dusty green of their leaves. All were neatly trimmed and tended, many rising from cans and drums painted in a powdery blue. The pots nearest the villa, still shaded by the building's edge, were circled with dampness. The white cement pathways had been punctiliously brushed. Whoever kept the garden in such a pristine state had already completed that morning's servicing.

As she looked at the display, Mrs Pargeter wished she knew more about flowers. She had always liked having a nice garden to walk in, but never taken much interest in how gardens got to be nice places to walk in. Nor had the late Mr Pargeter had 'green fingers' (other adjectives had been applied to his fingers with some frequency, but never 'green'). However, when they lived in the big house in Chigwell, there had always been a continuing supply of labour to look after the grounds. The men who came to stay had all been happy to pay with weeding and digging for the privilege of a few days' invisibility behind the garden's high walls.

But, as she looked at the splendour of that array of Corfiot blooms, Mrs Pargeter wished she had had a little more 'hands-on' experience of horticulture. It would be nice to be able to give names to the flowers. She felt pretty confident about the geraniums, both the red and pink varieties, and would have been prepared to risk identification of the climbing plant with cornet-shaped blooms of bright blue as Morning Glory, but the rest stumped her completely.

Pretty, though. She could recognise that. They were all very pretty.

Distressing, she thought with mild regret, that there weren't any better words to mean 'pretty'. Always sounded so limp. Particularly when applied to a woman. 'Oh, she's very
pretty
' – huh, talk about damning with faint praise. Almost as bad as calling a man 'sweet'.

Mrs Pargeter grinned at the way her thoughts were flowing. When irrelevant ideas started to interconnect in her mind like that, it was always a sign that she was beginning to relax. Not bad, really, one night in Corfu and already the therapy was taking effect.

Yes, one long, relaxed night in Corfu. Her headache had gone now. How long
had
she slept? For the first time that morning she looked at her watch.

Good heavens! A quarter to twelve. It was years since she'd slept that long. Something in the Corfiot air perhaps?

She moved out of the shadow of the balcony and stood there, blinking, letting the sunlight wash over her. Soon she would have to have a shower, get dressed . . . what then? Wander down to Spiro's to pick up her flightbag, mustn't forget that. Have some lunch there too, maybe. (Mrs Pargeter had already firmly decided that, though the package had been described as 'self-catering', breakfast would be the only meal prepared in the villa. And, if she was going to wake this late every morning, she didn't think breakfast would figure very large in her daily schedule.)

She wondered if Joyce was up yet. Had her friend slept equally well, or been kept awake by her troubled thoughts? There was no sound from the other bedroom. Perhaps she'd already gone out. Down to the minimarket, maybe even to one of the beaches for a swim. If Joyce was doing things on her own, that was good. The two of them might have come on holiday together, but both had agreed that they didn't want to live in each other's pockets.

Mrs Pargeter looked idly down at the white cement path and saw that she was causing a traffic hazard. One of her plump bare feet was blocking the advance of a file of tiny ants. With uncomplaining efficiency, they had made a detour, circling the obstruction and then continuing their column in a perfectly straight line.

Amazing organisation and discipline you have to have to be an ant. Amazing ability to sublimate your own personality to that of the community. Wouldn't suit me, thought Mrs Pargeter.

She watched where the line of ants was going. The file moved, relentlessly regular, along the path towards the villa. Then, making no concession to the change of plane, it continued vertically up the wall on to Joyce's balcony.

Mrs Pargeter moved forward and saw how the line progressed across the marble platform and under the billowing curtains into the bedroom. Intrigued, she followed them, wondering what attraction prompted this dedicated troop movement. And, come to that, why there was no returning line of ants.

Inside the room her questions were answered. The single line of ants stopped by the side of the nearer bed, where it joined a mass, an orgiastic mealee of other ants.

Ants gorging themselves on the browning pool of blood that disfigured the spotless marble floor.

Other ants had climbed up the brown-stained sheet which dangled off the side of the bed. They moved in hungry confusion over the white crumpled linen.

And over Joyce Dover's equally white, equally crumpled body.

And ants seethed round the dried-up gash on her wrist, through which Joyce Dover's lifeblood had flowed away.