The Santorini Summer (3 page)

We spent an agreeable afternoon on the beach, exchanging details of families and colleges and making trips into the sea when we got too hot. We also speculated about the sort of evening we could expect, which brought us round to the topic of needing to allow plenty of time to get ready because of the limited facilities at our respective lodgings.

‘It’s very primitive here, isn’t it?’ complained Mary-Jane. ‘We’ve got to share the tiniest bathroom, and the water supply is totally unreliable.’

I wondered what Mary-Jane would think of the bathroom we had in Basingstoke, with its linoleum flooring and a gas boiler in the corner to heat the water. There was no shower and in winter, taking a bath was an act of great bravery because there was no central heating either. This conversation concluded with the realisation that our taxi would be waiting, so we put our clothes on and shook the sand free from our towels.

Back at our lodgings, we were politely taking turns in the bathroom, when we heard the American girls calling us again from the street. This time they had their hair wrapped up in towels hiding rollers, and they were armed with an assortment of hairdryers.

‘Have you guys got sockets in your rooms?’ they demanded. ‘We’ve got nowhere to dry our hair.’

I had come prepared with a European plug converter, so in they came, filling up our two tiny rooms with their elaborate hair preparations, nail polish and endless make-up. Cindy-Lou was a talented hairdresser, it seemed, and Carlotta was an experienced manicurist.

When they took their leave to dress, we fell silent, reflecting glumly on our wardrobes. I had packed two cotton dresses, one blue with tiny white flowers and one white with thin blue stripes. Both had three-quarter sleeves and buttons down to the waist. They were the dresses I wore for Church at home, and they were undeniably prim. They were also designed for an English summer. I held them both up.

‘Which do you think, Maureen? The flowers or the stripes?’

‘Search me, I’m hopeless with clothes. Um…the flowers, I think.’

I could see that Maureen was indeed in a worse situation than me. She was donning a green pleated skirt in a shiny, man-made fabric and a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar. What had seemed quite suitable in England, as we packed our suitcases, now seemed, in the clear, bright Cretan sunlight, totally unsuitable. But we didn’t have anything else, so we dressed and wandered down to the designated taverna with the rest of the girls.

Inside, three tables had been pushed together to seat a large party. Earthenware jugs were placed at intervals along the table, together with baskets of bread and cutlery wrapped in paper napkins. A smaller table had been laid at the back of the room.

‘Probably for the oldies. Our chaperones,’ observed Sarah.

We English girls made for the farthest end of the table, but before we could sit I heard a voice at my elbow.

‘In the interests of international friendship we must mingle, I think.’

My arm was taken gently but firmly and I was led away to the other side of the table. I turned to face the speaker and something strange happened in the pit of my stomach.

Like the youths on the frescoes I had seen, he was slender and brown-skinned, with an abundance of thick, dark curls. Eyes, so brown they were almost black, were framed by long, curling eyelashes. He was the most beautiful young man I had ever seen.

‘Christos Christophedes,’ he said, holding out his hand formally.

Somewhere to my right another voice was saying, ‘Hi, I’m Hank from Cincinatti,’

but I’m afraid I didn’t pay him any attention.

‘Olivia Carter.’

I placed my hand in that of this gorgeous young man, and lowered my head to hide the blush that suffused my face. He pulled out a chair and I sat on it, not very gracefully.

‘We are having a traditional Greek meal, Miss Carter. We shall start with a salad of tomatoes, onions and feta cheese, followed by
dolmades
. Then there will be
baklava
and coffee. What do you think of Greek food?’

I said something inane about not having had much experience of it yet.

‘Ah, then tonight will be very important. We shall see that you remember your first night here.’

He was grave and dignified, despite being not much older than me, and somehow he made it clear that the Greek students were our hosts for the evening. He poured a liberal amount of liquid from a jug into my glass. Since it was a pale gold colour I assumed, with alarm, that it was wine. Remembering the Professor’s warning, I looked in vain for water.

‘This is village wine, Miss Carter. Not the very best, but typical of the wine drunk here by the locals, and so perfectly appropriate for our meal tonight.’

‘Please, call me Olivia,’ I said weakly, hoping I would be able to cope.

From the corner of my eye I could see that Sarah, Melissa, Maureen, and each of the American girls was seated between a young man, and Maureen was signalling panic with her eyes. I gave her a little shrug. Chin up. Think of England.

‘I am studying in Athens, Oleevia, at the School of Archaeology. Where are you studying?’

‘I’m at Cambridge, studying ancient History under Professor Margerison.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Under your Professor? I do not know this expression. What does it mean?’

I reflected that his English was a great deal more advanced than my Greek, and tried to explain. In the background musicians were tuning
bazoukis
. Waiters appeared with bowls of salad.

‘And your first impressions of Crete?’

He was such a skilled and courteous conversationalist that I began to relax. He told me about his family in Athens and I told him about mine in Basingstoke. The simple salad was delicious and the wine, at first metallic in taste, began to appeal to me. The noise of conversation grew louder. I began to be brave enough to look into Christos’s eyes as we conversed. Poor Hank on my other side was totally ignored.

After dark, sweet coffee and a short formal speech by one of the Greek professors welcoming the foreign students to Knossus, Christos excused himself, as did five other young men.

