You Don't Have to be Good (36 page)

She took a taxi to Kioni. She was done with travelling. She had no strength or patience for the bus. The cloud lifted and they drove past fields carpeted with flowers. She asked the driver to drop her at the taverna, where she drank strong, sweet coffee, ate halva and almonds. Her body hummed with fatigue. Kioni was quiet; Penelope’s, the taverna, was empty. From her table she noticed a For Rent sign not far from the waterfront. She asked about it and was directed to Elli in the village shop, who told her yes, it was available, and yes, of course she could see it. Elli called through the beaded curtain at the back of the shop – Yannis! – and talked to him in Greek. Then Yannis appeared, with a key and a cardboard box. He led Bea to the apartment, up whitewashed steps through a heavy wooden door painted blue. Inside were more steps leading up to a simple bedroom, painted white with rush matting on the floor. Next to it was a small kitchen where painted plates hung from one wall and another blue door opened on to a terrace looking away from the village over the headland and out to sea. There was a table topped with turquoise tiles and shaded by a vine. Bougainvillea and wisteria bloomed out there, and geraniums, crimson and white in terracotta pots. Yannis switched on the electricity and the water, and showed her the cupboard where linen, towels and blankets were kept. Then he left. Are you sitting comfortably? Bea peeled off her dress, dropped the Moroccan blanket in a corner, and stood on the terrace in the sun. Then we’ll begin. She looked in the cardboard box. Honey, yoghurt, oil and bread. ‘See?’ she said to Precious. She looked around at the whitewashed terrace, the sea and the sky. ‘This is why I came.’

For eight days, Bea barely stirred. From her terrace she could just make out Patrick’s house, half hidden by trees in the hills across the bay. There were no signs of life. Each day she felt the sun feed her body and gladden her mind. She was happy to be mute and still. She shed her shame and shyness like a skin. The sun grew stronger and so did she, until the day came when she felt well enough to go down to the sea to swim.

She wore a white cotton dress and leather sandals, and carried a bright blue towel. She headed out of the village towards the ruined windmills standing sentinel on the headland. Where the road climbed up the hill, she picked her way down a steep trail towards a small cove, nearly a perfect O. The rock was rough underfoot and pitted with pools, pools with smoothed pink sides like flesh, where alien creatures waved up at the reflected sky. Bladderwrack sprouted at the water’s edge, swaying in the swell like an animal pelt. Bea watched the sea for a long time, its slap and hiss at the rocks, the sigh in and out at the mouth of the cove. Looking down through the translucence of greens and blues, she longed to be in it. Here would be a good place, where the rock dropped away so that it wouldn’t graze and cut. Tall rocks formed the opening of the cove, where the sea sometimes rose in a silent surge powered by the expanse of blue beyond. Watch the tide, her father always said. You have to know whether it’s coming in or going out. She watched now and frowned. Were there tides here? She had never quite managed to work that one out.

No sooner had she taken off her shoes and put down her towel than it began to rain. Laura hated the rain but Bea would tell her that the rain doesn’t matter, it’s easier to get in if you’re wet, and anyway, this time of year it’s rain, sun, rainbow, sun, then rain again and . . . Bea looked down. Here the rock was ridged with a crop of baby mussels. She squatted to examine the glistening rows of tiny black shells, clustered on the raspberry-ripple rock. Laura would love them.

At the water’s edge, Bea gathered up her dress, clung to the rock with one hand and put a foot into the sea, feeling gingerly for an urchin-free spot. The cold surprised her as the water rose up high to her knees, making her gasp, before it sank back down low in a sucking rush. Her fingers held tight as she lowered the other foot, thinking that perhaps today she would just have the coward’s swim, the quick dip in, then out, without leaving go. But, she would tell Laura, it’s always good to do a few strokes, however cold, because of how good it makes you feel afterwards.

The water lapped higher, wetting her dress, and she hesitated, unable for a moment to catch her breath. Yes, afterwards. That’s the feeling she wanted Laura to have, when every cell of your body becomes crystal and you walk away from the sea a chandelier of light and life.

And she had seen Patrick. Yes. She saw him swimming yesterday. He did a quick dive in, then a steady, worn-out crawl towards the village, and it made her smile. He turned when he was halfway there and dragged himself back towards home. One day, when the sea was warmer, one day perhaps when Laura was with her, they would swim out to meet him. Yes, one of these days she would get in at Penelope’s and swim over to his place to say hello. But not yet. For the time being she was doing nothing. She wouldn’t be bad and she wouldn’t be good. She would, as Adrian liked to say, just be Bea.

The rain stopped and the sun came out. She felt its heat on the nape of her neck and shoulders and knew that she should do the swim now, before she lost her nerve. She climbed out, pulled off her dress and underwear and looked down at her vanished body, thought how she was more in her body now than she had ever been before, more in herself than she had ever been, on the inside now, looking out. Yes, she thought, shivering despite the sun, and hurrying back to crouch down at the place where she could get in, that was something else Laura ought to know, and with a bold gasp and a shudder and a smile, she let go of the rock and sank backwards, down and into the sea.