The musicians stirred, the Greek boys formed a line and placed their arms on each other’s shoulders and began to dance. I was startled. British men only danced with women, unless they were in the ballet. But these young men danced with grace and dignity, slowly at first, step, step, kick, kick, bending their shoulders in time with the music. The tempo increased and, effortlessly, so did their steps. The professors at their table were clapping rhythmically and the Americans joined in, calling out and cheering. Eventually, we British felt brave enough to take part too, and joined in the clapping. The dance ended frantically, everyone worn out with the speed and the rhythm. There was applause, and another dance began. I could not take my eyes off Christos, so slender and lithe, so dignified and handsome. His grace and his obvious pride in what he was doing brought a lump to my throat. These men were proud of their skill, proud to be dancing for us.

Then, suddenly, they swooped down upon their audience, ignoring our protests as they dragged us all into the line. Nothing less than total commitment would do. I was concentrating really hard, counting under my breath
one
,
two
,
kick
and
kick
and
kick
, fiercely determined not to make a total fool of myself in his eyes, and praying it would not go on too long. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the Professor, trying not to look at us as we embarrassed ourselves.

But when the dance was over, and everyone was laughing, panting, clapping, I wanted more. I craved another opportunity to master the steps and show Christos the respect I felt for his culture. But the musicians had been paid off, and were wandering away. One of the Americans produced a guitar, and began to play the sort of music which appalled my mother. The American girls got up and gave a demonstration of the jive. The audience clapped enthusiastically. It became apparent that there was now an expectation that the British contingent should make a contribution. I lowered my gaze to avoid making eye contact with anyone but, to my amazement, Maureen stood up and sang two folk songs from her native Northumbria, in a pure clear voice which raised the hairs on my neck.

When the professors collectively stood and thanked the waiters it was clear that the evening was over. The American boys said they would escort the American girls back to their rooms, leaving the Greeks to make the same offer to us. Somehow Christos contrived to walk along beside me.

There was no moon, and the sky was a dense black sprinkled with stars whose position in the sky seemed unfamiliar. I remarked upon this, and the density of the darkness, because it seemed a safe topic of conversation.

‘Perhaps you have street lights in Basingstoke? We have in Athens. It makes the sky look lighter, and it is harder to see the stars. But you are also seeing them from a different place on the globe.’

We craned our necks backwards until we felt dizzy, and Christos had to catch hold of my arm to steady me. That made me catch my breath, and our eyes met for a moment before he released me.

We walked on in silence for a while. The night air was scented with wild herbs and warm in a way it never is in an English summer. Crickets were chirruping, and the beauty of the night, the romance of being abroad, and the nearness of this handsome young Greek was intoxicating. The gauche young men who’d partnered me at tennis or waltzed me round the Golf Club floor at the request of their parents now seemed like children compared to Christos.

To cover my shyness I talked about the Minotaur legend. ‘Do you think there really was a monstrous bull in the labyrinth?’

‘It must have suited the king to have people believe it. And we know there was bull worship. But bulls have never been carnivores, I think.’

‘But it had the head of a man. Most legends have
some
basis in facts, don’t they? Which get exaggerated and mutated over time?’

‘I don’t know this word
exag
…’

As I tried to explain, I realised how few were the words he had not understood, and marvelled at his grasp of English. It would have been impossible for me to conduct such a conversation in Greek. I felt in awe of him, as well as physically attracted. Why on earth was he interested in me? That he was, seemed clear when he said, ‘At the site I am kept busy supervising some of the digging, but in the evenings we eat at the local tavernas. There are not many, so I think it will be easy to find each other.’

And that was all that was said, but it was a declaration and we both knew it. There was never any doubt in my mind. I, who had never had a real boyfriend, never been properly kissed, put my trust in Christos then, and he put his in me. I still find it astounding to this day.

Outside our lodging he thanked me politely for my company, hoped I’d had a pleasant evening and wished me a good night. The other girls were having similar exchanges with their escorts, who all had very respectful manners.

Like me, Maureen was both relieved and disappointed. ‘That’s just the sort of boyfriend my mother would like me to bring home,’ she said glumly. ‘Pity he’s Greek.’

The next morning at the site we were assigned simple tasks. Greek labourers did the heavy digging, supervised by Christos and some of the other Greek boys. They watched carefully as the ground was broken and called a sharp halt if they saw something that looked significant. We were asked to write labels for the shards of pottery which were brought over to our bench. It was usually Christos who brought them over and dictated what should be written on the labels. Professor Margerison spent most of her time talking to the other supervisors. It seemed to me that we were quite unnecessary and that we were merely being given something to do to make us feel included.

It was not hard work, and we were always dismissed after lunch because of the heat, and then left to our own devices. We were expected to spend our free time studying or visiting the museum in Heraklion where many of the artefacts found at the site were on display. In reality, we usually went off to the beach to sunbathe and gossip. The men, however, were required to continue working until five. I would rather have stayed on, too, because at least then I could see Christos in the distance, and time went faster when I was at the site. The hours between two and seven seemed endless.

We were usually ready for our evening meal by seven. It became our habit to meet up with the other girls and walk along the main (and only) street, looking at each taverna in turn and trying to decide which menu we preferred. In reality, since the menus were almost identical every evening, we were looking to see which taverna the men had chosen. Sometimes we had to make a choice because the men had yet to appear, and then we would all be on tenterhooks in case they chose another eating place. But it was surprising how often our choices coincided. Then there would be a polite conversation about our willingness to accept their company before tables and chairs were reorganised to fit the larger group and each English girl was seated next to a Greek boy.

My two dresses had to do service time and time again. After several evenings of this I surveyed them both with disgust. Maureen saw me frowning and gave me a sympathetic smile. I threw the dresses down in despair.